The Templar Conspiracy

"DCS/AMC."

That made sense, too-Defense Courier Service, Airborne Military Command, the people who transferred sensitive material from one place to the other.

"What about the unit budget line?" Every individual unit within a larger command had its own designation for defense budgeting purposes. It was where the buck stopped, literally.

"Never heard of it," Fremont said, frowning. In Pentagon-speak STRATCOMCON probably stood for Strategic Communications Control, and Prairie Fire was probably some kind of operation it was running. Given the number of officers being shifted around, it was going to wind up costing the taxpayers a load of dollars. He made a query note about it in the computer log and then forgot all about it. The weekend was coming up and he was going hiking with his girlfriend in Cunningham Falls State Park in the Catoctin Mountains. One more night of being cooped up in the bunker and he'd be out in the fresh air. He couldn't wait.

"So, what do we do now?" Brennan asked from the backseat of the big VW luxury car. They were heading south just beyond Les Contamines, ninety minutes away from the Geneva airport.

"I'm phoning Pat Philpot in D.C., and you're calling your people at the Vatican and any bigwig antiterrorist cops you know in Rome," said Holliday from behind the wheel. "We've got to get to the cops with what we know about Tritt and our so-called Jihadist friends. The funeral is the day after tomorrow."

"They took our cell phones," said Peggy.

"Mine, too," said Holliday. "They've got satellite phones at the airport. We'll call from there."

"You have an address book?" asked Brennan. Peggy turned in her seat; the priest had that feral, Gollum-like tone in his voice again.

"I keep some numbers in my head. I know Pat's by heart," Holliday answered.

"By the time we get to the airport it'll be past midnight in the States," said Peggy, checking her watch. It was almost five a.m., Geneva time.

"So I'll get his big, fat ass out of bed," replied Holliday.

When the satellite phone pinged, General Angus Scott Matoon was over the mid-Atlantic aboard one of the army's blandly designated C-37 transports, which was a drab military euphemism for a leather-chaired and whisper-quiet Gulfstream G650. The Pentagon, for whatever reason, had 120 of the forty-seven-million-dollar aircraft.

He unlimbered the receiver from its mount on the bulkhead. "Yes?"

"Neville, sir."

His adjutant-a bloodless, lickspittle, brownnoser forced on him by Kate Sinclair, more a spy for her than an assistant to him. As Matoon had long ago discovered, Sinclair had little moles like Neville everywhere, even in the White House, although no one was absolutely sure who that was. Sinclair was a firm believer in the adage that good intelligence was the basis of a good offense.

"What is it?" Matoon asked brusquely. The ice was melting in his glass of Bourbon on the table in front of him. The interior of the aircraft was dark except for the pool of light over his comfortable leather swivel chair and the glow of the computer screen in its niche across the aisle.

"We have a situation, General."

The satellite phone on a jet used by a member of the Joint Chiefs was probably as secure as you could get, but there was always the possibility that the NSA simply monitored and recorded all government and military calls as a matter of protocol. It was perhaps far-fetched, but not impossible, and Matoon hadn't gotten to his present position by being sloppy. Discretion, especially with the home office, was the rule.

"What kind of situation?"

"A prairie fire, sir."

"A bad one?"

"It's spreading slightly."

Which meant that somebody within the Pentagon had made a nominal query about either Prairie Fire or its big brother, STRATCOMCON. Nominal or not, any leakage at this point could be disastrous.

"Is it likely to get worse?" Matoon asked.

"It's possible."

"Can you put it out?"

"Yes, of course, General. There might be collateral damage, however. Should I put the fire out completely?"

Which meant that there was a civilian involved. "Would extinguishing it completely be difficult or hazardous?" Matoon asked.

"Not at all, General."

"Then do it," said Matoon. He hung up the phone and picked up his drink. He took a sip, cracking an ice cube with his teeth. Another sacrificial lamb for Kate Sinclair's cause.

"Shit," said the general. The jet flew on through the night.