Templar Conspiracy

by Paul Christopher

  “Who was on our doorstep?”

  “Brennan.”

  “Never a friend of ours by any means, so why choose us? What the hell did we have to do with any of this?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “He fed the whole thing to us like feeding pabulum to a baby. His so-called informant who was confessed to by a so-called CIA agent with a dose of conscience. The murder of both of them. Subtle connections to Rex Deus and the Sinclairs. All of it meant to pique our interest.”

  “Pique?” Peggy grinned. “I’ve never been piqued in my life.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure, you think we were being set up. But for what?”

  “He gets me interested enough to call some old colleagues, and leads me by the nose right to William Tritt, lets me think it was all my idea.”

  “You really think he’s that subtle?”

  “He’s the head of the Vatican Secret Service,” said Holliday. “You can’t get any more subtle than that. Most people aren’t even aware that Sodalitium Pianum even exists.” Holliday shook his head. “Damn it to hell! He led us right down the garden path, every step of the way. If I hadn’t mentioned Pat Philpot he would have worked the name in himself somehow. Philpot leads us to that disaster in Rock Creek Park, and before you know it we’re on the run. I knew something was wrong back then but I just thought Philpot was using me to bird-dog Tritt for him, to take the American assassin out of the picture before anyone found out.”

  “And now?”

  “I think Philpot was telling the truth about the rogue division of the Agency, but now I think he may well be part of it.”

  “And Brennan?”

  “Him, too. He’s part of it, as well.” Holliday paused. “And then there’s the assassination.”

  “Which one?”

  “The VP and the secretary of state. The X on the roof of the limo.”

  “What about it?”

  “Tritt’s not the kind to make mistakes like that. Maybe the vice president was the target all along. The president’s going to have to appoint a replacement soon.”

  “Sinclair,” said Peggy, getting it, her eyes widening.

  “Sinclair.” Holliday nodded.

  “So, what do we do?”

  “We sure as hell don’t get on the good old SS Black Emerald, I can tell you that much.” He paused. “Pack up anything you need, bring the memory stick with those pictures of Tritt on the roof and let’s get out of here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to Geneva. Let’s begin at the beginning.”

  It was close to midnight when the nondescript Mercedes taxi pulled up in front of 16 Via Tunis in Rome and let out its passenger, a tall, elegantly dressed man in a topcoat and carrying an attaché case. The door into the gray, five-story stucco apartment building was covered by an ornate wrought-iron grille. A dozen buzzers and an intercom were set into the doorframe. Mike Harris, deputy director of operations for the CIA, pressed the buzzer for number 6. He glanced to his left; the restaurant next door was already closed and there was no one on the street.

  “Si? Chi I?”

  “Crusader,” replied Harris, speaking clearly into the intercom grille.

  There was a long silence. Then the buzzer sounded and the lock on the wrought-iron gate clicked. Harris pulled open the gate, opened the door and stepped into a dim hallway. Directly ahead of him was a grimy, winding staircase leading upward. He climbed all five flights to the top story. The floor was black-and-white checkerboard tile and there was only a single door. The lighting in the hall was bright and the walls were clean and freshly painted. It was anything but grimy. Discreetly placed above the door on the ceiling was a small eye-in-the-sky camera, a miniature version of the ones they used in Las Vegas casinos. Harris knocked firmly on the door, feeling metal under his knuckles rather than the wood it appeared to be. He smiled and waited.

  A few seconds later the door opened. It was Brennan. The two men shook hands and Brennan ushered the CIA director into the apartment.

  “Been a long time, Mr. Harris.” Brennan said.

  “Indeed it has, Father Brennan. Is he in?”

  “Of course,” answered the priest. He led Harris down the hallway to a spacious living room that faced the street. There were three large windows, the shutters all firmly closed. Once again the slats of the shutters appeared to be varnished wood, but the CIA man was willing to bet they were steel, just like the door.

