The Templar Cross

by Paul Christopher

  “Our chariot awaits,” said Tidyman. “Better hurry up unless you want to be part of the fish fry.”

  They followed the Egyptian out of the burning shack and into the sunlight. There were no sirens yet, and except for the roar of the climbing flames at their back and the cloud of greasy smoke rising into the salt air everything seemed normal. Rafi brought up the rear, supporting a still wobbly Peggy, his arm around her shoulders.

  She staggered a little as she walked, leaning into Rafi’s side, her head bent to his shoulder. Tidyman unlocked the doors of the old Fiat Ducato van and they climbed in, Rafi and Peggy in the back, Tidyman and Holliday up front. The interior of the van was baking hot, the air close and suffocating. As Tidyman started the engine they heard the first warbling of the fire trucks in the distance ahead of them.

  “Bug-out time,” said Holliday. Behind them the flames burst through the roof of the shack and boiled into the air. Holliday leaned back in his seat, feeling the adrenaline and the sudden sag of fatigue in a single instant. “They start finding bodies with bullets in that barbecue behind us and we’ll be in trouble.”

  He glanced out the window on Tidyman’s side of the van and saw people coming out of their shacks to gawk at the rising flames. Some busy-body would take down the license plate number and there’d be an all- points alert on the airwaves in minutes.

  Holliday’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug it out. Tidyman put the van in gear and swung the steering wheel around. They headed up the dusty road, gravel crunching under the wheels. The approaching sirens were getting louder.

  “Text message from Caruso,” said Holliday.

  “What does it say?” Tidyman asked.

  Holliday frowned, not understanding. He read out the message.

  “Termini Station. Seven forty-five sharp. Dress formal. RSVP.”

  27

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Holliday to Vince Caruso, standing on the platform for Track 11 at the central Rome train station. Beside the two men, Rafi, Peggy and Emil Tidyman waited, staring at the long line of old-fashioned railway cars on the track beside them. Each of the gleaming, freshly washed coaches was painted a deep rich blue and bore an ornate crest with the letters V.S.O.E. entwined and picked out in gold. Just below the curved, cream-colored roof of each coach, also in gold, was a banner that read Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits.

  “Last night you asked me for an exit strategy, Colonel, sir; this is it,” said the young man proudly. “Gets you out of Rome in style.”

  “But Vince,” said Holliday, “the Orient Express? Come on!”

  “Beg your pardon, Colonel, but it makes pretty good sense from a tactical point of view. Actually, it makes a lotta sense. According to my sources half the cops in Rome are looking for you. Apparently you were involved in the suspicious homicides of a priest who worked for the Vatican and a bunch of mobbed-up La Santa types from Naples. Am I right, Colonel? That a fair assessment?”

  A brake valve hissed loudly and there was an incomprehensible announcement on the PA system. A piercing whistle blew.

  “Close enough,” said Holliday.

  “Which means they’ll have the airports sewn up, and knowing the cops they’ll have roadblocks everywhere. There’s more surveillance cameras in Rome than there are in New York. They’ve been dealing with domestic terrorists for a lot longer than we have, right?”

  “Right,” said Holliday.

  “There you go,” said Caruso. “So who’s going to expect you to bug out of town (a) on a train, and (b) on a train full of rich people and bigwigs? It’s like trying to escape from Sing Sing on the Queen Mary.” The young lieutenant frowned. “Much as I’d like to, sir, there’s no way I could stash you at the embassy, either. You and your friends here are red-hot right now.”

  “I appreciate everything that you’ve done, Vince. Believe me, we couldn’t have pulled this off without you,” said Holliday.

  Peggy, still looking a little the worse for wear, stepped forward. Caruso was easily six feet three in his bare feet and Peggy had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the cheek.

  “Me too, Lieutenant,” she said quietly. “You saved my life.”

  Caruso blushed like a schoolboy out on his first date. Peggy stepped back and took Rafi’s hand. Tidyman, still a little dumbfounded, stared up at the exotic livery of the train car beside him.

