Secret of the Templars - Softcover

1

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a man who taught history at West Point Military Academy and he loved his job and he loved his wife, Amy, even more. He had a favorite uncle, who’d taught him almost everything worthwhile he knew, and a cousin named Peggy, who was funny and full of laughter and, when you got right down to it, was probably his best friend.

But that was once upon a time and that fairy-tale life was over. Amy died a torturous death as cancer ate her alive; his uncle was dead along with the job he loved at West Point. And now, so was Peggy. He was wanted for murder in the country he’d fought for so many times and he had a legion of enemies trying to track him down for the things he knew and the power he had. Power that he didn’t want, power that he’d never asked for, power that he wished desperately he had never known existed.

He stood on the high cliffs of the Dorset coast feeling the cold, slanting rain from the English Channel slashing into him, chilling him to the bone. On a clear day, you could make out the coast of France from the muddy pathway, but it hadn’t been clear for weeks now.

Lieutenant Colonel John “Doc” Holliday, U.S. Army Rangers (retired), turned away from the cliffs and followed the path back up to the old thatched cottage that he and Eddie Cabrera had rented for the winter, paying six months in advance and in cash. He and Eddie were living completely off the grid now—no credit cards, no cell phones, no wireless devices of any kind. The only communication they had with the outside world was a big Grundig Satellit 900 portable radio with short wave, long wave and police bands.

Holliday turned up the walk and stepped through the little gate and into the overgrown garden in front of the cottage. The old woman who owned the place was willing to have the dead plants and dry grasses cleared away, but Holliday had declined the offer. The tall grass and the windswept undergrowth gave the place a deserted look, which was just what he wanted. The cottage was located on a low hill and there wasn’t a neighbor for a mile in any direction. The closest village was Pelham Buckthorpe, a three-mile walk inland, or twenty minutes away on the bicycle that served as their only means of transportation. The nearest constabulary was in Swanage, twenty miles up the coast. “Isolation” was a word he and Eddie were taking quite seriously these days.

Holliday tapped his boots on the fieldstone step and gave a triple tap twice on the worn plank door, announcing his arrival. He pressed down the latch and stepped into the cottage.

Eddie was sitting in one of the old overstuffed armchairs in the living room with an old Purdey Nitro Express elephant gun resting across his legs. The radio stood on the Victorian end table beside him, chattering quietly.

“Anything?” Holliday asked.

“Very quiet, mi amigo,” replied his Cuban friend. From the kitchen Holliday could smell the rich aroma of some kind of stew. Thankfully the Cuban loved to cook and was good at it; Holliday’s repertoire of culinary expertise ran to overcooked fried eggs, charred burgers and barely edible mac and cheese from the box.

Holliday waited until they had sat down for the evening meal to lay out his thoughts. “I was thinking today while I was out for my walk,” he said.

“Only poets and sailors’ wives should think while walking by the sea.” Eddie smiled, mopping up the last of his stew with a chunk of bread.

“Maybe you’re right, but I’ve still been thinking.”

“About what, compadre?” asked the tall black Cuban, his intelligent brown eyes searching Holliday’s expression.

“I’ve been thinking it’s time we parted ways,” said Holliday.

Eddie sat back in his chair. “And why would that be?”

“Because it’s me they’re after, not you. I’m the one they want to kill. I’m the one with the notebook and all the secrets. I have no right to drag you into all this.”

“Nobody drags Eddie Vladimir Cabrera Alphonso anywhere he does not want to go. Anything I have done, I have done willingly.”

“That’s all well and good but I don’t think you should share in a burden you never chose.”

“No one chooses their burdens, Doc. Fate throws them in our direction and we either avoid them or we do not.”

“One of these days they’re going to find me and eventually they’re going to kill me. There’s no reason you should die too.”

“We are friends, Doc, and friends do not abandon each other just because life becomes difficult.”

“I still think we should split up.”

“And what do I do with myself? There is very little call for river pilots these days.”

“You’re making this difficult,” said Holliday.

“And I intend to keep on making it difficult with every sentence you speak, amigo, so why not shut up and help me with the dishes?”

Someone knocked at the door.

