The Templar's Quest Part 11

Hit with a creepy feeling like maybe they were being followed he c.o.c.ked his head to one side and listened, trying to pick out the sound that didn't belong. A footfall. An in-drawn breath. A gun being c.o.c.ked.

On high alert, he silently counted to ten. Reaching 'ten', he relaxed slightly.

'You said that the authorities didn't follow us to Paris,' Kate whispered, wide-eyed.

I only said that so you wouldn't be scared.

Finn pushed out a deep breath. 'All right, I think the coast is clear. Let's roll.'

Seeing a rusty blue Vespa that looked like it'd seen better days, Finn headed in that direction, Kate following in his wake.

'So what's on the agenda?'

He shoved a hand into his pocket and removed the key. 'According to Fabius Jutier's calendar, tomorrow morning the Seven will be meeting at their headquarters at the Grande Arche. I intend to crash the party. All of this s.h.i.t about mystical energy and mad scientists weaponizing Vril is a waste of my valuable time. I already know that I'm dealing with a bunch of fanatics. And, like any fanatic cult, the Seven probably has some crazy-a.s.s agenda.'

'My point exactly.'

Standing beside the Vespa, they stood toe-to-toe, like two fighters at the opening bell. Decked out in a white cotton T-shirt, generic running shoes and khaki pants cropped at mid-calf, Kate more closely resembled a suburban soccer mom than a bada.s.s contender.

'Knowing the Seven's crazy-a.s.s agenda isn't going to help me find the Dark Angel.'

'What if the Seven Research Foundation is a modern-day Ahnenerbe?'

At that close range, literally inches apart, Finn could smell Kate's 'perfume' an uninspiring mix of Combat Bath and lemon balm tea which, for some strange reason, he found oddly appealing.

He shrugged. 'I'd say big whup. I came to Paris to find the murdering sc.u.mbag who killed my two buddies. For Christ's sake, Kate! The guy was talking about flying saucers.'

'Not only was Caedmon a gracious host, he did us a very big favour,' Kate retorted with surprising force. 'There aren't many people who would drop everything and give us their full, undivided attention. But instead of being appreciative, the entire time we were at L'Equinoxe you behaved like a '

'Neanderthal. I know. I've heard that line before. But don't give me an a.s.s-chewing just because I wouldn't cross over to the dork side with you and Red Rover.' Admittedly p.i.s.sed off, Finn held his ground. 'I don't think you get it, Kate. I did not cross the Atlantic in the hull of a supply plane so we could attend a tea party with your old buddy Aisquith. Back in Washington, I promised that I would protect you from harm. Provided you don't distract me from my mission. As far as I'm concerned, the Montsegur Medallion is nothing more than a bargaining chip that I can trade for the Dark Angel.'

'So that you can clear your name.'

'No. So that I can get Corporals Dixon and Kelleher justice in a court of law.' Needing to make sure that she understood just how serious he was about doing that, he let her have it with both barrels. 'Those two guys selflessly did the dirty work that n.o.body else wants to do but has to be done to keep this freaking world safe from monsters, despots and terrorists. And they did their job not for glory or an attaboy pat on the back. They did it because they loved their country. So I'm going to make sure that they didn't die in vain.'

A guilty expression crept into her eyes. 'I know that you loved your friends and I promise that I won't do anything to distract you from your mission.'

Whether you know it or not, Kate, you've already become a d.a.m.ned distraction.

Wanting to close the book on that particular topic, Finn unzipped the canvas satchel strapped to his chest and shoved his hand inside. Rummaging through the bag, his fingers grazed his KA-BAR commando knife. And because he was one prepared son of a b.i.t.c.h, his Go Bag also contained a roll of duct tape, a ball of wire, a flashlight, a two-day supply of dehydrated meals, baby wipes and a can of Combat Bath.

'I gotta check our coordinates before we hit the road,' he informed her, purposefully changing the subject as he unfolded the Paris map.

Kate placed a restraining hand on his wrist. 'Actually, I was hoping that we could check into a hotel. I'm utterly exhausted and in desperate need of some sleep.'

He glanced at her face, forcing himself to ignore the dark circles that rimmed her exotic grey-blue eyes. 'Later. We gotta first take care of logistics.'

