So whenever he was asked if he wanted to come, he made sure he had a good excuse. This time it was legitimate, a head of state arriving in a couple of days that would preoccupy his time. The kids had begged to stay, a friend’s birthday party this weekend, and his wife had reluctantly agreed. He had sold her on the idea of some father-daughter time, at which she had smiled.
“Any excuse to avoid my mother.”
He had grinned. “Who, me?”
His wife understood. He would never please her mother. He was Swiss, his mother-in-law Italian. Anything less than an Italian man wasn’t good enough for her daughter. It had bothered him the first few years, but not anymore. There was no changing her. They would lead their lives, and as long as his mother-in-law never said anything bad about him to the children, he couldn’t care less what she said behind their backs, or his.
He just knew it hurt his wife, and had noticed that her trips to the home where she had grown up, were becoming fewer with time. If his mother-in-law wasn’t careful, she’d lose her daughter altogether.
“You okay, Daddy?”
He looked up from the pan he had been staring at, then at Zoé. “Yes, dear, just thinking.”
“About what?”
He slid the rösti onto his plate. “Mommy.”
“Aww, do you miss her?”
He smiled. “Of course.” He sat and took a sip of his coffee before attacking his Swiss treat, the potato and onion concoction something he had eaten almost every day in the mountains of Switzerland.
And it hadn’t made him fat.
His phone vibrated on the table and he glanced at it, the call display indicating it was the office. He tensed slightly, a call rare unless something was wrong. He took the call as he swallowed. “Yes?”
“Sir, it’s Ianuzzi. I have an urgent call for you from a Dean Gregory Milton from St. Paul’s University in Maryland.”
Giasson’s eyes narrowed. “The name sounds familiar. Isn’t that Professor Acton’s university?”
“I believe so. He says it’s most urgent.”
“Okay, put him through.” Giasson wiped his mouth with his napkin then rose from the table, heading for his home office.
“Monsieur Giasson?”
“Yes, Dean Milton, is it?”
“Yes, I’m a friend of Jim Acton, whom I understand you’re quite familiar with.”
Giasson smiled, his encounters with the archaeology professor always memorable, and almost always life threatening. “Yes, I consider him and his lovely wife friends.”
“Good, good. Listen, I just got a call from them. They’re in the south of France, in Saint-Pierre-la-Mer. There’s been an attempt on their lives—”
“Oh no! Are they okay?”
“Yes, but Jim has been wounded. I got the impression he was going to be okay, but they think those responsible are still after them.”
“I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll do whatever I can to help. Have you called the police?”
“I’ve already called Hugh Reading, and he’s on it. But Jim asked me to call you.”
Giasson’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because he says he has the True Cross.”
Giasson collapsed into his chair, his jaw dropping. “Did you say the True Cross?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure he has it?”
“Apparently so. That’s why they’re trying to kill him.”
“Who?”
“They were supposed to meet a Jacques Ridefort. Apparently, his son Pierre is behind the attack.”
“Ridefort? As in the knights found under the Vatican a couple of years ago?”
“The very same.”
Giasson wiped his hand over his shaved head. “Is he bringing it here?”
“I have no idea. I quickly Googled it, and I think it’s fairly large, so I don’t know how they can try to evade these guys and save it.”
Giasson leaned forward. “He has to save it. This could be the most significant find since…well, ever!”
“I think his life is more important than some relic.”
“Not just some relic, sir, but the relic. If he indeed has found it, it could have profound consequences. Where did you say he was?”
“Saint-Pierre-la-Mer.”
“Okay, do you have a pen?”
“Yes.”
He quickly gave Milton his cell number. “If you talk to him, give him that number. I’m going to speak to my people and see what we can do from this end.”
“Okay, if I can reach him, I’ll let you know.”
Giasson ended the call and leaned back in his chair.
The True Cross! It can’t be!
43
Milton Residence
St. Paul, Maryland
Gregory Milton checked his watch again for the umpteenth time. It was barely four in the morning. Sandra was already sitting beside him, listening to the calls he was making, getting updated through the conversations and the brief moments between. He turned to her.
“One more call.”
“Who?”
“CIA.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Dylan?”
“They can’t reach him because their phones are fried. I think I remember them saying he had installed an app on their phones so they could contact him securely. Without it, there’s no way to reach him directly.”
“So you’re just going to call up the CIA and ask for him?”
He shook his head. “Nooo, I’m hoping that I still have that direct line.”
Sandra shivered. “Oh, God, I hope not. That was kind of creepy.”
A few months ago, he had called the CIA on an urgent matter, and found himself immediately talking to someone on the inside who knew everything about him, his phones tapped so any calls he made to a CIA number would be automatically directed to Kane’s contact. He didn’t know who the man was, though he sounded young.
And he had delivered.
