The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  Then he looked at the floor and frowned. There were an awful lot of droppings. He turned toward Bernard. “Who cleans these stables?”

  Bernard nodded toward a young man standing near the wall. “He does. Why?”

  Durand pointed at the floor. “It doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned in at least a day. And that’s not nearly enough hay for them. And where’s their water?” He paused, his eyes narrowing. He opened the gate and stepped inside, Bernard following.

  “Please don’t disturb the horses, Captain. They’re already upset enough with all these strange people poking around.”

  “I’ll just be a moment.” He carefully navigated his way around shit and hooves, coming out behind the horses to find half a dozen stalls, cleaned with fresh hay and water, all empty. “Why aren’t they in these?”

  Bernard flushed slightly, staring at the ground.

  Now I have you.

  The young man responsible stepped forward. “I just finished cleaning them. I was about to put the horses back when you arrived.”

  Durand’s eyes narrowed, again a perfectly good explanation given. “You don’t do them one at a time?”

  The young man shrugged. “I think they like to be together while I do it. You know, have some social time with their own kind.”

  Durand frowned, again a perfect answer. Too perfect. He stared at the floor, covered in straw and excrement. Something wasn’t right. He sniffed the air, the stench overwhelming, but there was something else there. It smelt like…

  Gasoline!

  He searched about for a source, a jerry can or something, and found none, yet the smell was distinct now that he knew it was there. “Do you service cars in here?”

  “Yes, when the horses are in their stalls.” Bernard motioned toward the floor. “Not now, of course.”

  Durand felt himself getting frustrated, another perfectly reasonable answer.

  Perhaps there’s nothing here to find. Perhaps it is all innocent.

  He kicked at some straw, revealing a seam in the stone floor underneath. His eyes narrowed, and he looked about, finding a broom standing in the corner. He grabbed it, then swept along the seam, soon revealing a large rectangle in the floor, and two very nervous men. “What’s this?”

  Bernard shrugged. “It’s always been like that.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Bernard shrugged again. “Believe what you want.”

  Durand tossed the broom into the corner then grabbed a pail, filling it with water from one of the horses’ troughs. He gently poured it over the seam then stopped, holding up a finger for everyone gathered to be quiet. The water slowly seeped away, and he could hear dripping sounds. He smiled and stood. “Either you open this, or I will. And you won’t like my way.”

  37

  Port of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Schmidt stood near a group of police officers and paramedics, all chattering about the events of last night. While the exploding boat was of interest to the crowds gathered, especially the unconfirmed rumors of hearing gunfire and a helicopter, the police were preoccupied by the activity at the chateau.

  The assault hadn’t gone unnoticed, though apparently when the police finally arrived, the survivors had buttoned up the place and refused entry without a warrant, denying anything had happened. By the time the place had been searched today, all evidence of anything untoward having transpired was cleaned up.

  No bodies, no blood, no bullets, though apparently there was some evidence of scarring to the stonework, that the residents explained away as the result of damage from crossbow practice.

  “We went through that place with a fine-toothed comb but found nothing. The Captain sent most of us to go help down here.”

  “I heard on the radio a request for a jackhammer and crew to be sent up. Any idea what that’s about?”

  The cop shook his head. “No idea. I know something happened there. They claimed fireworks, but I know something happened.”

  “What’s the Captain have to say about it?”

  The officer shrugged. “Before I left, he said without any evidence, there’s nothing we can do. And he’s right. We’ll probably never know what happened, though maybe this jackhammer thing changes things.”

  “Maybe it was nothing. Those people have always been a little special. Doesn’t the guy’s son think he’s a Templar or something insane like that?”

  “Bah, that’s just a phase. That Pierre’s always been a bit of a troublemaker, but he’s generally harmless. Just drinks too much and thinks he’s God’s gift to the ladies.”

  “Now I know he’s crazy. Everyone knows I’m God’s gift to the ladies.”

  They erupted with laughter and Schmidt continued walking along the pier, a pair of exhausted paramedics sitting on the bumper of their rig. He approached them. “Any luck finding them?”

  They both shook their heads. “Nothing. The currents must have carried them away. If they haven’t been found by now, they’re dead.”

  His partner flicked his cigarette. “I still say it was that guy from last night.”

  Schmidt’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he kept his silence, sometimes the best way to get information out of people was simply to let them talk.

  “I doubt it. Why wouldn’t they have said something?”

  “Think about it. It was definitely a piece of shrapnel in the guy’s side. How the hell did that happen? We found them near the location of the explosion, then they refused to be taken to the hospital. That sounds to me like they had something to hide.”

  “You watch too many spy movies.”

  “Yeah, and guess what, the world has spies! Just because you see something in a movie or read it in a book, doesn’t mean it can’t happen in real life.”

  His partner dismissed his argument with a wave of the hand. “I don’t buy it. But if you want to report it, go ahead. I’ll back the facts but not the conjecture.”

