The Templar's Quest Page 13

  ‘News flash: We don’t have a damned thing in common.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, Finnegan … We are both killers, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘I’ve only killed out of necessity.’

  ‘And I kill for the sheer pleasure of it, but that doesn’t change the end result.’

  ‘What about Dixie and Johnny K? Did you enjoy killing them?’

  She wistfully sighed as though recalling a fond memory. ‘Oui. Very much so. They were both strong, their will to live immense. Their deaths brought me much pleasure.’

  Jesus H! What a fucking psychopath.

  A male assassin wouldn’t have stood a chance getting through a Delta trooper’s front door. But Angelika was the enemy a man didn’t expect – a drop-dead gorgeous woman.

  ‘I want names and I want them right now. Who hired you?’ All he needed to squeeze out of her was one goddamn name.

  The Dark Angel answered the demand with stony-faced silence.

  Fine. Finn unclipped the phone from his waistband and handed it to Kate. Although he wanted to personally avenge the deaths of his two comrades, he knew that he had to turn the Dark Angel over to the authorities. Since they were in Paris, that would be the French authorities. They, in turn, could contact CID and arrange to have the bitch extradited to the US.

  ‘Call the police for me, will ya?’ he said to Kate.

  ‘Non! ’

  Surprised by the blonde’s frantic tone, Finn raised his hand, signalling Kate to hold off on making the call. ‘Okay, you’ve got a temporary reprieve. Give me a name.’

  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 re
ady.

  ‘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.

  ‘No! Absolutely not. Finn’s been falsely accused of murder. That’s why we’re here, so he can find the real killer and avenge his comrades. Furthermore, Finn’s a brave soldier who –’

  ‘That’s enough, Kate,’ McGuire interjected in a lowered voice. ‘The less he knows, the better.’

  ‘It just so happens that I know quite a bit.’ Deciding the time had come to divide and conquer, Cædmon directed his next remark to the scowling commando. ‘Have you told Kate that your twin brother Mychal is a notorious gangster in Boston’s Irish mob?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  ‘I believe that we’ve already had that conversation,’ he calmly replied.

  ‘No, I … I had no idea.’ Kate’s eyes opened wide, the rose tint thoroughly removed from her glasses. ‘A gangster … my God.’

  Having successfully ‘divided’, it was now time to hand the commando his Waterloo.

  ‘Even more worrisome, my intelligence report indicates that Mychal McGuire has, on more than one occasion, aided and abetted terrorist cells in Northern Ireland, providing them with cash, arms, bomb-making devices and moral support.’

  ‘That’s Mickey for ya.’ The American smirked, proving that he was not yet vanquished. ‘Always had a generous streak.’

  The callous remark incited a silent rage, a fury so dense, so potent, Cædmon’s hands noticeably shook. After the bomb blast in London, there had hardly been enough left of Juliana Howe to even bury.

  Cædmon blinked and took a deep breath, clearing the gruesome image from his mind’s eye.

  ‘British Intelligence would very much like to question Sergeant’s McGuire’s brother,’ he continued. ‘I mention this, Kate, because I’m deeply concerned that you may have unwittingly aligned yourself with a very dangerous cohort.’

  Kate opened her mouth to speak, but it was her ‘cohort’ who returned the salvo.

  ‘Listen, asshole! I’m only going to say this one time: Mickey’s business is just that, Mickey’s business. Look at your friggin’ dossier, will ya? The McGuire brothers took radically different paths. I’ve spent the last seventeen years risking my life in places with names that I can’t even pronounce to keep people safe from terrorism. Not that it’s any of your business.’ Folding his arms over his chest, McGuire turned his head and stared sullenly out of the window.

  ‘Oh, but it is my business.’ MI5 was responsible for intelligence gathering related to terrorism in Northern Ireland. The official tie may have been severed, but the bond with Five still ran deep. ‘While you claim not to be your brother’s keeper, I suspect that you’re very good at keeping the family secrets. And that makes you complicit.’

  ‘In your book.’

  ‘In a great many books, I daresay. Poisoned fruit falling from the same tree and all that.’

  Swivelling his head, the commando glared at him. ‘Hey, Aisquith. Go fuck my left nut.’

  ‘Stop it! Just stop it! The both of you!’ The normally placid Kate shot each of them a look that powerfully conveyed the message ‘Cease and desist’. ‘Okay, I get it. You don’t like each other. But that’s no reason why we can’t act like grown adults. That said, I can personally attest to the fact that Finn McGuire did not kill anyone.’

  ‘That you know of,’ Cædmon retorted. Despite the fact that he had once deeply loved Kate Bauer, he would not concede the field to a cold-blooded killer.