  The room had a plain, grandmotherly feel to it. There were brass lamps here and there, lots of bookcases everywhere and an old Persian carpet on the floor. There were two short couches, two armchairs, a gas-fed fireplace and an old wooden desk covered with stacks of paper and file folders. Antonio Niccolo, Cardinal Spada, Vatican secretary of state, was seated behind the desk, dressed in a simple black suit with a red collar tab to mark his rank. He had a cigar—Harris assumed it was Cuban—in his hand and there was a heavy-looking glass full of amber liquid in front of him. The photograph behind him on the wall-papered wall was of him and the late Pope in better days. The cigar, at least at the moment, was unlit. Brennan took a seat in one of the armchairs. Harris dropped down onto one of the small upholstered couches.

  “Good flight?” Spada asked.

  Harris shrugged. “I took the company Citation. Seven hundred per, without any screaming babies or other people sneezing on me.”

  “The benefits of power.” Cardinal Spada smiled.

  “Not for long if the present administration has its way,” grumbled Harris. “The son of a bitch wants me to pool with Homeland Security and the Bureau.” He shook his head. “What does the Bureau need with a plane that can fly seven hundred miles an hour? They couldn’t find the key to the executive bathroom.”

  “A sad state of affairs,” commiserated Spada.

  “Every president’s the same. They’re going to shake things up, get things done, pull the country up by its bootstraps. They don’t seem to understand we’re the ones who really run things and we always have, and that’s never going to change.”

  “Certainly not if you can help it,” said the cardinal dryly.

  “Damn right,” snorted Harris. “Speaking of which, how’s your new boss doing?”

  “Coming along,” smiled Spada. “As Cardinal Urbana he was desperate for the job, although the scales were tipping toward Washington. Imagine that! An American Pope, and black, as well. Foley almost made it last time. Everyone was becoming nervous. I called in a few favors, rattled a few old bones in their hiding places and made sure we had an Italian in the chair. Too many outsiders recently—Poles, Germans. Urbana knows I put him in power and knows that I can keep him there; he won’t be choosing any new secretary of state until I tell him to.”

  “Want the big job yourself?” Harris laughed. “You’re young enough to keep it for a while.”

  For the first time Brennan realized that the CIA man must have been drinking heavily on the flight to Rome.

  “Good Lord, no! The Vatican is much like your country, Mr. Harris. It is controlled and operated by the bureaucrats like you and me, not the figureheads. Being the Pope requires far more Latin than I ever learned. Not to mention the fact that I like my favorite restaurants too much to give them up. The Pope has little in the way of privacy.”

  “What about Holliday and the Blackstock woman?” Harris asked, turning toward Brennan.

  “As of nine o’clock tonight they slipped out of the museum entrance into a taxi, rented a car in Fumicino and are headed back to Geneva, presumably on the trail of our Mr. Tritt.”

  “You have the pictures Ms. Blackstock took?”

  Brennan dug into the pocket of his plain black jacket and took out a USB memory stick.

  “Right here.” He smiled. “Downloaded them from her camera while they were sleeping. We’ve got everything. It’s proof positive of Holliday’s involvement with the attempt on the president.” Harris reached for the plastic memory device but Brenna
n pulled it out of his reach. “Not yet, Mr. Harris. There are a few quid pro quos to be dealt with.”

  “How did you get them out of your hair and on their own?” Harris asked. “The senator’s mother will want to know.”

  “Holliday is smart. He’s like an old trout thinking about taking the hook; he has to convince himself that taking it was his idea. I had to play him for a long time, but you could see him putting it together piece by piece. It was too convenient and everything came back to me in the end. Too much coincidence for a man like that to swallow.”

  The older priest smiled and made a vague attempt to brush ash off his lapels before going on. “The pièce de résistance was telling him Cardinal Spada was due for the chopping block and I was about to be exiled to the bog country of my youth. It was one thing to have me around when I could get him some access, but he had to know I’d be useless from now on.”

  “Excellent.” Harris nodded.

  “What about the fingerprints from the Tritt house in the Bahamas?” Brennan asked.

  “Safe and sound.” Harris nodded benignly.

  “And Tritt himself?” Spada asked.

  “In place,” Harris said.

  “He has what he needs?” Spada asked. “He’s been given the information?”

  “Yes. Nothing will connect him to us. It’s quite ingenious, if I do say so myself.”

  “Holliday’s next jigsaw piece?”

