The Templar's Quest Page 14

  Maybe it was the fact that she used the word ‘we’. Or that she’d been like a fierce lioness defending him to Aisquith. Maybe he just needed to make a physical connection. Whatever the reason, Finn pulled her towards him. To his surprise, Kate wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek squarely against his pectoral muscle.

  For several long moments they held each other. Neither spoke. Neither moved. If Aisquith hadn’t been sitting a few feet away, Finn would have kissed her. If for no other reason than to find out if her lips were really as soft as he imagined.

  I am a soldier on a mission. I do not need this kind of distraction.

  Yeah, now tell that to a certain male organ.

  Kate tipped her head to meet his gaze. ‘Well … ?’

  The battle lost, Finn acquiesced with a brusque nod. ‘All right. Let him know that I’m ready to talk. And Kate –’ he grabbed her by the arm as she turned to leave, stopping her in mid-spin. ‘Let me do the talking. All right?’

  ‘Afraid I’ll steal the show?’ she teased, pulling her arm free.

  That or tell the truth.

  Stepping away from the Citroën, Finn waited for Aisquith to get out of the car, his gaze zeroing in on the slight bulge of tweed fabric under the other man’s left arm. Still pissed off, he recalled the bastard’s fast draw.

  ‘Okay, you win,’ Finn said grudgingly, the concession leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘I’ll tell you about the murders.’

  ‘And the Black Sun tattoo?’

  ‘Yeah, that too. But I’ve already said everything that I’m going to say about my brother. Capiche?’

  Aisquith was silent for several seconds. Then, eyes narrowing, he nodded his consent. ‘Agreed. Shall we adjourn to the café across the street?’

  ‘I think that’s a great idea,’ Kate said, hers the only smiling face. ‘I certainly could use a cappuccino.’

  Turning his head, Finn sized up the joint. ‘Yeah, all right.’

  Decision made, the three of them trooped across the street. Playing the gallant, Aisquith opened the door to the café, motioning Kate through.

  At a glance, Finn could see that the establishment was low-key; a couple of suits, a couple of touristos, a couple of waiters. On the far left, behind the bar, was a back exit. About to bolt in that direction, he pulled up short when Aisquith slid his right hand under his tweed jacket, having gauged his intentions.

  Finn figured Aisquith would like nothing better than to lay him low with a nine mil.

  Already a disgruntled customer, Finn walked over and seated himself in the rickety cane chair next to Kate. The Brit took the vacant chair across from them.

  A waiter approached. Not bothering to ask Finn what he wanted to drink, Aisquith rattled off an order.

  No sooner had the waiter left than he jutted his chin at Finn. ‘It’s your turn at bat, I believe.’

  Ready to hit one out of the park, Finn got right to it. ‘There’s a group headquartered here in Paris called the Seven Research Foundation that’s convinced I found a gold medallion during a black-ops mission in Syria. They’re so convinced that I have this damned medallion that they sent an assassin called the Dark Angel –’

  ‘That’s the blonde-haired woman at the quay,’ Kate said in a quick aside.

  ‘– to take out two Delta Force troopers. Which she obligingly did. She was even kind enough to leave evidence making it look like I wielded the knife.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘To force my hand. Fabius Jutier, a bigwig at the French Embassy, offered me a very sweet deal: I give him the medallion and the Seven gives me one million dollars and a “Get Out of Jail” – Shit! ’ Finn muttered under his breath as two uniformed police officers entered the café.

  ‘Oh, God … they’re looking for someone,’ Kate anxiously hissed.

  Reaching under the table, Finn squeezed her leg, wordlessly ordering her to remain calm. No easy feat given that both cops were scoping out the joint. Kate was right; they were obviously searching for someone.

  ‘Did you use your own passports to enter France?’ A cool customer, Aisquith didn’t even glance at the uniformed pair.

  No point in lying, Finn said, ‘We came in through the back door with forged papers.’

  ‘Who knows that you’re in Paris?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Insurance of a sort. However, because you’re a member of the US military, your photo is on a computer database. For Kate’s sake, let us hope that the authorities don’t employ photo recognition software to track you.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope they don’t do that.’ Bastard.