'What does that mean?'

'You'll find out when we get there.'

'No. I will find out right now.' The lady defiantly folded her arms over her chest. 'I'm tired of being dragged w.i.l.l.y-nilly, absolutely clueless as to what we're doing or why we're doing it. I'll be happy to a.s.sist you with logistics if you would be so kind as to give me a mission brief.'

Finn conceded reluctantly with a nod. 'According to my buddy at Mildenhall, there's a military supply store near the subway station at Montparna.s.se. I also need to find the Paris equivalent of a spy shop. Some place that stocks surveillance equipment and high-end recording devices.'

'Thank you. And I would appreciate it if, from here on out, you kept me in the loop.'

Rather than reply, Finn raised his left hand and smoothed away a silky skein of dark hair that had snagged in the corner of her mouth.

'Thank you,' Kate murmured again, this time noticeably blushing.

'You're welcome,' he replied, uncertain what to make of her reaction.

'I should probably get a, um, hair band to keep the flyaway strands out of my face.' Suddenly turning skittish, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.

Groin tightening, Finn stared at those pearly-white teeth clamped down on that plump bit of flesh. 'I like your hair loose ... it's pretty.'

Ah, s.h.i.t! Did I really just say that?

Kate was right; he was a total Neanderthal. Hubba-hubba. You pretty. Me strong. Not like her old buddy Aisquith who, even in an alcoholic fog, could effortlessly recite lines of poetry.

Feeling like a tongue-tied teenager, Finn turned towards the Vespa. 'Hop on. We need to hit it,' he said gruffly, swinging his leg over the padded seat. 'I've got a long shopping list.'

24.

'Writing a book, my a.r.s.e,' Caedmon Aisquith grumbled uncharitably as he picked up the teacups and crumb-laden plates scattered about the snuggery. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine what Kate Bauer was doing with that muscle-bound Celt; the man was an absolute boor.

Although who am I to criticize?

He'd awakened that morning, head throbbing, stomach reeling, each and every movement requiring advance planning. b.u.mbling into the kitchen, he'd groped his way towards the kettle, intending to brew a pot of coffee. Only to grab the Tanqueray gin bottle instead.

Similia similibus curantur.

Like cures like. As good a reason as any for an early-morning stroll down gin alley. While admittedly a contemptible act, it did cure the malady. In fact, he'd just unscrewed the cap from the bottle when he'd heard the fateful knock at the door. An inopportune moment for Kate Bauer to pay her overdue respects.

Empty teacups and plates neatly stacked, Caedmon set them on the ridiculously ornate serving tray, an eighteenth-century relic he'd picked up at a Paris flea market. He'd yet to purchase a bottle of silver polish so the tray, like everything else in his life, was badly tarnished.

He finished tidying up and carried the tray to the small flat at the rear of the bookstore. Stepping through the door that separated retail s.p.a.ce from residence, he entered the 'drawing room' a cramped s.p.a.ce that barely accommodated a sagging but comfortable tufted leather sofa. In front of the sofa, a scarred Edwardian coffee table was burdened with old issues of The Times, a half-full carton of takeaway, cla.s.sical music LPs, a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations and a messy pile of clean laundry.

Hard to believe that at Oxford he'd been considered something of a neat nick.

Oh, sweet Kate. What must you think of me?

From the onset, he'd been attracted to Kate because, unlike so many of his one-dimensional cla.s.smates at Oxford who were experts in their chosen academic field but unable to converse on any other subject, Kate was interesting. Not only could she speak fluidly on any number of topics, she had an innate curiosity about the world that he found compelling.

Which is why it pained him that she'd severed the relationship, claiming he loved his studies more than he loved her. 'Still climbing after knowledge infinite.' Another plagiarized line from her 'cla.s.sy Dear John' letter. While the accusation stung, he couldn't deny that he'd been totally obsessed with the Knights Templar, the medieval order of warrior monks that was his chosen research niche. In the end, the Templars spelled his doom; the head of the history department at Queen's College refused to confer his doctoral degree because of unfounded claims he'd made in his dissertation regarding the Templars' exposure to the Egyptian mystery cults.

Hail and well met, Brother Knight. How the mighty have fallen.

