Paul Christopher: The Templar throne

"Sure," Holliday said and nodded. "The Nun's Story, Sister Faustina, Agnes of God, Song of Bernadette, The Singing Nun, Lilies of the Field, Two Mules for Sister Sarah, The Bells of St. Mary's, Dead Man Walking. I could go on."

"Please don't," said Sister Meg. A young waiter appeared and they ordered. Meg asked for the goulash and Holliday chose the breaded veal with French fries.

"I had a Czech friend who once told me the only two words I need to be able to speak in Czech: hranolky and pivo. French fries and beer. At least that way you wouldn't starve to death or die of thirst."

"So what's next?" Sister Meg asked.

"After dinner?" Holliday replied. "After dinner we go outside for a nice walk in the evening air and see if there's a green late-model BMW in the parking lot with Austrian license plate MD 337 CA."

"Pardon?"

"Do you remember a man who came into the hotel after us when we checked in? He sat down and started to read the paper."

Sister Meg thought for a moment and nodded. "Vaguely. He had a shaved head. He was fat."

"That's the one."

"What about him?"

"He was in the Nordsee restaurant outside of Nuremberg. He had fish and chips and a Coke. Twice. Once in the restaurant as well as a take-out order."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Maybe it's just a coincidence?"

"Somehow I don't think so."

The following morning they came down to the lobby and Holliday bought all-day transit tickets from the sleepy desk clerk. They went into the restaurant, ate breakfast, then left through the back exit by the bathroom rather than the way they'd come in through the lobby. They found themselves on Slavinskeho Street, the far side treed with scrubby cedars, the near side laid out in allotment gardens behind the hotel, each with its own little shed.

"What about the car?" Sister Meg asked.

"We're taking the bus instead," answered Holliday. "Make it a little harder for our bald friend." He checked the schedule beneath the protective plastic covering on the bus stop post and then looked at his watch. There was one due in less than five minutes. While they waited he looked back down the street, back toward the hotel.

"I still think you're being paranoid," said the nun. "Just because you saw the same man on the Autobahn doesn't prove anything. Why on earth would anyone want to follow us?"

"I don't know about you, but I've made a few enemies in my time."

"This is just silly. We're not in a James Bond movie," snorted Sister Meg.

"Do you always argue this much?" Holliday asked. The woman was like everyone's idea of a younger, smarter sister-a Lisa Simpson from hell.

The red and white bus appeared a few minutes later, pulling up so that they could get on through the middle set of doors. In Prague, Holliday knew, the front doors were only used as an exit. When the doors hissed open they stepped up, slipped their tickets into the time stamper, then waited for them to be spit out again. Holliday walked to the very rear of the bus and sat down as they moved off. Sister Meg dropped down beside him with a sigh.

"This really is idiotic," she muttered.

"Really?" Holliday asked. "If you check behind us you'll see a green late-model BMW with Austrian license plate MD 337 CA, am I right?"

Sister Meg turned her head to look. She paled.

"Dear God," she whispered.

"Told you," said Holliday.

The bus went down Slavinskeho Street, the gray-blue Art Deco bulk of the Barrandov Studios main building and the soundstages directly ahead of them. At the traffic circle they swung to the left past the guard kiosk and the barrier, then eased onto Filmarska Street, then Barrandovska. The houses on the left were set on large lots in an urban pine forest, most looking as though they dated from the 1930s, all looking expensive.

To the right the lots hung at the edge of the famous Barrandov cliffs, and in between the houses they could look to the northeast across the Vltava River, snaking through the smoggy haze far below. As they swung left and began to move down the steep hill, the houses on the cliff side became enormous stone and stucco mansions. Once upon a time they'd been built for executives of the enormous film studios, Prague's version of Beverly Hills.

"The whole area including the film studios was developed in the twenties and thirties by the Havel family for local bigwigs. During the war the Nazis took over and those big houses were the summer residences for all the party bigwigs, including Hitler. Then it was KGB bigwigs for a while, and now it's capitalist bigwigs again."

Sister Meg wasn't paying any attention.

"Who is that man?" Meg asked, her voice tense and almost accusatory.

"The bald fellow? He looks like a cop," said Holliday. "At a guess, I'd say he was contract help."

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

"He's not official. Some organization has hired itself a local pair of eyes. He's been following us across Germany. He was probably in France before that. He's probably following one of us or the other, not both."

"Because of a knight who died almost a thousand years ago? Ridiculous."

"I agree, but he's on our tail nevertheless."

"It has to be you. Something from your military past."

"I had some trouble with a neo-Nazi group a while back; almost two years ago now. It could be them, or what's left of them."

"There! You see? I knew it!" Sister Meg said triumphantly.

"On the other hand, it could also be the Vatican Secret Service."

"The Vatican doesn't have a secret service," said the nun, promptly and with conviction. "I should know."

"The Vatican certainly does have a secret service, and I do know, Sister. It's called Sodalitium Pianum. The friends of Pius X, the Pope it was named for. In France it's called La Sapiniere. It's been around since the beginning of the last century. It's a covert arm of the Vatican secretary of state's office."

"That sounds like some sort of stupid urban myth," scoffed the red-haired nun.

"Whatever the case, that guy in the BMW is no myth; he's real enough, isn't he?"

The nun didn't answer, crossing her arms in front of her, spots of color blooming on her cheeks.

The bus continued down the hill to the main four-lane expressway at the bottom. On the left, carved into the yellowish rock of the rugged cliff side, Holliday could see the man-made niche that had served as a guard booth during the war. Back in those days access to the big houses on the Barrandov hill had been restricted to the very few and there had been a barrier here. It was one of the few places in the city that still showed physical evidence of the Nazi occupation between 1939 and 1945.

The bus swung left and slipped onto the broad multilaned highway, threading through a couple of ramps and cloverleafs until they came out on Strakonicka Street. To the right Holliday could see intermittent views of the river, and to the left were railway yards, graffiti-covered rail and subway cars lined up waiting to be shunted in one direction or the other. Here and there they passed dark stucco buildings with either blue curtains or red.

"I always wondered what those places with the colored drapes were," said Sister Meg as the bus rolled past yet another red-curtained building. "They always seem so dark." A red neon sign in the front yard read PANSKYKLUB.

"A pansky club is a brothel," explained Holliday. "A pani club is a brothel for women. Red for men, blue for women."

"I don't believe it."

"Prostitution isn't legal here, but it's not illegal, either. They've even got a brothel called Big Sister that's online, like a reality show."

"That's disgusting," said Sister Meg.

"That's free-market capitalism." Holliday shrugged and glanced over his shoulder. The BMW was still on their tail about three cars behind. Meg followed his look.