C. Palov - Templar's Quest

His mother, Hedwig, who lost her former job with the state-run utility, earned a pittance cleaning toilets at the Alexanderplatz train station. When she came home after working a double shift, haggard, barely able to put one swollen foot in front of the other, Dolf would slink off to his bedroom and put on his headphones. Losing himself in heavy metal music. Forgetting, at least temporarily, that he was a useless excuse for a man. Even more useless than his father who’d dropped dead from a heart attack at the age of thirty-seven.

Like so many former East Germans, Dolf felt lost after Reunification. From the brands of cigarettes and beer to the programming on television, nothing was as it had been. In the GDR, there had been full employment. Not only did every citizen have a job, they each had a sense of purpose that came from knowing their specific place in the regime.

Although he didn’t believe in God, Dolf would have cut a deal with the devil to keep the Berlin Wall in place.

The only good thing that came out of that miserable summer of ’92 was that he met Stefan and the Blut Brüder . Although his mother didn’t approve of his new acquaintances, claiming the Blood Brethren were all unemployed hooligans, Dolf liked hanging out with his tough-talking pals. Liked the fact that people gave the twelve ‘hooligans’ a wide berth. According to Stefan, their shitty lot in life was due to the influx of immigrants into Germany, the government allowing any dark-skinned foreigner into the country.

One night, drunk on schnapps, the Blut Brüder decided to torch a local hostel overrun with Turkish immigrants. Excited by the prospect of taking back their country, they tossed Molotov cocktails into the building then chained the exit doors. Soon the fun began, Stefan and Dolf laughing their asses off as they watched those filthy foreigners toss their screaming brats out of the windows. By night’s end, there were three less Turks to steal jobs from native Germans. Not bad for a night’s work.

Anxious, Dolf glanced up from the hand-held transmitting device and scanned the vicinity. Where the hell was McGuire? Like a never-ending plague of locusts, big buses kept dropping off tourists. He walked away from his position near a metal lamp post and headed towards a long line of neatly clipped hedgerow. The Mark 23 pistol, plastered against the small of his back, was an uncomfortable reminder that he’d not yet bagged his prey.

When he did find them, Herr Doktor Uhlemann had been adamant: the kills must be quick and quiet. No advance warning. Pull the trigger, grab the dead commando’s canvas bag and immediately leave the vicinity. The dense crowds of tourists would give him cover as he made his escape. No running. No furtive glances . Instead, walk calmly to the nearest Metro station and board a crowded car.

Scanning the crowd, Dolf finally caught sight of the American commando, recognizing him from the photo that he’d earlier been given. A muscular hulk, Finnegan McGuire looked like he could hold his own in any ring. The Bauer woman was approximately thirty feet from him, seated on a low retaining wall. A second man, with red hair, stood beside her.

Dolf did a double-take.

Who the fuck was that?

There were only supposed to be two targets. Not three.

Bewildered, Dolf wondered if he should apprise Herr Doktor Uhlemann of the situation and ask for revised instructions.

No sooner did the idea pop into his head than he nixed it, worried that he’d come off looking incompetent. The last thing he wanted was for Herr Doktor to think that he was a plodder who couldn’t move his feet and fists fast enough.

He had enough bullets to deal with the problem.

What was one more dead body?

36

In dire need of a drink, Cædmon glanced at his watch.

Mmmm … wonder if it’s too early to suggest an aperitif at a nearby café?

‘We’re not keeping you from anything, are we?’ Kate enquired pleasantly.

‘No, no,’ he assured her. ‘Although I was wondering if –’ Hit with a sudden change of heart, he waved the errant thought away. ‘Never mind.’

On edge, Cædmon paced in front of the granite retaining wall where Kate had set up a makeshift office beneath a towering maple tree. Uncertain as to the cause of his unease, he glanced to and fro. In the near distance, the Louvre’s two Neoclassical wings flamboyantly defined the open-ended courtyard. A typical August afternoon, the Cour Napoléon was a veritable hive, hundreds of people swarming about in the sweltering heat. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then why the bloody hell am I so apprehensive?

‘Cædmon, sit down.’ Kate smiled winsomely. ‘You’re making me nervous.’ Prising the laptop open, she pressed the ‘on’ switch.

‘My apologies.’ Hoping he didn’t appear as anxious as he felt, he obediently sat beside her.

Kate playfully nudged him with her elbow. ‘Much better.’

‘Is it?’ He held her gaze. Only to sheepishly glance away an instant later, afraid that Kate would suddenly see him for what he was – a wreck of a man who lacked the wherewithal to put his life in order.

Standing sentry some thirty feet away, Kate’s brooding mastodon openly glared at him.

Soldier and spy … never the twain shall meet.

‘Pardon me if I’m out of line –’ Cædmon lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone – ‘but he doesn’t seem your type.’

‘Wh-why would you say that?’ Kate stammered, clearly taken aback. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

‘Still intact last time I checked.’

‘Then why would you ever think that Finn and I –’

‘What else was I to think? The two of you seem rather chummy.’

‘Like you said, he’s not my type.’ The telltale blush belied the denial.

‘I see,’ Cædmon replied, thinking ‘the lady doth protest too much’. Particularly since he’d caught Kate and McGuire sharing more than a few sly glances. Although he was rusty when it came to affairs of the heart, those telltale exchanges implied a mutual attraction. One which Kate was taking great pains to refute.

‘So, I would greatly appreciate it if you, um, not mention anything to Finn about this conversation. He doesn’t need the distraction. As for me, without going into the details, what happened in Washington was –’ Kate paused, a shadowed expression on her face – ‘ harrowing. So I thought it might be a good idea to have my own personal bodyguard. In case you haven’t noticed, Finn McGuire is a human predator drone.’

‘Yes, well, he’s a trained commando. Quick to grab the battering ram. Sleeping with one eye open. All that.’ Concerned that she captained a listing ship, he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I imagine that McGuire has a full plate, what with being a fugitive-at-large. If the authorities try to apprehend him, you could find yourself in a very dangerous predicament. I can have you placed in an MI5 safe house,’ he offered, hoping to lure her away from the shoals.

‘But you can’t give me a trained commando who will lay down his life to protect me.’ Kate set the notebook computer on his lap. ‘All booted up and ready to go,’ she said, effectively changing the subject.

As he accessed his email account, Cædmon noticed that McGuire, a belligerent swagger to his step, was headed in their direction. He gave the man full marks for ably toting his gargantuan chip.

‘All right, so what’s in your little spy report?’

Determined to prove himself the better man, Cædmon strove for a civil tone. ‘I’ve been sent two dossiers: one for Fabius Jutier, the other for the Seven Research Foundation.’

‘Since the French dude’s dead, let’s first check out the foundation.’