Paul Christopher: The Templar conspiracy

Tritt was moving in a straight line now, gathering speed and pushing the snowmobile to its limits. In the distance Holliday could see the darker line on the night horizon that marked the far shore of the lake. Once on land Tritt would be lost. The snowmobile could travel over the snow-covered ground, but when the ice ran out the boat could go no farther.

Holliday saw one of Tritt's hands dropping off the handlebars to dig into the pocket of his parka. Initially he expected some kind of weapon, but then he saw the heavy rectangular shape of what had to be a satellite phone. Winter Falls was almost out of time. Holliday twitched the line, stiffening the sail, and the boat gathered even more speed. He could hear Lockwood firing but it was no use-there was too much movement and the shots were going wide.

Ahead of them Holliday could see Tritt twisting slightly in the saddle, driving one-handed, the other hand gripping the satellite phone. Behind the balaclava Holliday knew damn well the assassin was smiling. Holliday pulled the line through the pulleys even more tightly, his speed increasing once again. As the iceboat came up behind the snowmobile Holliday let go of the tugging wheel and let the boat have its head, the whole thing rising off the ice like a yacht heeling over in a high wind.

As the boat rose into the air so did the sharpened, three-and-a-half-foot-long bronze-and-steel blade. Holliday dragged the wheel around farther and the iceboat swung behind the snowmobile at close to a hundred miles an hour, the blade lifting even higher as they swung around the back of the speeding vehicle, turning in a single, sharp tack back onto its original course. The blade sliced into Tritt's body just above his bent hips, tearing through his down jacket, cutting through the spine and belly, severing trunk and torso in an instant. Blood gushed into the air and froze, dropping like tiny scarlet hailstones onto the night-black ice.

The snowmobile, the lower portion of Tritt's dismembered body still in the saddle, roared off into the snowy darkness. Holliday let the mainsail halyard loose and the boat luffed, settled and then stopped. He turned back in his seat, waiting for the distant roar of explosions and fireballs rising from behind them that would mark the destruction of Winter Falls. Ten long seconds passed. Then twenty. Then thirty.

Nothing.

"We did it!" Lockwood hooted.

Holliday closed his eyes and let out a long steaming breath.

They'd won.

Winter passed. Over the previous weeks a number of events had occurred abroad, particularly in the United States. As things turned out, the wound incurred by the new vice president had been much more serious than they'd first thought and he'd been forced to resign his position in favor of a healthy candidate better able to serve his country. A grateful president had given Richard Pierce Sinclair the Presidential Medal of Freedom in the Oval Office in absentia, the medal received instead by his mother, Kate Sinclair. William Sinclair was thought to be recuperating at his mother's vineyard estate in Switzerland.

Jihad al-Salibiyya fell out of the news cycle and was never heard from again. Wilmot DeJean, putative leader of a fringe militia group known as Maine's Right Arm, was found dead of a heart attack in his room at the Brac Beach Resort in Cayman Brac. According to several of his disgruntled followers DeJean had fraudulently embezzled most of the organization's "war chest."

Angus Scott Matoon disappeared on a helicopter hunting trip in northern Alaska. His body was never found. Randy Lockwood retired as Police Chief of Winter Falls shortly after testifying at a closed Senate hearing on the somewhat unorthodox activities of Lieutenant Colonel John "Doc" Holliday and Peggy Blackstock, although there was a rumor that he'd be running for mayor during next year's election. Following the Senate hearing all three were invited to the White House for a private lunch with the president and his wife.

The explosion that occurred during the president's nostalgic trip back to the town of Winter Falls was later discovered to have been caused by a man foolishly lighting a cigarette while topping off the heating tanks at a local shopping center. The resulting explosion destroyed the nearby electrical substation, plunging the town into blackness. The president was successfully evacuated and, according to White House sources, was never in any danger.

In the Bahamas Mary Breau, the real estate agent, had several people inquire after the Lyford Cay property belonging to Mr. William Tritt, but she was having a great deal of difficulty getting in touch with the owner.

Spring came to the Vatican. Gentle breezes rustled through the olive trees and citrons along the garden pathways. The rush of Rome's frenetic traffic was a dull, distant roar behind high stone walls. For the moment all was calm in the home of St. Peter's Church.

Cardinal Secretary of State Antonio Niccolo Spada and Father Thomas Brennan, head of Soladitum Pianum, the Vatican Secret Service, strolled through the Giardini Vaticani, the famous Vatican Gardens, enjoying the warm sunshine, the plaintive, understated call of the common redstart coming from the branches of the trees around them, a single, predatory kestrel flying high above them, its dark wings like a skirling warning of things to come. Passing a lemon tree, Spada plucked one of the small yellow fruits and held it to his nose, breathing in the rich, tart scent.

"So in the end very little has changed," said the cardinal, his long robes brushing the gravel of the pathway as he walked.

"We have something of what we wanted." The black-suited priest shrugged, the rancid odor of his fuming cigarette in harsh contrast to the lush, earthy perfumes of the gardens around them. "At least we have a new Pope."

"And a tractable one, as well," murmured Spada. "Unlike his predessessor. He was coming far too close to secrets that were none of his concern."

"Sinclair didn't get the notebook," Brennan said quietly.

"And neither did we," snapped the cardinal. "While the world watches our moral compass disintegrate into a tawdry sex scandal, the Holy See is on the verge of bancruptcy."

"Better to have the distraction of a sex scandal than an auditor's report," answered Brennan.

"Holliday neither uses nor abuses the wealth of the Templars, wealth that rightfully belongs to the Church, not a single man."

"He sees himself as no more than the steward of the treasure, not its owner," said Brennan. "Like the monk Rodrigues before him."

"I couldn't care less about Colonel Holliday's perception of himself; I want what is rightfully ours."

"Kate Sinclair would say the same," reponded the black-suited priest. "For her this has been a single battle in a longer war."

"A war that we must win," said Spada. "Whatever it takes, get me the Templar notebook!"

Doc Holliday discreetly unbuckled his seat belt and gazed out the window as the big El Al 747 lumbered into the sky over Kennedy Airport and headed east. He settled back into his comfortable first-class seat, sipped his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and turned to Peggy Blackstock, who occupied the seat next to him.

"So, tell me again why I'm coming back to Israel with you?"

"Because we both need a rest, because they fired you from your temp job at Georgetown University for missing too many classes and because Rafi found something on his trip to darkest Africa that he thought might interest you."

"Great," said Holliday. He finished his juice, put down the glass, eased his seat back lower and closed his eyes. "Just as long as it's warm, there's a beach and I can get a little peace and quiet."

"I guarantee it," said Peggy.

"Famous last words," muttered Holliday, and then he was asleep. Read on for a special preview of Paul Christopher's next thrilling novel,