The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3)

by James D. Best

  As they returned to their seats, Durandus continued as if there had been no interruption. “We would like you to assess the intent and plans of this terrorist group. We’ll provide you with our intelligence. We need to predict targets and timing. Any help in that area would be beneficial. Our first concern—hope, I should say—is to assess whether we have disrupted their other plans by killing the shooters.”

  “We?” Evarts asked surprised.

  “Yes, we. Pardon. Forget my ramblings of last night. It was late and I was overly tired. That whole thing about Templars is a fairy tale. A wild internet conspiracy. Dumb of me to have brought it up. The shooters were taken out by DGSI, our own counter-terrorism service. It was not a fourteenth century society of warrior monks.” He laughed nervously. “As you say in your country, my paygrade wasn’t high enough to be in the loop.” He smiled conspiratorially. “You’re no stranger to this, right. Your FBI and CIA have similar issues.” The gallic shrug. “The cops on the beat are the last to know.”

  “I understand,” Evarts said. “Let’s say we wrap this up so my wife and I can make our statements. It looks like we have something to discuss. The sooner we can be alone, the sooner I can give you an answer.”

  “Perfect,” Durandus said. “Lieutenant Guerin, please escort our friends to an interview room and take their statements.” He smiled. “Make it speedy. We already have a good picture of what happened. Bring the coffee service cart.”

  They all stood, with Evarts and Baldwin holding their coffee cups. When they stepped into the hall, Guerin excused himself to use the toilette.

  As they stood in the hallway sipping their coffee, Baldwin asked in a low voice, “Are you considering this?”

  In an equally low voice, Evarts said, “No way in hell.”

  Chapter 6

  Their statement took a little over an hour. As a cop, Evarts knew how to succinctly report his actions and observations, and Baldwin added little to his narrative. Guerin, professional and emotionless, asked the type of clarifying questions that showed he had watched the CCTV video recordings of the attack. Just before departing, they were cautioned not to talk to the press and told they might be called back after correlating their statement with other people on the bridge. Evarts wondered about these other witnesses. What condition were they in to give statements? News reports put the number of dead at nineteen with an additional thirty-one injured. Evarts didn’t think there were fifty pedestrians on the bridge, so some of those dead and injured must have been in automobiles.

  As soon as they vacated the Police Nationale station, Evarts and Baldwin found a quiet café in a residential district. Having only had croissants for breakfast, they were both hungry. They took seats on the same side of a sidewalk table facing the street. Evarts wondered if they were being surveilled, but he spotted no one watching them. They ordered ham and cheese sandwiches, pommes frites, and bottled water.

  After the server left, Baldwin asked, “Why ‘no way in hell’?”

  “Durandus was lying, but not last night, today. No matter how tired, a chief inspector won’t accidently throw around internet conspiracies after a terrorist attack. Even if he hadn’t been in the loop beforehand, by the time he interviewed us he would’ve known DGSI snipped the terrorists. That’s a cover story.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they need a cover story?”

  “One of several reasons. They might not want to give away that they know about the Templars. They might fear revealing sources. Higher-ups might not want to encourage vigilantism. Maybe it’s French pride. It’s pretty embarrassing that a civilian group knew more than they did and acted when they didn’t. In truth, I don’t really care why. I won’t be involved with this charade. Besides, I don’t think they want my help. They probably want to keep an eye on me.”

  Baldwin sipped her water and looked toward the kitchen to see if their food was on the way. She must have been very hungry.

  After a moment, she said, “I think you’re right. Besides, I’m done with this city. Maybe if we come back in a couple years, the magic will have returned.” She put her hand on Evart’s. “Paris always comes back. I’m sure the city wasn’t pleasant during the Nazi occupation.”

  “Nor during the Revolution, the Black Plague, the Great War, or any other calamity.”

  She nodded. “When are you going to tell Durandus?”

  “If you’re ready to go, let’s get the hell out of here. We eat, return to the hotel, you change our return flight, and I’ll pack. Somehow, I’ll get Megan to rescind her offer for me to stay. We have an important council meeting this month on flood damage. We both need to be there, and she knows it. After we’re through airport security, I’ll call Durandus and tell him official obligations require me to decline his generous offer.”

  A few months previously, California had been hit with the most severe flood since 1862. Santa Barbara had suffered enormous damage to its infrastructure and in the next council meeting, the city needed to figure out how to pay for repairs.

  Baldwin grinned. The beam on her face was not for Evarts, but for the food arriving. She always had a healthy appetite, yet somehow managed to keep her lithe figure with only twenty minutes of exercise a day.

  When Evarts took his first bite, he realized he was also famished. Evarts couldn’t fathom how the French made such delicious sandwiches using a buttered baguette and a thin amount of ham and cheese. The french fries were also perfect. Neither spoke as they focused on lunch. Afterwards, they ordered café au lait.

  “Anything more from your army friend?” Baldwin asked.

