Templar's Quest

6

‘May I offer you a cigar, Monsieur McGuire?’

Seated in a sleek white leather chair situated in front of Fabius Jutier’s desk, Finn tersely shook his head. The Frenchman clearly thought that he was the one in control of this lil’ shindig. They were, after all, on his turf – an ultra-modern office that gleamed with lots of shiny metal and shimmering glass. What the French dude didn’t know was that Finn intended to yank the bright red carpet right out from under his leather-shod feet.

Jutier extended the inlaid walnut cigar box a few inches closer. ‘Go ahead. It’s perfectly legal. We French are not bound by the same trade restrictions with Cuba as you Americans.’

Again, Finn shook his head, determined to keep his cool.

‘D’accord.’ The Frenchman strolled to the humidor on the other side of the office. ‘I imagine you’ve had a difficult time adjusting to your new job at the Pentagon,’ he remarked casually as he placed the cigar box in the cedar-lined humidor. ‘A pity, what happened to you in Al-Qanawat.’

‘It’s obvious you flipped someone in the command loop. There’s no other way you could know about the Al-Qanawat mission in Syria. It was strictly black ops. Mind telling me who the turncoat is?’

‘Was.’ Robusto in hand, Jutier walked to the sideboard where there was a miniature guillotine set on a black marble plinth. ‘Given that General Cavanaugh died in a car accident yesterday morning, the question should be framed in the past tense.’

Finn sat up straighter in his chair, surprised the treachery went so high up the chain of command. General Robert ‘Battling Bob’ Cavanaugh had been a top planner at JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. He was also the same general who had put the Al-Qanawat mission into play.

‘Dead men can’t talk. Making me think the General’s accident wasn’t so accidental.’

‘Alas, the General did not keep up his end of our bargain.’ Smiling, Jutier slid his Cuban into the miniature guillotine and, staring directly at Finn’s missing finger, let the blade drop.

A bolt of pain shot through Finn’s phantom finger.

‘Trust me when I say I derived no pleasure from the General’s death,’ the Frenchman glibly continued as he next removed a wooden match from an ebony container. ‘However, we offered him a great sum of money and he failed to deliver as promised.’

‘How about Dixie and Johnny K? Did you enjoy slicing them from stem to sternum?’

With a crisp snap of the wrist, Jutier struck the match against the side of the ebony container. In no apparent hurry to answer the question put to him, he held the match to the foot of the cigar, his cheeks moving like a bellows as he unhurriedly lit it. Finn assumed the theatrics were for his benefit and wondered if he should give the French jackal a round of applause.

Jutier blew a puff of smoke, filling the office with the tobacco’s pungent scent. ‘I am not the bloodthirsty fiend that you make me out to be. If you must know, I did not approve of how that particular matter was handled. But we took a vote and a majority of the Seven decided otherwise.’

‘The Seven? What’s that, some sort of crime syndicate?’

‘Most certainly not. That implies we are little more than brigands and thieves.’ He set his cigar on the rim of a huge sterling-silver ashtray.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of murderers and thieves.’

‘Again, you have jumped to an erroneous conclusion.’ Jutier poured a healthy measure of fifty-year-old single malt whiskey into a cut-crystal tumbler and handed the glass to Finn. ‘Given your last name, I assume that Irish whiskey is your drink of choice. If you like, I can have some ice sent up. Although personally I prefer my whiskey neat. It allows the underlying flavours of oak and peat to come through.’

Finn set the tumbler on the edge of the desk. ‘I told you once already to cut the crap. I’m not here for the chitchat.’

‘Very well.’ Strolling over to his desk, Jutier reseated himself. ‘The Seven is prepared to offer a most generous compensation package in exchange for the Montségur Medallion.’

The Montségur Medallion! Was this fucker actually saying that Dixie and Johnny K were killed because of that gold pendant that he’d found in Syria?

His gut tightened, every muscle in his body quivering with a barely repressed rage. Jutier’s cronies used Dixie and Johnny K like cannon fodder. No, worse than that. Like something you’d tie up in a plastic bag and dump into the garbage.

Four months ago, during the Al-Qanawat mission, he’d taken the gold medallion to prevent some higher-up from using it to pad his retirement account. Royally pissed off, when he returned from Syria, he held on to it. In fact, during the mission debrief, Finn did something he’d never done before – he lied his ass off, claiming he didn’t find anything inside the Al-Qanawat chapel.

For four months now, he’d been waiting for someone to dispute the claim so he could expose the rat bastard. Not only did the fraudulent mission put US military personnel needlessly into harm’s way, but it had been funded with US tax dollars. He’d just never figured they’d resort to cold-blooded murder to get what they wanted.

‘The Montségur Medallion?’ One side of Finn’s mouth turned down at the corner as he shook his head. ‘Never heard of it.’

‘Do not play me for the fool, monsieur. I speak of the thirteenth-century gold pendant that you recovered in Al-Qanawat.’

‘What makes you think that I have it?’