Holliday and Eddie both stood up. Eddie picked up the shotgun leaning on the table at his side and both men moved silently toward the door, keeping out of a direct line of fire. Holliday reached the door and stood with his back against the wall. Eddie lowered himself behind one of the upholstered chairs, aiming the elephant rifle over the back and directly toward the door at latch level. Anyone coming through unannounced would be cut into ribbons.

“Who is it?” Holliday called out.

“It’s Carrie Pilkington, Colonel Holliday. We spent some time together in Cuba a while back. There’s an MI5 kill team fifteen minutes out. We don’t have much time.”

Eddie cocked the huge-bore rifle. Holliday thumbed down the latch and threw open the door. A pretty woman with dark hair pulled into a ponytail stood there, dressed in climbing gear with a long skein of nylon rope over one shoulder and a gym bag over the other. Her black vest was hung with pitons, clips and locking rings. She was also wearing a 9-millimeter Glock 19 in a sling holster. “Let me in,” she said. “I’m dripping wet.”

Holliday stood aside and she stepped into the cottage. Holliday closed the door behind her and the young woman dropped the gym bag onto the floor.

“How do you know that MI5 is coming with a kill team?”

“I still have connections,” said the young woman.

Holliday remembered. “Black, the Englishman.”

“That’s right.” She nodded. “But we can reminisce later. We’ve got about ten minutes before they start throwing flash-bangs through the window.”

“Where do we go?”

“The cliffs. Put on something waterproof and come with me. Colonel, bring that bag. Forget everything else.”

A hundred feet down the path, with the cottage lights blazing behind them, they reached the cliff edge. The rain was coming down in windy sheets from the sea and Holliday could barely hear the waves crashing in on the rocky beach a hundred feet below them. There were already two heavy pitons holding lengths of rope pegged into the chalky soil when Carrie Pilkington opened the bag and pulled out two climbing harnesses.

“Either of you do any rappelling?”

“No,” answered Holliday.

Eddie shook his head.

“I hope you’re quick studies. Get into the harnesses,” she said sharply. From somewhere behind them there was the harsh coughing sound of a rifle-fired grenade launcher.

By the time the two men figured out the trusslike harnesses and fit them around their legs and thighs, Carrie had set the third line. She slipped a self-locking carabiner at their waists through each of the lines and guided them to the edge of the cliff, standing away from the sea.

“Go down backward and ease yourself over the edge and walk down the cliff until you feel comfortable. Then do small jumps outward while letting the line slip through your hands, but keep the loop around your elbow. Ten or fifteen jumps should get you to the bottom.”

There was the sound of automatic fire coming from the cottage now. “They’re playing our tune, guys. Time to bug out. Don’t look down, as the saying goes.” She pushed Holliday lightly on the chest and he went over into the rain-filled darkness.

The girl was right. His feet hit the beach with a crunching clatter after less than a minute and a half of unholy terror as he gave himself over to the thin nylon rope and the steel clip on the heavy belt around his waist. Before he had time to slip out of the harness, Eddie and Carrie had both reached the beach.

“Santa Madre de Mierda Cristo!” Eddie exclaimed, breathing hard.

“What now?” Holliday asked.

“There,” said the girl, pointing down the beach. A four-man Zodiac with a fifty-horsepower Evinrude had been pulled up onto the stony beach, the engine tilted up on the transom. They ran down the beach and Carrie hopped in first, heading for the bow. Eddie and Holliday pushed the inflatable into the water and jumped into the stern. Eddie lowered the engine and hit the electric start. Carrie took a small GPS unit out of her vest. “That way!” Carrie yelled, her hand pointing just left of center. “Full bore! They’ll have us in a minute or two.”

Eddie twisted the throttle and they blindly moved out into the choppy water. The flare went up less than thirty seconds later.

“Shit,” said Carrie from the bow, looking up from the GPS unit. She watched as the flare burned brightly overhead and began to flutter down on its parachute. They were outlined as though they had been caught in the eye of a searchlight, the light twitching and casting shadows as the flare skirled downward erratically. Finally it fizzled out and darkness shrouded their position.

“Kill the engine!” she ordered sharply. Eddie didn’t ask any questions, just followed orders. “Holliday! Get down there and help your friend. We’ve got to tip the engine overboard—fast!”