He just wondered if this was something left enabled, or was he about to waste his time. With the number of times his friend got in trouble around the world, he wouldn’t be surprised if the CIA had left the “direct” line open.
He looked at his wife. “Do you want to do the honors?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not talking to them.”
He laughed. “No, I mean look up the number like you did last time.”
“Oh.” She grabbed her tablet and within moments had the number for him. He dialed, and a woman answered. A young woman.
“Dean Milton, my name is Sonya. Is there a problem?”
He sucked in a quick breath, his heart hammering, the very idea this had worked, terrifying.
What else are they listening to?
“Umm, hello. I, ah, need to speak to Dylan Kane.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Well, ah, Jim—James—Acton and his wife, Laura Palmer, seem to be in, well, in trouble again.”
“Details.”
“Umm, I received a phone call from them a few minutes ago. They said someone had tried to kill them on their way to a meeting. They managed to escape, but they’re still being pursued.”
“Where?”
“Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France.”
“Do you have the exact address?”
“Ah, just a sec.” He grabbed his notepad and read off the address for Ridefort’s chateau, along with the new phone number. “That’s one of those pre-paid phones. Their regular phones aren’t working.”
“Understood.”
“Will you be able to help them?”
“I can’t make any promises, sir.”
“And Dylan is unavailable?”
“Yes.”
“What about those guys in Delta he knows?”
“They’re unavailable as well.”
“How can you be—”
“Sir, they’re unavailable. I’ll do what I can, but I’m afraid your friends might be on their own
this time. Goodbye.”
The call abruptly ended, and Milton returned the phone to its cradle. He looked at his wife. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”
“Me neither. Are they going to help?”
He stared at her for a moment, replaying the conversation. “I’m not sure. Dylan and Delta aren’t available. She said she would see what she could do, but then said that Jim and Laura might be on their own this time.”
Sandra bit her finger, worry on her face. “God, I hope they’ll be okay.”
44
Leroux/White Residence
Fairfax Towers
Falls Church, Virginia
CIA Analyst Supervisor Chris Leroux moaned in delight as his girlfriend, CIA Agent Sherrie White, straddled his back, delivering a very early morning surprise hot oil massage almost as good as sex.
Almost.
If life were to give him a choice between the two for some reason, there was no doubt which one he would choose. There was nothing like making love to the incredible woman now providing him with so much exquisite pleasure, and though he would love for this to last forever, it would soon be his turn to return the favor.
And that always led to his most favorite thing.
Sometimes life gave you a choice, and you were able to choose both.
Life is good.
She finished with an incredible hard though not painful pulling of his hair, the grip firm yet loose enough to let the hair slowly slip through. She repeated this several times, and the stress in his scalp faded away with her ministrations. And it was awesome. She was the first to have ever done that for him, in fact, she was the first to ever give him a massage.
He had never thought he would like it, a stranger’s hands rubbing all over his body, but he trusted her implicitly, and when she had first offered, despite his hesitations, he had acquiesced, and now it was a regular part of their lives.
She slapped his ass. “My turn.”
He rolled over, Chris Jr. waving at her.
“Someone’s happy.”
He grinned. “I have nothing to say on the matter. He’s his own man.”
She handed him the bottle of lotion then lay down, her spectacular body laid out before him, causing him to shake his head in appreciation. He poured a generous portion of the viscous fluid on her back, then worked his magic. The first time he had tried this, he wasn’t very good, but with practice, he now thought of himself as quite proficient, her moans and groans suggesting he was right.
As he got more into it, his entire body joined in, and after only a few minutes, the massage was forgotten, and she reached behind her, grabbing him. “Now!”
He groaned, there no doubt what she meant, and there was no doubt they both needed it. He backed off slightly, ready for the reward they had both been working toward, when the phone rang.
“Are you freakin’ kidding me!” She stared back at him. “If that’s Dylan, tell him I’m putting a hit out on him.”
Leroux growled in frustration, wiping his hands on a nearby towel then grabbing the phone. “Hello?”
“Sir, it’s Sonya. I hope I’m not waking you, but we just received a call from Dean Gregory Milton, Professor James Acton’s boss.”
Leroux dropped onto the bed, frustrated. “What is it now?”
“Apparently someone tried to kill Acton and his wife in the south of France. They were hoping to reach Special Agent Kane, but he’s on assignment in Istanbul. Should we ignore this or take action?”
Leroux sighed then his eyes widened as Sherrie rolled over and straddled him, deciding to take care of business herself, the tool of choice him. He moaned.
“Sir?”
“Ahh, nothing. Just stretching. Umm, what do you have that’s actionable?”
“An address and a new phone number.”
“Okay, run with it, I’ll be in shortly.”
“Okay, good—”
He ended the call, tossing the phone aside and reaching up for Sherrie’s shoulders, pulling her down on top of him. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Not until I’m done with him.”
