Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

"A sad state of affairs," commiserated Spada.

"Every president's the same. They're going to shake things up, get things done, pull the country up by its bootstraps. They don't seem to understand we're the ones who really run things and we always have, and that's never going to change."

"Certainly not if you can help it," said the cardinal dryly.

"Damn right," snorted Harris. "Speaking of which, how's your new boss doing?"

"Coming along," smiled Spada. "As Cardinal Urbana he was desperate for the job, although the scales were tipping toward Washington. Imagine that! An American Pope, and black, as well. Foley almost made it last time. Everyone was becoming nervous. I called in a few favors, rattled a few old bones in their hiding places and made sure we had an Italian in the chair. Too many outsiders recently-Poles, Germans. Urbana knows I put him in power and knows that I can keep him there; he won't be choosing any new secretary of state until I tell him to."

"Want the big job yourself?" Harris laughed. "You're young enough to keep it for a while."

For the first time Brennan realized that the CIA man must have been drinking heavily on the flight to Rome.

"Good Lord, no! The Vatican is much like your country, Mr. Harris. It is controlled and operated by the bureaucrats like you and me, not the figureheads. Being the Pope requires far more Latin than I ever learned. Not to mention the fact that I like my favorite restaurants too much to give them up. The Pope has little in the way of privacy."

"What about Holliday and the Blackstock woman?" Harris asked, turning toward Brennan.

"As of nine o'clock tonight they slipped out of the museum entrance into a taxi, rented a car in Fumicino and are headed back to Geneva, presumably on the trail of our Mr. Tritt."

"You have the pictures Ms. Blackstock took?"

Brennan dug into the pocket of his plain black jacket and took out a USB memory stick.

"Right here." He smiled. "Downloaded them from her camera while they were sleeping. We've got everything. It's proof positive of Holliday's involvement with the attempt on the president." Harris reached for the plastic memory device but Brennan pulled it out of his reach. "Not yet, Mr. Harris. There are a few quid pro quos to be dealt with."

"How did you get them out of your hair and on their own?" Harris asked. "The senator's mother will want to know."

"Holliday is smart. He's like an old trout thinking about taking the hook; he has to convince himself that taking it was his idea. I had to play him for a long time, but you could see him putting it together piece by piece. It was too convenient and everything came back to me in the end. Too much coincidence for a man like that to swallow."

The older priest smiled and made a vague attempt to brush ash off his lapels before going on. "The piece de resistance was telling him Cardinal Spada was due for the chopping block and I was about to be exiled to the bog country of my youth. It was one thing to have me around when I could get him some access, but he had to know I'd be useless from now on."

"Excellent." Harris nodded.

"What about the fingerprints from the Tritt house in the Bahamas?" Brennan asked.

"Safe and sound." Harris nodded benignly.

"And Tritt himself?" Spada asked.

"In place," Harris said.

"He has what he needs?" Spada asked. "He's been given the information?"

"Yes. Nothing will connect him to us. It's quite ingenious, if I do say so myself."

"Holliday's next jigsaw piece?"

"Done."

"Matoon?"

"Firing on all cylinders."

"Your Jihadist?" Spada asked.

"Ready and waiting. We're primed. Crusader is good to go."

The Maine Mall is a 1,200,000 square foot sprawling shopping complex in the southern part of the city of Portland and is anchored by JCPenney, Sears, Best Buy, Macy's and Sports Authority. It contains another 140 shops and services, including a food court and several sit-down family restaurants. It is the largest shopping mall in Maine, and more major drug deals are completed here than in any other place in the state, mostly in the food court, particularly the McDonald's section. The food court is located on the main level at the western, or JCPenney, end of the mall.

Today the blank-faced Chinese group was at Arby's and the Vietnamese were chowing down on Big Macs. There were four of each, but the principals were obvious. One Vietnamese, a short man in his early twenties, was eating nothing and neither was his Chinese alter ego in the seating section next door. The noise level was deafening, like a Niagara Falls of chatter. Most people avoided sitting near the young Asian men in their black leather jackets, slicked oily hair and opaque or reflective sunglasses. Their privacy was guaranteed.

At an unseen signal the Chinese leader got up from his place, accompanied by one bodyguard. He slipped into the booth occupied by the Vietnamese man. He, too, had a single bodyguard with him. They spoke for a moment, probably in English, although William Tritt couldn't be sure. He watched from just outside Ben amp; Jerry's as the meeting came to an end and the two men shook hands. It was the handshake that gave it away, of course. Hand shaking was distinctly non-Asian and rarely practiced by them except with whites. Ergo it had a purpose, and if you were watching as closely as William Tritt was you would have seen it: two sets of car keys being exchanged. It was the perfect pass over and any narcotics agent arresting either group at this point would find no evidence of any sort of drugs on the men. The keys would have no identifying tags and no electronic beepers. Checking all of the thousands of vehicles in the enormous parking lots surrounding the mall on three sides would be impossible.

The Vietnamese were almost invariably the buyers in situations like this, so when the little party broke up Tritt followed the four Chinese, who were probably collecting the cash. Tritt had no interest in the drugs, whatever they were. They headed for the northwest exit.

The parking lot was a crisscross maze of snow piles and narrow, half-cleared paths. It was snowing now, the blustery wind off the nearby ocean cutting visibility as the fat flakes whirled and danced. The only people in the lot were hurrying either to or from their vehicles. The car was a tan Chevy Impala from the last decade. The leader of the small Chinese group put the key in the trunk lock and opened it. All four men leaned inward to inspect the contents.

A firm believer in simple solutions, Tritt removed the.50-caliber Desert Eagle from the brand-new black nylon sports bag he carried in his left hand, then screwed on the suppressor he took from the pocket of his newly purchased ski jacket from Sears. He had already snapped on surgical gloves as he walked along behind the four Chinese in the mall. From fifteen feet away he shot each of the young men in the base of the spine.

The weapon made a stiff cracking sound like ice breaking underfoot on a frozen pond and the four men dropped to the ground without any other sound. Their heavy jackets soaked up the blood pouring out of the exit wounds in their lower abdomens, so there was very little mess. No one had noticed anything; the piles of snow had acted like sound buffers, stealing away any echo. He dropped the Desert Eagle and the suppressor into the sports bag and zipped it up.

Tritt took one quick look around, then stepped forward. He removed a pair of large, green Samsonite hard-shell suitcases from the trunk, then heaved the bodies of the four dead Chinese into the empty space.

He took the Desert Eagle out of the sports bag a second time and emptied the clip into the bodies, just to make sure. He slammed the trunk closed, took the key out of the lock and put it into his pocket. He slung the sports bag over his left shoulder, picked up a suitcase in each hand and walked back to his rental.