The Templar Concordat (3 page)

The Costa Rican bartender quietly replaced the house phone and paid especially close attention to a customer ordering on the far side of the oval bar. The bar was a shaded island in the pool, with a fake thatched roof, granite top, and calypso music to set the mood. Guests waded or swam up to it and ordered tall tropical drinks in frosted glasses with orange slices, straws, stir-sticks, and little umbrellas.

“Garcon, a drink, my kingdom for a drink!” The American threw his arms straight back over his head, fell slowly into the pool, then hauled himself back up on the barstool and shook his head. “Oh, yeah! That’s a wake-up call. Yes!” He snorted, coughed, and waved a finger at the honeymoon couple a few stools away. “Ok to swim in, but don’t never ever drink it. No way, not never.” He turned and leaned toward the couple and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial leer. “You know what fish do in water, don’t you?”

The woman reddened and looked down, and he howled, “Yeah! Yeah! You know. You know. Little fishies…” He held one hand on top of the other and wiggled them together. “Leeetle feeshies…”

The man stood up and faced the American, but his wife grabbed at his elbow. “No, Chuck, let’s just go. Come on, honey, let’s just get out of here. Please?” The couple left, both red-faced, one with embarrassment, the other with anger.

“Mr. Nelson, good afternoon, Sir.” The assistant manager of the hotel had donned a pair of swim trunks and stood in the water next to the American. The American swayed at the edge of the bar and tried to focus on him. “Tequila, Garcon. Tequila with a worm for my friend the village bellhop in his… yeah… in his native loincloth!”

The assistant manager flipped on his professional smile. Business everywhere had been slow, and they needed every guest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson, but the bar is closed now. But I’m sure we can have room service bring some gin and tonics to your room. Compliments of the house, of course.” He leaned close and whispered, “It’s the bartender, Sir. We think he’s skimming, and the police will be here soon. Help us out, and don’t let on that you know. Just pretend everything’s normal. We may need your testimony.”

The manager shifted his eyes back and forth. “You know how these people are. You know? Indians?” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I’m sure you know what I mean.” The bartender overheard the conversation, rolled his eyes at the manager, and went back to polishing glasses on the other side of the bar.

“Hmmm, yeah, I spotted him. Made him for a skimmer. Was going to tell you.” The American leaned on the manager and slipped off the stool. The manager caught him and used the slip to ease him toward the pool steps. “Hope Jungle Boy here gets what’s coming.” He hooked a thumb at the bartender. “I knew he was bent first time I saw him.”

When he dragged the American out of the pool, the manager looked back at the bartender and scowled.  The grinning bartender gave him two thumbs up.

Rashid checked his Rolex. Right on time. That was all anyone would see of Mr. Nelson until sometime tomorrow. Mrs. Nelson, as usual would eat alone, and watch the sunset. But tonight would be special for her, very special.

*     *     *

Callahan fell flat on his back on top of the bed when they reached the room.  By then, “Mr. Nelson” had become dead weight the manager had to heave through the door toward the bed. He snorted through his nose, hung his mouth open, inhaled huge snores, and then even that shallowed out to a deep, rhythmic rasping.

For three days he had played that drunken Mr. Nelson with such a nice and attractive wife. What, the other guests had thought, was such a nice girl doing with him? He spent about five minutes on the bed, heard nothing, then stripped off the gin soaked clothes, threw them in a corner, and headed for the shower. It wasn’t easy spilling all that gin and tonic while pretending to drink it. When this was done, he swore he’d never even go near gin for the rest of his life.

But he had to admit it really was a great spot for a vacation. The beach, surf, fishing, and diving were everything he could ask for. It was all there. So, what was he doing? He spent all day playing the drunken buffoon.

He had changed into cargo pants and a T-shirt when Marie knocked on the door. Three raps, followed by two raps, followed by one. He turned the bolt and his “long-suffering wife” entered their room.

“God, it stinks in here,” she laughed. “Maybe it’s time for you to switch brands.”

