Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

They reached the sidewalk. To the left of a pair of graffiti-covered recycling bins there were two doors, one leading into Brusco's watch and jewelry store, the other into a miniature lobby with nothing in it but an elevator door. The outer door was locked. Directly in front of the jeweler's was a sleek black Audi A8.

Holliday didn't stop to think about it. He pulled out Brennan's automatic and used the butt as a hammer on the glass next to the lock mechanism. Nothing happened. He hit the glass even harder, aware that someone was screaming for the police. This time the entire bottom half of the glass door disintegrated into thousands of little hexagons. Holliday freed the broken glass with the pistol butt, reached in and turned the latch. The door opened. A woman's shrill voice kept calling for the police. In a few more seconds people would start paying attention.

"We have movement on the roof! Dark-haired man carrying a sports bag, black. Motorcade is in sight. It looks like a big black snake. Mother of Christ, Holliday, hurry!"

Holliday jammed his palm against the single button and thankfully the door slid open immediately. He and Peggy crowded into the little cage and a few seconds later the door hissed shut and the elevator began its long, slow grind upward. It stopped automatically at every floor, and by the time they reached the top floor Holliday's nerves were wire taut.

He racked the slide on the little automatic. "You stay back, Peg. I'm not kidding. I've got a peashooter. This son of a bitch has a guided missile. Remember that."

"Yes, Uncle John, Doc, sir," she mocked, grinning broadly and hefting the camera.

"Rafi would string me up in the Negev if anything happened to you," said Holliday.

"Yeah, he would, wouldn't he?" Peggy laughed. "Such a romantic." The elevator door hissed open onto the top floor. Holliday stepped out into the corridor with Brennan's gun extended. Empty. Three doors on the left, three doors on the right and an exit light at either end beaming out USCIRE. Holliday headed along the corridor toward the exit, the gun steady in his hand.

He stepped into the stairwell, Peggy on the step behind him, and headed upward. The metal steps were noisy. The earpiece crackled but there was no sound. He was in some kind of audio dead zone. They reached a little vestibule at the top of the stairs. There was a metal door with a panic bar.

"Stay back," he ordered, pushing down on the panic bar. He stepped out into the near-blinding sunlight that streamed down onto the gravel roof. His earpiece came to life in midsentence.

"… not a Stinger. It's a-Dear Lord, he's fired!"

There was a fireball riding the shoulder of the man on the far side of the roof. The fireball expanded with a snapping roar and the figure disappeared in a cloud of yellow-white smoke. Holliday aimed into the center of the smoke screen and fired, again and again. He was vaguely aware of movement, and then an enormous pain blossomed in the middle of his chest and the world went black. Somewhere Peggy screamed his name and then she was gone.

"Fools rush in, Colonel Holliday, and there's no doubt that you're a fool," said Pat Philpot, overflowing a plain chair beside Doc's hospital bed. A big Starbucks cup and a pastry box full of fat cannoli sat on the night table beside him. The rotund CIA analyst took alternating sips and bites. Powdered sugar from the cannoli dusted his several chins.

It was hard for Doc to remember back when the two of them used to jump out of airplanes into war zones together. Then again, it was hard for him to remember much at all except for the gigantic pain in his chest. It felt like someone had ripped out his heart and lungs and then forgot to put them back again. The anonymous hospital room wasn't much help to his memory; aside from a simple crucifix that hung over the bed, it was the same as every other civilian hospital he'd been in. It was a Catholic hospital, which meant that he was probably still in Italy. But why was Pat Philpot sitting beside him? Where were Peggy and Brennan?

Philpot read his mind. "We don't know where your niece and her priest friend are. At the moment." He took a slurp of coffee, eyed a half-eaten cannoli in the box and then thought better of it. "If it wasn't for the fact that Ms. Blackstock almost certainly has a photograph of a known Company operative firing a Russian Igla missile at the presidential limousine, we'd have conveniently put a bullet in your brain and buried you in an olive grove by now."

Holliday cleared his throat. "You're telling me that olive groves are the equivalent of the New Jersey Meadowlands here?"

"Quit being a smart-ass, Holliday. You're in a lot of trouble; don't make it any worse."

"Then tell me what happened, why I'm here."

"Billy Tritt fired a Soviet Igla 'needle' missile at the lead limo in the motorcade and blew it all to hell and gone. He fired a Glock.40 at you, but you were smart enough to be wearing the wop equivalent of a bulletproof vest."

"He killed the president?"

"The VP and the secretary of state. It should have been the A car, but the Secret Service flipped at the last second because of the warning."

"How did Tritt know?"

"Because there was a big X on the roof of the lead car."

"And nobody noticed?"

"Nobody. The X was some clear coating and UV sensitive. Nobody could see it except for Tritt."

"You're talking about an inside job, then," said Holliday.

"I'm talking off the record, just like before. You mention any of this and you really will wind up in an olive grove."

"Off the record, then."

"Thank God it was an Igla and not a Stinger. It muddies the water some. On the other hand, some unfriendly colleagues of mine have an unregistered Beretta in their possession with your prints all over it. They also have evidence connecting you to a pair of homicides in Rock Creek Park a week or so ago. They can tie you to a conspiracy to assassinate the president without breaking a sweat. Get the picture?"

"You're telling me there really is a rogue section of the Agency?"

"I'm not speaking to you at all," said Philpot. He stuffed half a cannoli in his mouth and inhaled the sweet cream at its center, then savored the outer layers of flaky, butter-rich pastry. "In fact," he said, methodically licking his fingers, "this is so off the record that I'm not even here; I'm sitting at my desk in MacLean, picking my toes and wondering who's going to win the Super Bowl."

"The Giants," said Holliday.

"Bah, humbug." Philpot scowled. "It'll be the Steelers again."

"So, what are you trying to tell me, Pat, seeing as how you aren't here?"

"I'm telling you to find your pretty Peggy and get out of Dodge, pronto. There are people out there who want you dead and have the ability to make it happen."

"We're talking about the so-called Jihad al-Salibiyya?"

"We're not talking about anything. I'm not here, remember? Have a cannoli."

Chief Randy Lockwood, head of the Winter Falls Police force for the last thirty years, strolled down South Main Street bundled up in an official Winter Falls Wolves jacket. The cold weather had creaked and blustered its way down from Canada, putting an even thicker layer of ice on Big Cache Lake. The iceboats were whizzing around, practicing for the races to be held the following month, and he could see half a dozen fishing boats already set up. It was all part of the Falls' somewhat limited attempt at turning itself into a winter wonderland as well as a summer resort.

He reached Gorman's Restaurant, the unofficial divider between South Main Street and North Main Street. He pulled open the steel door with one leather-gloved hand and stepped into the overheated diner. His booth in the back next to the kitchen's swinging doors was empty, a glass of water and a copy of the Trumpet, Winter Falls' only newspaper, laid out on the Formica. At eleven in the morning, Gorman's was packed with the inner circle of Winter Falls' gossips and flapjaws, including Sandy Gorman, who was standing behind the counter and wrangling a huge pile of bacon that was being precooked for the all-day breakfasts that were one of the favorites. Beside the bacon was an equally huge pile of hash browns and beside the hash browns was Reggie Waterman, frying and scrambling eggs, turning sausages and even taking care of a few burgers and the French fry baskets.