  “Done.”

  “Matoon?”

  “Firing on all cylinders.”

  “Your Jihadist?” Spada asked.

  “Ready and waiting. We’re primed. Crusader is good to go.”

  20

  The Maine Mall is a 1,200,000 square foot sprawling shopping complex in the southern part of the city of Portland and is anchored by JCPenney, Sears, Best Buy, Macy’s and Sports Authority. It contains another 140 shops and services, including a food court and several sit-down family restaurants. It is the largest shopping mall in Maine, and more major drug deals are completed here than in any other place in the state, mostly in the food court, particularly the McDonald’s section. The food court is located on the main level at the western, or JCPenney, end of the mall.

  Today the blank-faced Chinese group was at Arby’s and the Vietnamese were chowing down on Big Macs. There were four of each, but the principals were obvious. One Vietnamese, a short man in his early twenties, was eating nothing and neither was his Chinese alter ego in the seating section next door. The noise level was deafening, like a Niagara Falls of chatter. Most people avoided sitting near the young Asian men in their black leather jackets, slicked oily hair and opaque or reflective sunglasses. Their privacy was guaranteed.

  At an unseen signal the Chinese leader got up from his place, accompanied by one bodyguard. He slipped into the booth occupied by the Vietnamese man. He, too, had a single bodyguard with him. They spoke for a moment, probably in English, although William Tritt couldn’t be sure. He watched from just outside Ben & Jerry’s as the meeting came to an end and the two men shook hands. It was the handshake that gave it away, of course. Hand shaking was distinctly non-Asian and rarely practiced by them except with whites. Ergo it had a purpose, and if you were watching as closely as William Tritt was you would have seen it: two sets of car keys being exchanged. It was the perfect pass over and any narcotics agent arresting either group at this point would find no evidence of any sort of drugs on the men. The keys would have no identifying tags and no electronic beepers. Checking all of the thousands of vehicles in the enormous parking lots surrounding the mall on three sides would be impossible.

  The Vietnamese were almost invariably the buyers in situations like this, so when the little party broke up Tritt followed the four Chinese, who were probably collecting the cash. Tritt had no interest in the drugs, whatever they were. They headed for the northwest exit.

  The parking lot was a crisscross maze of snow piles and narrow, half-cleared paths. It was snowing now, the blustery wind off the nearby ocean cutting visibility as the fat flakes whirled and danced. The only people in the lot were hurrying either to or from their vehicles. The car was a tan Chevy Impala from the last decade. The leader of the small Chinese group put the key in the trunk lock and opened it. All four men leaned inward to inspect the contents.

  A firm believer in simple solutions, Tritt removed the .50-caliber Desert Eagle from the brand-new black nylon sports bag he carried in his left hand, then screwed on the suppressor he took from the pocket of his newly purchased ski jacket from Sears. He had already snapped on surgical gloves as he walked along behind the four Chinese in the mall. From fifteen feet away he shot each of the young men in the base of the spine.

  The weapon made a stiff cracking sound like ice breaking underfoot on a frozen pond and the four men dropped to the ground without any other sound. Their heavy jackets soaked up the blood pouring out of the exit wounds in their lower abdomens, so there was very little mess. No one had noticed anything; the piles of snow had acted like sound buffers, stealing away any echo. He dropped the Desert Eagle and the suppressor into the sports bag and zipped it up.

  Tritt took one quick look around, then stepped forward. He removed a pair of large, green Samsonite hard-shell suitcases from the trunk, then heaved the bodies of the four dead Chinese into the empty space.

  He took the Desert Eagle out of the sports bag a second time and emptied the clip into the bodies, just to make sure. He slammed the trunk closed, took the key out of the lock and put it into his pocket. He slung the sports bag over his left shoulder, picked up a suitcase in each hand and walked back to his rental.

  In this weather it would be a while before the bodies in the trunk began to emit an odor, but somewhere along the line the missing money and the absent men would surely be missed. Almost certainly the Chinese murders and the disappearance of the cash would be blamed on the Vietnamese. Maybe the whole episode would turn into a gang war and he’d be instrumental in lowering Portland’s crime rate.