“Tell me about it. You think being the town drunk is easy? If Zurich ever sees the bar bill, they’ll flip.”

“Here, eat something.” She handed him a white bag with cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coke. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Thanks.” He stuck a hand in the bag. “How’s our friend looking?”

“Well, he was sure looking today,” Marie said. “He had his eyes all over me at the bar. Threw me a few smiles. I snuck some looks at him and got caught looking, batted my baby blues a few times, did the wet bikini thing. You know? The frustrated American whore begging to be bedded by a real man. You know how these guys think.” She flipped her hair. “Especially if a girl has dyed blond hair and blue contact lenses.”

“Well,” said Callahan, “say what you want about him, he does have good taste in women.”

“Just doing my job, remember that. We all have our talents, and do what we have to.”

He held up his hands defensively. “I know. I know. So, what do you do when you’re not on a job like this?” Callahan asked. They hadn’t worked together before, and had been on purely professional footing for the last few days.

“I’m with the Kruger Institute in Zurich. On the public side, I’m curator of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Century collection. On the private side, I work with the Chief Archivist in the Templar Archives down below. There’s always a seminar somewhere, or some collection to visit. It lets me get around. You know? For things like this.”

Turnabout is fair play, she thought. “How about you?”

“Computers. Security systems for computers and buildings with security controlled by computers. Usually with Triad International. It lets me get around a lot without too many questions.”

“Triad? That’s a pretty big outfit. They did our security system at the Kruger.  I didn’t know it was Templar.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t know the Kruger Institute was Templar, either.  I suspect there is a whole lot that’s Templar that we don’t know about. Zurich likes it like that.”

“Strange life.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I get the idea they think we are robots. Just work with someone without knowing anything about them.”

“Tonight?” he asked, getting back to business.

“I think so. I’ve done everything but send him an invitation on a little silver plate.”

“Hey,” he looked at her, “this guy is no joke. He’s flat out deadly. He’s good.  Real good. The best the Hashashin have. He was behind the attack on the Vatican last year, and they would have killed the Pope if one of those Swiss Guards hadn’t taken the bullets himself. He killed one of our guys a few years ago and got away from the others. And he ran the job that blew up that airliner with three-hundred people over the Atlantic. Don’t let your guard down for a second.”

“Yeah, I know. Take a look at this. It came in while you were still spilling your gin all over the bar.” She opened a laptop on the desk, hit a few keys, and pointed to the screen. “Zurich thinks the Hashashin or their Al Qaeda franchise have another Vatican attack coming up. I’m not sure how they know, but our guy Rashid did the last Vatican attack, and they think he’s a big player in a new one. Zurich sent a bunch of new questions for him. I copied them so you can wipe the message when you’re finished.”

Callahan leaned over the desk and read the message. “I wonder what Zurich is up to. Under the Concordat, Templars have to keep hands off the Vatican and the Church at least until this Pope dies. And that means they stay completely away. You know how they hammer us that the Church is strictly off-limits while this Pope lives.”

“Well,” Marie said, “Templars might have to keep hands off, but that doesn’t mean Zurich can’t gather intelligence. They might know the complete attack plan, but still not tell the Vatican because of the Concordat.”

“That’s the world we live in. So, I guess we’ll see just how much Rashid knows. And don’t underestimate him. He’s not just an armchair planner who…”

“I know, I know. I’m a big girl.” She cut him off. “He’s a bad one. But that just makes taking him off the board more satisfying. I’ve been a Templar since my father died, and I intend to have a long and eventful life and peacefully die in bed.  No Death in Battle for me.” She turned serious and sat down on her bed. Callahan started to speak, but she held up a hand. “But you’re right. Everything we know about Rashid says he’s one of their best. I really don’t intend to tangle with him.”

She saw doubt in his face. “Callahan, get your head screwed on straight! I’ve done this before. So have you. Remember, I do the same thing you do. This isn’t a frontal attack. Not with a guy like this. Not for either of us. If we just follow the plan it will all work out. Believe me, these clowns think every woman on the planet is panting for them.” She took a breath and gave him a hard look. “This guy makes my skin crawl, but I know you have my back.” Then she smiled.  “Be cool.”

