Templar Conspiracy Read online

  There was a long silence punctuated by Philpot dragging on his shake. “We put traces on them all. The only one we couldn’t finger was Tritt,” he said finally.

  “You’re positive?”

  “The others all alibied out. Travkin is in Mariinsky Hospital in St. Petersburg with lung cancer and has been for the last three months; Edward Fox, the Brit, is doing something nasty in the Sudan at the moment; and Bertrand, the Frenchman, is in Fresnes Prison.”

  “What’s the last sighting of Tritt?”

  “Geneva passport control. There’s no record of him having left Switzerland but that doesn’t mean much.” He finished off the first cheeseburger, wiped his mouth and his tie with a napkin, and started on the second burger. His body language told Holiday the man was suffering from a bad case of nerves.

  “You worried about something, Potsy?”

  “I don’t like being used,” said the heavyset man. He shook his head. “This is worse than it looks, Doc. Stay out of it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Talking to you is what worries me. You’ve gotta understand, Doc—I work for the organization that invented the word ‘paranoia.’” He looked around the parking lot furtively. “Other places, they give random drug tests. At NCTC they put you under random surveillance and give you pee tests. It’s a brutal environment to work in.”

  Something suddenly occurred to Holliday and he asked the relevant question. “Where was Tritt flying into Geneva from?”

  “Rome,” said Philpot. “November sixth. We’re assuming he was doing research for the shot.”

  “Before Rome?”

  “Glasgow International, Scotland.”

  “Before that?”

  “Orlando on Virgin Atlantic.”

  “Before that?”

  “Nassau, Bahamas. He has a little place there, a house on Lyford Cay. All under his own name.”

  “You don’t find that a strange itinerary?”

  “We get everything except Glasgow,” said Philpot. “What the hell does a man like Tritt find to do in a place like that for three days?”

  “Checks in with his employer,” replied Holliday.

  “You actually know who hired him to make the hit? Want to share? I’ve been doing all the talking so far.”

  “How about Katherine Pierce Sinclair?” Holliday said. “She owns a country estate called Edinburgh House within driving distance of Glasgow and a place in the Bahamas, as well.”

  “So does Sean Connery. So what?” Philpot asked. “I would have thought you’d have had enough of Sinclair since your run-in over the summer.” Philpot shook his head. “You should have seen them dancing around, trying to clean up that mess. We called in the Israeli ambassador, who’s from Queens, by the way, and tough as nails, but he just stonewalled us.” Philpot took a last bite from the second burger and sucked on the straw in his milkshake.

  “I’m going to need a few files,” said Holliday as Philpot drained the last of the bright pink concoction. There was so much exhaust from passing cars and trucks that Holliday was getting a headache. “Quickly.”

  “Don’t push it, Doc. I am absolutely, positively not giving you official files and that’s final.”

  “Tritt, Kate Sinclair and whatever you’ve got on the senator.”

  “You’re crazy. They could lock me away forever in one of those secret jails they’ve got in Colorado. You’re talking treason.”

  “You owe me, Potsy.”

  Philpot picked up his garbage, lumbered over to the refuse bin and dumped the paper and plastic into it. He turned and walked back to the picnic table.

  “You ever been to Rock Creek Park?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know where Ross Drive is?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Half a mile in off the Ridge Road there’s a dry culvert and a bridge. Three steel pipes and concrete abutments. On the west abutment some kid has sprayed his tag with black paint. If it’s safe there’ll be a bright red strip sprayed under the tag. What you need will be rolled up in the middle pipe closest to the spray-painted abutment.”

  “You’re a peach, Potsy.”

  “You know where you can put your peach, Holliday. Consider my debt repaid.” He turned on his heel and went back into the McDonald’s. A minute or so later he reappeared, biting savagely into an apple turnover.

  “One more thing,” said Potsy, his mouth full.

  “Shoot.”

  “Bad choice of words,” said the pudgy intelligence officer.

  “Sorry.”

  “Our people found the kill site in Rome.”