Certainly, he didn't want to dwell on the maudlin. Didn't want to admit that Kate Bauer was little changed from Oxford, while he'd become the proverbial pale shadow. And he certainly didn't want to conjure from his memory that single sheet of watermarked stationery neatly inserted into the tissue-lined envelope. He wouldn't contest the Marlowe, but the line from Yeats still rankled.

Heading towards the kitchen, Caedmon sidestepped a pile of books stacked next to the sofa. As he did, the nestled teacups on the tray rattled, inciting a migrainous thunder.

'Christ,' he muttered. 'Sod all Irishmen.' Or Irish-Americans as the case may be.

Was there even a difference?

He had his doubts, the English and the Irish locked in mortal combat. It had been that way for eight hundred years. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the Real Irish Republican Army got their way, it would be that way for another eight hundred.

So who the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l was the morbidly named Finnegan McGuire?

Certainly no would-be writer. On that Caedmon would wager the entire bookstore.

Suddenly curious, he walked back to the cluttered Edwardian coffee table. Shoving the laundry on to the carpet, he set the tray down. He then strode over to the mahogany corner cabinet where he kept his laptop computer.

When he left Oxford, he'd promptly been recruited into service in Her Majesty's government. It was an interesting venture, his duties extending beyond the typical paper-pushing. Having recently severed his ties with his former employer, he still maintained a few valuable contacts with individuals who had access to every computer database in the United Kingdom. And a goodly portion of the rest of the world, for that matter.

He quickly typed in the request and hit the SEND b.u.t.ton. Soon enough he would know if there was more to Finnegan McGuire than an impolite fellow who didn't speak German. Also desirous to know why Kate had attached herself to such a brute, he typed a second request for Katsumi Bauer.

'I apologize, dear Kate, but needs must.'

Retrieving the tray, he carried it into the kitchen. As usual, he braced himself for the onslaught the sink full of dirty dishes, the countertop inundated with empty food containers. He set the tray on the counter, inadvertently knocking over a tonic bottle. Its evil twin, a green bottle of Tanqueray, remained upright. He could see that there were two fingers of gin left. Enough for a double.

He reached for an empty gla.s.s, unconcerned that it had a dirty smudge on the rim.

By his own admission, he'd succ.u.mbed to a pitiful paralysis of mind and spirit, having experienced grief in all its myriad forms over the course of the last two years. Indeed, there were many times when he'd been unable to utter the words 'Juliana is dead' without tearing up. And having to hear the 'I'm so sorry' speech was pure torture. While the condolences were well-intended, they couldn't resuscitate the dead.

At least Kate had spared him that torment. Clearly, she had no idea that he'd met Juliana Howe, an investigative reporter for the BBC who, one humid August evening, happened to be standing at a London tube station when a RIRA bomb detonated. He'd just 'celebrated' the two-year anniversary of that horrific event; the reason for the drunken binge.

He raised his gla.s.s in mock salute. 'To Ars Moriendi, the art of dying.'

A contrarian, he was clearly determined to end his own life in the most craven way imaginable, nothing quite as reprehensible as an unrepentant inebriate. Unless it was a cold-blooded killer. He had the dubious distinction of being both, having killed the man responsible for Juliana's death. Moreover, he'd stood by and watched as a nine-millimetre bullet ploughed through his enemy's skull. Rendering the b.a.s.t.a.r.d a graceless heap, arms and legs splayed like spokes on a blood-stained wheel.

Certainly, he'd had just cause.

Juliana Howe had been brilliant. And beautiful. And she did not deserve to die because a rebellious Irishman wanted to terrorize London. Christ. It'd been a scene right out of the Apocalypse, the bomb blast having turned the tube station into a fiery death trap. A maelstrom of twisted metal, chunks of concrete and deadly steel rods. In a frantic state, he'd shouldered his way past the dazed survivors, screaming her name. When his gaze landed on a familiar black high-heel shoe still attached to a foot, he'd lurched, heaved, then promptly vomited. His gut painfully turned inside out at the realization that Juliana had literally been blown to bits. Nothing to recover but that b.l.o.o.d.y stump.

