Durandus leaned forward. “Are you a Mason?”
Evarts fell against the back of his chair. “Yes.” His tone curt to show his frustration. “You really can’t be direct, can you?”
Piqued, Durandus leaned into Evarts. “How’s this for direct: Are you a Templar?”
Evarts slowly bent forward to meet Durandus eyeball to eyeball. “A Templar? Like in the Knights Templar? What the hell are you talking about?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I am not a member of the Templars and I have no knowledge of any organization by that name. Does it even exist?”
“I’m afraid so. Templars killed the other four terrorists.”
Evarts tried not to react.
Durandus leaned even closer. “The four you didn’t kill.”
Chapter 3
“They’re vigilantes,” Durandus explained.
Evarts understood.
“And you think I’m one of them?”
“Put yourself in our shoes. What would you suspect?”
“I don’t like your choice of words. Are we suspects?”
“You were in the right place at the right time. You killed two of the terrorists.” Durandus held both palms up. “And you’re a mason.”
“What do masons have to do with it?”
“Since the Fifteenth Century, Masons have harbored the Templars. But you already know that.”
“I know no such thing. I’ve never heard anything like that in my lodge.”
“Are you allowed to divulge your level within the masons?”
“You obviously confirmed my membership while we cooled our heels. Some call Masons a secret society, but membership is not secret. Many even wear a ring. I can’t believe it’s relevant but I’m second degree.”
Guerin started writing for the first time.
“Just above apprentice.” Durandus appeared perplexed. “I’d conclude that you were lazy and unambitious … except that you climbed from patrolman to chief.”
“I take policing seriously.”
“But not the Masons?”
“Membership in the Masons helped me advance in my department. The club also eases my relationships with town leaders. I’m not a joiner … and don’t like clubs.” Now Evarts shrugged. “I do the minimum.”
“I see,” Durandus said noncommittedly.
“I don’t,” Evarts said. “Are you saying that four terrorists were killed by real Templar Knights and they’re affiliated with Masons? I’m sorry, but that’s nuts.”
“We don’t know as much as we’d like, but it appears that the Templars are affiliated with the Scottish Masons but use Freemasons worldwide for recruitment.”
“Are either of you a Mason?” Evarts asked suddenly.
“Both,” Durandus answered. “It’s part of why we were assigned to this special task force.”
That told Evarts a lot.
“How did they kill the four terrorists?” Evarts asked.
“Sniper fire,” Durandus answered.
“And you didn’t catch them?”
“No. They abandoned their rifles and disappeared into the crowd of onlookers.”
Evarts thought. Durandus remained silent and let him think.
“Why didn’t they shoot right away?” Evarts asked. “Before the killing started?”
“We’re not sure, but our guess is that their priority was to kill the gunmen, not the swordsmen. They were on the Left Bank, at least six of them. As people fell or hid, their line of sight became clear, and the Templars took the shooters out. By that time, you had taken care of the other two.”
“If they were waiting,” Evarts said, “they must have infiltrated the terrorists’ organization.”
“That we do know … and they have.”
“To ambush the attack, they would need spotters on the ground and possibly someone on the bridge,” Evarts mused.
Durandus didn’t respond.
“You think Greg is part of this vigilante group?” Baldwin exclaimed. “No way. You don’t know my husband. He doesn’t join causes. None. His life is me, the police force and surfing. He also plays singles tennis and prefers to ski by himself. He’s a loner … and nonpolitical. I need to remind him to vote … even when his friends are on the ballot. He attends Mason meetings only occasionally. And I can tell you this, he did not arrange our wedding date four years ago to coincide with this terrorist attack.”
“You’re here for your anniversary?” Durandus asked.
“We are,” Baldwin answered. “Today, as a matter of fact. That’s the reason for the Sequana reservation. We ate there on our honeymoon.”
Durandus flicked his finger and Guerin left the room.
“Were you in the military?” Durandus asked.
“Army,” Evarts said.
“What specialty?”
“Telecommunications. Signal corps.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t explain your performance on the bridge.”
“It probably had little to do with it, but I’ve taken martial arts lessons.”
“No team sports?”
“None. Except police versus firemen softball.”
“Not in school?”
“Not in school. Team sports took me away from surfing. Why this line of questioning?”
“As your wife said, I don’t know you. Understanding a man’s character tells me a lot.”
“Are you going to ask about what happened on the bridge?” Evarts asked.
“We know what happened on the bridge. Seven cameras caught the attack. Now we’re looking into deeper questions. Tell me, Chief Evarts, what was the terrorists’ strategy?”
Evarts thought before he spoke. “The job of the two sword carrying terrorists was to cause panic and herd people into the waiting guns. The goal was maximum carnage. Due to shopping galleries, museums, Notre Dame, and traffic patterns, the Right Bank is heavily patrolled. If the attack started from that side, Police or soldiers might have responded before the swordsmen could instill complete panic. However, an attack started from the opposite bank would draw first responders toward the bridge to defend people from the assailants. That would pull them out of the surrounding streets and put them into the field of fire.”