  “Before the Italian cops?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Potsy. “It wasn’t all that hard.”

  “And?”

  “We found something,” said Potsy. He finished off the turnover and brushed the crumbs from his hands.

  “Don’t be coy.”

  “It was a solid gold coin from the time of the Crusades. A dinar, I think it’s called. It had Saladin’s name on it in Arabic.”

  “And?”

  “NSA has been hearing from all sorts of Al-Qaeda cell phone and e-mail chatter about a group calling itself Jihad al-Salibiyya. They’ve secretly been taking responsibility for whacking the man in the big hat.”

  “And you’ve been keeping it quiet?”

  “We don’t want to start up another shit storm like bin Laden and his pals. At least until we know more about them.” He looked at Holliday carefully. “The name ring a bell?”

  “No,” lied Holliday. “Not even a faint one.”

  “Well, that’s it, then,” said Potsy. “Rock Creek Park.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Potsy got back into his car and drove off.

  Half an hour later, Holliday was back at the house on Prospect Street, the faint chemical scent of the hamburgers clinging to him like a fog. Brennan and Peggy were in the kitchen, drinking more coffee and reading the Washington Post.

  The picture above the fold on the front page was probably the last photograph of the living Pope taken by Dario Bondi, the official Vatican photographer and Peggy’s friend. Brennan and Peggy both put down their sections of the newspaper as Holliday appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “So, how did that go?” Peggy asked. “Pick up any juicy rumors?”

  “It was a setup,” answered Holliday. “We’re being played like a violin.”

  “Why do you say that?” Brennan asked.

  “A group calling itself Jihad al-Salibiyya is taking responsibility for the Pope’s assassination.”

  “Fundamentalists?”

  “Yeah, but not the Muslim kind. Al-Salibiyya was the name for the Templar Knights who defected to the infidel side. The sworn enemies of the true Templars. It literally means ‘Enemies of the Cross.’”

  “Crusaders,” said Peggy.

  “Kate Sinclair,” said Brennan.

  5

  “Philpot’s a lot of things but he’s no actor,” said Holliday tensely, passing on yet another cup of coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table. “He just tried too damned hard. He was looking around like one of the villains in a Pink Panther movie. What he didn’t try very hard to do was to keep back information. I barely put any pressure on him. He confirmed William Tritt as the most likely suspect and had his most recent travel itinerary memorized. Five will get you ten he was wearing a wire or we were being watched from the parking lot.” Holliday sighed and shook his head. “The whole thing was far too easy. I asked him for some background files and he even had a dead drop organized and ready to go.”

  “Sounds like the lads are trying to distance themselves from this Tritt fellow,” commented Brennan.

  “And awfully eager to put it on the Muslims,” said Holliday.

  “We Americans always think of our enemies storming the gates,” said Peggy thoughtfully. “It’s easy to worry about someone named Ali Sayyid Muhamed Mustafa al-Bakri, but worrying about someone named Bill Tritt, who sounds like a guy who works
in the plumbing section of Home Depot, is a lot harder to swallow.”

  “An American assassin; good Christ, that’ll put the cat among the pigeons,” said Brennan.

  Holliday stared blindly up at the ceiling. Something Philpot had said that didn’t quite fit. The more he tried to remember, the vaguer the memory got. He looked at Brennan. “I think you were right. There’s a whole other level to this thing.”

  “So what do we do about it?” Peggy asked.

  “Follow the trail of bread crumbs that Potsy left for us,” said Holliday. “We have no other choice and not much time.”

  Giving in to the freedom of a fresh divorce, the successful navigation of a midlife crisis and a secret yen to be James Bond after seeing Goldfinger as a young boy at the Neuadd Dwyfor cinema in his hometown of Holyhead, Wales, the professor whom Holliday was replacing for a year had purchased a silver Aston Martin DB9 for his fiftieth birthday. He’d given Holliday free reign to drive the car while he was away, as long as he took it in for monthly tune-ups, paid for its maintenance and took out his own insurance.