  On a track farther over a much more modern train pulled out of the station, the deep hum of the electric locomotive echoing loudly as it gathered speed. Through the open roof the newly risen moon shone down.

  “What about documents?” Holliday asked.

  Caruso pulled himself together, blinking.

  “Uh, right here, Colonel.” He took a thick envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. “Passports for all of you, well used, new names. Some credit cards, some cash. When you get to Paris, go to the embassy and we’ll take it from there.”

  “We’re going to Paris?” Peggy asked dreamily. She yawned and leaned sleepily against Rafi. He didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “You’re booked on the train all the way, Venice, Vienna, and then west to Paris. I’ve arranged for a shepherd to meet you in Bologna at around midnight. His name is Paul Czinner—he knows all about you.”

  “How do we know him?” Holliday asked.

  “He dresses like a slob and he’ll be wearing a ring from the Point,” said Caruso. “He’s one of us.”

  “Good enough for me.” Holliday nodded.

  A railway security officer in blue slacks and a blazer weaved through the pedestrian traffic on a humming Segway transporter, looking distinctly out of place beside the elegant old train. Holliday looked away, his heart rising into his throat. The railway cop cruised by, heading down the platform, and Holliday relaxed.

  “Weapons gone?” Caruso asked softly.

  Holliday nodded. “Into the Tiber.”

  The platform around them was crowded now; last-minute buzzing swarms of well-dressed people speaking half a dozen languages were milling around, followed by attendants in blue uniforms hauling overloaded luggage dollies piled high with designer suitcases.

  “I don’t think we’re dressed for this,” said Holliday, looking around at the obviously upscale passengers.

  “All taken care of,” said Caruso. “Suitcase for each of you already in your compartments.” He paused and pulled a second folder out of his pocket, this one secured with a rubber band. “Tickets.” Holliday took them.

  “How’d you know my size?” Peggy asked.

  “Uh, the colonel described you, ma’am,” said Caruso, blushing furiously again. “I used to work summers at my uncle Ziggy’s place in the garment district. He ran a fashion knockoff shop and sold stuff on Canal Street. I used to hang out with the models. You sounded like a size six to me.”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” she said, smiling. Caruso reddened yet again. He looked at his watch. “Time to get aboard, sir.”

  Caruso led them up into the train. There was a bit of a crush in the narrow corridor, but they eventually reached a doorway midway down the car. The door was made of some sort of burled exotic wood veneer. The fittings were brass. The carpeting in the corridor was a dark paisley pattern, the corridor lights above them soft and muted. Everything looked expensive. The effect was like stepping into an old photograph. Next thing you knew a Russian princess would appear, draped in jewels and smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder.

  Caruso opened the sliding door and stepped aside. There was a drawing room with a long couchette, a folding screen drawn back to reveal two bunk beds in the next room, more wood veneer, more brass trim, more paisley carpet and matching upholstery.

  There were four small black nylon suitcases stored under the couch and on a brass-trimmed overhead rack. Holliday could see a black dress and several suits on hangers stored in a narrow little cupboard next to the door. Neat, compact and elegant.

  “It’s a double stateroom, a suite they call it,”
the young lieutenant said nervously, his eyes on Peggy. “Ten single compartments in each car. These are number six and seven. There are three dining cars, a bar car and three sleepers behind us, four sleeping cars and the baggage car forward. Everything’s completely private. Bathrooms at either end of the car. Except for that you don’t have to leave the compartment until you get to Paris. The cabin steward will bring you your meals if you want. His name is Mario.” Caruso shrugged. “I guess that’s it then, sir.” He held out his hand. “Do I get an A, Colonel?”

  “A plus, Cadet Caruso,” Holliday said with a laugh, taking the young lieutenant’s hand. They shook.

  “Good luck, sir.”

  The soldier stepped back, gave Holliday a smart, crisp salute and backed out of the compartment.

  Holliday closed the door and threw the latch. He turned back into the little room. Peggy was already sprawled on the couch, her legs across Rafi’s lap. Tidyman was seated closest to the window, looking out onto the platform. For the first time since the morning he realized that everyone in the room smelled like a hickory barbecue.