  His rental was a black F150 truck equipped with out-sized snow tires, quite a common vehicle in Maine at this time of year. The same people who’d provided the Desert Eagle had also given him a complete identity package for a man named Art Barfield, including various hunting permits, a driver’s license in the same name and a letter of introduction to a radical and obscure paramilitary group named Maine’s Right Arm.

  Maine’s Right Arm had a membership of barely twenty active participants. The leader of MRA was Wilmot DeJean and the group was located just outside Arkham, a hamlet in the northwestern part of the state. Arkham was the largest of four villages with a total population of two thousand spread out over forty-one square miles. According to the information Tritt had been given, Wilmot DeJean was a onetime high school teacher offered early retirement for psychiatric reasons.

  DeJean apparently had delusions of grandeur of an extreme nature. He used an eagle clutching a swastika as both the symbol of the organization and the tattoo on his right bicep, and he had once been investigated by the Secret Service for writing a threatening letter to the current president. This event was thought to have precipitated his early retirement. The group had been infiltrated by Homeland Security and was deemed to be a minor threat, if a threat at all. The files on both DeJean and the MRA were still open with both Homeland Security and the Secret Service, however.

  “We could always just bail on the whole thing,” suggested Peggy as they neared Geneva. It was almost dawn and there was a light snow falling. Both Peggy and Holliday were exhausted after their long drive, and Holliday’s nerves were near the breaking point. “You go back to the university and I’ll go back to Israel. Forget any of it happened.” She lifted her shoulders. “You were right. None of this was our business in the first place.”

  “It’s too late for that now,” said Holliday, seated behind the wheel. “We’re the patsies for whatever they have in mind.”

  “Which is?” Peggy asked.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea,”
said Holliday. “I don’t even really know who ‘they’ are. The Vatican? The CIA? Rex Deus and that bitch Sinclair?”

  “Maybe all three,” said Peggy. “The Pope gets assassinated because he’s some kind of threat to Brennan and his organization, this rogue element in the CIA is trying to alter the balance of power by getting rid of an administration that’s been trying to marginalize it, and Kate Sinclair gets a shot at putting her son into the White House, or near it.”

  “Sounds a little complicated. Don’t you think?” Holliday asked.

  “Conspiracies usually are,” answered Peggy. Holliday laughed. He swung the rental down the ramp at the first Geneva exit off the auto route.

  “Conspiracies usually don’t exist at all,” he said. “They’re just a lot of Internet fantasies.”

  “Tell that to Julius Caesar, or what’s-his-name, the guy with the eye patch like yours, the Nazi Tom Cruise played. He and his buddies tried to blow up Hitler.”

  “Von Stauffenberg,” said Holliday.

  “A conspiracy only exists when it’s discovered. If it succeeds no one knows it was ever there.”

  “Who knows?” Holliday shrugged. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “And maybe Tritt left something behind to give us some clue.”

  Brennan had run Tritt’s Geneva phone number and the plates on Tritt’s vehicle several days before the rocket attempt on the president, and discovered that the car was registered to a man named Emil Langarotti. Langarotti’s address was given as 1 Rue Henri Frederich Amiel, Apartment 5B. Holliday and Peggy booked themselves back into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, slept until noon, then headed to Tritt’s pied-à-terre.

  The address turned out to be a five-story, peach-colored stucco building just off the Rue des Delices, half a mile or so from their hotel. It was a quiet neighborhood around the corner from a busy thoroughfare and seemed made up almost entirely of buildings like Tritt’s, done in varying pastel shades of stucco.

  There was a wide, arched front door, the glass protected by ornamental ironwork. Above the door there was a large, black ONE. From a quick study it looked as though there were six apartments on each floor. Presumably Tritt’s apartment was on the top one. They pulled open the big door and stepped into the building’s lobby. There was a concierge’s cubicle on the right but it was empty. On the left was a brass-doored elevator with a little porthole window. Directly ahead was a narrow flight of winding stairs. They took the coffin-sized elevator that creaked and groaned its way to the top floor. The elevator door opened onto an X-shaped intersection of four short corridors, badly lit by old-fashioned wall sconces. The floors were covered in green institutional carpeting that was stained and worn.