Don Pendleton - Battle Cry

He already knew that the House of the Temple was open for tours between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., September through February.

Bolan had a jump on some of the other tourists approaching the House of the Temple that morning. He’d already taken a “virtual tour” of the complex, and so knew what to expect. Steps rising in groups of three, five, seven and nine brought him to the main entrance: a bronze door flanked by two limestone sphinxes and thirty-three columns, each thirty-three feet tall. The sphinx to the right of the door had its eyes half-open, symbolizing wisdom, while its partner was wide-eyed, representing power.

The soldier entered through the tall polished doors, passing into an atrium that served as the central court of the temple. He had exact change ready for the ticket, palmed it and scanned the spacious chamber with its marble floor and benches, eight huge Doric columns carved from granite and bronze plaques on the walls displaying various Masonic symbols. Overhead, bronze chandeliers with alabaster bowls provided light.

Bolan drifted toward the central feature of the atrium, a table wrought from Italian marble, supported by double-headed eagles that served as the lodge’s insignia. From the temple’s website, he knew that the Latin inscription—Salve Frater—translated into English as “Welcome Brother.”

Bolan had nearly reached the table when a gruff, familiar voice behind him said, “You’re right on time.”

HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED the same as always, stylish in a rumpled sort of way, frowning a little, as if carrying a load of worry on his shoulders. Which, on any given day, he was.

Each time they met, Bolan wondered about the secrets locked inside Brognola’s head: the threats that he’d been called upon to deal with, orders he had issued in response, the missions he’d directed that would place good men and women in harm’s way. They only talked about the jobs he had for Bolan, but the story didn’t end there. Never had, and never would, as long as Brognola stayed at his post.

“I aim for punctuality,” Bolan replied to the big Fed’s remark.

“And always were a marksman.” As they shook hands, Brognola said, “I suppose you’re wondering about this place.”

“I did some research on the internet,” Bolan said. “Nothing too mysterious, except your choice of meeting places.”

“I was going for a theme,” he said. “Let’s walk.”

They passed a pair of Egyptian-style statues inscribed with hieroglyphs. From his virtual tour, Bolan knew they were carved out of marble quarried at Lake Champlain, New York. The inscriptions referred to wise men and the glory of God.

“It’s not about the Masons,” Brognola advised him.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“But I was in a Scottish state of mind.”

“Okay.” He waited for Brognola to spill it in his own good time.

They left the atrium behind, to enter the temple’s executive chamber. The grand commander’s throne sat facing the doorway, under a plush canopy, while thirty-three empty chairs awaited members of the supreme council. A gold-inlaid ceiling topped heavy plaster walls with intricate accents of black leaves and vines, with dark walnut woodwork throughout.

“You heard about the incident last week in Glasgow?” Brognola inquired.

“The basics,” Bolan said. “Ground breaking for a factory. Somebody shot it up and killed the CEO, along with others.”

“Which includes an unarmed cop,” Brognola said. “Long story short, the shooters got away, but they claimed credit.”

“Oh?”

“That only made the local news, maybe a blurb in London. Nothing to compete with talk-show crap and Jersey-liquor nonsense over here.”

“Who pulled it off?” Bolan asked.

“It’s a homegrown outfit called the Tartan Independence Front,” Brognola said. “Some kind of spin-off from the Tartan Army, if you still remember them.”

“It rings a bell,” Bolan replied.

One corner of Brognola’s mouth twitched with the bare suggestion of a smile. “Word is, they didn’t want to sound like copycats, so when they started up, they called their gang the Scottish Independence Front. But changed it pretty quickly, when they got wind of the reaction to their tagged initials.”

“SIF?” Bolan said. “I imagine so.”

“What self-respecting revolutionary wants to be confused with a disease?” Brognola asked.

Climbing marble stairs to reach the temple’s banquet hall, they reached the middle landing and paused to admire the Pillars of Charity alcove, a “light well” of stained glass framed by bronze. The pillars themselves were jet-black and polished to a mirror shine.

“So, you’ve got Scotsmen mad at England,” Bolan said. “What else is new?”

“This isn’t Braveheart or Rob Roy,” Brognola said. “Try Baader-Meinhof in a kilt and tam-o’-shanter.”

Bolan almost laughed aloud at that, but caught himself in time. “Okay,” he said. “It sounds like something for SO15.”

Meaning the former Special Branch of Scotland Yard, which had merged with the Metropolitan Police Anti-Terrorist Branch in 2006, to create a new Counter Terrorism Command. The “SO” stood for Special Operations. Where they got the “15” would be anybody’s guess, Bolan thought.

“It would be,” Brognola replied, “but we’ve got pressure over here because the latest victim was American.”

“One of the victims,” Bolan said.

“You’re right. But he was rich and influential, with at least a dozen friends in Congress, one of them a senator.”

“All squeaky wheels,” Bolan said.

“And yours truly is expected to supply the grease,” he said.

“Won’t the locals be all over it?” Bolan asked.

“Locals, officials from London, they may even call in some talent from MI5 and the SIS.”

Britain’s Security Service and Secret Intelligence Service.

“Sounds like I’d have more badges on my hands than terrorists,” Bolan observed.

“You’d have to watch your step,” Brognola said, “but I think it’s doable.”

“Why don’t you drop the other shoe,” Bolan suggested.

“Damn. Was I that obvious?”

“If this was just about a CEO and pacifying congressmen, Justice would send an FBI team out to help the Brits.”

“They’re doing that,” Brognola said.

“More badges. Great. Let’s hear the rest.”

They’d reached the temple’s library, billed as the oldest open to the public in D.C. There were a quarter of a million books on hand, including some printed by Benjamin Franklin a decade before the American Revolution.

“The TIF is marginal,” Brognola said. “Maybe a thousand members total. But they’re getting cash and arms from somewhere, out of all proportion to their size and overall importance in the scheme of things.”

“What are you thinking? Eastern Europe? China?”

“Possibly,” Brognola answered. “But it feels closer to home. The guns aren’t hard to find. The cash…that’s something else.”

“So, I’d be looking for the source.”

Brognola took a CD from an inside pocket of his tailored coat and handed it to Bolan.

“Have a look at this,” he said, “and tell me when you’re good to go.”

BOLAN CHECKED into a Days Inn on the Clara Barton Parkway, near Glen Echo Park in Maryland. He took a single room, no frills, and didn’t bother to unpack. Set up his laptop on the rooms lone table, by a window facing the parking lot, and slipped Brognola’s disk into the CD drive. He opened its single file, then cracked a soda from the minibar and settled down to read.

The Tartan Independence Front had organized five years earlier, based on the information gleaned by Scotland Yard from interviews, wiretaps and other sources. Its founders were admirers—some said ex-members—of the old Tartan Army, a group supporting Scottish independence from the UK that had carried out a string of bombings and other terrorist acts from the early 1970s until a mass roundup and trial of identified members twenty years later. Despite their best efforts, they’d never come close to rivaling the IRA.