  The magnificent twelve-cylinder brute of a car drank gasoline like a man dying of thirst in the desert, but it was worth every drop; Holliday had never had such fun driving a vehicle in his entire life. Both Brennan and Peggy wanted to go along with him to the dead drop in Rock Creek Park, but the car was only a two-seater.

  Peggy cited her superior driving skills while Brennan simply stated that it was a man’s job and “no task for a slip of a girl, begging your pardon.” In the end Peggy won out after Brennan admitted that it would be extremely difficult for him to last that long without a cigarette, and the one thing stressed by the Aston Martin’s owner was a no-smoking rule.

  Before they set out for the park Brennan told Holliday to wait for a moment and went upstairs to the guest room. He returned with a flat-black, short-barreled Beretta Storm semiautomatic, small enough to fit in a jacket pocket, and an extra clip. The bullets were .40-caliber hollow points, fifteen to a clip. A police load.

  “How on earth did you get that through customs?” Holliday said, astounded that the priest had brought a pistol with him in his luggage.

  Brennan gave a very Italian shrug. “I travel on a Vatican diplomatic passport.” He smiled sourly. “Anyway, people suspect all priests are pedophiles, not gunrunners.”

  “You really think we’re going to need that?” Peggy asked.

  “Weapons are like the Garda,” said Brennan, referring to the Irish police force. “When you really need them, they’re never there.”

  Holliday took the pistol, gave it a quick once-over to familiarize himself with it, then tucked it away.

  It was only four in the afternoon when they left Prospect Street for Rock Creek, but it was already almost dark. In an hour or so the park police would be out in force, looking for kids tearing at each other’s clothing in the backseats of their parents’ cars.

  Peggy drove and Holliday rode shotgun, giving her directions. If there was any trouble, Holliday had given her explicit orders to get the hell away as quickly as she could; if it came down to a chase, there wasn’t a cop car outside of Germany that could catch an Aston Martin.

  It was still snowing as Peggy drove the powerful sports car north toward Ridge Road and their destination, the wipers keeping up a steady metronome beat as night fell and the snow turned to slush under their wheels. It was getting warmer and the snowflakes were getting big and soft. If they had another cold snap the streets would be skating rinks and there’d be hell to pay on the morning commute.

  “What good is a dead drop or whatever you call it? Just seems like a lot of trouble to me,” said Peggy.

  “Dead drops are used so the parties involved don’t have to meet, but in this case I think it’s only window dressing to make Potsy’s story a little more credible. There’s probably nothing to worry about; they want us to have this material.”

  “So, how do we do this?” Peggy asked. “I’m not up on my spy-craft techniques.”

  “Tradecraft,” corrected Holliday. “We just do exactly what Potsy said. Coming in from the north puts the passenger’s side closest to the abutment and the pipes that make up the bridge. I get out, with the car blocking the view from the other side of the road. I retrieve the files, get back in the car and off we go.”

  Holliday guided Peggy north up Nebraska Avenue to Military Road, then east into the park. The pines and cedars were postcard perfect with their heavy mantles of snow, and as night came a peculiar, muffled quiet settled on the park as though the land was holding its breath just before shimmering out of the present day like some illusion, reverting to the empty, lonely place it had been ten thousand years ago.

  Peggy turned the powerful car due south down Ridge Road. The snow was pristine, almost phosphorescent in the utter darkness, a gleaming white pathway between the dense stands of trees. No one had traveled here in quite a while; not surprising since the average Washingtonian had little experience driving in snow.

  “Spooky,” said Peggy.

  “Nervous?” Holliday asked. “I can take the wheel if you want.”

  “I’m fine,” said Peggy defensively.

  “Just go slow and easy,” suggested Holliday. “Put it into the lowest gear you can.”

  Peggy blew Holliday an expressive raspberry. “Sure, Granddad. Then you can tell me how you used to walk five miles to school.” She dropped the shift lever into the lowest of the six gears and headed even deeper into the park.

