The Templar's Quest

by C. M. Palov

  Like a giant Weeble, the other man swayed to one side … just before the part of his brain that controlled autonomic function temporarily shut down. Causing the bruiser to collapse in a shuddering heap.

  Mass times acceleration equals K.O. Simple physics.

  Finn ran over and retrieved the discarded truncheon. Unzipping his Go Bag, he shoved it inside. The gun, having been kicked into the hedges, was a lost cause. He spared a quick glance at his unconscious adversary. If it had been a combat situation, he would’ve neutralized the target. But given that he was already wanted for two murders, he wasn’t about to up the ante. It was enough that he’d disarmed the big bastard.

  ‘Count your blessings, Baldy.’

  No time to gloat, Finn retraced his steps. He guesstimated that he had no more than fifteen seconds before the goon revived.

  Reaching the entrance to the maze, he could see that the guichet was sixty metres away. Between Point A and Point B, there were scores of gawking sightseers, some bozo on rollerblades and one dipshit pulling a red wheeled suitcase.

  The perfect props to create a diversion that would confuse the hell out of his attacker.

  To that end, Finn charged through the plaza, grabbing purses, backpacks, camera bags, shopping totes – whatever he could snatch – flinging each, in turn, into the air. A mad man run amuck, whipping docile bystanders into a frenzied horde.

  Sparing a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw that Cue Ball had revived. Face smeared with blood, the big brute stood at the entrance to the maze, staring at the melee.

  Time to haul ass.

  Arms pumping, Finn sprinted towards the roadway, leaping over the front-end of a baby stroller, in too big of a hurry to sidestep it.

  Needing an escape vehicle, he scanned the southbound lane of traffic that had stopped at the red light. His gaze settled on a canary-yellow Yamaha motorcycle.

  Just then, the light turned green.

  Worried that he was going to miss his ride, Finn ran over to the dipshit with the wheeled luggage. Bending at the waist, he grabbed hold of the bright red suitcase and hurled it towards the southbound lane, the red suitcase bouncing off a sedan’s front bumper, creating a clamour that caused the moving traffic to come to a sudden halt.

  Finn ran up to the yellow motorcycle that had slowed to a stop near the kerb. Not bothering to ask for a lift, he clambered on to the passenger seat. To make certain the biker cooperated, he shoved the truncheon into the driver’s ribs.

  ‘Make like the wind, asshole!’

  40

  Standing in the midst of the chaos, Dolf watched impotently as Finnegan McGuire escaped on the back of a motorcycle.

  Unable to think straight, he staggered to a nearby bench and collapsed. Head clutched in his hands, he felt as though he’d just wandered into an asylum. So much was going on – people shouting and rushing about – the only thing that he could process was the fact that the motherfucker McGuire had stolen his grandfather’s truncheon. That and he’d bested Dolf in a fist fight.

  I should have won that bout.

  Just then a black Scottish terrier darted over to the bench. Curious, the dog sniffed at him. A few seconds later, it growled ferociously.

  ‘Get lost!’ Dolf hissed, ready to hurl the shaggy beast across the plaza if it came any closer.

  The owner, a leash dangling from her hand, breathlessly rushed up to him. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but in all the madness, Sadie flew the coop and I – My God! There’s blood all over your face! Do you want me to call an ambulance?’

  ‘I want you to take your furry piece of shit out of my sight! I hate dogs!’ Dolf glared at the annoying American woman with the sing-songy accent. ‘In my country, we grill little dogs on a spit.’

  Bending at the waist, the woman hurriedly scooped the squirming animal into her arms. ‘Aren’t you a miserable excuse for a human being!’

  Tell me something that I don’t know, bitch.

  Lacking the enthusiasm to hurl a parting insult, Dolf unzipped his jacket and, raising the hem of his cotton T-shirt, wiped the blood from his face. Like most former boxers, his nose had been broken so many times, he’d lost count.

  Bewildered, events having transpired too rapidly, he wondered how he was going to explain the debacle to Herr Doktor.

  Per usual, his life was a big fucking catastrophe, this just one in a long series of disasters. Every time he thought he’d done the right thing, he’d later discover he’d fucked everything up. Just once, he wished things would go his way. But they never did. Always things went left instead of right. Like what happened with that fucking Turkish fruit vendor.