“And that tells you?”
“If everything had gone to plan, police and soldiers would have been shot or drawn away, allowing the shooters to merge with the victims and gawkers.” Evarts paused. “The shooters weren’t expendable extremists. They were trained operatives that took the risk because they believed they had a chance to survive.”
“Excellent, Chief. And what else?”
“This was not a one-off, Capitaine. They have something else planned.”
Chapter 4
Evarts ordered a Macallan’s on the rocks and a chardonnay for his wife.
Earlier at the station, Durandus and Guerin had left the room for a private conversation. On their return, they had given Baldwin and Evarts permission to leave. The police station, not France. Durandus ordered them to remain in Paris and return at eleven in the morning to make a formal statement. A uniformed officer drove them to their hotel and admonished them not to change hotels without notifying Durandus.
The hotel bar was tiny, but they could take their drinks to the comfortable lobby. At one in the morning, no one else was about.
Baldwin took a long sip of her wine and raised her eyelids in appreciation. “Oh, that tastes good. Thank god we’re out of that awful room.”
“For ten hours, anyway.”
“I’ll take it,” she said. “Thankfully, the French don’t start their day early.”
“I believe Durandus and Guerin were tired.”
“I don’t care,” she said flatly. After another sip, she set her glass down, leaned over, and gently kissed him. “Thank you for saving our lives.”
“Me? It was your impersonation of a rabid policewoman that saved our bacon.” He leaned over and kissed her, a little more seriously. “Thank you.”
&nbs
p; “We’ll thank each other … but not in the lobby.” Her youthful face conveyed innocence but her smile did not.
Patricia Baldwin had just turned thirty-seven but appeared as if she was still in her twenties. Most men would have called her cute, not pretty. She wasn’t vain about her appearance except for her expensively highlighted brunette hair, which she kept short and purposely disheveled. Along with her glasses and smooth skin, she looked more like a coed than the youngest full professor in the University of California system. Or at least she was at the time she was awarded her professorship at age thirty-one. Evarts had no idea if someone else held the title now. He was not about to ask.
“How do you manage to look so fresh after such a harrowing day,” Evarts said in wonderment.
She shrugged. “Genes, I guess. How long do you think they’ll keep us in France?”
“I suspect we’ll find out tomorrow. No longer than we planned on staying, I suppose.” He smiled. “Now that they no longer suspect that I’m a vigilante.”
“Can you read Durandus?”
“To a degree. He’s good. I’d hire him in a heartbeat.”
“But what about that Templar thing? Is that serious?”
“I presume so, but I never heard about it. Santa Barbara is not a terrorist target.”
“Why not?” She asked.
“Hard to get to, I suppose … harder to escape from. Small airport, only one major highway. Pretty shoreline, rich people, but nothing iconic.” He took a swallow of his whiskey. “Not sure, really, but let’s hope our fair city stays off the bad guys’ radar.”
“What did you mean when you said this is not a one-off? Should I be worried?”
“The gunmen were not radicalized Islamicists who swallowed a promise of seventy-two virgins. These were soldiers … non-suicidal professionals. The terrorist organization, whoever they are, sent their A-Team, a major investment in fighting capability. Marry that with the trend for jihadists to double or triple hit and you can conclude that they have one or more additional actions in play. And in answer to your last question, it does no good to worry. Terrorist attacks are relatively rare and those that do occur are unpredictable. If we knew where they were going to hit, we could stop them.”
“Why are you using the plural pronoun?”
“Am I?” He hesitated. “I guess I am.” Evarts though about it. “I’m in law enforcement, an unofficial worldwide fraternity, but I really think it’s about the events of the day. We’ve been drawn into it.”
“That’s not the way I’d put it. We were in the wrong place at the wrong time and lucky as hell to escape with our scalps. But this isn’t our problem, Greg. It’s not your case to solve. We’re here for a vacation. That’s it!”
She was fired up and Evarts didn’t blame her. He had been terrified. He knew she had been as well. They had met while fighting a secret society that wanted to rule North America and had fought side by side. She was the most courageous woman he had ever witnessed in battle, but that didn’t mean she welcomed the opportunity to engage in life or death combat. Evarts took a deep breath. She was right. This was not their fight.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m getting another drink. Do you want one.”
She nodded.
When he returned with a drink in each hand, she no longer appeared peeved.
“Sorry,” she said. “Tough day … especially the endless waiting in that dank room.”
“Yes, that was the hard part,” Evarts joked.
They both laughed.
After a sip of her freshened drink, she asked, “Do you think you can help? If you do, I won’t object.”
“Probably not. I keep up on the terrorist bulletins and attend an occasional seminar, but terrorism is not a high priority for me or my force.” He took a sip. “I am curious though. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to make a few calls.”
“Interpol?”
“No. No one over here will tell me anything. It would need to be our boys.”
“You’re talking about your old army buddies.”
