More of these cavemen could be dangerous.
His biggest fear was someone shooting the professors before they could get the location of where they hid the cross. But Schmidt’s people knew the job. They were professionals. And if the professors escaped the confines of the town, they had the entire continent in which to hide.
His jaw squared. “Call them in.”
59
Approaching French Airspace
Mario Giasson wasn’t happy. He never liked kneejerk reactions to situations, but who was he to tell the Pontiff he was wrong to send them to France without a plan. It was a 90-minute trip, expedited by the fact their chartered jet was designated a Vatican diplomatic flight, leaving him little time to figure out what they would do when they landed, though the time had been well spent.
The academics were huddled together, excitedly discussing the possibilities, mostly focused on how to positively identify the cross when it was recovered.
If it was recovered.
His concern was the security aspect. An attempt had been made on his friends’ lives. That meant there were hostile forces at play, and he was heading into the thick of things with four academics and two security personnel besides himself, licensed for small arms only.
He didn’t care what the four men arguing behind him thought, they were remaining with the plane until he could be certain it was safe. He just wished he knew what was happening. News reports indicated a boat had blown up last night in Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, with those aboard still missing. His personnel back at the Vatican had managed to find reports on social media claiming a helicopter and automatic weapons fire were heard before the explosion, and also reports of another incident at the chateau the professors were apparently heading to, involving more gunfire.
Whatever was going on was serious, and dangerous. The only official reason he was here now was because the Pope had suggested it, otherwise he would have been content to remain at the Holy See and wait for word from Acton and Laura. He couldn’t be involved in any official capacity. If the Vatican were caught interfering in private affairs in France, it could cause a diplomatic row. Even this flight was classified as an academic undertaking to investigate the discovery of a religious artifact, something that occurred at least several times a year, therefore nothing out of the ordinary that needed to be minded by the French authorities.
But if they went in and ended up in a gun battle…
He sighed.
This isn’t smart.
Yet if his friends were in trouble, part of him did feel obligated to help. Though as Mario Giasson, not the Inspector General of the Holy See.
The stewardess approached. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts.”
Giasson nodded, tightening the lap belt, his time over for planning their next move.
60
Ridefort Residence
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Durand still couldn’t believe what had happened. All of them had escaped. The tunnel he had discovered eventually split off into several others, fresh footprints found on the far side of the outer wall, the men long gone, transport probably arranged by the first to have escaped.
It was clever, the method they had used, and as he thought back upon it, the residents, not his men, had chosen to congregate near their secret exit. They had planned for this contingency all along.
Very clever.
He had put out a bulletin on them, but he had no doubt they would get away. This was a free country, and they weren’t about to lock down the south of France to find eight men who had probably done nothing wrong beyond defending themselves. They hadn’t yet found the body of whoever had been shot in the car—there was too much blood and brain matter for the victim to have survived. The car was registered to this address, so the residents likely hadn’t shot their own man, and he had just received a report that bullet casings had been found several miles away along the road, a sustained gun battle apparently having occurred.
And a gun battle needed two participants.
The backend damage to the car suggested they had eventually been rammed, and residue from a busted taillight had been found just outside the gates to the chateau. His mind was quickly filling in what had happened, especially when luggage and travel documents belonging to two professors were found in the trunk.
It was his theory that the driver, their victim, had been sent to pick up the two professors. On the way back, they were ambushed, the driver shot. Blood patterns suggested the occupants had pulled the driver out of his seat and taken control. A gun battle ensued with the car eventually rammed from behind. The fuel would have been cut off, ending the pursuit, but it happened just before the gates.
And judging by the weapons cache his men had found a few minutes ago, those who lived here were armed to the teeth, and probably able to fight off whoever had pursued their chauffeured Maybach. All of which meant the men who resided here were likely innocent of any crime beyond lying to the police, hiding the body, and possessing illegal weapons. Still crimes, though nothing he was genuinely concerned about.
What did have him puzzled was why they wouldn’t have called the police? A crime had occurred. A horrific crime. Yet they were covering it up. It was safe to assume that if anything else untoward had happened here, if the reports of gunfire and explosions within the walls were correct, that there was a second attack.
And if that were the case, it suggested to him that whoever the perpetrators were, they were after the passengers of the Maybach. Professors James Acton and Laura Palmer.
Who are you? Why do they want you dead?
He frowned. And was the explosion in the harbor last night related to all this? If the reports of the helicopter and automatic weapons fire before the explosion were accurate, then it had to be. This was a peaceful town. There was no way there would be two separate incidents involving heavy weapons fire and aerial assaults. They were definitely connected. But why? What was so important about these professors?
One of his officers jogged up to him, holding out a phone. “Sir, I have that call for you.”
Durand took the phone. “Hello, Dean Milton?”