  Three months after his sister Annah had been raped, she’d slashed her wrists in the bathtub. In her suicide note, she claimed that Stefan, Dolf’s best friend in the Blut Brüder, had entered her bedroom one afternoon while she was getting dressed and sexually assaulted her. Dolf felt as though a sledge-hammer had been swung at his head. Why couldn’t Stefan have raped someone else’s sister? Why his? And why did Annah have to ruin his life with her tell-all suicide note? He’d already killed the Turk.

  Having been the one to find his sister floating in a tub of bloody water, he tore up the piece of lined notepaper and threw the shreds into the incinerator.

  Betrayed by Stefan, he left the Blut Brüder gang. That’s when he started to hang out at the boxing gym. Since he was on the dole, he offered to wipe down the ring, get equipment, hold the punching bag, whatever odd chore needed to be done. In exchange, he could work out at the gym free of charge. Eventually, Dolf was asked to be a sparring partner for some of the up-and-coming boxers. Excited, he saw this as his big chance to catch the eye of a boxing promoter. But it never happened. He’d lost his touch. Without his ‘vitamins’, he was just an average boxer with a strong punch, lacking the speed and agility of a prize fighter.

  A big fucking catastrophe.

  Reaching into his pocket, Dolf removed the GPS transmitter. According to the data on the small screen, the tracked target had yet to move from the hedgerow.

  How could that be? With his own eyes, he’d seen McGuire leave the plaza.

  Either McGuire had discovered the tracking device on the computer and left it by the hedgerow or his two companions now had the laptop.

  Although he’d been ordered to kill McGuire and commandeer the medallion that he carried in his canvas bag, what if he killed the red-haired man and abducted the woman? Herr Uhlemann could ransom her for the medallion.

  Dolf stared at the transmitter. It was a good plan. Better to kill someone than no one. And when he returned to the foundation’s office suite with the bitch in tow, everyone would see that he was a valuable asset. Then, finally, he would get his due. Prove to all of the naysayers that he was more than a mere chauffeur.

  He just needed to find his Mark 23 pistol, the motherfucker McGuire having kicked it into the bushes.

  Fully prepared to crawl on all fours and dig through the dirt with his bare hands, Dolf lurched to his feet and ran back into the maze.

  41

  ‘Do you think Finn’s all right?’ Kate worriedly asked, pandemonium raging on the other side of the Cour Napoléon.

  ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ Cædmon replied. Snatching hold of her elbow, he pulled her upright. ‘Your commando has created the necessary diversion so that we can escape undetected. I suggest that we do so immediately.’

  ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  Stomach butterflies in a tumult, Kate ran faster than she would have thought possible, Cædmon pulling her through a cutaway in the hedgerow. She didn’t resist. She trusted him implicitly. They then sprinted along the line of shrubs, dodging a group of squatting backpackers sharing a joint.

  A few moments later, they emerged from the hedgerow, the arched guichets no more than two hundred and fifty feet away. Closer at hand, approximately twenty metres from their position, a swarm of people hurriedly rushed towards them, led by two men attired in blue uniforms. The Paris police!

/>   ‘Do you think those gendarmes are looking for Finn?’

  ‘No need to worry. They’re simply directing the crowd to the northern end of the courtyard,’ Cædmon said, slowing to a more sedate speed.

  Within seconds, the two of them were suddenly engulfed by a crowd of jostling tourists, all excitedly chattering and gesturing about what they’d just witnessed on the far side of the plaza. Overhead, fast-moving clouds malevolently cast a dark shadow, a summer storm about to break.

  As if on cue, soft raindrops pelted the ground.

  Worried that Finn might not have successfully escaped, Kate peered behind her. As she did, she caught sight of a red-faced, bald-headed man, fifty yards away, stridently moving in their direction. Hit with a burst of raw terror, she opened her mouth to sound an alert but her larynx produced a sound more akin to a high-pitched wheeze. Unable to speak, she yanked on Cædmon’s tweed jacket.

  ‘What’s the mat– Bloody hell!’

  Cædmon’s expletive confirmed her worst fear – the gunman and the great hulk of a man charging towards them were one and the same.

