Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

The Old City of Jerusalem is an ancient walled district occupying an area of slightly less than half a square mile in the southwestern corner of the modern city. Since the mid-1800s it has been divided into four distinct zones: the Christian Quarter in the northwest, the Muslim Quarter in the northeast, the Jewish Quarter in the southeast, and the Armenian Quarter, the smallest of the four areas occupying a sliver of territory in the southwest corner.

During the British Mandate period of the 1920s a man with Walt Disney-like foresight named Sir Ronald Storrs, the newly installed governor of the city, decreed that all construction within the city, new and old, would use locally quarried “Mezzah,” or Jerusalem stone. Not only did it provide needed jobs for an almost bankrupt city, it also gave the city a uniform look and prevented the Old City from being radically altered over the years. Conservationists, town planners, and tour guides still praise his name.

The walled area of the Old City looks like a complex web of winding streets that has been grasped in a pair of giant hands and squeezed down to Lilliputian dimensions. There are less than a score of streets wide enough to support traffic, and many of the alleyways in the old city are no wider than an average person’s outstretched arms.

Amigo Emil’s was just as Wanounou had described it, a hole-in-the-wall on a narrow street just inside the Damascus Gate in the Christian Quarter, the restaurant marked only with a rudimentary oval sign over the door painted with a cup, knife and fork, and something that looked like a steaming bowl of soup.

The dining area inside looked as though it had been carved out of native stone. The tables were blond wood inset with blue patterned ceramic tiles, the seats were straight-backed wooden chairs with comfortable cushions, and the food was wonderful. Peggy had once done a month-long shoot in war-ravaged Beirut so she worked the menu, ordering up a meze of Arabic dishes in square, white ceramic bowls and a pile of freshly baked pita bread.

They ate their way through an array of tapas-like portions of hummus; baba ghanoush; spicy kibbeh, a meat dish; carabage halab, an Arab pastry; tahini; and muhammara, a hot pepper dip. All of this was washed down with icy bottles of Maccabee pilsner.

The meal finished, Emil, the owner, took them down a few steps into the tiny establishment’s back room, where they rested on enormous lounging pillows and had coffee and several slices of tooth-numbingly sweet baklava.

“Trapped in a crusader castle one minute, defying dental hygiene the next,” said Peggy happily, licking honey syrup off her fingers. “This is the life for me.”

“Let’s not forget a body count that’s up to five now,” said Holliday. He sipped his coffee. “This isn’t a game of Where in the World Is Carmen Electra or whatever her name was.”

“Sandiego,” said Peggy. “Cool your jets, Doc. I was just trying to lighten things up.”

“Sorry,” answered Holliday. “But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the last little while, and things aren’t adding up.”

“Like what?”

“Lots. Like Broadbent’s father finding the sword with Uncle Henry, for instance. We know that was a lie. Carr-Harris never mentioned his name, so how did Broadbent junior even know about the sword?”

“What else?”

“How did Kellerman’s men know we were going to England? They knew we were in Friedrichshafen from the minute we got off the ferry. That monk…”

“Brother Timothy?” Peggy asked.

“Right. How did Brother Timothy know we were coming to the Villa Montesano exactly when we did? It was almost as though he expected us.” He paused. “And then there’s the good professor to consider,” he said slowly.

“Raffi?” Peggy frowned. “What about him?”

“He’s almost too good to be true.”

“The guy in Toronto, Braintree, was the one who suggested him,” argued Peggy. “Are you saying he’s involved in some kind of worldwide conspiracy, too?”

“I don’t know, Peg. I told you, it’s just that none of it makes any sense.”

“I think you’re just being paranoid.”

“Carr-Harris is dead. One of the guys shooting at him is dead. Two of Kellerman’s guards are dead. The old man, Drabeck, is dead. That’s not paranoia, that’s fact.”

“None of which has anything to do with Raffi.”

“He’s too convenient,” grumbled Holliday.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” Peggy said.

“The code on the gold wire takes us to Castle Pelerin. The Castle is in a military zone. Lo and behold, Raffi Wanounou has a pal who gets him clearance. We get trapped with someone on our tail, and there just happens to be a boat waiting to spirit us away. I don’t believe a word of it.”

“The man Raffi phoned at the Mйridien to tell him where the boat was explained that,” said Peggy. “They were going to use it for some special exercise next weekend or something.”

“Or something, sure,” scoffed Holliday.

“You’re just worried that he likes me too much and that the feeling is mutual,” replied Peggy.

“That, too,” grunted Holliday.

“You’re being an old fogey,” laughed Peggy. “Have another piece of baklava.”

Emil materialized at the top of the stairs with the kind of fixed smile on his face that suggested he wanted to close up for the evening. Holliday looked at his watch. It was past eleven.

“Time to get back to the hotel,” he said. They were staying at the American Colony Hotel, a Jerusalem landmark just a ten-minute walk from the Damascus Gate. They paid the bill, thanked Emil for a wonderful meal, and stepped out of the restaurant onto the narrow street known as Souk El-Khanka. It was getting cool, and Peggy shivered.

Even though it was late, the quarter was still busy, and the little street was crowded with tourists and de liverymen balancing huge trays of fruit and bread on their heads. The air smelled of hot stone and spices, and a dozen kinds of music could be heard over the chatter of voices speaking half a dozen languages.

Take away the rock and roll and add a few donkeys and it could have been two thousand years in the past. Halfway back to the Damascus Gate Holliday could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He tensed, then gripped Peggy’s elbow.

“What’s the matter?”

“We’re being followed.”

“You’re sure?” Peggy said.

“Certain,” answered Holliday. “He was outside the restaurant, smoking a cigarette. Waiting. Dark hair, jeans, sneakers, and one of those zip-up hoodie things, dark blue.”

“He could be a student.”

“He looks like a cop. Moves like one, too.”

“Why would cops be following us?”

“I have no idea, but I’m going to find out.”

They reached the corner of Souk El-Khanka and turned right, heading south down Bab Khan El-Zeit, a busy market street, well-lit and with lots of stalls and shops still open.

“This isn’t the way back to the hotel,” said Peggy. “We should have turned the other way, back toward Damascus Gate.”

“I know that,” said Holliday.

“So what are we doing?”

“Finding out what’s going on, once and for all.”

Holliday turned again onto a narrow side street called El-Khayat that ran behind. It was darker here, lit only at the entry to the alley. They went down a short flight of old stone stairs and kept on walking. A few seconds later, the man in the hoodie appeared and turned down the alley, as well.

“Is he still behind us?” Peggy asked nervously.

“Yes,” said Holliday. “That proves it; he’s on our tail.”

“Now what?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe we should just go back to the hotel,” said Peggy, “ask Raffi about it tomorrow.”