The Templar's Revenge (A James Acton Thriller, #19) (James Acton Thrillers) Read online

  He hadn’t cared.

  There was time.

  And now there wasn’t.

  If he had devoted himself to the family tradition, would his father be so quick to return the True Cross to the Vatican? Perhaps not. Yet it didn’t matter. What was done was done. He was who he was, his father would be dead shortly, and the cross would be his once they recovered it.

  Then the family would be his to control.

  And for that, he needed their ancestral home. He had no idea who had survived the attack last night, but he was sure they were taking action to protect the family’s legacy.

  What would you do?

  He drew a deep breath.

  I’d hide all the evidence that anything had happened.

  It was the only thing that could be done. To do otherwise, would invite too many questions, questions the family couldn’t afford. He stared up at the chateau, the sun climbing in the sky, and wondered what might possibly be going on up there.

  47

  Ridefort Residence

  Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Durand stood back as the jackhammer did its job, breaking away the stone that he felt confident was hiding something these men didn’t want found. He watched as they were huddled together, under guard, at the far side of the courtyard.

  Suddenly the sound changed, metal on metal, and the two-man crew stopped, turning off the machine. One kicked away the stone with his steel-toed boot then cursed.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a metal plate under this. I’m betting this whole thing is just stone on top of metal.”

  “Well, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? If it’s some sort of panel hiding some secret hideaway underneath it, it would need some sort of support.”

  The foreman yanked his hard hat off his head and scratched. “Nobody told me about any secret whatevers. I was told to bring a crew to chop up some concrete.”

  “So you can’t do the job?”

  “Not this job. We can clear off the stone for you, but you’re going to need a cutting crew to get through the next layer.”

  “Then get a cutting crew!”

  The foreman growled then pulled out his phone, calling his company. Durand marched over to the suspects, Bernard Ridefort stepping forward. “Why don’t you just open the damned thing so we can all save ourselves a lot of time?”

  Bernard shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Like I said, it’s always been like that. This castle has been here for hundreds of years. Who knows what’s underneath it.”

  Durand frowned, and was about to leave when he noticed something. “Where’s the kid?”

  Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “What kid?”

  “The young guy who takes care of the horses.”

  Bernard glanced around. “No idea. Bathroom?”

  Durand turned toward the officer watching them. “Where’d the kid go?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nobody’s left.”

  Durand cursed. “Okay, search the place. He has to be somewhere.”

  48

  Port of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Laura came up under the pier where she had hired her boat. She removed her diving mask and surveyed the area, not spotting her pursuer. With any luck, he was still chasing her boat, which she noted hadn’t returned yet, the man apparently following through with her request.

  She pulled herself up onto the dock, two locals spotting her, eager to help a woman with soaking wet, clinging clothes. “Thank you, gentlemen, I appreciate all the attention.” She smiled at them, the two graying men grinning back. She pointed where her boat had been, then at the scuba gear. “Can you see that he gets this back?”

  “Absolutely, Mademoiselle, we’ll take care of that for you.”

  His friend pointed at his boat. “Join us for a drink?”

  Laura smiled and held up her ring finger. “Sorry, boys, but I’m taken.” She almost giggled at the disappointment. A woman came rushing toward them, a towel in her hand, admonishing the “dirty old men.”

  “You poor dear, did you have an accident?”

  Laura smiled as she took the towel, quickly drying her hair and exposed extremities. “No, just lost a bet.” She handed the towel back. “Thank you so much for your help.” She rushed off, not wanting to risk the premature return of her boat, or that which she presumed carried her pursuer. She glanced at her watch, thankful it, unlike her phone, was waterproof.

  The car must be ready by now.

  49

  Off the coast of Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, France

  Schmidt pointed at the boat he had spotted earlier with Laura Palmer, and his generously paid captain steered them toward the craft, now coasting leisurely along, a broad smile on the owner’s face. They pulled up beside him, the two men apparently friends.

  “Where’s the woman?” asked Schmidt, as pleasantly as he could.

  The man eyed him suspiciously. “And what business is it of yours?”

  Schmidt reached for his weapon but decided against it, too many police in the area to risk a radio call going out for help. “She’s a friend.”

  “Unlikely.”

  The man gunned his engine, though not before Schmidt got a good look in the back.

  Empty.

  He cursed. “Take me back to shore. Fast.”

  His captain complied, and Schmidt moved to the rear of the boat. It was time to face the fact that he was dealing with no ordinary woman. She had obviously gone overboard and swam back to shore, which meant she had bigger balls than most men he was used to dealing with. They had no idea where she and her husband were holed up, and he had no doubt they were making plans to get out of town. They might only have minutes before they were gone.

  And once they were, there was no way they would find them. They needed more eyes than they had, eyes that were everywhere. He pulled out his phone and called Pierre Ridefort.