*     *     *

Marie had changed into a white tropical dress and sandals and sat alone in a wicker chair on the hotel terrace watching the Pacific. She crossed her legs, dangled a sandal off one foot, held a tall iced tea in one hand, and fingered a strand of pearls with the other.

“A beautiful sunset, isn’t it?”  Rashid had come up next to her. His Oxford accent held just a trace of his native Arabic.

“Oh, I love it here in the evening,” she said without looking up. “The breeze, the trees, the smell of the salt air, the waves. What more can you ask for?” She bounced the dangling sandal, looked up at him, and smiled sadly. “The sun, look at it.  I’ve heard there is a green flash sometimes just as the sun disappears. Just one. One sudden, intense, emerald flash. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Look at her, he thought. She’s begging. Tossing her hair around, top buttons carelessly left open. Slut. A wasted life, he thought, wasted until now. He smiled down at her, down her perfect body, down to her tanned legs, and saw the potential, saw what she could become. Only an artist could see it. And Rashid was truly an artist. He was one of a kind. Unique.

She removed her sunglasses and looked directly into his eyes. “I’m Teresa Nelson,” she said and extended her hand. Rashid took it, felt the life in it, felt the softness, felt the potential, moved a thumb over a firm vein on the back of the hand, held it a moment too long, and quickly pulled a chair over. He thanked the lord for his luck, and wondered just how the evening would unwind. He knew how it would end.

*     *     *

“It must be beautiful down there,” she said.

“Where?” asked Rashid.

“The beach. Look how beautiful it is. I’ve wanted to walk in the surf at night ever since we came here.”

“Why don’t you?

She looked down. “I’m afraid to go out there alone at night… and… well… my husband… you know… won’t wake up until morning…” Her dangling sandal brushed against his leg and she wore an impish smile.

“Well, let’s go,” said Rashid. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” And then, he thought, we can go back to the perfect safety of my room.

She bounced up like a little girl and grabbed his hand. “To the beach, my kind sir.” She tossed her hair and laughed. “To the beach.”

They walked down the pebbled path that led from the terrace to the beach, passed deserted cabanas, palm trees, and shrubbery. Rashid took off his shoes and rolled up his white pants and Marie swung her sandals from a finger.

“Look,” she said, pointing back behind them and walking backward. “Look how the surf wipes out our footprints. It’s like we were never here. Invisible. This is what I have always imagined. A moonlit beach, surf, sand…” She looked down, then up into his eyes, “And a strong, handsome man.” She bushed a finger down his cheek.

Rashid pulled her to him, but she put her hands on his chest and looked up and down the beach. “There’s nobody here,” he said. “Just us.”

“I know,” she whispered softly, “but…” She leaned her head on his chest. Let him lead. Don’t push it.

Blood surged to his temples and his neck felt hot. Balance. Art. Perfection. Patience. No. Not here, he thought, not here. Discipline. Strength. Resolve. Purity. Art, not graffiti. Remember who is the artist and who is the slut. The artist does not compromise for the slut. The artist excises the slut and leaves divine beauty.

In control of himself again, he said, “You look lovely, Teresa.” He held one of her hands in both of his, looked around and said, “Do you think there may be too many people down here? It’s a nice night, and I’m afraid people will come walking by. And, well… you know…” He squeezed the hand a bit and looked into her eyes.

She looked down and traced a finger up his arm. “I’m… well… my room… my husband, he’s…”

He put a finger on her lips, and said, “It’s Ok. I have a very nice room.”

*     *     *

Callahan watched the small screen on his GPS and heard the three beeps in his Bluetooth earpiece. Marie had squeezed her phone through her small handbag, signaling they were on the move to Rashid’s room in case he hadn’t been able to hear the conversation. But he had heard every word of the conversation and continued listening as predator and hunter circled each other.