Templar's Quest

5

He was a bastard. No doubt about it.

But if the situation turned dicey, Finn figured he’d need the Camry to escape the premises. That’s why he’d cajoled Kate into coming inside. And why he then lifted the key ring out of the leather bag hanging from her shoulder.

Having gone on red alert the moment they stepped inside the joint, he again scanned the well-heeled crowd.

‘The smoked salmon canapé with caviar is to die for. You have to try one,’ Kate said, wiping a crumb from her upper lip.

Not nearly so impressed, Finn glanced at the buffet table; a twenty-foot-long floral and candle-strewn extravaganza with enough food to feed an entire platoon. Although no red-blooded soldier of his acquaintance would willingly eat the crap that the French were serving at their fancy chow line.

‘Thanks, but I’m more of a pigs-in-a-blanket kind of guy.’

Kate gave a good-natured chuckle. ‘I’m afraid to ask.’ As she spoke, a distinguished-looking African man dressed in a flowing yellow and brown agbado strolled between them, causing a brief separation.

‘Jeez, we should have brought our own UN interpreter.’

‘I’ll have you know that I can say “Hello” in twenty different languages,’ Kate informed him, a challenging cant to her chin. ‘Although I’ll spare you the litany.’

‘Appreciate that.’ Lightly placing his hand on the small of her back, Finn guided Kate through the crowded reception hall. With two hundred or so jibber-jabbering attendees, it was the perfect place for an assassin to lurk. No wonder FJ-58 stipulated the embassy party.

‘The opulent fête champêtre and sumptuous joie de vivre put me in mind of a Watteau painting.’

‘Sorry. Not registering. You lost me at French fries.’ Flagging down a penguin-suited waiter, Finn snatched two glasses of champagne from a silver tray. ‘Here you go. What’s a party without a lil’ bubbly?’ Forcing his lips into a semblance of a smile, he handed Kate one of the glasses.

‘What I was trying to say is that I feel out of my element.’

‘I hear ya.’ A few feet away, Finn observed two female guests bend and sway as they gave each other a well-practised air kiss.

‘You know, Sergeant, er – I mean, Finn –’ Kate took a measured sip of her champagne – ‘I don’t know anything about you. However, if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say that you hail from the Boston area.’

‘Guilty as charged. I’m a Southie born and bred. The lady clearly knows her accents.’ Mimicking his date, he took an obligatory swallow. Christ. Talk about French pansy piss.

‘Given that you sound like Mark Wahlberg in The Departed, it wasn’t so difficult. Good movie, by the way, although a bit on the violent side. It’s all about all these Boston gangsters who –’

‘Yeah, I saw it,’ he lied.

‘I grew up in Pasadena … in case you were wondering.’

He wasn’t.

‘Right. Pasadena. Rose Bowl parade.’ He surreptitiously searched the tight clusters of champagne-swilling partygoers. Come on, asshole. Come to daddy.

‘Don’t they teach children to speak in full sentences in South Boston?’

‘Nope. Can’t recall that Sister Michael Patrick ever used a complete sentence. “Stand.” “Sit.” “Pray.” “Open your books.” ’

Clearly amused, Kate laughed, champagne sloshing over the side of her glass. ‘Which are complete sentences, albeit commands.’

Knowing it was time to cut her loose, Finn cleared his throat. ‘Listen. Kate. I just caught sight of someone I know and I, um, need to talk shop for a few minutes. Would you mind if I –’

‘Not to worry. I’m a big girl. Besides, the dessert table awaits me.’ A good sport, she waved him on his way.

‘Shouldn’t be gone too long,’ he said, the lies fast mounting.

Spying a double set of French doors that led to an outside courtyard, Finn headed in that direction. According to the email he’d received, he was to wait there until he received further instructions.

As he stood at the open doorway, Finn knew that he made an easy sniper target, although he figured that whoever lured him to the embassy wouldn’t try to kill him until after they’d interrogated him. That was, after all, the point of the exercise. If they’d wanted him dead, he’d already be six feet under. Just like Dixie and Johnny K.

He still couldn’t believe his two buddies had been murdered. No, correction: tortured and then murdered.

Once, in a drunken stupor, Lamar Dixon confessed that he liked the Dixie Chicks. Despite being one of the biggest, baddest, blackest men you’d ever want to meet, the inebriated admission instantly earned him a new nickname. When the team tried to stick John Kelleher with the handle ‘Baby Huey’ – on account of his shaved head and ruddy cheeks – the trooper went on a rampage and actually opened a bottle of Killian’s Irish Red with his teeth. Thereafter he was known as Johnny K.

Corporals Dixon and Kelleher were not just personal friends, they were valiant soldiers. Dixie had joined the army two days after 9/11; Johnny K signed up soon thereafter. Both men were true patriots who put their lives on the line numerous times to protect and defend their country. They did not deserve to die like animals led to slaughter.

I swear that I will get you guys the justice you deserve. Or die trying.

Finn glanced at his watch. 1700.

‘Right on time,’ he muttered under his breath as a tall, dark-haired man broke away from the crowd. FJ-58. Coming round the mountain.

‘Monsieur McGuire, I am pleased that you managed to elude the two CID agents,’ FJ-58 said by way of greeting, the words spoken with a cultivated French accent. ‘But, then, we knew you would successfully escape your would-be captors. No doubt, it was child’s play for a man with your training.’ The Frenchman extended his right hand. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Minister of Cultural Affairs, Fabius Jutier.’

Finn glared at the proffered hand, refusing to take it.

‘How about we cut the crap and get down to business,’ he growled, not in the mood for phony pleasantries.

‘Ah, you Americans … such a colourful way with the language. Perhaps we should take this conversation to my office.’

‘Lead the way.’