  ‘I told you: we came to Paris so that Finn can apprehend the assassin hired to kill his two slain comrades.’ Chest heaving, Kate placed a hand on the commando’s shoulder. A show of good faith. ‘The individual whom you undoubtedly saw dive into the Seine freely confessed to the murders. And I was a witness to that confession.’ Removing her hand from McGuire’s shoulder, she leaned forward and grabbed hold of Cædmon’s upper arm. ‘Please, Cædmon. I’m begging –’

  ‘No way am I begging anything from this guy,’ McGuire gruffly said over the top of her.

  ‘If you let your pride intervene, you won’t be able to get justice for your two friends. They were both brave soldiers who didn’t deserve to be tortured to death. You know full well that you’re the only person who can avenge those brutal murders.’ Kate shot McGuire a meaningful glance. ‘But you won’t be able to do that if you’re apprehended by the authorities.’

  Cædmon watched the exchange, glimpsing a moment’s hesitation in the other man’s eyes. Unknowingly, Kate had brought up the rear and struck a nerve, all in one fell swoop.

  I might yet win the battle.

  Having no qualms about kicking the commando when he was down, Cædmon said, ‘For Kate’s sake, I won’t turn you over to the police … provided you make a full confession to Father Cædmon.’

  28

  ‘I need some fresh air.’ Purposefully testing his jailer’s limits, Finn didn’t wait for a reply. Opening the back door on the Citroën, he got out, slamming the door behind him. To his surprise, Aisquith made no move to stop him.

  Why expend the energy? It wasn’t like he could fly the coop. The place was crawling with cops, one of ’em propped against a dark blue Yamaha bike no more than thirty feet away.

  Strolling to the back of the vehicle, Finn leaned against the Citroën’s hatch, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest. The cop glared at him; he glared right back.

  The English bastard was clever, he’d give him that. But goddamn the man. Just when he’d been so close to apprehending the Dark Angel. Shit! Back to square one. Except he now had Aisquith trying to nail his dick to the wall.

  Thank you, Mickey.

  Because that’s what really had Aisquith up in arms, the fact that his brother had ‘aided and abetted’ Irish rebels who refused to accept the Good Friday Peace Agreement.

  Hearing a car door open, he didn’t bother to turn his head. A few seconds later, just as he figured, Kate materialized at his side. Anxious expression a given.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not planning a prison break,’ he assured her. ‘Just taking a breather while I consider the Scarlet Pimpernel’s magnanimous offer.’

  Kate sidled next to him, the curve of her outer hip brushing against his leg. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘That I have a twin brother? Guilty as charged. Although Mickey’s the one with the goatee. That’s how you can tell us apart.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, Finn.’

  Don’t I know it? Little Katie wanted to know if Mychal McGuire really was a gunslinging gangster.

  Always uncomfortable when the topic of family came up, he stared at his boot tip. On the plus side, his brother loved Irish music, beautiful women and shooting the breeze. But in the debit column, he loved robbing banks, running guns and snorting coke. Which made Mickey a big-league criminal. His mother used to say that Finn got the brawn and Mickey got the brains. What a crock.

  He shrugged,
not sure what, exactly, Kate wanted to hear. ‘In all honesty, I have no friggin’ idea if Mickey did the things that Ass-wipe –’

  ‘Aisquith.’

  ‘– accused him of. Although …’ He hesitated, his gut churning, forced to admit that Mickey had taken his criminal activity to the next level. ‘There’s probably more than a little truth in Aisquith’s accusation. I won’t lie. My parents raised us to hate the English. What can I say? They were Irish Catholics from Derry. For the last seventeen years of his life, my old man carried a piece of lead in his back courtesy of a British soldier firing into an unarmed crowd of demonstrators.’ Finn shook his head, having heard the story so many times he could recite it in his sleep. ‘Fourteen people lost their lives on that Bloody Sunday. So I guess Da got off lucky.’

  ‘I can understand why your brother would harbour antipathy towards the English,’ Kate said quietly.

  ‘But that doesn’t give him a free pass to aid terrorists. Which I suppose makes him one of ’em,’ Finn added, refusing to split the difference. ‘And just so you know, I haven’t seen or spoken to Mickey in the last five years.’

  ‘We all have skeletons in our closet.’

  ‘Yeah, but mine are scarier than most.’

  ‘Change of subject –’ Kate glanced expectantly at him – ‘I actually do think it’s a magnanimous offer.’

  Finn made no reply. Instead, he checked his watch, stalling for time. He then craned his neck and peered through the Citroën’s rear window; his jailor was busy rummaging through the glove compartment. Probably searching for a flask.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ he said flatly, turning his head back in Kate’s direction.

  ‘But I do.’ Pivoting on her heel, she stepped directly in front of him. ‘For all his faults, past and present, I know that Cædmon Aisquith is a man of integrity. He will keep his end of the bargain.’ Kate put a placating hand on his crossed arms. Smiling wistfully, she said, ‘What choice do we have?’