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“Monsieur, I’m Captain Durand of the National Police. I’m investigating an incident that occurred last night in Saint-Pierre-la-Mer. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of it—”
“I have.”
Durand’s eyebrows shot up slightly. “I take it you know of our town due to the fact one of your professors arrived here last night?”
“Yes. Please tell me you’ve found him. Is he all right? Are they all right?”
Durand’s eyes narrowed as his heart rate picked up a few beats. “Tell me, Dean Milton. Why should they not be all right?”
61
Les Mouettes Restaurant
Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France
Acton smiled as their lunches were brought to their table, a booth tucked in the back of the restaurant giving him a good view of the door, and quick access to the rear exit. He was feeling a little better, his appetite back with a vengeance, and he was eager to get some solid food into him, hopeful the calories might give him some of the stamina he feared he might need at any minute.
“Looks wonderful,” smiled Laura at the waitress, Acton agreeing with an extended sniff.
“Smells good too.”
He tackled it with gusto, Laura pacing herself slightly better. He was determined to not miss out on a bite, the delicious tastes and textures unfortunately mostly lost on him as he hoovered in the food while keeping a watchful eye on the door. He paused, fork in midair.
“What?”
Acton watched a man pass the windows lining the front of the restaurant, peering through the glass. Acton leaned out of sight, fairly confident he couldn’t be seen by anyone outside in the bright sunlight, yet he wasn’t willing to bet his life on it. “Someone’s looking through the front window.” He leaned back over slightly, his right eye just
able to see part of the window, then a little more as he continued to chance it. He breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s gone. Probably just looking for a place to eat.”
“Probably.”
They resumed their meal, Acton noting Laura had picked up her pace slightly, though still wasn’t matching his prison-quality display. He was on edge, more so now than a moment before. It had been over half an hour, if not approaching an hour, since they had decided to hide in place. In the excitement, he had lost track of time, too much of it a blur of pain and panic.
Pierre Ridefort’s people had found their hotel and their rental car, and were probably swarming the area. He had no idea how many they were up against, but it had to be a fairly significant number, perhaps a dozen or more—you didn’t assault a well-defended castle with just half a dozen men.
And it had been more than twelve hours now. More people could have been brought in.
He growled slightly. “I wish we had a phone. I’m going crazy not knowing what’s going on.”
Laura agreed as she took a sip of her Pepsi Light. “I’ll ask the waitress when she comes back if she knows where we can buy one. I’ll go grab it while you stay here.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think we should split up.”
She disagreed. “No, you’ll slow me down. I can get there and back in a third of the time if I don’t have to help you. Besides, I think we’re—” She froze, her jaw dropping, her fork slowly lowering to the table as her right hand inched to her side.
“What—” He stopped as a man entered his peripheral vision on his right. A man with a hand in his pocket, there little doubt his jacket was happy to see them.
“Professors, you’ve given us quite the chase, but it’s over.”
Schmidt flicked his weapon slightly at Laura Palmer. “Uh-uh, Professor. Hands where I can see them.”
Laura’s hand returned to the table and Schmidt leaned forward slightly, smiling at the gun sitting on the bench beside her.
“I don’t believe that belongs to you, Professor.”
She said nothing, instead glaring at him. She continued to impress. Most would be terrified right now, and perhaps she was, simply hiding it remarkably well. He found himself strangely attracted to his adversary. She was beautiful—not Hollywood beautiful in an artificial way; more Jackie Kennedy beautiful. Naturally attractive without flaunting it. He had no doubt if she were dressed up for a Friday night on the town, she could stop traffic, but he had a feeling she wasn’t the type. This woman liked to get her hands dirty, would never back down from a fight, and probably preferred jeans with a slice of pizza and a bottle of beer, rather than an evening gown with canapes and champagne.
He motioned toward Acton, feeling a little jealous. “Now, why don’t you pay your bill and come with me.”
Acton stared up at him. “Sorry, but I don’t have any cash. Would you mind?”
Schmidt smiled slightly, why these two were a couple, clear. “Don’t tempt fate, Professor.”
Laura reached into a pocket, pulled out a 100 Euro note, and placed it on the table. “Let’s go,” she murmured, sounding defeated.
It raised alarm bells.
He stepped back then paused. “When you get up, I better see that gun sitting on the bench.”
Laura frowned, a hand movement behind her suggesting she was returning the weapon to where he had last seen it.
I knew you weren’t that easily defeated.
His admiration ticked up another notch. “To the back.” They shuffled forward, Acton clearly in some discomfort, which would make his job a little easier. Exploiting a wound for pain was an effective torture technique, and it also prevented him from running too far or too fast.
He reached over and grabbed Joachim’s gun, stuffing it in his other pocket, then followed them out the rear entrance and into the alleyway. “That’s far enough.”
They both stopped then turned to face him.