Holliday knew exactly why and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Eddie had the first of the big cleats loosened and Holliday helped him with the other one. There was a sharp echoing crack-bang of a Stinger or its British equivalent as they pushed the outboard into the sea. Another flare went up, this one fired at an angle away from the bow of the boat. A split second later there was a brilliant explosion three hundred yards to port as the infrared heat-seeking surface-to-air missile impacted with the closest source of heat—the flare rather than the Evinrude, which now lay at the bottom of the sea. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Don’t get excited—we’re not out of the woods yet. There’s two oars clipped to the gunnels. Set them up and row like hell. They’ll figure things out quickly enough.”

Eddie and Holliday pulled together, their backs to Carrie and facing the cliffs, which were now no more than shadows through the rain. There was another detonation from the one-man SAM at the summit of the cliffs, but, hearing it, Carrie fired another flare, this one high and to port side again. The infrared tracker in the missile took to the white-hot flare and there was a second explosion with a shock wave that slammed hard enough to hurt their eardrums. A few seconds later Holliday felt the inflatable bump into something.

“We have arrived, folks,” said Carrie.

Holliday looked to his right. Rising out of the water was the gray-blue hull of a boat. From what he could see, it was about sixty feet long. “What the hell is this and where did you get it?”

“It’s a refurbished World War II motor torpedo boat. A Vosper,” Carrie said. She gripped the rope and plastic ladder hanging over the gunnels. “I got it because I know people who like to smuggle cigarettes and other things across the Channel. Now climb aboard and let’s get the hell out of here.”

2

There are five main bodies that make up the Channel Islands, an archipelago located off the coast of Normandy—the last remaining “bailiwicks” of the Duchy of Normandy. The islands are British protectorates, but are not governed by the United Kingdom or the European Union. Even so, since the citizens of the islands have full UK status, they are also holders of all the privileges of the European Union.

The five islands are Jersey, Guernsey, Herm, Alderney and Sark, with Sark being slightly different from its neighbors since it is ruled by the hereditary Seigneur of Sark. The Channel Islands are an interesting and sometimes confusing place to live. They’re also very useful for people hiding money or themselves from various and sundry government agencies since they take both their privacy and their independence very seriously.

Herm is the smallest of the islands. The northern end is craggy and mostly full of cliffs while the southern end is all sandy beaches. Cars are not allowed on the island, nor are bicycles. Quad bikes and tractors are allowed for the locals. Its main source of income is tourism, but there is some farming, animal raising and fishing. There are no customs agents except at the ferry terminal and no local police at all.

Carrie Pilkington guided the Vosper into a small cove on the west side of the island and then led them along the beach to a small fisherman’s cottage that had been built on a low rise above the beach. The dawn was just beginning to light the sea behind them and the fog was so thick it was unlikely that anyone saw them arrive.

The cottage was a plain two-story affair with a living/dining area, a kitchen and a bathroom on the ground floor, and a narrow staircase leading up to a pair of small rooms. The roof was slate, the floors were wide planked and the small windows were covered with faded yellow curtains. It had that lonely feeling of a house that hasn’t been lived in for a very long time.

Carrie went to the kitchen larder, brought out cutlery, a loaf of sourdough bread, a brick of cheese, a pot of mustard, some butter and the remains of a ham. “Dig in—we won’t be here long,” she said, sitting down. She began slicing up the bread.

“Where exactly are we going?” Holliday asked, building himself a sandwich. He was starving and realized that he hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon.

“First Guernsey on the ferry and then to France by air.”

“Without papers?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Last time I checked you were a CIA analyst working out of Langley. What the hell are you doing out in the field?”

“As far as the Company knows I never made it out of Cuba alive, if you remember that little drama.”

“Vividly,” said Holliday. He and Eddie had gone looking for Eddie’s vanished brother and found themselves in the middle of an invasion.

“I was recruited by another group, and I’ve been working for them for the last two years.”

“What group?”

“Officially, it’s the Joint International Office of Intelligence Oversight, but it’s generally called JOI, when it’s called anything at all. In-house, it’s just called the Office,” she responded.

“Another acronym.” Holliday sighed. “What’s this one supposed to do?”

“Just what it says. The big intelligence agencies around the world have become their own governments—they do what they want to, and get what they want. They’re out of control. We’re supposed to rein them in, or at the very least gather intelligence about what they’re doing.”

“So just who is the Office made up of and why is it interested in me?”

“The Office is a joint committee of high-ranking government and military ...