C. Palov - Templar's Quest

A guilty expression crept into her eyes. ‘I know that you loved your friends and I promise that I won’t do anything to distract you from your mission.’

Whether you know it or not, Kate, you’ve already become a damned distraction.

Wanting to close the book on that particular topic, Finn unzipped the canvas satchel strapped to his chest and shoved his hand inside. Rummaging through the bag, his fingers grazed his KA-BAR commando knife. And because he was one prepared son of a bitch, his Go Bag also contained a roll of duct tape, a ball of wire, a flashlight, a two-day supply of dehydrated meals, baby wipes and a can of Combat Bath.

‘I gotta check our coordinates before we hit the road,’ he informed her, purposefully changing the subject as he unfolded the Paris map.

Kate placed a restraining hand on his wrist. ‘Actually, I was hoping that we could check into a hotel. I’m utterly exhausted and in desperate need of some sleep.’

He glanced at her face, forcing himself to ignore the dark circles that rimmed her exotic grey-blue eyes. ‘Later. We gotta first take care of logistics.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll find out when we get there.’

‘No. I will find out right now.’ The lady defiantly folded her arms over her chest. ‘I’m tired of being dragged willy-nilly, absolutely clueless as to what we’re doing or why we’re doing it. I’ll be happy to assist you with logistics if you would be so kind as to give me a mission brief.’

Finn conceded reluctantly with a nod. ‘According to my buddy at Mildenhall, there’s a military supply store near the subway station at Montparnasse. I also need to find the Paris equivalent of a spy shop. Some place that stocks surveillance equipment and high-end recording devices.’

‘Thank you. And I would appreciate it if, from here on out, you kept me in the loop.’

Rather than reply, Finn raised his left hand and smoothed away a silky skein of dark hair that had snagged in the corner of her mouth.

‘Thank you,’ Kate murmured again, this time noticeably blushing.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replied, uncertain what to make of her reaction.

‘I should probably get a, um, hair band to keep the flyaway strands out of my face.’ Suddenly turning skittish, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.

Groin tightening, Finn stared at those pearly-white teeth clamped down on that plump bit of flesh. ‘I like your hair loose … it’s pretty.’

Ah, shit! Did I really just say that?

Kate was right; he was a total Neanderthal. Hubba-hubba. You pretty. Me strong. Not like her old buddy Aisquith who, even in an alcoholic fog, could effortlessly recite lines of poetry.

Feeling like a tongue-tied teenager, Finn turned towards the Vespa. ‘Hop on. We need to hit it,’ he said gruffly, swinging his leg over the padded seat. ‘I’ve got a long shopping list.’

24

‘Writing a book, my arse,’ Cædmon Aisquith grumbled uncharitably as he picked up the teacups and crumb-laden plates scattered about the snuggery. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine what Kate Bauer was doing with that muscle-bound Celt; the man was an absolute boor.

Although who am I to criticize?

He’d awakened that morning, head throbbing, stomach reeling, each and every movement requiring advance planning. Bumbling into the kitchen, he’d groped his way towards the kettle, intending to brew a pot of coffee. Only to grab the Tanqueray gin bottle instead.

Similia similibus curantur.

Like cures like. As good a reason as any for an early-morning stroll down gin alley. While admittedly a contemptible act, it did cure the malady. In fact, he’d just unscrewed the cap from the bottle when he’d heard the fateful knock at the door. An inopportune moment for Kate Bauer to pay her overdue respects.

Empty teacups and plates neatly stacked, Cædmon set them on the ridiculously ornate serving tray, an eighteenth-century relic he’d picked up at a Paris flea market. He’d yet to purchase a bottle of silver polish so the tray, like everything else in his life, was badly tarnished.

He finished tidying up and carried the tray to the small flat at the rear of the bookstore. Stepping through the door that separated retail space from residence, he entered the ‘drawing room’ – a cramped space that barely accommodated a sagging but comfortable tufted leather sofa. In front of the sofa, a scarred Edwardian coffee table was burdened with old issues of The Times , a half-full carton of takeaway, classical music LPs, a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and a messy pile of clean laundry.

Hard to believe that at Oxford he’d been considered something of a neat nick.

Oh, sweet Kate. What must you think of me?

From the onset, he’d been attracted to Kate because, unlike so many of his one-dimensional classmates at Oxford who were experts in their chosen academic field but unable to converse on any other subject, Kate was interesting. Not only could she speak fluidly on any number of topics, she had an innate curiosity about the world that he found compelling.

Which is why it pained him that she’d severed the relationship, claiming he loved his studies more than he loved her. ‘ Still climbing after knowledge infinite. ’ Another plagiarized line from her ‘classy Dear John’ letter. While the accusation stung, he couldn’t deny that he’d been totally obsessed with the Knights Templar, the medieval order of warrior monks that was his chosen research niche. In the end, the Templars spelled his doom; the head of the history department at Queen’s College refused to confer his doctoral degree because of unfounded claims he’d made in his dissertation regarding the Templars’ exposure to the Egyptian mystery cults.

Hail and well met, Brother Knight. How the mighty have fallen.

Certainly, he didn’t want to dwell on the maudlin. Didn’t want to admit that Kate Bauer was little changed from Oxford, while he’d become the proverbial pale shadow. And he certainly didn’t want to conjure from his memory that single sheet of watermarked stationery neatly inserted into the tissue-lined envelope. He wouldn’t contest the Marlowe, but the line from Yeats still rankled.

Heading towards the kitchen, Cædmon sidestepped a pile of books stacked next to the sofa. As he did, the nestled teacups on the tray rattled, inciting a migrainous thunder.

‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘Sod all Irishmen.’ Or Irish-Americans as the case may be.

Was there even a difference?

He had his doubts, the English and the Irish locked in mortal combat. It had been that way for eight hundred years. If the bastards in the Real Irish Republican Army got their way, it would be that way for another eight hundred.

So who the bloody hell was the morbidly named Finnegan McGuire?

Certainly no would-be writer. On that Cædmon would wager the entire bookstore.

Suddenly curious, he walked back to the cluttered Edwardian coffee table. Shoving the laundry on to the carpet, he set the tray down. He then strode over to the mahogany corner cabinet where he kept his laptop computer.

When he left Oxford, he’d promptly been recruited into service in Her Majesty’s government. It was an interesting venture, his duties extending beyond the typical paper-pushing. Having recently severed his ties with his former employer, he still maintained a few valuable contacts with individuals who had access to every computer database in the United Kingdom. And a goodly portion of the rest of the world, for that matter.

He quickly typed in the request and hit the SEND button. Soon enough he would know if there was more to Finnegan McGuire than an impolite fellow who didn’t speak German. Also desirous to know why Kate had attached herself to such a brute, he typed a second request for Katsumi Bauer.