Paul Christopher - The Templar conspiracy

Through the smoke and flames there was no way to know what had happened to the president. A cloud of choking smoke drifted over the square as Holliday, Lockwood and Peggy picked themselves up. Combined with the heavy snowfall, visibility was now almost zero.

"He was on the third floor," said Lockwood.

"Which way would he go?" Holliday asked.

"If he's smart he'll figure on roadblocks."

"What does that mean?"

"He's probably got a snowmobile someplace. They use them to get out to the ice-fishing huts. It wouldn't look out of place down by the docks."

Holliday nodded. "He cuts across the lake and he's gone before anybody has time to think. Somewhere along the line he dials his sat phone and blows Winter Falls to hell."

"Something like that."

Holliday turned to Peggy. "Find the top cop in charge over there," he said, pointing toward the flaming remains of the helicopter. Tell whoever it is that the chief and I are going after Tritt, and they should start looking for more truck bombs before it's too late."

"You're not just trying to get rid of me are you?"

"Don't be an idiot. I'm trying to save lives. Go!"

She went.

"Now what?" Holliday said.

"Follow me," said Lockwood. He turned and disappeared into the smoke and snow, heading across the street to the inn.

It had been too soon, but Tritt didn't have any choice. He fired the rocket, dropped the hot metal tube unceremoniously off his shoulder and headed for the door, patting the pocket of his heavy parka to make sure the satellite phone was still there. He ran out into the dark hallway, ignored the elevator to the left and turned right until he reached the door leading to the stairwell.

A minute later he reached the lobby, which was now swarming with guests and hotel employees. People were calling out to one another, someone was crying and flashlight beams were cutting through the haze that had started filling up the main-floor reception area. Everything smelled of smoke and jet fuel. No one noticed as Tritt headed into the restaurant at the rear of the hotel, then pushed through the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. Ninety seconds after destroying the helicopter in the square he was racing down the alley behind the hotel, and two minutes after that he was turning the key in the ignition of the big, silver Yamaha Vector snowmobile parked behind the patio of Gorman's Restaurant. He twisted the throttle, turned the snowmobile into a tight circle and headed west, out onto the frozen lake.

Tritt smiled behind his heavy woolen balaclava mask and stared out into the snow-filled emptiness of the night. The job was done. With a top speed of seventy miles an hour, no one could catch him now. At the halfway mark he'd stop the vehicle, take out the satellite phone and punch the preset number. It would be the largest non-nuclear blast since the Texas City explosion in 1947, which virtually leveled the entire town.

"We're too late," said Lockwood. Both men stood at the bottom of the steps that led down to the dock behind Gorman's Restaurant. They could see the imprints of Tritt's boots in the fresh snow and they could faintly hear the sound of the receding snowmobile. There were three more of the vehicles parked at the foot of the stairs, all three surrounded by the pungent odor of freshly spilled gasoline. Tritt had ripped out the fuel lines. "We'll never catch him. The son of a bitch is going to blow up my town and there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

"I wouldn't give up quite so quickly," said Holliday. He walked across the ice to where the line of iceboats was parked. He ran his hand over the sleek, jet-black fiberglass body of one of the water-bug-shaped boats. "These are Monotype-XVs," he said. "I didn't even know they had them in the States."

"You know how to sail one of these things?" Lockwood asked. The drag-racer bodies were about thirty feet long, with masts almost as high and a broad outrigger with a long bronze-and-steel blade at each end.

There was a third blade at the rear of the body, and the insectlike boat was steered with a large automobile-style wheel in the snug back cockpit. The pilot of the boat also handled the movement and adjustment of the sail through a system of lines and pulleys, while the front cockpit for the copilot essentially provided ballast and a counterweight to prevent the front end of the craft from taking to the air.

"I was stationed in Helsinki for a while. My people had this crazy idea to get assets out of St. Petersburg using iceboats like these across the Gulf of Finland. We never tried it but I learned the basics."

"How are we supposed to catch up with a snowmobile in a sailboat?" Lockwood said. "I've seen guys racing these but not at that kind of speed."

"Top-end record for one of these boats is close to a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour," said Holliday. "You ride shotgun up front and I'll see if I can get you within range of the guy who's screwing with your town."

"How do we get this thing rolling?" Lockwood said.

Tritt slowed the snowmobile, then pulled to a halt and checked the big dial on his watch. The wind was worse than he'd expected and he was going to be late. Not that it mattered; no one was waiting. But punctuality had always been a professional watchword with him and a point of personal pride. He remembered and abided by his German grandfather's favorite platitude: "Anything worth doing is worth doing well." He checked the GPS locator taped to the handlebars and made a slight adjustment.

Tritt was old enough and came from a time when GPS, satellite phones and most kinds of twenty-first-century technology were still things to be marveled at and not taken for granted, so he pulled out his old-fashioned Bezard military marching compass and checked that the electronic data from the GPS unit was accurate, which it was. He wound up the throttle of the snowmobile, then switched it off, suddenly aware of a strange sound coming from somewhere behind him. He lifted off his helmet and listened, then put one booted foot onto the windblown, virtually black surface of the ice.

Something. A distant, hollow rumbling. Not any kind of tracked vehicle like his snowmobile. The tone rose and fell erratically, the sound of it even vibrating through the ice. He didn't have the faintest idea what was producing the far-off, odd-sounding roar, but he knew that it didn't belong and for that reason alone he didn't like it. If he had to guess it sounded like somebody dragging a heavy wooden box across the ice at high speed. He looked at his watch again. It was a little too early but he decided to make the call anyway. He took the satellite phone out of his pocket and switched it on.

The silent snowmobile appeared in front of them without warning as Holliday struggled with the wheel, trying to keep the rushing, daggerlike iceboat under control. He had no idea how fast they were going, but up until a few seconds before they'd been trying to follow the sound of the snowmobile when it suddenly stopped. Whatever speed they were going the rush of the wind and the blowing snow made it impossible to communicate with Lockwood, hunched in the tiny forward cockpit, his big Bushmaster jutting toward the front of the boat.

Tritt turned at the sound of the boat, his eyes widening in his snow-rimmed, balaclava-covered face. He reached down with his right hand and brought up a squat little MP5 submachine gun. Lockwood fired, the shot from the big-caliber rifle striking the forward nacelle of the snowmobile and sending up a shower of sparks.

Holliday hauled on the wheel and tightened the sail line simultaneously, veering away in a sliding arc as the bullets from the MP5 stitched into the side of the boat and clanged off the long forward blade as it lifted into the air.

Holliday put the boat into a scraping, one-bladed turn, almost turning the craft over, but by the time they swung back in Tritt's direction the snowmobile was on the move again. Following him, Holliday hammered on the side of the hull to get Lockwood's attention. The cop turned in his seat and gave Holliday a death's-head grin and an okay sign. He hadn't been hit and apparently nothing vital to the operation of the boat had been hit, either.