The Templar Legion

the seventies he bought a couple of old World War Two bombers and napalmed the local Yavaro Indians so they’d get off an oil patch he was developing in Brazil, all in the name of progress. There’ve been a few weird things between him and the Russians, too.”

Holliday stared out the window at the majestic river flowing past. Did Vikings really make it this far, and farther, a thousand years ago? Did a Templar Knight follow in their footsteps, just as they were following in his? For a moment he had that strange sensation of the past and the future sliding together, just like the White Nile and the Blue Nile joined together a mile or so downstream. He’d had the same feeling back on that little island on Lake Tana. Like being on a ship in rough seas and having someone walking over your grave at the same time. Once again he tried to shake the feeling off.

“Too much coincidence,” he said finally. For the first time in a long while he wished he were still smoking. “I’ll buy that we were on the same highway in the Sudan-we were both looking for the same thing-but what was Ives doing in that particular piece of jungle in the first place? Kukuanaland isn’t what you’d call a tourist destination. It can’t be just coincidence that Rafi finds that tomb and Matheson sends in a geologist to the same territory. There has to be some connection.”

“I’m an archaeologist; Matheson hunts for mineral resources and oil. There is no connection,” said Rafi, shaking his head.

“Did you tell anyone about the tomb?”

“He didn’t even tell me, his loving wife and helpmate,” said Peggy.

“I didn’t tell anyone; I swear it,” said Rafi. “I wasn’t expecting to find anything in Ethiopia except some anecdotal stuff about the Beta Jews or some old church records at best. This all came out of left field. When I found the tomb I was a little freaked-out actually. I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t.”

“How did you figure out that the mural in the tomb was this Kotto River place?”

“I listed the salient features, the jungle, the three prominent hills and the three-forked waterfall, and we ran a regional African computer model based on Google Earth. I was skeptical, like you, Doc. We weren’t really expecting a match.”

“We?”

“A friend of mine in the geology department. A geomorphologist named Yadin Isaacs. He ran the computers.”

“Did you tell him why you were running the model?”

“I made a joke about King Solomon’s Mines and the queen of Sheba. He thought it was funny.”

“Any connection between Matheson and this guy?”

“Not that I know of.” Rafi shrugged.

Peggy tapped at the keyboard for a few moments, then sat back, shaking her head. “It’s right there on his CV,” she said. “ ‘ Winner of the Sir James Matheson Grant for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Geology,’ three years running.”

“Bingo,” said Holliday. “People like Matheson have tentacles into all sorts of places. Your pal doesn’t want to bite the hand that feeds him, so he passes on some potentially interesting information and doesn’t think about it again.” Holliday paused. “How long ago was this?”

“Seven months.”

“Plenty of time to put Ives into the field,” said Holliday. “It was no coincidence at all.” He shook his head. “It looks like we’ve got some competition. Lethal competition.”

Sir James Matheson, Ninth Earl of Emsworth, referred to as Lord Emsworth of Huntington in the annual reports of Matheson Resource Industries, stood in his private office and stared down at the large-scale topographical maps laid out on the granite conference table. Matheson, in his early sixties, had a broad forehead, thinning gray hair swept back, with the leathery face and broken capillaries of a longtime smoker and drinker. When Matheson spoke there was a faint trace of his West Country origins, but that was the only hint of his somewhat less than lordly beginnings. Major Allen Faulkener, Matheson’s director of special projects, stood beside him.

“What are the transportation options?” Matheson said. “The material is worth nothing in the middle of a jungle.”

“Only the river at this point,” said Faulkener, tapping a spot on one of the maps. “The Kotto River could take barges of ore all the way down to the Ubangi and from there down to Mbandaka and the Congo River.”

“Where they’d have to be guarded all the way to Brazzaville and the railway, which we’d probably have to refurbish for the buggers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if we had our own refinery and smelter?”

“We could easily build an airstrip and ship the finished goods from there.”

“But not without this lunatic Kolingba knowing.”

“No, sir, and not without his Two-IC knowing, either.”

“I was never actually in the army, Faulkener, so terms like Two-IC don’t impress me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You mean his second in command, this Gash fellow. The American.”

“Rwandan by birth, sir. He did spend time in the United States.”

“Can we deal with him?”

“Perhaps at some later point,” suggested Faulkener. “Right now his loyalties lie with Kolingba. His cash cow, so to speak.”

“Has he been approached?”

“Only obliquely. He met with one of his bankers a few days ago in Banqui, the capital city of the Central African Republic. The banker sometimes works for us. He asked Gash’s opinion about the possibility that a change of leadership might be more fruitful-that is, profitable.”

“And?”

“Gash quoted the adage about birds in the hand being more valuable than those in the bush. Our man didn’t pursue it.”

“Can we deal with Kolingba at any level?”

“I doubt it, sir. He is a practitioner of Bwiti.”

“Bwiti?”

“It’s a religion, sir. He thinks he’s the high priest. He takes huge doses of a plant-based drug called Tabernanthe iboga. It gives him visions, which he then acts on as domestic policy. He once had an iboga dream or a vision of boiling a traitorous man alive, his cousin, actually.”

“And he acted on this?”

“The very next day, sir, along with the man’s wife. In a fifty-gallon drum, as I understand it.”

“He’s mad, then,” said Matheson.

“As a hatter, sir.” Faulkener nodded.

“Oh, well,” said Matheson. “I suppose he really will have to go; there’s no other option.” He stared down at the maps. “What about Harris, by the way?”

“He dealt with Ives, but as the Americans say, he’s dropped the ball. Witnesses who have to be dealt with. The Israeli archaeologist who put us onto the whole thing in the first place, as a matter of fact.”

“He’s out of it, then?”

“I’m afraid so, Sir James, unless he suddenly gets very lucky.”

“Then find me someone else to deal with Kolingba,” said Matheson quietly. “And do it quickly. Too many people know about this already.”

“Yes, sir.”

8

Oliver Gash-the former Rwandan refugee turned Baltimore narcotics kingpin, turned secretary of state and