Evarts nodded. He was officially in the signal corps, but she knew he had really worked for Army Intelligence. Electronic surveillance, not spy running. He left the service as a major, but his friends who remained in the army had one or more stars on their shoulders. They could tell him if there was a vigilante group who used the ancient Templar moniker. All he really wanted to know is if they operated in the good ol’ US of A.
“Now?” She asked.
He did a quick calculation and determined that even with the time difference, few would remain at work in Washington. He decided on a text message. He pulled out his phone and typed as they finished their second drink. It took him longer than normal to send the message because he didn’t want to use words that would be flagged by the NSA.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket and smiled. “Done. Now, I think thanks are in order.”
Baldwin bounded up to her feet.
“Yes. Let celebrate being alive.”
Chapter 5
They were escorted into a cramped, disheveled office empty of people. The trophy wall confirmed that the tenant was Capitaine Durandus. They had slept late, ordered coffee and croissants to their room, and barely made it to the lobby in time to leave. Durandus had sent a uniformed officer to drive them to the station. Evarts assumed it was witness handing, rather than a courtesy.
Baldwin waved her hand around the room. “So much more civilized.”
“That remains to be seen,” Evarts said as he sat in a cushioned side chair.
He had received a return text from his army buddy, but it contained no information, only acknowledgment that his text had been received. He glanced at his watch. The Pentagon wouldn’t even start work for a couple hours. Evarts goal was to get out of this office as quickly as possible.
Durandus and Guerin burst into the office with much more energy than they had displayed the prior night.
“Pardon, we are very busy. This will be short.”
Durandus took his position behind his desk and Guerin pulled a wooden chair from against the wall to sit beside Evarts.
“Café?” Durandus asked.
“Yes, please,” Baldwin answered.
When Evarts also nodded, Durandus flicked his fingers and Guerin jumped up and left the office. Evarts assumed he went for coffee, but he returned shortly. Evidently, he just carried a message to an office assistant. Evarts wondered if the French had not discovered intercoms or Durandus just liked to order his underling around.
“Now,” Durandus said, “we verified your anniversary, your dinner reservation, and other details. We found no lies and only one obfuscation in yesterday’s interview.” He gave Evarts a direct look. “Your service record is sealed. Unusual for a major in the signal corps. Would you care to explain that?”
When Evarts didn’t respond, Durandus said, “Never mind. We can guess.” He rocked back in his chair. “Chief Evarts, unless we learn otherwise, we believe you were on that bridge by coincidence and reacted to save your lives. Admirably, I might add. I presume it was—”
“Why do you believe us now?” Baldwin blurted.
A little startled, Durandus switched his gaze from Evarts to Baldwin. “Your truthfulness. It has checked out. Forget my silliness last night. It was dumb of me to suspect your husband. No one would bring their wife to a terrorist attack.” He smiled at Baldwin. “Especially not a renowned academic.”
“I presume we still need to file an official statement,” Evarts said.
“Yes, of course. Lieutenant Guerin will take it from you in a moment. But first, I have an idea I wish to broach with you.”
Again, Evarts sat silent.
Durandus sighed “We have made inquiries through your State Department. They have been in contact with your mayor, that is the mayor of Santa Barbara. She has consented for you to take leave to assist us.” He waited a beat. “We would like you to consult with our task force. It would be for a month,”—the g
allic shrug— “perhaps six weeks. No more. We would cover your expenses, of course.”
Evarts was genuinely surprised. “Why? Why me?”
“Because when I asked about terrorist strategy, you gave a succinct and astute answer. You are a high-ranking policeman. You keep calm in an emergency. And … I presume you have experience in intelligence matters.”
“If you had been on Pont Neuf, the strategy would have been readily apparent. My professional obligations are to my city. I was lucky on the bridge, not good. And if I had knowledge in intelligence matters, it would be in technology driven electronic surveillance … fifteen years out of date. And finally … I’m on vacation.”
Durandus smiled patiently. “Pardon, but if I understand your oath of office, you are obligated to act whenever you see lawbreaking.”
“In the USA.”
“Let’s not quibble. You are an officer of the law. Your State Department thinks it’s a good idea and your mayor is already planning a trip to Paris to check on your work.”
Evarts almost laughed. The last sentence was undoubtedly true. When he had requested vacation time to celebrate his anniversary in Paris, Mayor Megan Walsh asked jokingly to tag along. She loved Paris and would welcome a paid official visit to the city.
Evarts shook his head. “I need a few days to think this over … and I have questions. Let’s start with the obvious; what would be my duties?” Durandus started to speak, but Evarts interrupted him. “Please, don’t take my questions as an affirmative response.”
“You may have twenty-four hours to decide. We’re under enormous pressure. We concur with your assessment that this group has planned a second and possibly third attack. I can’t spend time recruiting you. Understood?”
Evarts nodded.
The coffee service arrived, and they consumed a few minutes fixing their beverages. Durandus seemed anxious and Evarts didn’t think it was from lack of sleep. As he stirred his coffee, Evarts watched the capitaine over the rim of his cup. From the energy he displayed charging into the room, Evarts guessed a superior had royally chewed him out.
The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) Page 2