Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

“He was a South American specialist, I believe, or described himself that way. The letter was from Hans Reinerth, Himmler’s so-called Director of German Prehistoric Studies, and mentioned another archaeologist, an Italian colleague named Amedeo Maiuri, and a sword he’d found during his excavations in Pompeii. Maiuri was convinced the sword was of Templar origins. Apparently Maiuri had talked about the sword with Mussolini himself, suggesting that it would be an ideal gift for Hitler on their next meeting. Henry was very excited by that bit.”

“What was so exciting?” Holliday interjected.

“I’m not entirely sure. The propaganda value, perhaps. Like Hitler’s supposed reliance on astrologers, or that utterly apocryphal story about his lack of testicles. There was some folderol in the letter that mentioned that the sword could well have been forged from the Spear of Destiny, the spear that pierced Christ’s side at the Crucifixion, and might have occult powers like the granting of eternal life.”

Carr-Harris made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Clearly it didn’t work for Mr. Hitler.” The professor shrugged. “That was the first we ever heard of the sword. There were other rumors about it throughout the war, and then of course Henry and I discovered it when we were sent to Berchtesgaden.”

“Did you ever meet a man named Broadbent when you were there?” Holliday asked, still searching for a connection between the two men.

“Not that I recall,” said Carr-Harris.

“Why would Grandpa keep the sword’s existence a secret?” Peggy asked.

“And why all the sudden interest now?” Holliday added.

“I’m not entirely sure,” mused Carr-Harris. “I do remember him swearing me to secrecy when we discovered it. Order of the New Templars. Black Shields and White Shields or some silliness like that. He seemed very serious about it.”

The old man clambered to his feet and picked up his empty glass.

“Drink?” he said, gesturing toward a simple wet bar on a table beneath one of the big lopsided windows to one side of the fireplace. There were half a dozen bottles of various liquors, a seltzer bottle, and several glasses.

Holliday and Peggy both declined. Carr-Harris shuffled across the room and poured himself another whiskey, adding a noisy spritz of soda. He turned and headed back to his seat, the ash on his cigarette now dangerously long.

The high-powered rifle bullet took the old man between the shoulder blades, exploding through his spine and bursting out of the center of his chest, blood spraying. His arms spread and the whiskey glass flew from his hand, his eyes already sightless as he fell. A heartbeat later the sound of the window breaking filled the room in a sudden, tinkling clatter, and then there was only silence.

They threw themselves onto the floor. In front of them the body of the old professor bled into the oval rug. A second shot entered through the already shattered window and thumped into the back of the couch. There was no other sound.

Suppressor, thought Holliday. Maybe an M4A1 like they’d used in Iraq. Mean suckers. A big-bore rifle for special operations, dead silent, dead accurate, and just plain deadly.

“Holliday?” Peggy said. Her voice was quiet and controlled. No panic. She’d taken her cameras into firefights before. She was waiting for some direction. There was a crash as another bullet smashed into the gun case on the far side of the room and another window blew out. A second shooter.

“Stay down,” said Holliday. He crabbed to the left, pulling himself around to the far side of the couch. A steady flurry of shots stitched their way across the bookcases, shredding the spines of books and sending a confetti storm of paper into the air. Bullets struck the side of one of the picture frames on the wall, splintering it and sending the painting spinning into the air. The bottles on the bar suddenly exploded, and the smell of liquor filled the air. The room was being steadily and inexorably eviscerated in absolute silence. It was terrifying. It was meant to be. Holliday stared at the gun case.

A bullet had hammered through the doorframe, exploding the lock and striking the stock of one of the standing rifles. It looked like an old Grulla Armas over and under shotgun from Spain. Several other weapons were still intact, including a Martini-Henry lever action dating back to World War I and a Lee-Enfield carbine.

There was one pistol, a Broomhandle Mauser with a heavy box magazine and the lumpy-looking polished wood grip that gave the weapon its name. On the shelf beneath the semiautomatic there was a blue and gold box of Serbian Prvi Partizan custom 9-mm parabel lum ammunition. The same stuff the bad guys used in Kosovo. From the illustration on the box it looked as though the bullets were preloaded onto stripper clips. Another flurry of shots and the crashing of another window, this time on his right. Firing from three sides now.

“What are you doing?” Peggy whispered, nervous now.

“Thinking,” said Holliday. “Hang on.”

“Doc? What’s going on?”

He didn’t bother answering. Instead he closed his eyes and tried to visualize the property. The fireplace was behind him: south. There was an open flower garden and patio on that side separating the house from the screening trees. He could see the patio through the shattered window.

The hallway they’d entered through was on his right: northeast. The oak-plank door, the side yard, and the car. Beyond the vehicles was the Dutch barn. No cover there, so that meant the shooter was in the trees. The window they’d fired through to hit the gun cabinet was on his left: west. The densest part of the windbreak and the closest to the house. Directly ahead of him there was an open archway leading into the old country kitchen. No windows that he could see, so no shot. Maybe a side door.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head an inch or two. They were shooting from the trees and not from the roofs of any of the outbuildings. No possible high ground. The terrain dropped slightly toward the north, but not appreciably. The ballistics decreed that the trajectories of the bullets would be flat unless they were up in the trees, which he doubted.

Holliday gritted his teeth in frustration. It had been a long time since he’d done this kind of thing for real. Too long. Old soldiers didn’t just fade away-they got rusty, as well.

He forced himself to stay calm and concentrate. He was boxed in on three sides. The two shooters east and south would keep them pinned down in a crossfire while the guy in the northeast would come in and take the oak-plank entrance. They wouldn’t wait too long. Another minute or two and they’d be coming in the windows, blasting away.

“Go to your right,” he called out. “Keep down. When you get beyond the couch, head for the archway and see if you can get into the kitchen. Wait for me.”

“What then?”

“Just do it.”

He heard her begin to move. There was another barrage of silent shooting that tore into the walls and smashed into furniture. Holliday rolled sideways across the floor and finally banged into the gun cabinet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peggy scoot by.

“Keep going!” he urged.

He watched her go past through the archway into the kitchen, and then he reached up blindly until his fingers closed on the cold metal of the old Mauser. He pulled the gun down and then reached up and fumbled for the box of ammunition. He tore it open and pulled out one of the twenty-round clips.

He retracted the bolt and felt it lock into place, then pushed in the clip from the top, loading the pistol like an old M1 Garand. The bullets clicked down against the magazine spring until the clip had fully loaded. He pulled out the empty strip and tossed it aside, then eased back the bolt. The gun was ready to fire. He jammed a couple of stripper clips into the pocket of his jacket, then lifted his head again, the Mauser gripped firmly in his right hand.