C. Palov - Templar's Quest

‘Do you happen to know the French word for vomit?’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Um, vomir … at least, I think that’s the word.’

‘Got it. Now hunch over and try to look nauseous.’

‘What?’

‘Just do it,’ he ordered, putting an arm around her back as he loudly boomed, ‘ Vomir! Vomir! ’

Moses couldn’t have done a better job parting the Red Sea, the kitchen staff hurriedly clearing the deck.

So far, so good.

‘Now, how about giving me the French word for exit.’

Actually managing to look green around the gills, Kate looked up and croaked, ‘ Sortie .’

‘ Sortie! Sortie! ’ he next hollered.

The mustachioed man rushed over and, in a flurry of unintelligible French, grabbed Kate’s other arm, urging them to move at an even faster clip towards a set of double doors at the rear of the kitchen. Obviously he didn’t want to mop up after a sick woman.

Their French escort shoved the doors wide open – just before he shoved Finn and Kate across the threshold and on to a concrete loading dock. The door slammed shut behind them.

Coming out from a climate-controlled environment, the humid night air hit both of them like a slap in the face.

Kate peered from side to side. ‘Okay, now what?’

‘I’m working on it.’ Taking hold of her elbow, Finn ushered his companion down the flight of concrete steps that led to an asphalt parking area.

‘I suggest that we walk around to the front gate. That is, after all, how we arrived at the embassy.’

Finn shook his head, putting the kibosh on her suggestion. ‘We can’t risk it. For all we know, Jutier’s body has already been discovered. That makes the embassy a crime scene and everyone inside the embassy a potential suspect. Trust me, no one will be allowed to exit through the front gate until they’ve been cleared by the police.’

A crease appeared between Kate’s brows. ‘Bringing me right back to my original question … now what?’

He gestured to the three purple and gold catering trucks parked a few feet from the loading dock. ‘Assuming one of these bad boys has a key in the ignition, we’re going for a ride in a big purple truck.’

Kate baulked, coming to a complete standstill. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that we steal a catering truck?’

‘I prefer the word “borrow”.’

‘Beg, borrow or steal, it’s all the same thing – we would be taking a vehicle that doesn’t belong to us. And what about my car? We just can’t leave it parked all night on Reservoir Road.’

‘Sure we can. We’ll pick up your Toyota first thing in the morning.’

Like most of the guests at the party, they’d had to park outside the embassy complex on the public street adjacent to the front gate.

Tuning out the barrage of dire scenarios that Kate proceeded to enumerate, Finn slid open the driver’s-side door of the first truck. He leaned his upper body inside and peered at the dashboard.

No keys .

He slammed the door shut and jogged over to the next truck.

Catching sight of a silver key protruding from the ignition, he offered up a thankful prayer. ‘Okay, this one’s got a key. Hurry up and jump in.’

‘I really don’t think we should –’

‘Just do it!’ Regretting the harsh tone, he backtracked. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be out of here in a jiff.’

Her face scrunched in a leery frown, Kate scrambled into the passenger seat. Finn handed her the notebook computer for safekeeping. He then started the engine, flipped on the headlights and maneouvered the vehicle on to the nearby delivery access road that led to the entrance of the embassy compound.

Two hundred metres from the front gate, he glanced in the wing mirror. A dark-coloured Mercedes Benz SUV was riding their tail. When the vehicle gunned its engine menacingly, Finn knew it wasn’t an impatient party guest. He figured it was either embassy security or an SUV full of gun-toting, tattooed Frenchmen.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kate asked anxiously.

There being no time to reply – and besides, Finn knew she wouldn’t much care for the answer – he pushed the accelerator to the floor.

At the main gate a uniformed guard motioned furiously for them to stop.

‘Slow down!’ Kate screamed. ‘There’s a guard up ahead!’

Finn tuned her out.

Seeing the uniformed guard pull a pistol from his holster and go into a crouched shooter’s stance, Finn flipped on his high beams. Blinded by the glaring light, the armed guard dropped his weapon and dived to safety seconds before the catering truck crashed through the gate.

The ensuing scream from his co-pilot nearly pierced Finn’s eardrum.

‘Oh, my God! Have you lost your mind?’

‘Hold on!’ he yelled, yanking on the steering wheel, the catering truck going up on two wheels as they made the left-hand turn on to Reservoir Road.

In the back of the truck, pots and pans clanged together loudly.

Although they’d managed to exit the embassy compound, a quick glance in the mirror verified what Finn already suspected – the Mercedes was still dogging them. An easy enough feat since the truck’s top speed was only fifty m.p.h. – a speed he wouldn’t be able to maintain much longer. Up ahead were the congested streets of Georgetown.

‘What’s the first one-way cross street?’ he hollered at Kate. Since she lived in the area, he hoped she might know.

One hand braced on the passenger door, the other clutching the notebook computer to her chest, she shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe thirty-fourth street.’

‘One-way going in which direction?’

‘Um, south … I think.’

Finn eyeballed the passing street signs. 37th … 36th … 35th …

34th Street.

About to risk everything on a ‘maybe’ and an ‘I think’, Finn made a sharp left-hand turn – putting the truck on a one-way street heading in the wrong direction. Overshooting the turn, the truck jumped the curve, careening through a neatly clipped hedge. Again, Finn yanked on the steering wheel, the truck wildly fishtailing from side to side.

As they mowed through the hedge, he heard Kate scream at the top of her lungs. ‘Finn! Watch out for the –’

Fire hydrant.

Knowing it was a done deal, Finn threw out his right arm, pinning Kate to the passenger seat as the catering truck ploughed into the hydrant.

9

Sixth Arrondissement, Paris, France

The opening gambit had been played, a pawn sacrificed.

More resigned than shocked to learn that Fabius Jutier had died by his own hand, Ivo Uhlemann hung up the telephone. The latest turn of events could only mean one of two things – either Sergeant McGuire had got too close to the truth or Fabius feared that he might capitulate if the situation turned violent.

Dare il gambetto.

A Spanish priest in the sixteenth century coined the phrase to refer to an opening chess move. Roughly translated, it meant ‘putting a leg forward to trip someone’. However, the American had proved himself surprisingly nimble, managing to sidestep their trap.

But to what end?

Lost in thought, Ivo walked over and closed the green velvet drapes; at night, Paris, annoyingly, became the city of headlights. That done, he seated himself at his desk, the Rococo furniture at odds with the modern lines of the laptop computer and wireless printer. The old and the new. The perennial clash as each battled the other for supremacy.

Ready to commence his weekly game of chess, Ivo signed on to the computer site using the tongue-in-cheek moniker ‘German Knight’. His opponent, ‘Java King’, was already online. They played each Tuesday at twelve a.m., insomniacs, the both of them. Since there was nothing that he could personally do about the situation in Washington, other than issue new orders, he saw no reason to cancel the weekly bout.