  Schmidt was already almost out of earshot, zero doubt in his mind that the paramedics were talking about his missing professors. They were alive, he was wounded, and they probably knew where the crate was.

  His comm squawked.

  “Joachim has been beaten up, over.”

  He came to a stop, pressing his finger against his earpiece. “Repeat that?”

  “Joachim. Some woman apparently beat the living shit out of him with a stick. They’re taking him to the hospital now.”

  Schmidt cursed as he resumed walking, his pace much quicker than a moment before. “Get there and make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. I don’t need him blowing this operation while he’s on painkillers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And transmit the location where he was found to the team. We’ll start searching for this woman from there.”

  “Do you think it’s the female professor?”

  He grunted. “Probably. I just overheard a conversation. They’re both alive, and he’s injured. They’re holed up somewhere. Let’s start searching the hotels. We’ll find them.”

  38

  Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Pierre sat offshore, the boat bobbing gently on the water, an idyllic setting if his life weren’t falling apart. He stared up at the chateau, visible through the morning haze on top of the hill overlooking the town, and it appeared as peaceful as it ever had, no outward evidence of the horrors he had committed there the night before.

  Much of his family was dead, by hands paid for with his own money, and for what? He didn’t have the cross, and his father was still alive, otherwise the banner flown at the front gate, even visible from here, would have been removed. Schmidt’s report was that the police had searched the chateau and found nothing, his brethren having cleaned his home of the sins he had committed, the bodies probably already moved to the crypt below for honorable burial later.

  And he felt sick about it.

  Yet he was more determined than ever to retrieve the cross. For if he didn’t, then all those brave
men that had defended it against him, would have died in vain.

  Schmidt’s man on the boat put a finger to his ear, listening, then smiled.

  “What?”

  “She’s been spotted, and he’s wounded.”

  Pierre sat up. “They’re alive?”

  The man nodded. “Both of them. We’ll have them shortly.”

  Pierre beckoned for the comm gear and the man frowned, but unhooked it from his ear, handing it to the man paying the bills. Pierre clipped it around his ear and pressed the earpiece. “Schmidt, this is Ridefort.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I understand you have a lead on the professors.”

  “Yes. She’s been spotted.”

  “Good. Make sure you don’t kill them, they’re the only ones who know where the item is.”

  “Understood. And once we’ve recovered it?”

  Pierre stared up at the chateau, picturing the dead, then closed his eyes. “Kill them.”

  39

  Hôtel Neptune

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Laura smiled at the desk clerk and held up her bags. “Shopping!” He returned the smile, her tone that of the crazy tourist with too much money, though he might have been curious as to why a tourist would be excited with a bunch of bags from a drugstore.

  She took the stairs, the elevator out of order, noticing some blood splatter on her blouse. She had washed her clothes in the hotel bathroom last night, certain she had removed all of the blood from their chauffeur, so this must be new.

  Must be from today’s beating.

  She frowned, quickening her pace, hoping to reach her room without encountering anyone, and within minutes had managed just that.

  “Hey, babe.”

  She smiled at James, placing the bags at the end of the bed, quickly pulling out her loot. “How are you feeling?”

  “Thirsty.”

  She held up a bottle of orange juice and he nodded. She twisted the cap off, breaking the seal, then handed it to him. He slowly sipped it down, then his sips became gulps as she sorted through the medical supplies. He looked pale, sweaty, and his bandage was too red for her liking, but when he finished off the bottle, she had some renewed hope for him.

  “I’m thirsty and starving. Any food?”

  She cracked the seal on some coffee creamer.

  “Ooh, the breakfast of champions!”

  She handed it to him. “Sorry, I couldn’t get to a grocery store.” She gently pulled off his bandage, the seeping to a minimum now. She grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a few pieces of gauze. “This might hurt.”

  “Hurt me, baby.”

  She resisted the urge to smile, then poured some of the fluid over the wound, bubbles appearing for a moment as it did its job. He winced, then kept drinking his breakfast. She repeated the process several more times, patting it dry each time, before applying some Polysporin around the wound, which in the light, and properly cleaned, appeared much smaller than it had earlier. It was still a good couple of inches long, but seemed clean and uninfected.

  “I need to sew it up.”

  This had James’ eyes shooting open, his container of cream removed from his mouth. “Umm, I’m not a pin cushion.”

  “No, you’re walking wounded with an invincibility complex.”

  “You know me so well. But I’m not walking.”

  “You will be. They found me.”

  James became concerned. “Who?”

  “One of the men that attacked the chateau. I took him out, but now they know at least I’m alive, and they’ll be looking for me.”

  James frowned. “This isn’t good.”

  “No.” She grabbed the phone out of her pocket. “I picked up this.”

  “Ooh, good thinking.”

