Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“No, sir, of course not. I shall await your arrival, effendi.”

Saint-Sylvestre took the tiny Chobi miniature camera out of his backpack and slipped the half-inch square device into his shirt pocket. Three minutes later he was letting himself into Konrad Lanz’s hotel room with the key provided by Tahib Akurgal.

The room was on the top floor of the hotel, facing an alley lined with industrial-sized rubbish bins and the back sides of buildings facing the next street. There was a zigzagging, rusting and ancient fire escape with a landing outside of Lanz’s window that appeared to be painted shut.

The room contained a narrow bed, a writing desk that had been moved from against the wall to stand alone under the only overhead light, and two chairs-a Victorian-style captain’s chair with scrolled arms and legs and a plump upholstered club chair with a chenille throw covering the worn, pale burgundy velvet upholstery.

The only other furniture was an IKEA-style side table for the swaybacked bed and a pressboard chest of drawers. Lanz’s suitcase was sitting open on the chest, an expensive-looking Mulholland Brothers shaving kit in plain view.

Saint-Sylvestre crossed to the desk. There was a yellow lined pad of neatly made notes, a fine-tip felt pen and the cover of the Carl Hiaasen book Lanz had brought to Fourandao.

Saint-Sylvestre was impressed by Lanz’s ingenuity; working from memory every day, Lanz had put together an exceptionally detailed map of the center of the town, including the location of electrical transformers and telephone lines along with their switching stations. Particular attention had been paid to the presidential compound, noting the number of guard towers and the number of shifts at each tower. The offices of the Department of the Interior were correctly located on the plaza, as were the three blocks of flats directly behind the plaza, most of which were occupied by favored friends of Kolingba who occupied most of the government bureaucratic offices for Kukuanaland. The map also noted army patrol routes and times and noted manpower for each.

The notes on the yellow pad reflected the maps, and Lanz’s simple shorthand for various terms was easy enough to decipher. The mercenary had correctly judged that the compound held around two hundred men, with a hundred on duty at any one time.

The rare comings and goings of the president and Gash were also noted. There was a page of notes devoted to nothing but ordnance, armor and airpower, all of it accurate. Lanz hadn’t missed a trick.

On another page there was a list of names and ranks as well as figures that were most likely pay scales. And lists of equipment. Each of the separate pages had an estimated figure totaled in euros at the bottom. The last page had a simple formula that Saint-Sylvestre recognized without any trouble:

2 comp X 200 (2 Maj.) PSF

8 plat X20 (8 Lieut)

40 sq. X 10 (20 sgt.)

Two majors for two companies of two hundred troops provided by an unnamed private security force, divided into eight platoons of twenty headed by eight lieutenants, further divided into forty separate squads of ten, each with its own sergeant: Lanz’s prescription for taking over Fourandao with four hundred highly trained and well-armed soldiers. The final grand total for men, equipment and transportation was slightly in excess of one million euros. A country taken for one million, three hundred thousand American dollars.

Saint-Sylvestre began to photograph the documents with the tiny Chobi camera.

Who would pay that much money for a backward, corrupt and hostile piece of jungle territory surrounded by plague, genocide, mass rape and murder in the middle of Africa? And even more important, why?

He smelled the rich scents of bouillabaisse wafting up from the restaurant below and heard the soft patter of a summer shower on the roof of the little hotel on Chartres Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He kept his eyes closed, knowing it would all slip away if he opened them, and let the warm breeze coming through the jalousie windows dry the sweat on his bare skin. He listened to his heartbeat slow, and faintly heard a trumpet far away playing “Tiger Rag.” He knew where he was and knew who was on the bed beside him even though it couldn’t be. He was posted to Fort Polk and she taught school in the city but that was years ago.

“Stay,” he whispered, reaching out a hand and feeling nothing. “Stay for just a little while,” he pleaded. “Please, Amy.”

But Amy was gone, dust and memory for many years. Alive only in dreams, but in those dreams so achingly alive. He woke in the little tent and wiped the tears from his eyes, glad the Cuban he was sharing space with hadn’t seen.

The tent was a jungle camo Marmot Limelight, courtesy of the murder squad that had been sent to kill them. Holliday stared up at the curved roof. The sound of the rain was real enough. Strangely, so was the smell of cooking food. He roused himself, sitting up and scrubbing the troubled sleep from his face. Sometimes he hated the memories of his wife for their persistence and the deep, aching pain they caused, and sometimes he wondered how he would live without them, worried that if they faded he would fade along with them, just like the old song MacArthur quoted from in his famous speech. Maybe that was what he was supposed to do.

He crawled out of the tent and stood up. There was mist on the river and in the trees. The rain whispered, hissing as it fell through the canopy of leaves. Birds called to one another noisily. Eddie was squatting over a fire he’d built in the sheltering boughs of a tree close to the riverbank. A large green-and-white-mottled fish with enormous eyes had been slit and cleaned, then spitted through the gills on a green sapling hung above the coals. The Cuban looked up as Holliday ducked under the overhanging branches of the tree and joined him. They were screened from the river itself by a heavy stand of high reeds, making them virtually invisible to anyone going past.

“More memories, mi coronel ?” Eddie asked.

“You see too much, my friend,” said Holliday. “The fish smells good.”

“Puffer,” said Eddie. “ Es muy sabroso , good eating.”

“I’m starved,” said Holliday, and realized it was true. Eddie picked up a length of twig and gently pulled it along the scorched scales of the big fish. The skin peeled back easily, showing the thick white flesh below.

“Almost ready,” said Eddie.

On cue Peggy, rumpled and still half-asleep, poked her head out of the tent opening and looked around blearily. She shivered in the damp air even though it was already getting hot. She dragged herself across the tiny little patch of open ground behind the reeds and slumped down beside Holliday. A moment later Rafi appeared and joined her. Eddie took the fish down from its skewer and sliced it into large pieces, putting each one into a large flat leaf. He handed them around. “Eat with your fingers. My restaurant is like Havana where they chain down the spoons.”

Peggy scooped up a handful of the white, flaky flesh and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. “Not bad for the middle of the African jungle.” She nodded. “Too bad there’re no condiments.”

“Aha!” Eddie said. “I found this just for you!” He leaned over and handed Peggy one of the big leaves folded into a packet. She opened it and found a pile of little woody flecks.

“What is it?”

“Try a little. A very little,” said Eddie. Peggy picked up a few flecks on the tip of her finger and tasted them. She winced, coughed, squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. “Hot-hot-hot-hot!” She waved her hands. “Water!”

Eddie tossed her one of the bottles of water they’d found in the Blackhawk team’s supplies. She twisted off the cap and drained the bottle, then sat back gasping, tears running down her face.