  “This is Schmidt. I’ve lost her. I think we need to assume they’re going to get away.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I think it’s time we enlisted some help, but it’s going to be expensive.”

  “I’ve got the money. Tell me what you need.”

  50

  Corpo della Gendarmeria Office

  Palazzo del Governatorato, Vatican City State

  Mario Giasson sat in his office with half a dozen of the Vatican’s most learned scholars seated in a semi-circle in front of his desk. He had been forced to wait for the babysitter to arrive, but had taken the time to get the ball rolling through phone calls, this meeting arranged to find out if Gregory Milton’s claims were even possible.

  And from what he was hearing, they were.

  Remotely.

  “The True Cross was presumed destroyed by Saladin in Damascus, shortly after he captured it. King Richard and others offered massive sums for its return, amounts so obscene, that it was quite remarkable Saladin refused the offers. It could have funded his armies for some time.”

  Giasson nodded at Father Jonathan Brandis, the foremost expert on the True Cross the Vatican had to offer. “But that would make sense, wouldn’t it? If he didn’t actually have it, then he had nothing to bargain with.”

  Brandis bowed his head slightly. “This is true. History assumed he destroyed it so that the Christian armies could never possess it again. If he never had it, or somehow lost it, then yes, it could be the reason he never ransomed it.”

  Giasson leaned back in his chair. “So then we agree it’s possible that Professor Acton has found the True Cross?”

  “You said he’s in the south of France?” asked Father Francis.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I doubt it. I can see no reason it would be there of all places.”

  Brandis waved a hand. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the possibility. When the Crusades were over, the knights returned home, and many were from France. Perhaps one of them had the cross and took it with him.”

  Murmurs of
dissent filled the room.

  “Now wait. We have historical accounts that say Saladin absolutely had the cross. We can all agree on that, at least?”

  Heads bobbed.

  “And we can agree that none of Saladin’s people would have dared take it from him, agreed?”

  Again, heads bobbed.

  “Yet we have no account of him actually destroying it, which is something you think he would do in a quite public manner, and which history would have recorded.”

  Grunts of assent.

  “Then I think it’s logical to at least consider the possibility that he lost it somehow, and that can only mean it was stolen. And if it was, it had to be by Christians, and it would have had to have been done shortly after its capture, otherwise Saladin would have had time to destroy it.”

  Francis leaned forward in his chair, excited. “Right, and Jerusalem fell very shortly thereafter, and the defenders were forced to leave the Holy Land. Those who had found the cross might not have had any choice but to take it with them, back to Christendom.”

  Giasson held out his hands. “Soooo?”

  Francis smiled, his eyes wide. “It’s definitely possible.”

  A commotion outside the glass walls of his office had Giasson looking then gasping. His Holiness was walking toward his office, smiling and exchanging pleasantries with the staff. Giasson leaped from his chair and opened the door for him. “Your Holiness, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “There is something I would speak to you about.”

  “Of course, sir, but I could have come to you.”

  The elderly Pontiff smiled, motioning for the others to return to their seats. “Sometimes it is good to stretch one’s legs, or so my doctor would have me believe.”

  Giasson pulled up a chair for the man. He waved it off. “Standing is apparently good as well.” He smiled at the room. “I understand you have had some interesting news.”

  Giasson bowed slightly, surprised, yet not, that the Pontiff had been informed. “Yes, Your Holiness, I received word today that Professor James Acton, whom you’ve met, may have found the True Cross.”

  The Pope regarded those gathered. “And what do you gentlemen think?”

  The response was noncommittal, Father Brandis finally speaking. “I believe it’s definitely possible. Even if it’s not true, do we dare risk not investigating?”

  The Pope nodded. “I tend to agree with you, Father.” He turned to Giasson. “Is Professor Acton bringing it here?”

  Giasson shook his head. “I’m afraid there was an attempt on his life, and that of his wife. I’m not exactly sure of the status right now, only their location.”

  “And that is?”

  “Saint-Pierre-la-Mer, in the south of France.”

  “Then I think you should be there, investigating this, rather than here, don’t you?”

  Giasson bowed. “Absolutely, Your Holiness.”

  51

  Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Sonya Tong bit her tongue at Randy Child’s annoying habit, instead focusing on tracing the professors’ movements after they arrived in France. The youngest analyst on the team spun again in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, just enough of him in the periphery to be annoying. The nightshift was bad enough. Working it with Child made it worse.

  His console beeped.

  He dropped a toe, bringing his spin to a halt. “I got something!”

  Tong rose from her station and approached his. “What have you got?”

  “I’ve been monitoring the Dark Web like Leroux suggested, and got this.” He pointed at the screen. “Someone just took out a contract on our two professors. Half-a-mil each, alive.”

  Tong smiled then frowned. “Well, at least that means they’re still alive, and whoever wants them must need something from them. That gives them a better chance of not dying in a hit.”