  Just to be sure, Evarts checked his phone. “No, but I’ve been thinking about his first response. Other than mentioning that I was in Paris, I was cryptic because certain words trigger NSA computers, but news of the terrorist attack on Pont Neuf should have given him a damn a good hint on why I was texting. He didn’t ask what the hell I was talking about. Instead, he merely said that he’d look into it and get back to me. Look into what? Here’s the thing, I didn’t mention the Templars. I obliquely referred to an unnamed Catholic order. I didn’t even say it was ancient or extinct. There are hundreds of Catholic orders. The fact that he didn’t asked for clarification meant he knew what I was talking about.”

  “You think your Pentagon contact knows there’s a vigilante group using the Templar name.”

  “I do. And that’s troubling.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It’s more evidence Durandus was lying through his teeth this morning. He dismissed the Templars as a conspiracy theory when he knew better. It might be bureaucratic ass covering, but my gut tells me it’s more. I think this group is very hush-hush and he let the cat out of the bag.”

  “You said a chief inspector wouldn’t spread internet conspiracies. It seems just as unlikely he would blab a deep, dark secret.”

  “You’re right … except when we met, he was convinced I was a member of the Templars. To him, that meant I already knew about them.”

  She sipped at her coffee. “Greg, if it’s super-secret, how would your friend at the Pentagon know about it.”

  “Lieutenant General Jim O’Brian is the head of Army Intelligence,” Evarts said.

  Chapter 7

  Evarts and Baldwin had no trouble booking or boarding a flight to the United States. Evidently, Durandus hadn’t issued an alert on their names. He probably felt comfortable that they would remain in France at least for the remainder of their scheduled stay. Evarts had bet that if they gave Durandus no cause for concern and moved fast, they could get out while the French police were overwhelmed with the aftermath of the terrorist attack. He had been right.

  On arrival in Santa Barbara, Evarts returned to his office only minutes before Mayor Walsh came bursting in with all the energy of a youngster on Christmas morning. Unusual. She normally summoned him to her office.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she asked breathlessly, obviously having walked the few blocks from City Hall.
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  “Mayor, I just arrived. A long flight and seemingly longer drive up from LAX. I just stopped in to check on things before seeing you. Also, I need coffee. Can I offer you some?”

  “If it will get me quicker answers, sure.”

  He got up and circled his desk to signal that they would fetch it for themselves. A few people were in the breakroom reserved for police brass, so they conversed a few pleasantries as each fixed their coffees. He nodded to other people, wondering who had alerted the mayor that he had entered the building.

  When they returned to the privacy of his office, Evarts asked, “What do you know?”

  “Practically nothing. The Paris police begged to borrow you for a month or so to consult on the Pont Neuf terrorist attack. They insisted you were crucial to the investigation. The next thing I learn is that you’re on a flight home … supposedly because I recalled you. Which, of course, I didn’t.” She smiled conspiratorially. “What happened? Did you piss off your French counterparts?”

  “No, but only because of that ruse. Thanks for covering for me, by the way.”

  “What makes you think I did? Maybe I denied your bull crap story about a recall.”

  “Then on landing I would’ve had angry texts and voice messages waiting for me.”

  This time her smile was unaffected. “You’re right. I backed up your story. But advanced warning would have been nice.”

  He shrugged. “We were hot to get out of Dodge and I suspected the French were monitoring my communications.”

  “What? Why?” She appeared perplexed. “Do they keep all their consulting investigators under surveillance?”

  “Just the ones they suspect to be part of the opposition.”

  “Opposition?” Again, she appeared puzzled. “Oh, you mean Washington.”

  “No, the French think I might be a vigilante.” She started to raise a question, but Evarts held up a hand to stop her. “I was on that bridge during the attack. Trish and I were almost killed. We barely escaped, but I killed two of the terrorists. Their offer of a consultancy was their way of keeping an eye on me while they sorted things out.”

  “I see.” She hesitated, then she added in a light voice, “So, I aided and abetted a fleeing felon.”

  He laughed. “Too bad that’s not true. I could hold it over you.”

  He had a good relationship with this mayor. That had not been the case with her predecessor. Maybe it wouldn’t be true of the next mayor, either. Walsh had confided to him that she was going to run for Lieutenant Governor. He hoped she won. She deserved to win. But he didn’t like any of the announced mayoral candidates, so her moving up the ladder was a mixed bag.

  “Tell me all about it,” she said.

  He explained everything except the Templar connection. Instead, he also used Captain Durandus’ DGSI ruse. Evarts conveyed a thought he had on the plane ride home. He now suspected that the French thought he might be connected to US intelligence. Their subterfuge was understandable if they thought the U.S. had advance knowledge of the attack and failed to share the information with them.

  “What happens now?” she asked.

  “You’re the boss, you tell me.”

  She thought a second. “Get me a crackerjack grant request to back up our need for national emergency funds. Granted, flood damage is worse in other parts of the state, but that’s their problem. We did more than our share in handling refugees. Your responsibility is Santa Barbara, so don’t pull any punches. Help me get a lion’s share of the money.”

  “And Paris.”

  “I thought I made myself clear. Santa Barbara pays our salaries.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said happily. “With your permission, I’ll work from home. Give me a chance to shower.”

  “Have yourself a Macallan’s as well. It sounds like you earned it.”