  She grinned and handed it to him, then produced a curved needle and some thread from the pile of supplies.

  His eyes widened. “Sadist.”

  “Do you know Hugh’s number?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s in my phone.”

  “Okay, call the international operator and get the number for his hotel. We need to reach him and let him know what’s going on, then we need to get out of here.”

  James dialed the phone then pressed it against his ear. “Hey Greg, it’s me.”

  Laura’s eyebrows shot up as she realized he had called his best friend instead of the operator.

  Okay, not a bad idea, actually.

  “Just a second while I put you on speaker. Laura’s here.” He eyed the phone for a moment, trying to figure out how to accomplish his task, then pressed a button. “Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear. What number’s this?”

  “Our phones were ruined, so Laura grabbed this one when she was out. Ouch!”

  “Sorry.” Laura pulled the needle through, then the thread.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, well, we’ve gone and done it again.”

  Laura paused her needlework. “Don’t include me in this one. I told you I had a bad feeling.”

  “Oh no, what have you two gotten yourselves into this time?”

  “Hey, we’re—I’m—totally innocent in this. We went to the meeting, but on the way, we were ambushed. They tried to kill us, but we managed to make it to the chateau. While we were there, the same people assaulted the place, and we escaped through a hidden tunnel then used a boat to get away. But they followed us in a helicopter, shot it up, and the boat exploded. We managed to get off just before, and make it to shore, but I got a huge piece of metal—”

  “Small piece of wood.”

  “—stuck inside me. I got patched up, but we figured it was best to avoid the hospitals in case they were still looking for us.”

  “My God, what is it with you two? Where are you now?”

  “In a hotel, but we won’t be here much longer. Laura’s sewing me up—”

  “She’s what!”

  “She’s putting in stitches so I can travel. But we need your help.”

  “Anything.”

  “You’ve got Hugh’s contact info?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, call him, tell him what’s going on, and give him this number.”

  “Will do.”

  “And call Giasson at the Vatican. Tell him as well.”

  “Why would he be involved?”

  “Tell him we have the True Cross.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “No time to explain. He’ll know. True Cross. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” James winced once more as Laura pulled the thread through again. She smiled an apology at him.

  “Our phones are toast, so we have no way to reach Dylan. Do you think you still have that direct line to the CIA?”

  “No idea, but it’s worth a try.”

  She could almost hear their friend smile and panic at the same time. CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane was a former student of James’, and had helped them out on occasion. Milton had been caught up in events recently requiring contact with Kane, and had discovered his phones had been redirected to one of Kane’s CIA teams. It had rattled him, to say the least.

  “Okay, tell everyone that Pierre Ridefort is behind this, our host’s son. He’s trying to take the True Cross, thinks we either have it or know where it is, and he’s already killed a bunch of people at the chateau to get it. We’re getting out of town in the next few minutes. I’ll try to contact you once we’re safe.”

  “Okay, Jim. I’ll start making those calls right away.”

  “Thanks, Corky.”

  “I’m booking a flight over there now so I can punch you in the throat.”

  James grinned, as did Laura. Milton hated that nickname.

  “Don’t bother, you’ll be doing it in person soon enough.” James ended the call.

  “Turn it off, will you? I don’t want it ringing and giving away my position if I’m followed again.”

  Acton turned it off as Laura co
mpleted her final stitch, snipping off the excess thread. “Is that sterile?”

  She shrugged. “No idea, but we’ll hopefully get to safety before it becomes a problem.”

  He nodded. “Right. In a survival situation, don’t worry about getting sick from the water in a few days, just drink the damned stuff and save your life today.”

  Laura finished patching him up then stood.

  “What’s the plan?”

  She gathered the scraps from her handiwork as she thought. “I think our best bet is to rent a car and put as much distance between them and us as possible. We can call my travel agent and have her send a jet to the nearest airport, then get stateside. We’ll be safe there.”

  James’ eyes widened. “You’re seriously going to just leave the True Cross on the bottom of the Mediterranean?”

  She stared at him. “You’re not?”

  “Hell no! We need to retrieve it. God only knows what’s happening to it down there. This is a piece of history that is irreplaceable. It’s confirmation of an entire faith!”

  Laura sighed, the archaeologist in her sympathizing with his position, yet the wife in her wanting to protect her wounded husband from certain death if they were discovered. “Just what would you have us do?”

  “Rent a truck, a boat with a winch, and a couple of locals who won’t ask any questions.”

  She stared at him. “You’re delusional.”

  He laughed, his head dropping back on the pillow. “You’re right. If I didn’t have this damned wound, the two of us could handle it, but if I try any heavy lifting, this thing’s tearing open, expert sewing job or not.”

  “So we’re going with my plan?”

  He frowned. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She moved all his drinks closer. “Fuel up. I’m getting us a car.”

  40

  Hotel Barcelona

  L’Estartit, Spain