  The doors to the Operations Center opened and Chris Leroux entered, appearing in far too good a mood for this hour. Tong’s stomach flipped, remembering his girlfriend had returned from assignment only hours ago. Tong had a crush on him, a hard crush, an inappropriate crush, yet knew he was madly in love with a woman way out of her league. And with the glow he had, she had no doubt Sherrie White had worked her magic on his wand.

  She giggled at the thought.

  “Something funny?” asked Leroux, all smiles.

  “No, umm, sorry, sir.” She motioned toward Child’s station. “Randy just found out that a contract has been put out on the two professors. Half a million each.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “Alive.”

  “Well, that’s good news. What have you discovered?”

  She picked up a tablet from her desk, directing his attention to the wall of displays that curved across the entire front of the room. “Here’s footage of them landing at Béziers Airport, France, last night. They’re picked up by a chauffeured Maybach”—Child whistled in appreciation—“without incident, then we have nothing on them from a video perspective.”

  “No traffic cameras or anything?”

  “It’s a small town, so they don’t have much. We’re going through ATM footage and other security cameras to see if we can catch a glimpse, but I don’t think it’s really necessary. We were able to track their phones.” She tapped at the tablet, and a map appeared with a route traced from the airport, several glowing red dots indicating cellphone towers that had picked up their devices. “This is the route we think they took. From what Dean Milton told us, their destination was some castle just outside of town along the coast.” She tapped, some Google images appearing. “This is their destination, and as far as we can tell, they reached there. At least their phones did. But there’s something interesting.”

  Leroux glanced at her. “What’s that?”

  “Well, I ran an analysis, and it appears that for the last half of their trip, the driver was speeding, significantly by the end of it, then they came to an abrupt stop near the castle, then nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Their signals cut out until about half an hour later.” She tapped again. “We got a brief signal from two coastal towers from both phones before they cut out after about five minutes. Then nothing since.”

  Leroux’s eyes narrowed as he approached the screen. “This is a fairly significant distance from the last signal. At least a mile or two by the looks of it. It’s odd that no towers picked them up in between.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Child in mid-spin. He tapped at his keyboard, an aerial view of the castle appearing. “It’s a dead zone.”

  Leroux turned to him. “What?”

  “Check it out. There’s no cellphone activity at all around that castle. I’m guessing they have some sort of jammer installed.”

  Leroux’s eyes narrowed. “That’s odd. What the hell are they hiding?”

  Tong shrugged. “Apparently they were paranoid for good reason, if Dean Milton’s description of his conversation with Professor Acton is accurate. Someone tried to kill them on the way there, which matches with the speeding vehicle, and then someone apparently assaulted the castle.” She brought up another display. “We have reports of an emergency call placed to the local police about weapons fire at the castle, then a warrant being issued this morning for a search. Something must have happened there.”

  Leroux’s head bobbed slowly. “Okay, so it sounds like there’s something to this.” He motioned to the tablet. “My understanding is their phones are no longer working. What about this new number we were given?”

  “That’s a weird one as well. We traced it for about an hour, then it went offline. It came back on a for a few minutes, then that’s it.”

  “Could they have just turned it off?”

  “Perhaps, but why? It’s their only lifeline. And the last signal is again from a coastal tower.”

  Leroux crossed his arms and tapped his chin. “Could they be going in the water?”

 
Tong’s eyes widened as she stared at the screen. “That makes sense! They reach the castle, where there’s some sort of jamming device. If they left, we should have picked them up on one of the surrounding towers, but we didn’t. We picked them up over here”—she pointed at the coastline—“which could make sense if the castle had some sort of other…” She hesitated to say it.

  “What?”

  She looked at Leroux, then away. “No, it’s too far-fetched.”

  Leroux grunted. “What? That a thousand-year-old castle might have some sort of escape tunnel to the sea?”

  She flushed, his brilliance never ceasing to amaze her. “Exactly.”

  “I think it’s more than possible. Escape tunnels were par for the course back then. So if they did have an escape route, then it’s very possible they were on a boat. They leave this tunnel, the cellphone towers pick them up again, then go dead a few minutes later.”

  “Because they had to jump in the water.”

  Leroux turned to Child. “Why do you say that?”

  Child motioned toward the screen, tapping at his keyboard, several French news sites appearing. “Looks like a boat exploded last night in Saint-Pierre-de-Sol, and some witnesses claim they heard a helicopter and gunfire.”

  Leroux nodded. “Well, I think we’ve explained their phones. They got wet and stopped working. And if there were helicopters and weapons fire, then whoever is after them is well-funded and determined. What has me wondering though, is what’s changed?”

  Tong’s eyes narrowed as she used the opportunity to stare at him, his mind fascinating in how it worked. “What do you mean?”

  “Last night they try to kill them, and now a contract is put out on them that stipulates they should be delivered alive. What changed?”