Having vowed to find the perpetrators, he used his government contacts to track down the RIRA mastermind. In the days preceding the execution, he'd been so consumed with bloodl.u.s.t that he had no recollection of the trip from London to Belfast.

How is it possible to forget the road from Gethsemane to Calgary?

Once he'd arrived in Belfast, he'd tracked Timothy O'Halloran to a raucous pub on the Catholic side of the peace wall. No surprise there, the Irish being fine ones for drinking and blathering ad nauseam. Committed, he waited in a darkened doorway for three hours and seventeen minutes. Legs cramped. Neck pinched. Finger poised over the trigger. And then the pub door swung open and O'Halloran, jolly smile plastered on his drunken face, blithely stepped across the threshold. Caedmon followed him down the rain-slicked pavement, until O'Halloran ducked into an alleyway to relieve himself. That's when he pulled the black balaclava mask over his face and removed the Ruger pistol from his pocket.

Having been obsessed with revenge, he'd not reckoned for the ensuing guilt that now clung to him like a second skin. Killing his enemy in cold blood was supposed to set him free. But, instead, he discovered that you take everything from a man when you kill him. And he, in turn, steals everything from you. Gin was simply the most expedient means of dulling the pain.

How pathetically trite. A man drowning his sorrows in a bottle of distilled spirits.

Knowing that his battle with the bottle trivialized Juliana's death, Caedmon ran his thumb over the gla.s.s rim, wondering if he should, if he could, pour the remaining contents down the drain. After two years, surely the time had come to put his life in order?

He raised the gla.s.s to his lips. s.h.a.g it. What was the point? So he could return to the infantile enthusiasm of his youth? At forty years of age, he was too jaded to believe in a Second Coming.

'Rack and ruin. The measure of this man.'

Hearing a chime emanate from his laptop, Caedmon, gla.s.s in hand, wandered into the other room. Curious about his old lover, he first opened the attachment marked 'Katsumi Rosamund Bauer'. Rosa Mundi. The Rose of the World, as he used to affectionately call her. He quickly scanned the particulars of the dossier. As he neared the bottom, his stomach clenched, horrified to read that two years ago Kate's infant son had died of SIDS, cot death.

We are kindred after all, Rosa Mundi.

Caedmon opened the next attachment.

's.h.i.te,' he muttered, utterly astounded. While the ex-Delta Force commando didn't fit the typical stereotype of a RIRA terrorist, the connection was there. Even more worrisome, the man was a fugitive from the law, accused of committing two heinous murders.

The skin on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kled, as though a ghost from his old life had just flitted past.

Concerned for Kate's safety, Caedmon s.n.a.t.c.hed his car keys out of the crystal bowl on top of the cabinet and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. That done, he opened the top drawer and removed a leather holster, quickly strapping it on to his shoulder. Spinning on his heel, he rushed out of the room, grabbing a tweed jacket off the arm of the sofa on his way to the door.

Just you wait, you bloodthirsty Irish b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

25.

Finn turned the ignition key, the Vespa thrumming to life.

Clambering on to the back of the scooter, Kate adjusted her hips so that she wasn't pressed so intimately close to Finn's rear end.

'Since we can both use some shut eye, as soon as we finish buying the supplies I'll find us a secure hotel room.'

The offer came as something of a surprise, with Kate beginning to worry that Finn was the product of a clandestine military experiment, reprogrammed to function on little to no sleep.

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome, Katie.' Finn turned his head a few more inches in her direction, his whiskered cheek brushing against the side of her face. 'Okay. We're ready for takeoff.'

Warning issued, he steered the Vespa down the rutted alley, merging on to a narrow street jam-packed with parked cars and Greek cafes.

Kate glanced back at L'Equinoxe. At the gently swaying sign emblazoned with The Fool. She'd never dreamed that she'd see Caedmon again, had long since shoved recollections of their time at Oxford to the wayside of her youth. Seeing him after so many years brought it all back. So many endearing memories. The chiaroscuro light and early-morning mist that suffused Oxford. The silliness of trying to learn the meaning of a 'quid' and a 'crisp'. The challenging debates that lasted well into the night. The lazy Sunday afternoon picnics along the River Isis.

Hard now to imagine herself ever being that young. That naive about relationships. About love. Betrayal. The evil that men do.