“Now, tell me what I want to know, and you’ll live.”
Acton stared at him, the picture of ignorant innocence. “What do you want to know?”
Schmidt smiled. “You know exactly what I want to know, Professor. Where is the True Cross?”
“The what? True Cross?”
“Yes.”
Acton shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Schmidt drew his weapon and aimed it directly at Laura’s chest. Acton stepped in front of her. “Kill her, and you’ll get nothing.”
Schmidt chuckled. “Professor, I don’t really care if I find the True Cross. It means nothing to me, but a lot to my employer. I get paid whether I find it for him or not. So don’t think for a moment I won’t hesitate to kill your wife.”
“You’ll have to kill us both.”
Schmidt shook his head, enjoying an adversary with unexpected balls. “Professor, again you’re mistaken. I’m going to kill her, not you. You’ll have to live with the knowledge that you could have saved your wife by simply telling me where you hid some old piece of wood.” He stepped slightly closer, though maintained enough distance that he could get a shot off should the injured man, favoring his side, make a move. “Now, Professor, ask yourself, is your wife’s life worth less than some relic of the past?” He held up the gun slightly. “And if the answer is yes, I think you two should consider investing in marriage counseling. Or good divorce attorneys.” He leaned over slightly to get a better view of Laura’s face. “Then give me a call.” He winked.
She gave him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “Oh, God, I like you.” He flicked his gun at Acton. “You really are a very lucky man. Are we really still standing here having this conversation? How can there be any debate in your mind on what’s the right thing to do here? Prove you love your wife”—his face became all business as he stretched his arm out, pointing his Glock 17 directly at Laura’s head poking out from behind Acton’s shoulder—“or she dies, right now.”
Interpol Agent Hugh Reading entered the rather nondescript hotel, he was sure chosen by his missing friends for that very reason. He flashed his ID to the desk clerk, who appeared slightly rattled, his movements rapid and uncertain, his cheeks flushed and fingers struggling to hold a pen that incessantly tapped on a pad of paper in front of him.
“I’m Agent Reading, Interpol. I’m looking for two people, a Professor James Acton and his wife, Professor Laura Palmer.” He brought up a photo of the two of them in his apartment last year, showing the man the picture. “Have you seen them?”
The clerk’s eyes darted to the left and Reading looked. Elevators.
“Well?”
“N-no, I haven’t.”
Reading’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in, his imposing frame dwarfing the little man behind the counter. “You don’t sound too certain.” He backed away slightly, swiping his thumb over his phone’s screen, bringing up a photo from the same night with the three of them together, arms around each other, laughing. He showed it to the clerk. “They’re friends of mine. Good friends. And they’re in trouble. I’m here to help.”
The clerk’s eyes shot wide as he stared at the photo, then his shoulders slumped, visibly relieved. “They were here. Someone was after them, but they hid in the utility closet over there.” He pointed to a stairwell to the left of the elevators. “The man following them left. I think he might still be out front.”
Reading headed for the doors, peering through the glass as he searched the throngs of tourists. “What did he look like?”
“Umm, your height, slightly thinner, thirties, short blonde hair, dark tan. Dangerous.”
Reading glanced at Spencer, also searching.
“What was he wearing?” asked his son, Reading smiling at the excellent question.
“Umm, I-I don’t remember. Something dark, I think. I-I really don’t remember, sorry.”
Reading grunted, not seeing anyone who matched the description that appeared to be anything but what they w
ere. He returned to the desk, Spencer remaining at the door. “Are my friends still here?”
The clerk shook his head. “No, they left. Maybe half an hour to an hour ago.”
“Where did they go?”
“No idea, but I can show you which way they were heading.”
Reading nodded. “Show me.”
The clerk headed for the stairwell, then past the steps to a door at the back of the hotel. “They went out this way then to the right. From there, I have no idea.” He paused. “Wait! I think they said they were going to the airport.”
Reading pulled out his card and handed it to him. “If you see them or the man who was following them, call me.”
“Yes, yes I will.” The clerk beat a hasty retreat back to his desk as Reading pushed open the rear door and stepped into an alleyway. He looked to the right and his heart skipped a beat. He shoved a hand out, pushing Spencer back inside. He held a finger up to his lips and the boy nodded. Reading pointed down the alleyway and the boy’s eyes bulged at the sight.
Acton and Laura were standing not one hundred paces away, hands slightly raised, with a man pointing a gun at them both.
A man with his back to Reading.
Acton stepped slightly closer to the man, moving to the side to block his shot. Somebody entered the alleyway behind their gunman, the door that swung open appearing to belong to the hotel they had been staying at. His heart pounded a little harder, wondering if he should call out for help, there little chance of their captor getting a shot off at the new arrival in time.
But he stopped.
Is that—?
It was, yet it couldn’t be.
Reading.
The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 20