  Just then, the owner of the café rushed out of the kitchen, greeting the two cops effusively. It was obvious from the exchange that they were regulars. Finn marginally relaxed. Kate one-upped him, visibly slumping in her chair.

  ‘To get back on point, where is the medallion now?’

  Trained to lie under pressure, Finn stared the Brit right in the eye and said, ‘How the hell should I know? Still in Syria, I figure. I’m a soldier, not a treasure hunter.’

  On hearing that whopper, Kate immediately straightened in her chair. If she had laser vision, she would have bored a hole right through his cheek.

  ‘And the tattoo?’

  Gathering that his lie passed muster, Finn folded his arms over his chest and said, ‘That beaut was emblazoned right over Fabius Jutier’s heart. Sweet, huh?’

  ‘Mmmm … I take it the man is no longer among the living?’

  ‘See, it’s like this –’ Finn lowered his voice, forcing Aisquith to lean towards him. ‘I was in the middle of questioning Jutier – and, yeah, I admit, I was using an enhanced interrogation technique – when the weasel chomps down on a cyanide capsule.’

  ‘How interesting. Cyanide was the preferred suicide method for many of the Nazis.’

  ‘Except Jutier was French, not German,’ Kate pointed out.

  ‘We need to get to the bottom of this.’ Reaching into his breast pocket, Aisquith removed a BlackBerry phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Finn hissed, suddenly worried that Aisquith had duped him.

  The other man glanced up from the device. ‘Requesting dossiers on Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation.’

  ‘But, Cædmon, you said that you wouldn’t contact the authorities.’ Reaching across the table, Kate tried, unsuccessfully, to snatch the BlackBerry out of his hand.

  ‘I would think that you and Sergeant McGuire would want this information.’

  Hearing that, Finn was taken aback. ‘Are you saying that you’ll actually share the dossiers with me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why else would I request them?’ Aisquith snapped irritably. ‘Ah! Our order has arrived.’

  Their unsmiling waiter plunked three cups of cappuccino and a wire basket of croissants on the table.

  ‘At this point we should mention that Finn and I don’t know if there’s a connection between the Black Sun tattoo and the Montségur Medallion,’ Kate remarked as she unwrapped a sugar cube.

  In the process of stirring his cappuccino, Aisquith let go of the spoon. ‘Good God! That’s what all this murder and mayhem is about, the Montségur Medallion?’

  Kate’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’ve actually heard of it?’

  ‘There are few medievalists who’ve not heard the rumours about the doomed Cathars and their fabled gold medallion. Their days numbered, the Pope’s army having laid siege to their last bastion at Montségur, the Cathars supposedly smuggled a treasure out of their mountaintop stronghold.’

  Having just snatched a croissant from the basket, Finn glanced up. ‘You’re talking about the medallion, right?’

  ‘No. The medallion is simply an encrypted map that reveals the location of the treasure. And before you enquire, no one knows what comprised the fabled treasure. Some claim it’s a sacred text, others a biblical relic.’ Aisquith dunked a croissant into his cappuccino. ‘Truly one of the great mysteries of the Middle Ages.’ />
  ‘Then we have to assume that the Seven Research Foundation wants the medallion so they can find the Cathar treasure trove.’

  Still in the process of dunking, Aisquith nodded. ‘Jutier’s tattoo suggests that the Seven Research Foundation is somehow connected to the Ahnenerbe. Who, I might add, were obsessed with the Cathars. No doubt the Ahnenerbe also searched for the Montségur Medallion. The Nazis were quite intent on finding ancient relics.’

  ‘Speaking of Jutier’s tattoo, I asked the Dark Angel about the Black Sun and the Vril force.’ Kate raised her cup. Before taking a sip, she said, ‘Although Angelika gave a vague reply, she clearly knew what I was talking about.’

  ‘Mmmm … interesting. More than a few historians have speculated that Adolf Hitler decided not to destroy Paris because there was something in the city that he very much wanted.’

  ‘I take it it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.’ Holding a half-eaten croissant in his hand, Finn glanced at his crumb-littered chest. Not exactly the breakfast of champions.

  ‘While I have no proof, I suspect the Führer was very keen to generate the elusive Vril force.’

  ‘To power his flying saucers?’ Finn couldn’t help but snicker.