  ‘Hurry!’ Cædmon’s hoarse command was punctuated with a loud clap of thunder. ‘We need to reach the portal!’

  A split-second later, the skies opened up, soft raindrops instantly transformed into stinging pellets that fell at a furious rate.

  Another ear-splitting boom of thunder reverberated in the Cour Napoléon.

  The ominous sound triggered a mad dash towards the guichet, at least two hundred people rushing, en masse, in that direction. A long tunnel cut into the massive north wing of the Louvre, the narrow pedestrian guichet was the only shelter to be had in the near vicinity.

  Kate spared a furtive glance over her shoulder, relieved to see that their assailant was completely enveloped by a large group of Japanese tourists, a human dragnet having been thrown around him.

  ‘Arigato,’ she whispered, grateful for the reprieve. Even if it was accompanied by a driving rain. And even if it was only temporary.

  Cinching his left arm around Kate’s shoulders, Cædmon pulled her close to him as he navigated through the horde.

  Up ahead, a bottleneck had formed at the entrance to the guichet as a veritable mob descended on the single six-foot-wide opening. While there were a total of six guichets on the northern wing of the Louvre, the four large wickets in the middle were strictly for vehicular traffic. Conversely, the two narrow portals flanking either side of the thoroughfare were designated for pedestrians. At a glance, Kate could see that there was a similar log jam across the street in front of the second pedestrian portal.

  With each boom of thunder, the soaking wet crowd to the rear of them became more insistent. Pushing that much harder. A living, breathing battering ram. Stuck in the middle of the pack, she feared they might not make it through the guichet.

  But even if they did reach it, then what? Their assailant was a mere fifty metres behind them. He had a gun with a silencer. No doubt he intended to follow them through the portal. Then pull the trigger with no one the wiser.

  ‘I th-think we should s-summon the g-gendarmes,’ she stammered, grasping the front of Cædmon’s jacket to get his attention.

  Barely glancing at her, Cædmon scotched the idea with a terse shake of the head. ‘Too much is at stake. If we go to the police, the Montségur Medallion will end up in the bloody Louvre.’

  ‘B-better that than the two of us ending up in the grave,’ she retorted.

  Cædmon made no reply.

  Fear level spiking, Kate took a deep stabilizing breath. In through her nostrils, out through her mouth. She kept a mental count until finally they reached the guichet.

  ‘Quickly! Take the lead!’ Cædmon ordered, pulling her in front of him.

  Shoving wet hanks of hair out of her face, she did as instructed, belatedly realizing that Cædmon was shielding her with his own body, protecting her from the monster to the rear of them.

  Although a full storey in height, the dimly lit guichet was stifling. Kate was pressed in on all four sides. The crowd’s mood having noticeably soured, the thick stream of soaking wet tourists trudged through the dank chasm.

  Craning her neck, Kate caught Cædmon’s eye. ‘Is he still –’

  ‘Yes. About forty metres back.’

  ‘How are we going to elude him?’

  ‘I’m not altogether certain.’

  Seconds later, like projectiles fired from a cannon, they burst free of the guichet, the summer tempest no less severe on the other side. Many in the throng rushed across the street, taking shelter under the covered arcade that ran parallel to Rue de Rivoli.

  ‘We mustn’t tarry. Our assailant will emerge from the portal at any moment.’ Snatching hold of her hand, Cædmon turned to the right and ran up to a middle-aged man holding a large black umbrella over his head.

  Tapping the bespectacled gentleman on the shoulder, Cædmon, speaking in flawless French, told the stranger that he’d give him fifty euros for his umbrella.

  Brown eyes opened wide. ‘Mais, oui! ’

  Ten seconds later, the transaction complete, Cædmon shepherded the two of them, now huddled under the umbrella, down Rue de Rivoli.

  ‘Cædmon, have you lost your mind?’ Kate hissed. ‘You just paid that man the equivalent of sixty-eight dollars. For an umbrella! ’

  ‘I didn’t think that twenty euros would seal the deal. Trust me. There’s a method to my madness.’