  The snow was developing a light crust and the big tires crunched over it, making the silence even more profound. For most of the way the road followed the course of an ancient streambed. The trees here were mostly birch and hickory, their leafless branches stark and skeletal as the Aston Martin’s halogen headlights swept across the forest with each turn in the twisting road. Holliday watched the odometer. At half a mile, just as Philpot had said, they rounded a corner and the headlights found the three-pipe bridge. The ground sloped away on both sides and the trees were thinly spread. The crunching sound under the tires was louder now; the temperature was rising. If it fell again before morning the roads here would be a skating rink.

  “There it is,” said Holliday.

  “I see it, Doc,” said Peggy.

  She slowed the sports car to a crawl and eased over the culvert bridge to the far abutment. There was a graffiti tag that looked as though it said Bad Idea. Below it was a single spray of red. Peggy stopped.

  “Kill the lights,” said Holliday. Peggy did so, the only remaining light coming from the faint blue glow of the instrument panel. Holliday eased open the door and kept low as he approached the abutment and the capped ends of the pipes. The middle one unscrewed easily. He’d been expecting a rolled-up bundle of paper, perhaps in a plastic sleeve. What he got was an ordinary mailing-room address tag attached to a USB flash drive.

  He grabbed the tag, pulled out the miniature hard drive, then recapped the pipe. The way the snow was falling his footprints and even the Aston Martin’s tire tracks would disappear in the next few minutes. He slipped back into the car.

  “Mission accomplished,” Holliday said.

  “Famous last words,” warned Peggy.

  The other vehicle came over the hill in a rush, blinding headlights blazing. Even from the inside of the Aston Martin, both Peggy and Holliday could hear the heavy clatter of tire chains.

  Peggy flipped on the Aston’s headlights, briefly illuminating the monster bearing down on them. “Oh, crap,” she said. It was a behemoth of an F150 truck with a gleaming, lethal-looking snowplow attached to the front, half raised. If it hit them head-on, the huge pickup truck would either ride up the Aston Martin and crush them or the snowplow blade would slice through the windshield and the roof. Either way they’d be dead.

  Peggy shifted the car into reverse and dropped her foot down on the gas in a long, smooth motion. The Aston Martin raced backward as the F150 came at them, gaining with each second. Peggy suddenly twitched the wheel
to the right and simultaneously dragged up on the emergency brake to the left of the driver’s seat.

  The big car went into a sliding, perfectly executed bootlegger’s turn and stopped. Peggy released the hand brake with one hand and pushed the shift lever into second gear. They were now facing back the way they’d come. She hit the gas again and the car gathered speed until they seemed to be skating over the snow, the rear end of the car fishtailing as they went around every turn. The only things that kept it from plunging off the road and into the woods were its weight and its low center of gravity. Throughout the whole operation neither Peggy nor Holliday said a word, Peggy completely focused on her driving and Holliday doing some quick computations in his head.

  No matter how he figured it, the truck was almost sure to catch up with them before they reached the relative safety of Military Road. The chains on the tires gave the truck better traction, and it had four-wheel drive, sticking it to the snow-covered road like superglue. What was it one of his instructors at Ranger School had told him? “Fight or flight. If you can’t take flight, then turn and fight.”

  Holliday looked behind them. The F150 was less than a hundred yards away and closing fast. “That turn, can you do it again?” he yelled.

  “Say when!” Peggy answered. Holliday took the Beretta out of his pocket, jacked a round into the chamber and then used his right hand to pull open the door latch.

  “Now!”

  Again Peggy went through the moves for a bootlegger’s turn, ending up facing the oncoming truck. Holliday threw open the door and flung himself out onto the snow-covered road. He gripped the gun in both hands, leveled the pistol at the upper sill and began to fire, aiming for the windshield, adjusting his aim from left to right.

  At twenty yards the big truck suddenly swerved, tried to climb the incline to the left, then dropped backward in a spin that took it over the drop on the right, eventually stopping as it struck a stand of three oak trees broadside to the road above. Never one for taking half measures, Holliday dropped out the empty clip into the snow, fumbled around in his pocket for the second clip and rammed it into the butt of the pistol.