of choice of both the Secret Service Presidential Detail and Navy SEALs. These guys were neither.
Lang didn't turn but was certain the one behind, the one whose push had ejected him from the cave, was from the same mold.
The older man looked up from the letter. Tan under a full head of long silver hair, his face was lean, the sort of face AARP likes to use in its brochures.
'To whom did you send this?' he wanted to know.
'Santa Claus,' Lang said. 'I'm beating the Christmas rush.'
He dipped his chin, the slightest of nods, and Lang's arm was snatched upward from behind, a Quick snap that sent a jolt of pain across Lang's shoulders. It hurt enough to make him gasp.
'No one likes a smartass, Mr. Reilly,' the man said without a trace of anger, as though he were lecturing a dull child. 'I assure you, I will have an answer. The question is, how much will you have to endure first?'
Lang made a show of glancing from left to right. 'Don't see the rack, thumbscrews, any of the interrogation tools Philip and the boys used on your people. Sure you can ask questions without equipment?'
Another wrenching of the arm. Lang may have only imagined the sound of tearing ligaments. He was certain he saw stars brighter than when he had banged his head.
'And the answer?' Silver Hair asked. 'And what happens when you get it?' Lang asked. 'Don't guess I'm walking out of here with your thanks.'
The man in the suit wasn't the first to call Lang a wiseass and Lang devoutly hoped he'd live long enough for this guy not to be the last. But the purpose of the conversation wasn't social banter. Agency training taught that, in a tight spot, stall, play for time in hopes you'll find a way out. With two, probably three men armed with automatic weapons; it looked like Lang was going to need a whole lot of time.
The older guy, obviously the leader, gave Lang a smile that wouldn't have melted ice in July. 'Very perceptive of you, Mr. Reilly.'
He nodded to the hulk to his left who reached inside his coat with the hand that didn't have a gun in it and produced a long slender box like something from a jeweler. Inside was a hypodermic needle.
'You guys ought to open a clinic,' Lang said. 'Every time I see you, you want to give me a shot. And you haven't even asked me about allergies.'
Silver Hair gave another of those little dips with his chin and the guy with the needle took a step.
'What the hell is it?' Lang asked. 'Truth serum?'
'Not quite yet, Mr. Reilly,' he said. 'Later, perhaps a little sodium pentothal. Right now, we want you sedated, to help you relax and enjoy the ride, as you Americans say.'
'Couple of questions,' Lang said. 'After all, we both know you're not going to turn me loose to write an expose for the National Enquirer. You can at least give me the satisfaction of a few answers.'
Silver Hair sighed. 'And then, no doubt, you will tell me to whom you sent this letter.'
'So you can get rid of them just like you did my sister and nephew, kill them like the doorman in my condo building and the antique dealer? I don't think you'd believe me even if I did tell you.'
There was a flash from down the hill, not in the direction of the road, the instant of glare of sun reflected off something-glass, metal. Lang wasn't sure he had really seen it. If Silver Hair or his pals had, they gave no indication. Lang looked in the opposite direction, making sure that if something really was out there, he didn't give it away. Whatever it was, it wasn't very likely to be there on his behalf.
Lang might have been more wrong before but he couldn't remember when.
Silver Hair nodded to his flunky to hold up a second. 'Then, perhaps you will tell me how you found the cave and its… contents. I'd like to make sure no one else does. But be brief with your questions, Mr. Reilly.'
The older man sat down on the same flat rock from which Lang had watched the dust settle, the copy of the letter spread open on his lap. Lang felt a slight relaxation of the pressure on his arms. The one that had been twisted felt as though the joint was on fire.
'Templars,' Lang asked, 'you are Templars?'
Silver Hair spoke as though relating a familiar story.
'Quite correct, Mr. Reilly. If you know who we are, you also know our history, that in 1307 the King of France…' He scowled as though recalling a personal betrayal. 'The perfidious Philip sent orders to his minions to arrest the Knights of the Temple of Solomon and accuse them falsely. Our spies were widespread, were in every court in Europe. They warned of what was coming. As many of us as could leave without raising suspicion fled to Scotland where Philip's lackey, Clement, couldn't reach us. The Scottish king, the one known today as Robert the Bruce, was under papal interdict and no friend of the pope.'
His voice had more of an inflection than an accent, although Lang had the impression English wasn't his first language.
'As many of you as could?' Lang was thinking of poor Pietro, left to face the Inquisition on bogus charges. 'You deserted a number of your brothers to be tortured, killed, to burn at the stake.'
Silver Hair crossed his legs at the ankles. Lang noticed he was wearing those short socks that European men favor. 'It was God's judgement as to who went and who stayed, not ours.'
Lang was tempted to ask if the choice had been communicated by stone tablet or burning bush. Instead, he asked, 'And Clement would have been delighted if he had bagged the entire Order, right? After all, you were blackmailing him just as you are blackmailing the papacy today.'
Silver Hair reached into an inside coat pocket and produced a silver cigarette case. He held it out for Lang to see.
'Supposedly made from several of the infamous thirty pieces of silver given to Judas.' He took out a cigarette and offered one.
Lang shook his head. 'Don't smoke. No point in risking one's health.'
If the Templar got the irony, he ignored it.''Blackmail' is such an ugly word, Mr. Reilly. We prefer to say we guard the pope's greatest secret.' He lit up with a gold Ronson. 'And have since you somehow discovered it during the time of the crusades,' Lang said.
The older man exhaled a jet of blue smoke instantly dispersed by the light wind. 'We have served the True Church for some time, yes.'
Lang made no effort to keep the contempt out of his voice. 'Some service! Murder, blackmail. Hardly Christian v:irtues.'
If Silver Hair was offended, he didn't show it. 'Regrettably, an imperfect world does not allow the consistent practice of Christian virtues. After all, our Order was founded as a military one, trained in the very unchristian art of war. It was necessary then just as an occasional unchristian act is necessary now. Fortunately, we have the sacrament of confession to shrive us of such sins.'
'Including killing women and children?'
He stubbed out his cigarette. 'We have no time for ideological argument, Mr. Reilly. Suffice it to say that when we held Jerusalem, one of our number came across certain parchments that lead us here, the same that the priest Sauniere found hidden in his altar.' He let a smile flicker and die. 'We know you are aware of Sauniere, Mr. Reilly. Why else would you visit such a forlorn little place as Rennes-le-Chateau? What we found here on Cardou must be protected, no matter who suffers.'
'So much for loving thy neighbor.'
With one hand he held the letter, using the other to push himself erect from the rock with a spryness Lang would have associated with a younger man. 'Mr. Reilly, I answered your question, that yes, we are the Templars. Now you can do me the curtesy of answering mine or…' He nodded to the goon with the needle.
4
Cardou
'You best make your shot before he jabs that needle in,' the man said to the sniper. 'I'd wager it's full of nasty stuff.'
The shooter didn't move the scope. 'Nothing nastier than the slug Reilly gets in the head should I hurry and miss.'