‘Because you are the only man on the Delta team who could have it.’

‘Like I said –’ folding his arms over his chest, Finn leaned back in his chair – ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Jutier slapped the palm of his left hand against the glass table top. ‘Do not lie to me, monsieur!’ A blue vein throbbed at his temple. ‘Before his death, General Cavanaugh was kind enough to provide us with a copy of the Al-Qanawat mission debrief. You were the only Delta trooper who entered the chapel where the Montségur Medallion was kept.’

‘And so you naturally assume that I have your freakin’ medallion.’

‘Mais, oui,’ he replied, lifting his shoulder in a Gallic shrug. ‘In addition to the one million dollars that will be deposited into an offshore account, we will provide DNA evidence to prove your innocence. Not only will you be a free man, you will also be a very rich one.’

Even with the price of gold being sky high, the medallion couldn’t be worth that much. Which meant it had some value other than a purely monetary one.

Just what the hell did I step into?

‘You knew before you killed Dixie and Johnny K that you’d be offering me this deal, didn’t you?’ Finn shoved aside the untouched whiskey and leaned towards the desk. ‘That’s why you set me up for both their murders. With my back to the wall, you figured I’d be in no position to turn you down.’

‘We even went to the trouble and expense of recovering your knife from Al-Qanawat. A clever plan, n’est-ce pas?’

‘How about I take that plan and shove it up your skinny French ass!’ Lurching to his feet, Finn strode behind the desk. Very deliberately, he placed his right hand on the back of Jutier’s chair, imprisoning the Frenchman. ‘I didn’t come here for a “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. And I didn’t show up to get my share of the blood money. I came here for one reason: to get the name of the bastard who killed Dixie and Johnny K.’

‘I am not at liberty to say.’

Finn took a moment to ruminate on that. He already knew that Minister Fabius Jutier wasn’t the killer. Men like Jutier never got their hands bloodied. They hired men like Finn – i.e. ex-commandos – to do their dirty work.

Finn leaned in close. Their faces separated by only a few inches, he could see the faint meandering of blood vessels splotched across the other man’s cheekbones. ‘Unless you want things to turn real ugly, real quick, you’re going to give me that name.’

‘Do not threaten me, monsieur.’

‘Okay, fine.’ Finn hauled Jutier out of the chair and bent him backwards over the glass-topped desk. ‘Consider what I just said as a statement of intent.’ He wrapped his hands around the Frenchman’s neck, forcefully pressing his thumbs into Jutier’s windpipe.

Eyes bulging, Jutier tried, unsuccessfully, to pull Finn’s hands away from his neck.

‘Please … let me go,’ he gasped, his face starting to turn blue.

‘I’m going to ask you again … who killed Dixie and Johnny K?’ Knowing a show of mercy would get him nowhere, Finn tightened his hold. Strangulation wasn’t an exact science, but he figured Jutier had another thirty seconds of life left in him. He also figured the Frenchman would surrender before those thirty seconds lapsed.

As if on cue, Jutier began to frantically beat his hands against Finn’s forearms. He eased his hold just enough for the other man to speak.

‘The Dark Angel,’ Jutier sputtered, his chest heaving as he noisily drew in a deep breath. ‘The … Dark Angel … killed them.’

The Dark Angel? If there was an assassin operating under that name, Finn had never heard of him.

Granting a reprieve, Finn removed his hands from the Frenchman’s throat. ‘Next question: where can I find this Dark Angel?’

Gracelessly rolling on to his stomach, Jutier pushed himself upright. With a pained look on his face, he clutched the left side of his jacket. ‘I’m having severe chest pains. In the lacquer box –’ he jutted his chin at the cherry-red box on top of his desk – ‘I keep my glyceryl trinitrate. Please permit me to –’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Finn lifted the lid on the box, inspecting for hidden weapons. Not seeing anything suspicious, he shoved the box in Jutier’s direction.

‘Thank you, monsieur.’ The Frenchman rummaged through the plastic prescription bottles before making his selection. He popped a capsule into his mouth, his hands shaking visibly.

‘Okay, now that you’ve had your pharm candy, tell me where I can find the Dark Angel.’

‘I’ve said too much already.’

Without warning, the Frenchman began to violently convulse. A second later, Finn caught the faint but distinct smell of almonds.

Potassium cyanide.

‘Crap!’

Knowing he had to act fast, Finn roughly flipped Jutier over and wrapped his arms around him from behind. He then yanked violently upward to induce vomiting.

The Frenchman went limp as Finn lost the battle.

Furious that he’d been bested, Finn plunked the dead bastard into the black leather swivel chair. He searched methodically through Jutier’s coat pockets and removed an engraved lighter, a set of keys and a gold Mont Blanc pen.

Hearing the hinges on the office door creak, Finn peered over his shoulder.

Jesus H! What was she doing here?

Face as pale as February snow, Kate Bauer stood in the doorway. Clearly stunned, she stared at the dead man sprawled in the chair … then shot Finn an accusing glare.

‘My God … you killed him!’