C. Palov: Templar's Quest

Quickly passing the copy machines, collators and a line of cubicles, he figured he had sixty, maybe seventy-five seconds before the alarm was sounded.

Exiting the admin bay, he hung a right and briskly strode down the hall towards an office wing currently under renovation, the area shrouded in clear plastic sheets. He wedged past a fifteen-foot stretch of linked trolleys piled high with office furniture and cardboard boxes.

Free and clear of the ‘moving van’, he threw open a door that led to a newly painted stairwell, ‘WET PAINT’ signs still tacked to the railing. A few seconds later, he emerged in the basement of the E-ring, the outermost ring of the Pentagon.

And that’s when he took off at a fast trot, the manila folder still grasped in his hand. To the casual bystander, he looked like a man running late for a meeting.

As he charged past the Pentagon printing office, Finn tuned out the near-deafening roar of the printing presses that churned out documents, reports and manuals 24/7. At the end of the long hall, he sidestepped a forklift loaded with boxes of printed binders before entering another stairwell. Taking the steps three at a time, he climbed one flight, emerging on the first floor of the River Entrance wing of the Pentagon.

Five storeys high with five concentric rings and ten radial corridors, the Pentagon was a maze. A fact he intended to use to his advantage. Given that his Dodge Ram truck was parked in the South Lot, using that exit was not an option. He figured that’d be the first place they’d look for him. The second place would be the subway and bus exit. That’s why he intended to take the road less travelled and leave the building via the River Entrance. All of the bigwigs – the Secretary of Defense, the Joint Chiefs – had their offices located in that wing of the Pentagon. Not only was it the farthest removed from the SAG office, he figured it was the last place CID would look for him.

Slowing his pace, he caught sight of a burly staff sergeant leaving his rabbit warren. Finn quickly sized him up. Six foot four. Two hundred and twenty pounds of ripped muscle . A perfect match. Finn stepped into his empty office, lifting the sergeant’s uniform jacket and beret from the hook on the back of the door. As he continued down the corridor, he donned the green service jacket and stuffed the beret under his arm. CID would be searching for a coatless NonCom. Wearing a jacket wouldn’t save him, but it might buy him a few seconds.

As he approached the security checkpoint located at the River Entrance, he glanced at his Pathfinder watch. 1615 . If he didn’t show up at the French Embassy in the next forty-five minutes, he would never find out who killed Dixie and Johnny K.

Suddenly catching sight of his military photo emblazoned on the guard station computer screen, Finn jammed the beret on his head. He then piggybacked on to a group of uniformed military personnel, shouldering his way into the middle of the pack.

Ten seconds later, Finn exited the Pentagon. Removing a pair of sunglasses from the jacket’s breast pocket, he slipped them on.

The easy part was done. Now he had to get to the French Embassy.

He scanned the small parking lot on the other side of the covered concourse. Given that it was broad daylight, hotwiring a parked car was out of the question.

As he continued to search the lot, a Toyota Camry pulled up to the kerb. A man in a rumpled khaki suit emerged from the passenger door. Slamming the car door shut, the suit scurried up the steps towards the entrance. Finn glanced through the windscreen. Scrawny build. Stick-straight black hair. Almond-shaped eyes and freckled cheeks. The woman behind the wheel was a civilian contractor who worked in one of the cubicles down the hall from SAG.

What was her name?

Kathy? Karen?

Hell, her name didn’t matter.

Needing an escape vehicle, Finn opened the passenger door and climbed inside the Toyota.

4

Barely stifling a scream, Kate Bauer recoiled from the large, unsmiling soldier who’d unceremoniously got into her Camry.

‘I need your help,’ the man announced abruptly, the request as unexpected as his sudden appearance.

Kate sat mute, her tongue tied in the proverbial knot.

It wasn’t until the uninvited passenger reached up and removed his sunglasses that she belatedly realized she knew the man, although not very well – she and Sergeant McGuire were no more than passing acquaintances. If that. According to the rumour mill, he’d spent ten years on the vaunted Delta Force as a highly trained commando. Everyone in the office bay, herself included, gave him a wide berth when they passed him in the hallway.

‘Sergeant McGuire, you scared the living daylights out of me,’ she said tersely, annoyance trumping fear.

Unperturbed, he glanced at the commando-style watch strapped to his left wrist. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that my Dodge Ram is a dead dog and I’ve been waiting forty minutes for the tow truck.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that you’re having vehicle problems. But that doesn’t explain why –’

‘I was kinda hoping you could give me a lift into town,’ he interjected, a beseeching look in his eyes. ‘I need to be at the French Embassy no later than five p.m. You are on your way home, aren’t you?’

‘Um, yes … I just dropped off my boss. We had an off-site briefing at Bolling Air Force Base.’ A private contractor, she worked for the Defense Department as a subject matter expert, her field of expertise cultural anthropology. She’d recently created an ethnic database that would be used by military personnel stationed abroad. While it didn’t involve interaction with Sergeant McGuire, they did work in the same office suite.

Deciding there was no reason not to give the sergeant a ride, particularly since she lived a mile or so from the French Embassy, Kate pulled the Camry into the narrow lane. With a quick glance in the side-view mirror, she merged into the fast-moving rush-hour traffic.

‘I appreciate the lift. Believe me, you pulled up in the nick of time.’

‘Happy to assist.’ She notched up the air conditioner, hoping to dispel the thick, muggy air. Washington in August was not for the weak-kneed. Even the towering oaks that lined either side of the G W Parkway had a limp noodle look about them.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her passenger rubbing a mutilated right hand over his jaw. With his dark-brown hair cut military short, blade of a nose, and thin, well-shaped lips, Sergeant McGuire’s Irish roots were clearly evident. Kate recalled the first time she had laid eyes on Sergeant McGuire. Grim. Intimidating. Scary-looking. Initial impressions that had not diminished in the passing weeks.

However, at the moment, he didn’t appear all that scary. Maybe it was woman’s intuition, but Kate sensed that something was deeply troubling him.

‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’

A glimmer of surprise flashed across his face.

‘I’m fine.’ He attempted, but didn’t quite muster, a light-hearted grin.

‘You just seem … I don’t know –’ she shrugged, regretting that she’d asked the question in the first place – ‘a bit upset.’

‘Nope. Never felt better.’

‘My mistake. I apologize.’ Embarrassed, she made a big to-do of looking over her shoulder as she veered on to the Georgetown ramp.

Again, chalk it up to intuition, but not for one instant did she believe the sergeant’s disclaimer. She knew the face of sorrow. Had stared at it in the bathroom mirror every morning for the last two years. Even now, people still tiptoed around Sammy’s death, afraid of churning up the painful memories.

And it had been painful, as if someone had gutted her with a very sharp fillet knife.