Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

"Do you ever catch anything?" Harris asked. "I've seen them used as hunter-killers in Pakistan and Afghanistan but that's a whole different kettle of fish."

"All they get is smugglers out west. Most of the terrorist types feel uncomfortable in that kind of environment. Camping in the woods isn't for towel heads."

Harris sighed. Matoon really was a bit of a stereotype, but the gruff, heavyset general was Sinclair's man, so he really didn't have any choice in the matter.

"We've picked up one or two persons of interest coming across the lakes, but it's mostly cigarette smuggling out there. The rag heads don't have too much experience with water, either. If you ask me the whole bunch of them are just a little on the lazy side. They fly over to Canada, which lets anyone into their stupid country, and then they try to fly into the States. That's how the 9/11 Arabs got in. They gotta know that any brown-skinned guy with a name like Yusef or Achmed's going to get pulled out of the line. The real stupid ones try to take the bus to save money. There's about three thousand miles of open border they could cross on foot, perfectly safely, carrying an A-bomb but they always do it the hard way."

The 9/11 terrorists had not entered through Canada, despite the myth. They'd entered the country through New York, L.A. and Miami with U.S. documentation, but that was beside the point. Fiddling with the joystick to the left of the screen he could zoom, pan and tilt like any film camera, completely independently of the operator on the floor. Matoon watched him play, a smile on his jowled face.

"My grandson plays Avatar with a stick like that; makes people fly, guns fire, people move. It's all beyond me. The kid's eight years old and he could probably fly one of these better than the guys down there at the controls."

"How many people in the town?" Harris asked, watching the monitor. He was flitting around like Peter Pan at rooftop level now. It was almost vertigo inducing. He could see the tops of people's heads as they trudged down the sidewalks in their winter clothes. A cop car drove down the main drag.

"About two thousand this time of year."

"What do you figure as the collateral damage?"

"Couldn't tell you," said Matoon, blowing a smoke ring. "High, I expect. The whole idea is to scare the living crap out of the entire country, not just tell them the sky is falling."

"How many cops in Winter Falls?"

"Eight on any shift. Shifts are twelve hours, so there're eighteen active officers. Eight are patrolmen on each shift. We know where all the off-duty officers live. He'll take care of them first."

"What about the county sheriff?"

"Eleven miles away. Not a problem. Two roads into town. Pick the right weather situation and it's a lockdown."

"So the whole thing is going down?"

"You having second thoughts?"

"No, not really," said the CIA man.

"Sure you do. Anybody would think twice about what we're doing. This is the big time. We do this, we save the country." The general made a snorting sound. "Our president's a pussy. America's going down the toilet. We can't let that happen. We need a strong hand in the White House."

"It's not far from being a coup d'etat," said Harris. "And we're talking about a lot of casualties."

"How many people died in 9/11?" Matoon said.

"Twenty-eight hundred," answered Harris.

"About the same here."

"You know this is different."

"Why? Because of how your asset is going to do it? Don't be a fool. There are always civilian casualties in war-it's a given, no matter how those casualties are inflicted."

Harris stared at the monitor. He could see people ice fishing on the frozen lake, kids making a snowman on a lawn. Students at the Abbey School playing hockey. He'd read the reports, studied the dossiers, knew the town inside out even though he'd never set foot in the place.

"You realize if we stop him and 'uncover' the plot at the last minute, we'll be heroes."

"Sure." Matoon grinned. "The prez would give your boss a medal, but it wouldn't get anything like the coverage if we go through with it." The general reached over and patted Harris on the shoulder. "Like another president once said, 'Stay the course,' Mr. Harris. We're doing this to make America great again."

"You're sure this is going to work?" Peggy asked. They were driving yet another rental car, this one picked up at Montreal-Trudeau International after their arrival from Zurich. Holliday was behind the wheel, piloting the big Ford Explorer down the eight-lane, snow-blown freeway. They were more than an hour outside of Montreal, traveling due west, the St. Lawrence River a quarter mile away on their left. It might as well have been Antarctica for all they could see. It was only two o'clock in the afternoon but they were driving with all their lights on, halogen fog lamps included.

"It's the only chance we've got," Holliday answered. "Homeland Security will have our passports, prints and pictures on file. We try to fly in and we'll be picked up in ten seconds. All the border crossings will have our names in their computers. That's why I picked up the Explorer from that little local company. No U.S. affiliates, so they can't be scanned by the Men in Black."

"Couldn't we have just waited out the weather in Montreal?"

"This is just the kind of weather Harry likes for this sort of thing," said Holliday, peering down at the odometer. The vehicle had almost two hundred thousand kilometers on the dial and was seven years old. The only speed for the wipers was intermittent, and the only heat came from the defroster keeping the windshield clear. Both Holliday and Peggy had bought down ski jackets and winter boots in the little town by the airport, but despite bundling up, Peggy's teeth were still chattering.

"Almost there," said Holliday. Through the thumping windshield wipers moving melting slush from one side to the other Holliday saw an exit sign for MacEwan Boundry Road and eased the Explorer into the far right lane. There was hardly any traffic on the highway, but even in a four-wheel drive vehicle one wrong move could be a disaster. The exit came up and he slowed even more, going around the small cloverleaf and passing over the wide, straight highway they just left. Holliday drove slowly along a two-lane blacktop that was now perfectly white.

"This is a blizzard," said Peggy nervously.

"This is Canada in the winter," said Holliday.

"This is life threatening," said Peggy. "Why are we meeting this friend of yours at a Subway in the middle of nowhere? And just who exactly is this mysterious Harry?"

"He's a Mohawk Indian."

"So?"

"He and I were in the Rangers together. When he retired he went back to the rez, settled down, opened a business, got married, had two kids-the whole thing."

"Is he Canadian or American?"

"Both. The reservation straddles the river, so he claims both nationalities. He likes to fight, so he joined the Rangers."

"That still doesn't explain why we're meeting him in the middle of a blizzard at a Subway."

Holliday laughed. "He loves subs. That's all he used to talk about when we were in the bush. Meatballsubs. As soon as he saved up enough money he bought a franchise."

"And this has to do with our present predicament how?"

"He set up a little boatbuilding business for local fisherman, as well. Sold outboard motors, too."

"So?"

"He sells snowmobiles in the winter."

"Why am I getting this sinking feeling?" Peggy said. The familiar black-and-yellow sign of a Subway restaurant appeared through the whirling snow. Holliday pulled into the recently plowed parking lot. At the far end of the lot was a new-looking Land Rover Defender with a plow attachment.

"Nice ride," commented Peggy. "I didn't think there was that much money in cold-cut combos and Ski-Doos."