Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“Yes?” Matheson snapped.

“There’s a big fat guy in there asleep, or maybe drugged. He’s handcuffed to his bed.”

“Ah,” said Nagoupande. “Show me,” he said to the man. They went back into the main building. A moment later there was a single shot.

Nagoupande reappeared, slipping his Colt.45 back into its holster on his web belt. He had blood spray across the lower part of his face and across the front of his jacket. “The king is dead.”

“Long live the king,” said a voice from the blasted front gates of the compound. Limbani appeared with Holliday on one side and Eddie on the other. Behind them were Jean-Luc Saint-Sylvestre and a half dozen uniformed members of the Kukuanaland secret police. Seeing Limbani, Nagoupande struggled to drag his gun from its holster. Saint-Sylvestre beat him to it.

“Do something!” Nagoupande screamed at Matheson.

“I only deal with winners, I’m afraid,” said Matheson smoothly. “Who that is remains to be seen.”

Limbani stepped forward, looking up at the infuriated man in the brigadier general’s uniform. “You look very foolish, Francois. The English have a word for it-popinjay, isn’t that correct, Sir James?”

“You know who I am?” Matheson said, impressed.

“Of course.” Limbani nodded, resting his hand on Saint-Sylvestre’s shoulder. “My nephew has told me a great deal about you and what you wish to do to my country.”

“Your nephew?” Matheson said, dazed. Horribly a number of things clicked into place and the man visibly sagged.

“On his mother’s side.”

Nagoupande began to scream, his fists clenched like a child having a tantrum. “It’s not your country, Limbani; it’s my country! I am the president of Kukuanaland!”

“No, you’re not,” said Saint-Sylvestre, putting the muzzle of his Glock against Nagoupande’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and Nagoupande slid to the ground like a deflating balloon.

“So,” said Matheson, trying to put some heartiness back into his voice. “Presumably it will be you I’ll be dealing with, Dr. Limbani.”

“No,” said Limbani, “you’ll be dealing with my minister of resources, who is also my foreign minister and who is, by chance, my nephew.

“The first thing you’re going to do,” Limbani continued, “is get back in your helicopter, taking your nasty little friends with you. The next thing you will do after arriving back in England is establish something called the Kukuanaland National Trust, a nongovernmental organization headed up by my friend Colonel Holliday here, as well as his cousin Miss Peggy Blackstock and her husband, Dr. Rafi Wanounou.”

“The purpose of the trust is to develop ideas for utilizing the three-hundred-million-pound endowment you will give the trust for the betterment of the people of Kukuanaland, especially where it regards such things as infrastructure and education. Should you prefer not to establish the trust my nephew can take all of the concrete antitrust and war-crimes information he has on you personally as well as a number of your employees and disperse it throughout the world press as he sees fit. Then perhaps we shall discuss your rare earths; agreed?”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Matheson coldly, his face an angry mask. Without another word he waved the bodyguards back onto the helicopter, followed them aboard and slammed the door shut. The group in the compound stepped back as the rotors began to whir, and a moment later the Black Hawk lifted off the ground, tilted away and disappeared into the morning sky.

“His nephew?” Holliday said to Saint-Sylvestre.

“A spy in the house of love, I believe it’s called.” The secret policeman shrugged his shoulders. “He needed someone on his side to even the odds a little.”

Holliday toed the rumpled body of Nagoupande, sprawled on the ground and bleeding into the hard-packed earth. “We should get this cleaned up.”

“And after we do,” said Peggy, “I do believe it’s going to be a very nice day.”

“Always the optimist,” said Rafi, smiling fondly at his wife.

Peggy stared at the body on the ground. She shrugged. “Beats the alternative.”

Eddie and Holliday stayed with Peggy and Rafi for almost three months. It was fall by the time they left Kukuanaland, flown out to Khartoum by the inimitable Mutwakil “Donny” Osman on his rattletrap Catalina. Neither man knew where they were going or what the future held, but the few hours as warriors for a cause again had shaken both men deeply, arousing some strange wanderlust that they both thought it was unlikely they’d be able to satisfy. One thing was sure enough: Holliday wanted to go back to the States for a while, maybe consider teaching again, and even though Eddie could probably get refugee status, especially with Holliday’s sanction, the Cuban was still Cuban enough not to want to give up his passport. He told Holliday what he’d been saying for years, even though he knew it was a lie-“Maybe when Fidel is gone, maybe then it will be better.”

They sat in the very new glass-and-white-marble departure lounge at Khartoum International Airport drinking complimentary coffee and waiting for their flights, Holliday’s to New York via Paris and Eddie’s to the Amazon via a half dozen stops along the way.

“You really think you’ll find work there?” Holliday asked.

“It’s a river, and I’m a river pilot, mi amigo . It’s what I do.”

“I’m wondering now if we should have stayed a little while longer with Limbani and his people. You’ve got to admit, it was fascinating.”

“But not for us, Doc,” said Eddie. “It is Peggy and Rafi’s passion, not ours. There’s enough to keep them there for years, maybe for the rest of their lives.”

“Maybe we’re getting too old for passion,” said Holliday.

“Saying that is the beso de la muerte ,” said Eddie. “The kiss of death.”

“These old bones are starting to ache.” Holliday shrugged. “Maybe I should just retire.”

“Pah!” Eddie snorted. “You are only as old as you think.”

“And I think I’m pretty damn old!” Holliday laughed.

A tall, very distinguished-looking man had been hovering close to their seats in the lounge for the last few minutes and Holliday was wondering when he’d make his move for a few coins or bills. From the neck up he looked like a university professor, right down to the wire glasses and the badly knotted tie. The rest of him was on the slide, a cheap blue suit half a century out of style, frayed at the pockets lap and cuffs. The shoes might have been made of cardboard.

Finally he stepped forward. “Excuse me,” he said, speaking to Eddie in heavily accented English. “I think you are Cuban?”

“Si.” Eddie nodded.

“I speak very little Spanish. Do you perhaps speak Russian?”

“Da.” The Cuban nodded.

“Otlichno!” The man beamed happily. Holliday presumed it meant good , or excellent . The man began to babble away at breakneck speed, plucking at Eddie’s sleeve and finally drawing him a few feet away and muttering softly into his ear, then gave him a small slip of paper, folding it into Eddie’s hand. At first Eddie seemed confused but eventually he shrugged, patted the man on the shoulder and went back to sit beside Holliday. The Russian-speaking gentleman peered at them anxiously.

“Now, what was that all about?”

“I didn’t get all of it. He says his name is Victor Ostrovsky and he’s a curator at the Hermitage. Something about the Romanov jewels and the Faberge royal eggs. He says that something terrible has happened and he insists that you and I go with him immediately.”