Paul Christopher: The Templar throne

He had no doubt that if tested the cloth would show remnants of human tissue and various organic stains, and if dated would show it to be contemporary with the time of Christ. The cloth was almost certainly byssus, the fine white linen typically used for the wrappings of late Pharaonic era Egyptian burials. Taken altogether the relics were a tour de force. Meg glanced into the box one last time and pulled out something else: two interlocking pieces of wood, probably imported cedar from the mountain slopes of Syria. Jean de Saint- Clair's Instrument of God, the early Jacob's Quadrant, that had allowed him to navigate his way to the Farther Shore and an exact copy of the one he'd found in the ancient vizier's tomb in Libya the year before.

Meg turned to him, smiling, and then she winked. Holliday paled as the truth sank in. Meg had known about the navigation instrument from the very beginning. That meant that Bernheim, the French naval historian, had been in Rex Deus's pocket well before they'd met in La Brasserie Malakoff in Paris.

And it was Bernheim who'd pointed him toward Brother Morvan and inevitably to his meeting with Meg Sinclair in the chapel on Mont Saint-Michel. He cursed himself for a fool. He'd been set up from the start and he hadn't seen it, even though part of him must have known that the meeting at the island fortress was too much of a coincidence, the first of many, in fact. Now it was going to cost him his life as well as Peggy and Rafi's.

Operation Assyrian began just like Byron's poem described-like a wolf coming down on the fold, the sheep in this instance being the members of Rex Deus. The only warning was the cracking triple bark of the Galil mounted grenade launchers and the shattering sound of breaking glass. By instinct Holliday dropped to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his ears. He had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

Three heavily armed soldiers clad in black armored vests, black balaclava ski masks and dark goggles rolled through the ruptured stained-glass windows, following the three grenades that were still spinning down the length of the refectory table.

Two of them were flash-bang stun grenades and the other was smoke. The flash-bangs went off first, blinding everyone at the table as every retinal receptor short-circuited along with an eardrum-rupturing blast of disorienting 180-decibel sound. A split second later the smoke grenade went off and the room began to fill with thick yellow smoke.

There were moans and screams all around Holliday as he climbed to his feet and peered into the smoke. People blindly stumbled into him as he struggled to find the door. There was a crashing sound and the door into the room burst open and he heard a loud voice bellowing, "Sa'al Holliday, to me!"

Sa'al was Israeli for Lieutenant Colonel. Holliday fought his way to the door along with the rest of the dazed, blind and deafened members of Rex Deus who were still standing.

One of them was the Pentagon general. Holliday elbowed him in the throat and the heavyset man went down. The only thing between him and the door was the reeling figure of Miles Bainbridge, the cash or credit card televangelist who was rubbing at his tear-stained cheeks and moaning. Holliday cocked his fist and punched him in the mouth as hard as he could, feeling the expensive capped teeth shattering beneath his knuckles. Finally he made it to the door.

A black-suited figure gripped him by the arm. "Colonel Holliday?"

"Yes."

"Long time no see, sir. Please come with me and hurry, the clock's ticking."

The man in black virtually dragged him out of the room. Holliday noticed a silenced Glock 17 in his hand. One of Katherine Sinclair's heavies was slouched on the floor, his own Glock on the floor beside him and his brains leaking onto the wall.

"He drew down on me," said the man in black. They rushed down the corridor to a narrow set of stairs leading down. "We have to hurry, sir, please." They clattered down the stairs with other black-suited soldiers close behind them.

"You're Shaldag? Unit 5101?" Holliday asked, referring to the Israeli Special Forces group. Shaldag was supposedly responsible for marking the target for Operation Babylon, the destruction of the nuclear reactor at Osirak in Iraq.

"We don't exist, sir," answered the man, gripping his arm again. They stepped out into the big commercial-style kitchen in the basement of Poplar Hill. "And we were never here, sir." The man's voice was familiar but Holliday couldn't quite place it. They reached the tunnel leading to the stables. Holliday saw another of Katherine Sinclair's guards sprawled across the floor. The results of those strange ethereal coughing sounds Holliday had heard.

"He draw down on you, too?" Holliday asked.

The man led him into the stone-lined tunnel.

"No, sir," said the man. "He fired on me. We don't fire unless absolutely necessary, but we always fire back when fired upon."

"That sounds like something I might have said," Holliday said and grinned.

"You did, sir. Roman Military Tactics 301, sir. Boom, Ah, USMA-Rah-Rah, USMA-Rah-Rah, Ooh, Rah, Ooh, Rah… sir." The West Point Rocket cheer. Who was this kid in the black balaclava helmet? They reached a set of stone steps and raced up them to exit in the stables.

"Do I know you?" asked Holliday. They ran across the garage side of the stables and out into the sheeting rain. Visibility was almost zero but the man in black seemed to know where he was going.

They ran into a grove of poplars and down a narrow, almost invisible path. He could hear the sound of gunfire behind him. He turned and looked back over his shoulder. There were a dozen black-suited men behind him.

They reached a clearing. Two UH-1 Iroquois helicopters stood in the clearing, rotors spinning. Surprisingly the choppers sported the red and white livery of the Franklin County Sheriff's Office. The sliding doors of the helicopters were open, a black- balaclava-wearing soldier standing beside each one.

"This way," said the man at Holliday's side, grabbing his arm in an iron grip again. Holliday, his shepherd and six others crowded into the vehicle. Even before the door slammed shut they were in the air. A man seated beside the pilot turned and slipped off his headphones. His face was darkly tanned, lined and worn by too much sun and too much worrying.

"We lose anyone, Menzer?" asked the older man.

"No, sir. All present and accounted for."

"Excellent," said the older man. His caretaker pulled off his balaclava.

"Misha?" Holliday said, dumbfounded. "Misha Menzer?" The thick eyebrows, pointy chin and the beak of a nose were a dead giveaway, although the Menzer he'd known had a face spotted with pimples and wore heavy plastic glasses. His ex-student grinned.

"That's me, sir. Thayer Hall, sir. Class of oh-five. You told me I'd wind up in the car wash at a base motor pool if I didn't pull up my socks." Menzer had been one of his exchange students back in the day. A better sense of humor than soldierly aptitude, he'd thought at the time.

"Nothing I like better than being proven wrong," said Holliday. He reached out and clapped his ex-student on the shoulder. "Especially when I get my ass pulled out of the fire."

"My pleasure, sir," said Menzer. "Pulling asses is our business, sir. They needed someone who'd recognize you. I volunteered. Orders from the boss." He nodded toward the man beside the pilot and said something in Hebrew to the other men on the chopper and they laughed. Holliday glanced out the window. He was vaguely aware of flying over hills and forest land but that was about it. He tapped the man in the front seat on the arm. The older man turned and slipped off his headphones.

"They said they'd kill my cousin and her husband if I didn't cooperate. We have to get them before it's too late," Holliday said urgently, yelling over the whickering clatter of the rotors and the roar of the big turbine.