  ‘Fighter planes and Panzer divisions more than likely,’ Aisquith replied, refusing to pick up the gauntlet.

  ‘I’m confused, Cædmon. What does the city of Paris have to do with the Vril force?’

  The Brit smiled fondly at Kate. ‘More than meets the eye. In that it’s invisible to the naked eye. But the best way to explain the connection is to show rather than tell. Assuming, of course, that I’m not keeping you from a prior engagement.’

  ‘Do we have time, Finn?’ Kate peered anxiously at him.

  Figuring he needed to play along in order to get Aisquith to share the dossiers with him, Finn shrugged and said, ‘Yeah, why not? I’ve never seen a flying saucer.’

  29

  Tipping her head, Angelika Schwärz slowly blew a smoke ring, the diaphanous spiral floating towards the coffered ceiling. Somewhat moodily she stood at the open French doors that led to a small Juliet balcony. Below her the Seine flowed past the Île St Louis, the posh island enclave where she maintained an apartment.

  Like her alter ego, she’d managed to fly away at the last moment. Or, in this case, swim away.

  The Dark Angel.

  A play on her birth name, the nom de guerre suited her. For she was the bringer of death and destruction. The one who liberated man’s soul from his physical body. Life or death. Good or evil. Sacred or profane. She could be any or all of them. Today, she’d been good. Merciful, even. She could easily have pulled the trigger and ended it at the quay. But instead she’d decided to play with Finnegan McGuire. Taunt him with innuendo. Mystify him with shadowy allusion.

  She already looked forward to the next bout.

  Suddenly losing her taste for the Lucky Strike, Angelika smashed it into a crystal ashtray. As she did, a man approached from behind. Wordlessly, he pulled aside the right lapel of her red silk kimono and cupped her bare breast in his hand. Several passengers sitting on the upper deck of a bateau-mouche, one of the many tourist boats that routinely cruised the Seine, stared in slack-jawed amazement. One or two turned away, overcome with Puritanical outrage. A few pointed excitedly to the French doors where she stood, two storeys above them. Someone else aimed a video camera.

  Well aware of the effect that her beauty had on men and women alike, Angelika graced them with a smile.

  ‘You’re quite the exhibitionist, aren’t you?’ the man whispered in her ear, tweaking her nipple between his fingers.

  Thinking the answer rather obvious, she arched into his calloused hand. ‘Ah, Finnegan, a little harder.’

  ‘I told you, my name is Ryan,’ he whined petulantly, even as he twisted her turgid nipple that much harder.

  ‘Umm …’ She luxuriated in the pain, feeling every agonized jolt. ‘No. Today your name is Finnegan.’

  The young man knew better than to argue. He was an American in Paris. A polite way of saying that he was a male escort, a gigolo who plied his trade to bored upper-class women with money to spend. Without being told, she knew that he was an exchange student at the Sorbonne who turned tricks to pay the rent. Not that she cared about the particulars of his life. She’d picked him because he bore a striking resemblance to Finnegan McGuire. While the accent wasn’t quite right, the colouring – brown hair, brown eyes, bronzed skin – was identical. All in all, a good match.

  Finnegan McGuire.

  An uncommon name for an uncommon man. When she and Finnegan had faced one another on the quay, she’d found herself sexually aroused by his rugged features and cocky self-assurance. So rough around the muscular edges.

  The gigolo raised a hand to the still wet hair that was twisted in a chignon at the back of her head. Realizing he was about to remove the etched silver hair pin, she pulled away from him.

  ‘I just wanted to –’

  ‘I have paid you a generous sum of money to tend to my wants,’ she interrupted, annoyed with his presumption.

  He threw up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Hey, no problem. Like you said, you’re calling the shots.’

  Actually, when she went for the kill, she preferred more silent methods. But she doubted that her paid paramour would be especially interested in the dark particulars of her life.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’

  ‘For you, baby. I’m thirsty for you.’

  Angelika resisted the urge to laugh at his sophomoric repartee. Instead, she shoved him aside. ‘I was asking if you’d like a drink,’ she said over her shoulder as she strolled across to the bar.

  Like a lost puppy, the gigolo trailed on her heels. ‘A drink. Yeah, sure. What have you got?’

