Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

"Konnen Sie Englisch?" Holliday asked.

The bleeding man shook his head, his teeth clenched. "Only a little." He was about the same size as poor, dead Heinrich upstairs, but his face was pocked and scarred by the memory of a bad case of adolescent acne.

"There was a young woman and a priest. Ein Pfarrer."

"Ja."

"Where are they?"

The man gave him a hard scowl and sneered.

"Mach es dir Selber, Mutterficker."

That wasn't hard to figure out. He shot the man in the left kneecap.

"Wo sind Sie?" Holliday asked a second time. The man was turning pasty white, the blood literally draining out of his face. The man was silent. The holstered gun at his shoulder was an MP5. The man could see it but with his useless arm he couldn't get at it. The little machine pistol could have turned Holliday into hamburger. Holliday shot him in the right ankle. "Der Pfarrer und der Fraulien. Wo sind sie?"

"Die anderen Haus," screeched the man on the couch. The other house.

"Was andere Haus?"

"Die Strasse."

"Vas?"

"Aussensite! Die Berg Strasse." The mountain road outside.

"Nach oben, oder unten?"

"Oben!" grunted the man. Up the mountain road. Another house.

"Wie viele Wachen?" How many guards?

The man said nothing. He stared up at Holliday, sweat beading on his forehead. The man gave his best imitation of a resolute scowl again. A name, rank and serial number type of guy. Holliday didn't believe it for a second. The wounded man was beginning to shake as the pain took over. Another few seconds and he was going to pass out.

"Wie viele Wachen?" Holliday repeated. He put the muzzle of the suppressor against the man's left eye and pushed a little.

"Drei! Drei Wachen!" Three guards.

Holliday slid the MP5 out of the man's shoulder holster and took a step back. The man was slipping into unconsciousness but there was no telling how long he'd stay there. His eyes rolled up and his head slumped to one side. He clearly needed medical attention and it was obvious he'd be out for a good, long time. On the other hand, he'd seen a soldier with his legs blown off at the knees trying to crawl his bloody way across a rice paddy to an evac chopper.

"I'm sorry," said Holliday, meaning it. He put the suppressor an inch from the man's ear and pulled the trigger. He jerked a little as the paper bag popped. Holliday slid the HK into his pants and put on his shoes. He picked up the machine pistol and wondered about the effort involved in taking the shoulder holster from the dead man.

There was a faint, familiar sound behind him. Outside? Feet coming up the steps? He turned as the door opened, the MP5 in his right hand. He thumbed off the safety.

A man in a dark blue ski jacket closed the door behind him, then turned and stood in the foyer, a quizzical expression on his face. "You're not Heinrich." His right hand went behind his back.

"You're right, I'm not," said Holliday. He squeezed the trigger on the machine pistol, center mass. There was a sound like someone ripping a piece of heavy cloth and the man went down. Holliday went to the body, his finger on the trigger just in case, but the man had half a dozen holes in his chest and one in his throat. Holliday teased the man over with the toe of his shoe, then dug around a little.

He found a Para Slim Hawg.45 in a waistband holster and a passport and wallet in the man's buttoned back pocket. The passport was a brand-new diplomatic with the embedded microchip, and it identified the owner as Major John Boyd Hale, assistant military attache to the embassy in Rome. Holliday had enough military experience to know his name might be John Boyd Hale or it might not be. He might or might not really be a major, as well, and he was or possibly wasn't really an assistant military attache. Considering Major Hale's appearance at this particular door, it was more likely that he was CIA and his job here was to interrogate Holliday. On the other hand, considering Matoon's presence at the vineyard, the dead man in the foyer could also be Defense Intelligence Agency, or even be tied into Kate Sinclair's oddball construct, the Jihad al-Salibiyya. He shook his head. Since the so-called Jihadists had taken credit for the Pope's assassination no one had made the Templar connection, or if they had, they'd ignored it. As far as the media was concerned, the people's interest ended at the word "Jihad." Eventually some scholar would come forward but by then it would be too late. The president would be dead.

Or maybe not. If he could get them out of this there was still a chance. He stepped over the body of Major John Boyd Hale and opened the door. He cautiously moved out onto the wide porch of the chalet. It was fully dark now but he could make out the enormous, deeper blackness of the mountain on his left and the paler line of the road ahead. There was a black, late-model Volkswagen Phaeton and an older-model Mercedes parked in front of the chalet, but he ignored both vehicles; he wasn't about to announce his arrival.

He began to climb.

Brennan had been slouched against the wall facing the door for the last hour and a half, singing the same song over and over in a whispered, grating soprano. It was beginning to get on Peggy's nerves. Apparently it was called "The Orange and the Green." Oh, it is the biggest mix-up that you have never seen. My father, he was orange, and me mother, she was green…

"Quiet; they're talking again," said Peggy, her ear to the door. "Yelling actually."

Brennan stopped singing and stumbled to his feet, his tied hands making it difficult. He made his way to the door and leaned toward it, pressing his ear against the wood panel.

"What are they talking about?" Peggy said.

"Someone called Heinrich; they've been trying to call him but he doesn't answer. They think something's wrong."

Peggy smiled. "I told you so."

"You think it's your uncle?"

"'Wrong' is his middle name. Heinrich is not in the best of health right now, I guarantee it," said Peggy. She eased away from the door and let herself slowly slide down the wall.

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," said Brennan.

"I've been with Doc in situations like this before; I know what I'm talking about."

"Once a soldier, always a soldier?" Brennan said.

"Put it this way: he's not the kind who simply fades away." She listened to the men arguing on the other side of the door. "I'd get as low as possible," suggested Peggy. "There's going to be bullets flying any minute now."

The priest lowered himself toward the floor.

It wasn't minutes; it was seconds. There was the sound of breaking glass and then a heavy thud. Two voices began screaming in Italian. More glass broke and then there was silence. Peggy could hear the men whispering. "Get over here," she hissed at Brennan. The priest crawled across the room on elbows and knees. "What are they saying?" Peggy demanded.

"One of them was shot and killed. The other two are figuring out what to do."

"Which is?"

The priest listened and then translated. "'Vittorio, go to the window and see where he is.' 'Feck you, Mario,' or words to that effect. 'Go see for yourself.' " Brennan paused. There was more panicky conversation.

"Now what?"

"Vittorio wants to kill us and try to get away. Mario is telling him he's an idiot." There was a pause. "Mario wants to use us as human shields."

"I don't much like the sound of that," said Peggy.

"There's not much we can do about it," said Brennan.

"We'll see about that. Give me your shoes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your shoes damn it! Hurry!"

Brennan untied his shoes and slipped them off. They were heavy black brogues that would have suited a cop. Peggy picked one up and threw it at the little window in the back wall. The old glass smashed loudly and the shoe disappeared into the night. Peggy yelled at the top of her lungs.