C. Palov - Templar's Quest

Staring at the medallion, the Dark Angel extended an arm in his direction, a beseeching look in her eyes. ‘The Montségur Medallion is the key to unlock the door to other worlds. We must have it returned to us. Soon the great star will rise with the sun. You have but to name your price.’

Not missing a beat, Finn said, ‘You. That’s my price. And I also want a signed confession. When I get that, I’ll gladly turn over the Montségur Medallion to whichever tattooed bastard wants it. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.’

‘ Ne soyez pas un idiot! ’

‘Hey, I’ve been accused of worse things than being an idiot.’ He took several steps in her direction.

‘Don’t come any closer!’

‘Or what? You gonna chomp down on a cyanide –’ Finn stopped midstream, suddenly catching sight of a black Citroën C4 barrelling down the quayside ramp, its tyres loudly squealing as the driver took a sharp left at the bottom of the incline – the speeding vehicle heading right towards them.

‘What the … ?’

Seizing her chance, the Dark Angel charged forward, taking a nosedive into the River Seine.

‘Oh, my God!’ Kate screamed.

An instant later, the bitch had vanished from sight, cloudy water rippling in her wake.

Fuck!

The Citroën skidded to a stop a few feet from where they stood, the four-door hatch shaking on its frame from the sudden manoeuvre. Almost immediately, the dark-tinted front passenger window came down.

Finn caught a glimpse of dark-red hair.

‘What the … ?’

‘Get in!’ Aisquith hissed.

‘Fuck you!’ Finn hissed right back at him.

‘I think not.’

To Finn’s surprise, the Brit, in a lightning-fast move, whipped out a Ruger P89 semi-automatic pistol. Even more surprising, there was deadly intent in the other man’s eyes. Like it wouldn’t take much for him to pull the trigger. In that instant, Finn knew that Cædmon Aisquith did not play the lute at the Renaissance Festival.

But he’d bank that the other man was a player. SAS? Counter Terrorism Command? The Royal Marines?

Fuck.

Muttering under his breath, Finn opened the back passenger door and, ducking his head and crouching low, clambered into the not-so-roomy vehicle. He immediately slid across the leather bench seat, making room for Kate, who was right behind him.

Still training the gun on him, the Brit smiled nastily. ‘You made a wise decision, Sergeant McGuire.’

27

‘Cædmon! My God! Have you lost your mind?’

Indeed, there were days when he wasn’t altogether sane. But this wasn’t one of them.

‘I can assure you that I’m not bonkers,’ Cædmon quietly informed Kate. As he spoke, he debated whether or not to slide the Ruger back into the leather shoulder holster. If McGuire was armed, surely he would have already drawn his weapon. Although he could be carrying a knife and is simply biding his time, waiting for an opportune moment to slit my throat.

He placed the gun on his lap with the safety off.

Driving at a more sedate speed than when he arrived, Cædmon headed up the concrete ramp. He flipped on the indicator light, manoeuvring the Citroën into the fast-moving traffic on Quai D’Orsay.

‘Does she know?’ Cædmon directed the question to Sergeant McGuire.

Eyes narrowed, the commando glared at him; an infuriated bull ready to charge. ‘About the two murders at Fort Bragg? Yeah. She also knows about the suicide at the French Embassy.’

‘There was nothing in the dossier about the French Embassy.’

‘Really? Huh. Guess your source isn’t so reliable after all,’ the American snickered.

‘My source is British Intelligence.’

‘Shit!’ the other man exclaimed, clearly surprised. ‘You’re MI6?’

‘I’m an intelligence officer in MI5. Or rather, I was ,’ Cædmon amended. ‘My tenure with Her Majesty’s Secret Service ended several weeks ago. However, I still maintain my connections at Thames House.’

‘ You’re a spy!? Caedmon, how can that be? You studied medieval history.’ Ashen-faced, Kate turned to her companion. ‘Finn, I’m so sorry! I swear! I had no idea. I would never have taken you to –’

‘Shh, Katie. It’s okay.’ The mastodon put his arm around Kate’s shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘Spooks are trained to keep secrets. I suspect his own mother doesn’t know.’

Something about the familiarity of the gesture plus the pet name irked the bloody hell out of Cædmon.

Crossing the Seine at Pont des Invalides, he headed due east. Because the Seine so thoroughly separated the city, north and south, la Rive Droite et la Rive Gauche in the local parlance, it seemed that all one ever did was leapfrog across the watery divide. It was the reason why Paris boasted thirty-seven different bridges. This particular expanse was anchored on the other side by the flamboyant, glass-roofed Grand Palais, the building punctuated at each corner with flying horses and chariots sculpted in bronze. Although the colossal palace demanded one’s attention, Cædmon barely glanced. Like most Parisians, he’d become anaesthetized to the majestic architecture that greeted every turn of the head. Yes, Paris was arguably one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But a man still had to buy toilet paper and mouthwash.

He spared a quick glance in the rearview mirror: Both passengers stared, unblinking, at the back of his head, Kate’s brow furrowed, McGuire’s jaw clamped. One baffled, one thoroughly enraged.

Navigating the Citroën towards the Isle de la Cité, he crossed the Seine at Pont Notre-Dame. To the left, L’Hotel Dieu, the city hospital; to the right, the black turrets of the Conciergerie, Marie Antoinette’s prison before being hauled to the guillotine. He headed towards the fabled turrets. Neither of his passengers said anything as he drove past the line of outdoor stalls that housed the Paris flower market.

Well aware that the plot was about to thicken, he turned left on to Boulevard du Palais, the scenery changing dramatically, the streets and pavements teeming – not with tourists, but with sombre-suited bureaucrats. And a very visible police presence.

Reaching under his tweed jacket, Cædmon returned the Ruger to its leather holster. Out of sight.

‘Where the hell are we?’ McGuire hissed as they drove past two black-garbed riot police standing guard in front of an imposing building, automatic weapons at the ready.

‘The Palais de Justice,’ Kate whispered. ‘It’s the equivalent of our Supreme Court. Across the street is city hall and beyond that is the Prefecture de Police.’

‘Jesus! You drove us right to the lion’s den.’

‘Merely to the gate,’ Cædmon replied, having purposefully chosen the location. If the American commando made one wrong move, he wouldn’t hesitate to summon the police. Given that there was a multitude of them within shouting range, he would have his pick.

Leaning forward, Kate grasped the side of his headrest. ‘Are you going to the authorities?’ There was no mistaking her distress. It was plain to see and hear.

Rather than answer, Cædmon tucked into an available parking spot on the tree-lined Quai du Marché Neuf and turned off the ignition. On the other side of the narrow street, a uniformed gendarme leaned casually against a parked motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Shifting his hips, Cædmon turned towards his two passengers. He threw the question right back at Kate. ‘Do you want me to go the authorities?’ he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the blaring two-tone siren of a speeding police car.