  ‘Who cares if we get – Oh, I get it,’ she said abruptly, noticing that the pavement teemed with people carrying umbrellas, most of which were basic black. Just like the one that Cædmon now held over their heads. ‘The black umbrella isn’t to keep us dry. It’s to camouflage us.’

  ‘Our assailant will, hopefully, assume that like everyone else who doesn’t have an umbrella, we sought dry shelter under the arcade.’

  ‘So, what’s our next move?’ she huffed, barely able to speak and draw breath at the same time.

  Cædmon jutted his chin towards the taxi stand a block away. ‘Do you have enough energy left for one last sprint?’

  Despite the fact that her shins ached and the sides of her abdomen were painfully cramped, Kate gamely nodded. She hoped fear would make her fleet of foot. Or at least keep her on her feet.

  Hand in hand, they sloshed down the pavement.

  A few moments later, her lungs on fire, they reached the taxi stand. Opening the door of the cab, Cædmon motioned her into the back seat. He then closed the umbrella and sidled next to her.

  Red hair plastered to his skull, Cædmon leaned forward and said, ‘À la Tour Eiffel, s’il vous plaît.’

  42

  ‘… avec le citron.’

  Nodding, the waiter scribbled the drink order on to a notepad before heading back into the café, muttering under his breath about the crazy Englishman who insisted on sitting outside during a deluge.

  What the sulking Frenchman failed to mutter was that Cædmon and Kate were protected from the rain, their small table situated beneath a canvas awning.

  ‘Where is he?’ For the fourth time in as many minutes, Kate anxiously glanced at her wristwatch.

  About to inform his overwrought companion that he didn’t know and, moreover, he didn’t give a monkey’s, Cædmon thought better of it at the last. ‘He’s only six minutes late. Let’s not sound retreat just yet, eh?’ At least, not until my G&T arrives.

  ‘What if Finn didn’t make it? Maybe the gunman shot him at the Arc de Triomphe plaza. If that happened, he could be injured or –’

  ‘But he’s not,’ Cædmon interjected in a firm tone, alarmed by Kate’s runaway imagination, concerned that she might be suffering from a mild case of hysteria. An understandable enough reaction given the recent hair-raising episode.

  In truth, the skin on the back of his neck still prickled, his senses in a heightened state of awareness.

  Feigning an interest in the large potted palm diagonally opposite their table, he surreptitiously scanned the bustling
cityscape; the driver of a panel truck parked directly across the street was in the process of delivering plastic tanks of bottled water; motorists weaved in and out of traffic; pedestrians, huddled beneath their brollies, scurried down the pavement.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  So, why this dread feeling in the pit of my stomach?

  The waiter, lips turned down in a classic Gallic sneer, returned with their drinks. Cædmon, accustomed to the French and their infernal bad manners, wordlessly handed the man ten euros.

  Reaching for the white ceramic cup set in front of her, Kate smiled weakly. ‘If I didn’t need the caffeine fix, I would have joined you.’

  She referred, of course, to the fact that he’d ordered a gin and tonic. And a double, at that.

  Unable to meet her gaze, Cædmon squeezed the wedge of lemon before dropping the mutilated piece of fruit into his glass. ‘Having successfully outwitted the evil ogre, a celebratory drink is in order.’ Affecting a jovial air, he toasted the sentiment with a raised glass. A glass punctured with a red light beam.

  No sooner did the unexpected image hit his ocular nerve than the glass shattered in his hand.

  ‘Shite!’

  In the next instant, a green bottle of Perrier exploded.

  Lurching at Kate, Cædmon none too gently yanked her out of the bistro chair, pulling her under their table. Hunched over the top of her, he grabbed the nearby potted palm and dragged it in front of them. Because of the rain, all of the outdoor tables were vacant. Because the gunman’s weapon was suppressed, no one inside the café was even aware of what was happening, the bullets silently lodging in the stucco wall behind them.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Kate moaned, her body contorted into a quivering ball.

  Acid churning like mad in the pit of his gut, Cædmon ventured a glance across the street. The gunman had to be hiding behind the delivery van parked on the other side of the road!

  Just then, a taxi pulled up to the front of the café. Both rear doors, as well as the front passenger door, flung open. Four tall Swedes, businessmen on a working holiday from the looks of them, got out of the cab.