  Chapter 8

  Evarts collapsed into his bed. He had sipped a glass of Macallan’s while doing some preliminary work on Emergency Relief paperwork. They had a week until the council meeting and his Deputy Chief had already completed the grunt work. Walsh hadn’t been serious about the urgency; it was just her way of telling him that she had his back when it came to French intransigency.

  The need for emergency funding was real. California had suffered the worst flooding in a hundred and fifty years. Santa Barbara had less damage than inland areas but despite the milder downpour, Santa Barbara’s infrastructure had been ravaged. City parks, roads, waste treatment, and businesses had been severely hurt and city coffers depleted because Santa Barbara had served as a refuge for people fleeing northern and eastern floodwaters.

  Other areas might be more deserving, but Evarts long ago learned that assistance was utilized best by well-managed entities. Cities and counties that were badly run before a disaster remained badly run when they dealt with the aftermath of a disaster. His conscience was clear, and he vowed to make their city’s application preeminent within the state.

  He cleared his mind. All that could wait until tomorrow. Although it was still hours before dark, he didn’t care. He wanted sleep. Baldwin had come directly home and evidently went straight to bed. His movements had not disturbed her slumber. He was jealous.

  The phone rang!

  Damn it!

  Evarts grabbed his cell and bounded out of bed, intent on taking it into the bathroom so it wouldn’t wake his wife. As he scurried across the carpet, his bleary eyes read the Caller ID. He would need to take this call and it would probably be long. He reversed direction and headed for the staircase. Directly below their bedroom was a great room that spanned the entire rear of the house.

  He punched to answer the phone but didn’t say hello until he had descended a few more steps.

  “Hello, Greg, are you there?”

  “Yeah, Trish’s asleep and I’m going to another part of the house.” He took a few more steps. “Okay, I’m good now.”

  “Where are you?” Jim O’Brian asked.

  “Home, general. Just arrived … and was about to join my wife in Slumberland.”

  “The French let you go?”

  “I didn’t give them a chance to stop me. I somehow forgot to call until I was through security at De Gaulle.”

  “Good. I need you in D.C. Pronto.”

  “What? When? I have work here in Santa Barbara.”

  “You have good commanders under you. Let them handle things.”

  “General, it’s not day-to-day stuff. I’m on deadline to submit our application for federal emergency relief funds.”

  “Greg, quit calling me general.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Brian laughed. “Okay, smartass. Listen, I understand the issue, but you can work on the application in flight.”

  “Jim, come on. I’m tired. What’s the urgency?”

  “Not on the phone. This communication is non-secure. Can you take the first flight tomorrow?”

  “I can. But why should I? Can you give me a clue?”

  “It has to do with the text you sent. Some found it intriguing.”

  “Short visit?”

  “Probably.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Shag your butt back here and we’ll sort it out. Otherwise …”

  “Otherwise what? You’ll send the FBI to haul me back?”

  “Probably.”

  Evarts could almost hear the shrug.

  “I need sleep. Can I call you back tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. With your flight number and arrival time. I’ll send a car.”

  “Jim, is this really that important?”

  “It is.”

  “All right. I’ll make the arrangements and text you before I go to sleep.”

  “Sleep tight.” General O’Brian ended the call.

  Now what the hell was going on?

  It took only minutes for Evarts to call his assistant and asked him to book a flight from LAX to Dulles. Since this trip was not for city business, Evarts instructed the cost to be ch
arged to a personal account. He’d get the Pentagon to reimburse him for the first class ticket.

  Now he had to stay awake until his assistant called with the flight information. If the flight were early, he’d arrange a car service to drive him the two hours to the airport so he could nap. Although most of the time it made little difference, on bad days he appreciated being independently wealthy. Both he and Baldwin had inherited substantial estates which allowed them to smooth out the rough spots in life.

  After another Macallan’s, his assistant called back with a civilized mid-morning flight that would get him into D.C. in the evening. He had also arranged a private hop from Santa Barbara to LAX. Perfect. If it were that damn urgent, the Army could pay for his expensive transportation. Evarts sent O’Brian a text with his flight info and a request that he make hotel reservation.

  With relief, Evarts trudged upstairs and crawled into bed again.

  This time Baldwin rolled toward him and her warm body welcomed him to bed.

  “What was that?” she asked, not quite awake.

  “Nothing that can’t wait until breakfast,” Evarts answered. “Go back to sleep.”

  It was a needless instruction.

  Just before Evarts fell asleep, he had a worrying thought. O’Brian had sounded serious about sending the FBI to fetch him. Had he evaded the French to become ensnared by the intelligence apparatus of his own county. He had a premonition that his life’s trajectory had been tipped in a new direction.

  He fell asleep hoping for a brief hiatus.

  Chapter 9

  Evarts scanned the people waiting beyond the airport glass security wall. Despite her civilian clothing, Evarts recognized an earnest young woman as a soldier and most probably his driver. They made eye contact and a slight nod confirmed his supposition. Was he similarly obvious as a cop? No. He wore casual attire that would scream West Coast, but not cop. She must have a photograph of him.