Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

"How fast?" Peggy asked.

"About a hundred and ten or so on a good ice surface."

"You're kidding, right?"

"We're usually going a little slower than that because we're towing cargo pods. Maybe sixty or seventy."

"Cargo pods?"

"Ask me no questions, I tell you no lies," said Moonblanket. "Peggy, you ride with me. Doc, you go with Brandon." Peggy dropped down onto the slick ice and climbed on behind Harry, who was straddling the front seat. Brandon Redboots got into the driver's position on the second machine. When they started up Peggy was surprised at how quiet they were and said so.

"Double mufflers on the engines. Polaris silent running chains and gears," answered Moonblanket.

"How long is this going to take?" Holliday asked.

"On a good day, maybe three minutes," said the Mohawk. "It's about a mile and a half all told. Five hundred yards to the island, which is still on the Canadian side, then a little less than a mile to Raquette Point on the U.S. side. The only danger is in the first minute-from here to the island. From the island to Raquette Point it's Akwesasne land. The Feds can't touch us."

"Don't they have tribal police?" Peggy asked, her voice blurred by the helmet but still understandable.

Harry Moonblanket pointed at the silent man sitting directly in front of Holliday. "Meet Chief Brandon Redboots of the Akwesasne Tribal Police." He laughed, gunned the engine and burst out through the open front of the old boathouse. Without a word Redboots followed them out into the whirling snow.

The wind roared all around them as they raced across the frozen river channel, the cold steadily leaking through the suit and then Peggy's ski jacket. Within thirty seconds she was freezing, teeth chattering inside the helmet. Suddenly, out of the corner of her vision she saw a shadow racing beside them, perhaps fifty yards away. She wouldn't have seen anything if the other snowmobile hadn't been bright yellow with a pulsing blue-and-red light on a short mast. It was slowly sliding in their direction. In front of her Harry Moonblanket let out a high-pitched yell and then a string of incomprehensible words that Peggy assumed were the Mohawk equivalent of swearing. She turned her head and saw a second blue-and-red light on their right.

"Who are they?" Peggy asked, yelling into the side of the Mohawk's helmet.

"Mounties!" Harry yelled back. "The river's federal property! Hang on!" The Mohawk twisted the throttle and they surged forward, almost tipping Peggy off the back of the racing machine. The pulsing lights were getting closer. She had a flashing memory of some old movie with a Mountie singing on a horse and knew there'd be no singing cops out here. Directly ahead of them an angled ramp of packed snow appeared.

Harry hit the ramp at full speed, with Holliday and Redboots right behind them. Trees appeared at the top of the ramp and Peggy realized they were on land once again. Almost immediately Moonblanket throttled back and slowed. A hundred yards farther on in the gully he stopped and let Redboots come up beside him.

"Old Panthers," grunted Redboots speaking for the first time, his visored face invisible.

"What's he talking about and why have we stopped?" Peggy asked urgently, looking back over her shoulder for the telltale red-and-blue flashing lights. There was nothing but blowing snow. "Where are the Mounties?"

"This is Cornwall Island," said Moonblanket, sitting in front of her. "Akwesasne land. The Mounties can't set foot on the place without asking our permission and Brandon's not likely to give it under the circumstances."

Chuckling, Redboots began to sing in a low, guttural voice: "Teiohonwa:ka ne'ni akhonwe:ia Kon'tatieshon iohnekotatie Wakkawehatie wakkawehatie."

"What's he saying?" Peggy asked.

"It's his favorite song about paddling his canoe. He always sings when he beats the Flat Hats."

"The Flat Hats?"

"The Red Jackets, the Mounties," explained Moonblanket.

"How did they know we'd be there?" Holliday asked seriously.

"Billy phoned them up and told them. He's the tribe's official confidential informant."

"Your nephew?"

"Sure. The Akwesasne survive on smuggled cigarettes. We even own our own tobacco farms. It's in the treaty from about two hundred years ago. Sometimes we get some serious criminal types down from Montreal, bikers mostly, try to horn in on our business. Billy informs on them. Makes a few bucks for himself. He goes to university now, so he needs the bread."

"He did it on purpose?" Peggy asked.

"Sure. I told him to. We're on Z1 Turbos. The Flat Hats use old Panther 440s. If we'd been dragging a pod of smokes they maybe coulda caught us, but not with one passenger each. No contest."

"It scared the hell out of me," said Holliday.

"Speaking of which," said Peggy, "can we get to where we're going to sometime soon? I have to pee."

Morrie Adler sat on one of the couches in the Oval Office and waited for the president to calm down. Outside the tall, bulletproof windows it was a winter-wonderland postcard, everything covered in a disguising mantle of snow.

"I won't do it!" the president steamed. He'd been a secret smoker until a secret checkup had told him in no uncertain terms that he'd better become a secret quitter, which he had, but the side effects of nicotine withdrawal were secretly making him very testy. It occurred to Morrie that wars could be declared or escalated on the basis of the president's physical condition. There was no doubt in his mind that Roosevelt would have done better at Potsdam if he'd felt better, and whether people liked to admit it or not the last couple of years of Ronald Reagan's term, the White House and the country had been run by his staff.

"They're plugging a hole," said Adler. "Nothing more."

"They're not plugging a hole; they're reading polls," said the president.

"Sinclair's the all-out favorite for the job." Adler shrugged. "You've put off appointing a vice president for too long already, kemo sabe. Make your choice or do what the party wants, but do it fast."

"You mean do what that psychopath Kate Sinclair wants," snorted the president. "From what I hear, she's been whoring herself all over Capitol Hill for two weeks now, kissing asses, gathering in favors and blackmailing what's left over."

"It's what the country wants, as well," said Adler. "Ever since you know who was in this office the nation's been polarized; there is no center line. That's a tightrope you can't walk along anymore. The people want guns and butter, give them guns and butter."

"I'll think about it," said the president.

"Think fast," said Adler. "Time's a-wasting."

Bedford Mills, Virginia, was the perfect western Virginia town. Main Street really was called Main Street, the churches all had snow-white steeples and the redbrick courthouse in the middle of town had a white cupola and a bell that was once used to call out the volunteer fire department.

The population of Bedford Mills was slightly more than five thousand and more than two-thirds of the adult males owned rifles. Almost the same percentage owned handguns and half of them owned fly rods for catching trout in the cool, clear streams that fed White Mountain Lake. There were no Hispanic families in Bedford Mills and only a very small percentage of the population was African American. There was one family of Chinese descent, Ross and Katie Wong and their kids, but they were fourth-generation American.

The biggest employer in the town was Savage Trucks, which custom built water tankers, milk tankers, dump bodies and sanitation trucks. The other major employer was the Wolf Ridge Distillery, which made a variety of specialty liquors, the most popular being Stonewall 12-Year-Old Bourbon. All in all, safe territory for Senator Richard Pierce Sinclair to have a town hall meeting on the coming threat of domestic terrorism in America.