  Holliday felt a hesitant lurching movement beneath his feet. There was the deep bass note of a generator gearing up, and then, almost imperceptibly, the train began to move, sliding silently forward so smoothly there was the brief illusion that it was the platform moving, not the train.

  “We made it,” said Rafi.

  “I could sleep for a week,” sighed Peggy, her eyes already closed.

  “Being taken captive and held hostage by Tuareg terrorists will have that effect on you,” said Rafi, smiling fondly at her. Holliday felt a tug in the pit of his stomach, remembering his time with Amy, so long ago now, before the awful tide of all-consuming cancer swept her away. He and his wife must have looked like Peggy and Rafi looked now.

  There was a quiet knock on the door behind him. Holliday turned around and unbolted the door. He opened it a crack. A handsome thirty-something man in a blue uniform with brass buttons stood in the passage. He was actually wearing white gloves.

  “I am Mario, signore, your cabin steward for the duration of your journey. For your pleasure cocktails are being served in the bar car at the moment. There is also a late buffet in the forward dining car.”

  “Thank you, Mario,” said Holliday.

  “Prego, signore.” Mario gave a little bow. Holliday nodded, smiled briefly and shut the door. He threw the bolt again and turned back into the room.

  “What do you think?” Holliday said. “Anyone up for it?” He shrugged. “I’ve got to stay up to meet this Czinner character at midnight.”

  “Pass,” mumbled Peggy, already half asleep.

  “Me too,” said Rafi.

  “I’ll join you,” said Tidyman.

  “From the look on Mario’s face when he saw how I was dressed, I think we’d better change first,” said Holliday.

  The suits were Zegna and Armani, the shirts were Enrico Monti, the ties were Cadini, the shoes were Mirage and everything fit like a glove.

  They’d taken the clothes out of the narrow closet and closed the connecting panel of the screen. Peggy was fast asleep on the couch and Rafi was snoring sitting up. Holliday hadn’t the heart to wake them for Mario to make up the bunks.

  “I feel like an impostor,” said Tidyman, grimacing at his reflection in the little mirror over the sink on their side of the compartment. He raked his fingers through his shoulder-length gray hair.

  “You look like something out of GQ magazine,” Holliday said with a grin, knotting his red- and-blue-striped tie.

  “GQ for old men,” grunted Tidyman. “After today’s adventures I feel a million years old. I’m too old to be James Bond.”

  “Roger that,” agreed Holliday. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  The bar car was a comfortable arrangement of small tables and tapestry-upholstered wing chairs, with a bartender at the ready and a piano player noodling show tunes and Scott Joplin numbers on a baby grand. The bartender looked bored and the smile on the piano player’s face looked completely and utterly insincere. There were only a few people in the car. Apparently if you had enough money to travel on the Orient Express, you were too old to party.

  They sat down at the table farthest from the piano. A waiter in a short white jacket took their order and both men leaned back in their chairs. The wheels rattled and roared over the sleepers and the landscape was nothing more than flickering lights and shapes in the darkness, smeared through the heavy glass by the slanting rain that had begun to fall as they left Rome. The waiter reappeared with Holliday’s Martini & Rossi on the rocks and Tidyman’s brandy.

  “Truly astounding,” said Tidyman after taking a small sip from the large tulip-shaped snifter. “This morning men die at my hand and this evening I sip calvados in the bar car of the Orient Express wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit. The world is an amazing place, Colonel, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Holliday swirled the fluid in his glass, blunting the sharp edges of the ice cubes. He shrugged.

  “We did what we set out to do,” he said. “We rescued Peggy. The men that died today, the bald bastard priest in particular, were going to rape, torture and then kill her. People like that live in a different world, Emil, a darker world with darker rules. I just played by them.”

  “No remorse, no feeling?” Tidyman asked curiously.

  “No more than they would have had killing you or me, or Peggy.”

  “A beautiful young woman,” said Tidyman. “She and the Israeli truly seem smitten.”

  “Don’t they just?” Holliday laughed. He took a slug from his glass, savoring the taste.

