Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

"Okay," said Holliday at last. "Let's talk."

In the end they didn't tell Tidyman anything about the gold or the involvement of the Vatican and their intelligence apparatus, Sodalitium Pianum, preferring to keep that to themselves, at least for the moment. Holliday still wasn't sure how much the Holy See itself knew, or whether it was just the French arm of the spy organization La Sapiniere that had gone rogue and was acting on its own behalf. Nor did they mention their past confrontation at West Point, and even before that while they were on the trail of the secret of the Templar sword that had once belonged to Holliday's uncle.

"I'm still not sure we should trust him," said Rafi later, back in their little bungalow.

"Neither am I," said Holliday. On parting in the hotel lobby Tidyman had slipped him the automatic, which he was now loading, pressing the ten copper-tipped shells into the magazine. "But that doesn't mean we can't use him. I was never crazy about trying to get into Libya on our own. He's right-we need a guide."

"I don't think Mr. Tidyman cares about anyone but himself. He's what the English call a 'main chancer.' If he gets himself into trouble or sees the chance to make a buck, he'll turn us over to the authorities in a minute."

"Maybe," said Holliday. "But if he's making money with Siwa as his base of operations, it's by smuggling. People and drugs most likely, maybe guns as well. If he's the main chance type you feel he is, then he'd do pretty much anything to protect his supply routes." Holliday shook his head. "I don't think we have anything much to worry about on that score."

"I hope you're right," said Rafi. "We won't do Peggy much good if we're lounging around in one of those Cairo prisons you mentioned."

It took Tidyman a day to collect what he thought they'd need, and another day to plan the trip and spread the rumor that he was taking his two new "pigeons" on a tourist visit to Bahariya Oasis to the east, getting the requisite permits to bolster the story. It was a reasonable objective: lots of tourists who came to Siwa went to Bahariya, some for the folk music the oasis was famous for and others because it was an alternate route back to Cairo. After the crazy people who came for the total eclipse a few years before, the people of Siwa were ready to believe just about anything was possible where their foreign visitors were concerned. As long as they left some of their money in Siwa they could do anything they liked.

They drove east along an almost arrow-straight two-lane paved highway, heading directly away from Siwa and in the opposite direction from the Libyan border. Tidyman was at the wheel. Empty plastic jerry cans for water had been stored in bolt-on racks on the sides and roof that Tidyman had purchased the day before. Extra fuel was stored in the cargo compartment in the rear along with their other supplies. The three men were crowded into the bench seat up front.

Tidyman had explained their jog to the east. According to him the Siwans were an inquisitive, curious bunch and the ride toward Bahariya Oasis was a ruse for their benefit. There was also the slim chance that they would be spotted by a National Border Police overflight, although Tidyman thought it was unlikely; the light-plane pilots they used were terrified of being shot down by Libyan fighter jets and even their own air force.

After half an hour Tidyman slowed the vehicle, then reached over and dragged down a blackknobbed stick beside the shift lever.

"What's that?" Rafi asked as there was an odd lurch. The engine note changed as well.

"Just like it says on the sign," answered Tidyman. " 'Pri vjezdu voziola do terenu zapni predni nahon'-' When going off-road engage four-wheel drive.' "

"You speak Czech?" Holliday asked, impressed.

"Just enough to drive a Goat," their companion said and laughed. "A necessity in some of the places I've fought. A colleague who called himself Svejka taught me. A good soldier, Svejka."

"What happened to him, or should I ask?" Holliday said.

"You shouldn't ask," answered Tidyman. Abruptly the Egyptian hauled around the big wheel and they thumped off the road and into the hard-packed sand, the oversized mud tires gripping easily. They swung high to the right, arcing away from the highway until it was lost behind them in the rolling dunes. He dug into his pocket and tossed a Garmin Rino GPS unit across to Holliday. "Know how to use that?" Tidyman asked.

"Sure," said Holliday. He'd first used the technology during combat missions in Desert Storm, the first brief war with Iraq. The theory was as old as navigation, but instead of using a sextant to take a bearing on the sun and stars you used a radio beam to triangulate your position by pinging off a series of geosynchronous satellites.

"It's already been set with our base coordinates," said Tidyman. "Now you just follow the bouncing ball."

Twenty-five minutes later they reached the Siwa-Mersa Matruh highway and crossed it at right angles, running along the northern edge of the long east-west depression that held the oasis. After another hour, the town well behind them, Tidyman guided the Goat down a barely visible track that led into the depression. In the distance to the south one of the huge saltwater lakes that dotted the oasis glittered in the brilliant sun. To Holliday the shimmering lake looked like a heat mirage on the highway.

The desert here was rocky, interspersed with small pockets of vegetation. Ahead of them dark, bare hills with windswept crags and plateaus rose before them. So far they hadn't seen another vehicle. Every few minutes Tidyman would ask if they'd reached the next flagged location on the GPS and Holliday would call out the coordinates.

"Do you have some sort of plan?" Rafi asked. "Or are we just playing this by ear?"

"First we get across the border. Then we head for Jaghbub." Tidyman eased the Goat around an outcropping of sandstone, then found the track again. "I have friends there," the gray-haired Egyptian continued. "If they've heard anything about your friend, they'll tell me."

"Where exactly are we?" Holliday asked, looking down at the GPS unit in his hand and then at the barren landscape ahead of them.

"This is the Masrab al-Ikhwan," answered Tidyman. "What they once called the Thieves Road."

"Appropriate," muttered Rafi.

"Once upon a time it was the only southern passage between Egypt and Libya. It was used mostly by smugglers and slave traders going to and fro."

"You seem to know your way around even without this thing," said Holliday, indicating the GPS unit in his hand.

"My father was a captain in the Long Range Desert Group, based at Siwa during the war. His maps were just about my only inheritance. I've put them to good use over the years. They used to rattle back and forth through here all the time."

"When we find the people who took Peggy, if we find them, then what are we supposed to do?" Rafi asked, a skeptical tone in his voice.

Tidyman glanced over at him and smiled blandly.

"I would have thought that was obvious, my young Israeli friend." The smile broadened. "We kill them."

At the next GPS waypoint Tidyman hauled the wheel around, turning the old truck north, navigating carefully along the base of the ranging lines of dunes following the now invisible pathway through the sand. There were no landmarks now, only the burning sky above their heads and the relentless sun.

"We're traveling parallel to the border now," commented Tidyman. He waved a hand. "The old Italian fence is a couple of miles to the west. Long since buried by the dunes, of course. Mussolini was really an arrogant fool, thinking that he could tame the desert with a string of wire."

They traveled for another twenty minutes, then pulled into the meager shade offered by a wind-sculpted pinnacle of rock. The sandstone looked vaguely like a truncated version of the Sphinx.