“We kind of come as a package deal.”
She grinned at him mischievously. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
45
Hotel Barcelona
L’Estartit, Spain
Hugh Reading stared at the screen on his son’s laptop, searching for the quickest flight to get him to Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, a town in France he had never heard of, but where two of his best friends were in trouble.
“Dad, forget the plane.”
“Huh?”
“It’s too slow.” His son stuck his phone in front of Reading’s nose. “Look, it’s only a two-hour drive from here.”
Reading’s eyebrows shot up as he grabbed the phone, the route laid out, Google assuring him it was only two hours and three minutes from where they sat. He smiled. “Now that’s bloody brilliant.” He began to rise when his son pushed him back in his seat with a hand to the shoulder.
“Eat your breakfast. You’re going to need it.”
Reading eyed him. “Just what are you implying?”
“That you’re old.” Spencer grinned. “Now, I’m going to go pack.”
“Woah, wait a minute. You’re not coming with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it could be dangerous.”
“Well then, good thing I’ll be with a copper.”
Reading stared at him. “I’m being serious. Men with guns tried to kill my friends.”
“Well, Europe is filled with men with guns now. And if I’m going to be a cop, I’ll need to learn to run toward the danger and not away.”
Reading’s eyes shot wide, his jaw dropping slightly. “Excuse me?”
“I’m going to be a cop. I put my application in last week.”
“Bloody hell!” Reading leaned back in his chair. “Does your mother know?”
Spencer shook his head. “I was kinda hoping you’d tell her.”
“Bollocks to that! I’ve managed to go over fifteen years without her screaming at me. I’m not going to start now. You want to learn how to defuse incendiary situations, start with your mother.”
Spencer frowned. “Maybe I just won’t tell her until I’ve completed that part of my training.”
Reading chuckled. “You wait that long, and your friends might be investigating the new lump under the rose bushes.”
“Then what should I do?”
“Be honest. And don’t tell her in the bloody kitchen.”
“Why?”
“Too many sharp objects. And don’t do it in the car, she’ll crash the thing.”
“Now you’ve got me really worried.”
Reading laughed, then became serious. “Is this what you really want?”
Spencer nodded. “Yes.”
“Then tell her that. She’ll come around eventually. But if this is what you want, then you have my support.”
Spencer grinned. “Thanks, Dad.” He turned on his heel, leaving for his room. “Now I’m going to pack. Eat your breakfast.”
Reading didn’t bother arguing, but his breakfast remained untouched.
My son, a copper?
He sighed. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have been concerned at all. But with all the problems the UK had today with terrorism and immigrant communities that refused to integrate or respect the law, he wasn’t sure he wanted his boy on the frontlines without a gun.
And he definitely didn’t want him in the south of France facing some unknown criminal element.
He stared at his plate, bacon and eggs in the shape of a happy face. He chuckled then picked up his fork. Spencer was an adult, old enough to make his own decisions. And if he refused him now, he might just set back the progress of the past couple of years, perhaps irreparably.
He just prayed he wasn’t about to regret this selfish indulgence.
46
Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
&nbs
p; Pierre was going nuts with all the waiting. So far, the search had proven a failure, and he was powerless to do anything about it. He couldn’t go to the chateau as it was now enemy territory, he had no idea where his father was, the cross was on the bottom of the sea, and he couldn’t even go home in case the authorities were searching for him, or his father’s loyal subjects were waiting to kill him.
And what made it worse, was he was stuck on this boat with a man whose idea of conversation consisted of grunts and huffs. He half expected the man to point them toward the nearest caves and start painting.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone.
“No cellphones.”
“Why?”
“They might track it.”
“Who?”
“The police.”
“Why would they? They don’t know I’m involved in anything.”
“The police are searching the chateau right now. They know your family is involved in something.”
Pierre shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Do you think they’ll find anything?”
The man shrugged. “That’s up to your father.”
Pierre frowned. His father wasn’t there, that much he was pretty sure of.
What would you do if you were in charge?
He thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure. His father always made the decisions. He could—he would—ask his uncles. They were older with more experience, so would know what to do. He chewed on his cheek then stopped.
Is that why he doesn’t want me to carry on? He doesn’t think I have enough experience?
He resumed chewing. It made sense. His father was dying far before his time. It should be at least another twenty years before he should expect his son to take over the responsibilities of the family. But surely this had happened before. Five, six, seven hundred years ago, the average life expectancy was nowhere near what it was today. Men his age had to have been taking over from their dying fathers. What was so different now?
He picked at a hangnail.
The difference is you don’t know what to do.
A hundred years ago, would his great-great grandfather have known what to do if he were thrust into this duty at his age? He had a feeling he would. He had to admit he hadn’t embraced the training, physical or mental, preferring to play his video games and hang out with friends, his nose on his phone rather than his books.
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 16