  “She is small, your Peggy, petite,” said Tidyman, his voice softening. “My wife was very much like her as well.” The Egyptian’s voice snagged and he turned away, staring blindly out through the dark window.

  “I’m sorry, Emil,” said Holliday quietly. “I know how it hurts. I lost my wife as well.”

  “Does the pain lessen?” Tidyman asked.

  “A little,” said Holliday. “It fades like an old photograph over time, but it never really goes away.”

  “Good,” said Tidyman. “I don’t want to lose her in my heart.” His voice suddenly hardened and his eyes grew black as coal. “Nor do I want to forget what I will do if I ever find that Kekri Gahba, the desert pig, Alhazred.”

  The Egyptian smacked his right fist lightly into his open left palm and hissed a curse.

  “Alaan abok, labo abook, yabn al gahba, okho el gahba, yal manyoch kess, ommek, o omen, yabetek!”

  “Sounds very unpleasant,” commented Holliday.

  “You have no idea,” murmured Tidyman. He stared out the rain-swept window, peering into the black night as though it might have answers for him. They sat that way for a long time, silently. Finally Holliday spoke.

  “Tell me about your daughter,” he said, and Tidyman turned away from the window, his face filling with light and life again.

  They sat together in the bar car until they were the only ones remaining. The piano player eventually signed off with “Kiss Me Good-Night, Dear,” then wandered away while the bartender ostentatiously began polishing crystal glasses that were already gleaming. Outside there were more and more lights flashing by as they reached the suburbs of Bologna. Holliday checked the time. Almost midnight.

  Tidyman stood, a little unsteadily, exhausted by the day and feeling the effects of several brandies.

  “Time to sleep, I’m afraid,” said the Egyptian. “Mario must surely have made up the beds.” He smiled. “I’ll take the bottom bunk if you don’t mind; I don’t think I could face a ladder right now.”

  “No problem,” said Holliday.

  “Many thanks for the conversation,” said Tidyman. “This is a hard time to be left alone with your thoughts.”

  “My pleasure,” said Holliday. “Good night, Emil, sweet dreams.”

  “Or perhaps no dreams at all,” said Tidyman. “Good night, Doc.”

  He turned away, stumbling
a little and swaying with the rhythm of the train. He pulled open the door, the sound from the vestibule between the carriages rising to a roar. Then the door swung shut and the Egyptian disappeared. The bartender gave Holliday a long, steady, meaningful look. Holliday ignored him and gazed out the window into the rain.

  Fifteen minutes later the train pulled into the Bologna Centrale train station.

  28

  “How long do we stop for?” Holliday asked the bartender. He took fifty euros of the cash Caruso had given him and put it down on the cherry-wood bar. The man looked down at the folded bill disdainfully, his polishing cloth scouring the inside of a perfectly clean old-fashioned glass.

  “Twenty minutes, signore, to change crews only,” the man responded. “Be careful or the train will leave without you, signore.” The man looked as though that was exactly what he would like to happen.

  “Thanks,” said Holliday. For a moment he thought about putting the fifty-euro note back in his pocket, but in the end he let it lie. He left the bar car and went back three cars until he found a vestibule door that was open onto the platform. He went down the steps. The platform was dry but the air was still full of the sharp, clean taste of rain.

  The platform was like every other train platform in the world: a long strip of stained concrete, a yellow line warning you that you were too close to the edge, bright industrial lighting turning night into day. Overhead there was a humming spiderweb of wires for the catenary electrical system that powered most European locomotives.

  There were four other people on the platform with him, a young couple with backpacks lip-locked on a narrow bench that was advertising something called Zaza, a maintenance worker in a low-brimmed baseball cap and blue coveralls pushing a heavy broom, and a man alone in a trench coat who looked like a young Peter Falk in the TV series Columbo. He was carrying a battered, old-fashioned clasp briefcase and wore a rumpled brown suit. Seeing Holliday, he gave a little wave and trotted down the platform. Holliday stayed where he was. The man approached him, raising one hand in a little salute. The man’s shoes were black and highly polished.