  ‘La Fée Verte,’ she said, lifting a bottle for his inspection.

  His brow wrinkled. ‘The green fairy?’ He took the proffered bottle and read the label. A moment later, a look of near-comical shock on his face, he said, ‘Absinthe! Is this shit even legal?’

  ‘More or less,’ she equivocated. French distilleries still brewed the mythical green liquor despite the fact that the original 1915 ban on absinthe had yet to be revoked.

  ‘I thought this stuff was outlawed for, you know, making people go insane.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that happening.’ Not bothering to ask if he wished to imbibe, she poured the absinthe into two hand-blown glasses. She then placed a slotted silver spoon over one of the glasses and, reaching into a sugar bowl, removed a cube.

  ‘Are you going to set it on fire? I once saw Susan Sarandon do that in a movie.’

  Although Angelika had not seen the movie in question, she knew that he referred to the modern ritual of setting the sugar cube aflame. While dramatic, she preferred the Zen-like simplicity of the old ways.

  ‘The fire will come later,’ she promised.

  ‘I bet. I mean, man alive, you’re one hot babe. Usually my clients are, you know, older women who schedule me between morning shopping sprees on the Champs-Élysées and afternoon tea at the Ladurée Salon.’

  ‘Poor bébé. Such a difficult life,’ she said with a taunting sneer.

  Reaching for a decanter, she slowly drizzled cold water over the sugar cube, the green liquid replaced with an opalescent cloud. Within moments, a strong liquorice aroma wafted from the glass.

  ‘Way cool!’ her companion enthused, his earlier hesitancy about drinking absinthe having vanished.

  Angelika repeated the ritual with the second glass.

  ‘A votre santé,’ she said, handing him the milky green beverage.

  Doing a fair imitation of a thirsty man in the desert, he quaffed half the contents of the glass in one swallow. Like most Americans, he drank to get intoxicated, the subtlety of the honeyed herbs and floral bouquet beyond his appreciation.

  Wearing an asinine expression, he giggled. ‘I can’t feel my tongue. Jeez, no wonder Van Gogh cut off his ear. Talk about a
buzz.’ Two gulps later, he’d finished his drink.

  Ah, ‘The ceremony of innocence is drowned’.

  Wordlessly, Angelika turned away from the bar and walked down the hall to her bed chamber.

  ‘Nice digs,’ her companion remarked as he stepped into the bedroom, the stark space a study in white fabric and ebonized furniture. ‘It’s like, what, contemporary Asian?’

  Not in the mood for chit-chat, she impatiently waved a hand in his direction. ‘Remove your clothes. I wish to see what I paid for.’ She sat down on the white leather chaise adjacent to the bed, her kimono fanning out from her bare legs like a giant blood stain.

  ‘Whatever the pretty lady wants. I’m not one to brag, but I think you’ll be pleased,’ the young man said with a brash smirk as he unzipped his Levi jeans. ‘I work out five times a week.’

  ‘Very nice,’ she complimented once he’d removed all of his clothing. Not nearly as impressive as Finnegan McGuire, but more than satisfactory. She jutted her head towards the king-size platform bed. ‘On the bed. Spread-eagle.’

  ‘A lady who knows her mind. I like that. Most of my clients aren’t nearly so assertive.’

  Because I’m not like any of your other clients, she silently mused as she got up from the chaise. Taking a last sip of her absinthe, she placed the glass on the Tansu cabinet before walking over to the bed. Pleased to see that he was fully aroused, she let the red kimono slide off her shoulders and drop on to the white carpet.

  The young man’s eyes opened wide. ‘What’s that tattooed on your left tit?’

  She glanced at the circular tattoo with the Black Sun symbol. ‘That is my talisman,’ she said as she straddled his hips. Grasping his erection in her right hand, she pulled it towards her, impaling herself with one quick plunge.

  ‘Oh, babe, that’s good!’ her paramour crooned, moving his hands towards her waist.

  She slapped at his groping hands. ‘I want you spread-eagled.’

  ‘Just like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, huh?’

  Annoyed with his non-stop banter, she quickened the pace.

  ‘You need to slow down,’ he moaned. ‘I’m about to come.’