The Templar Heresy

23

It was early morning, a few minutes after six, when the aircraft touched down in a damp and muggy Milano Malpensa airport. They passed through customs and immigration without any problems, and immediately made their way to the departure side to check on outbound flights to London.

‘We’re in luck,’ Bronson said, pointing at the board, which showed two scheduled flights to London, both leaving at around eight.

But when they presented themselves at the ticket counters, they discovered that not only were both flights fully booked, but there were around a dozen people on the waiting list for each one.

That really only left them with two other options. They could find a hotel or get out of Milan using a different form of transport than an aircraft, and in Bronson’s opinion, keeping moving was far more important than getting some sleep.

Stephen had a different point of view.

‘Do we really need to do this?’ he complained. ‘I’m completely knackered.’

‘We all are,’ Angela snapped, ‘but Chris is just trying to keep us alive, and I’m going with him. If you want to stay here, that’s entirely up to you.’

Stephen looked from one to the other, and shook his head.

‘I can’t see how they could possibly trace us this far in such a short time. This is Milan anyway, it’s not like we’re still in the Middle East. I’m going to find a hotel near the airport, get some sleep and then fly back to London this afternoon or sometime tomorrow.’

‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea, but it’s your choice,’ Bronson said. ‘One word of advice, though. When you check in, make sure you use a different name and pay in cash. Definitely don’t show the clerk your passport or anything that can identify you. Tell them that you’ve been robbed and that all your personal documents have been stolen. That way, if anybody does manage to trace us here, they’ll have no way of telling where you went after we disembarked from that aircraft.’

Stephen nodded absent-mindedly. ‘Thank you for everything you did back there,’ he said.

He hugged Angela, shook Bronson’s hand, and walked away towards the exit from the arrivals hall.

Angela watched him go, a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘I’m tempted to say he’s right, you know,’ she said. ‘This could be a bit of overkill on your part.’

Bronson shrugged. ‘Maybe it is. Maybe not. I just really don’t want to take the chance, especially not if you’re likely to be in the firing line. Doing this should hopefully break the chain completely. Nobody — not the men following us or the Iraqi police or anybody else — should know that I’m involved at all yet, so the paper trail that you’ve left from Kuwait City will end right here in Milan, and there’ll be nothing to show where you went or what you did after you walked out of the airport.’

Angela nodded. ‘You’ve talked me into it,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to go with you to the desk?’

‘Definitely not. I don’t want anybody here to remember us being together. There’s a café opening up just over there. Grab yourself a coffee and buy some soft drinks and a couple of sandwiches or something for the journey, and then walk out of the building. I’ll pick you up outside.’

Bronson’s Italian was fluent, and hiring the mid-sized Peugeot was a reasonably simple process. Quicker than he had expected, he was handed the keys and directions to the car rental parking area. A few minutes after that, he pulled up outside the door of the arrivals hall to allow Angela to place her bags in the boot and climb into the passenger seat of the car.

‘How far do you want to go? Today, I mean?’ Angela asked as she did up her seat belt.

‘All the way, if possible,’ Bronson replied.

‘It is a hell of a long drive, though,’ said Angela.

‘I know, but I won’t be happy until we’re back in the UK and this is behind us. Anyway, while I’m driving you can get started on working out what that inscription is all about.’

The built-in satnav steered them through the outskirts of Milan until they picked up the ring road, the Tangenziale Ovest di Milano, to the south-west of the city. Near the district of Pero, Bronson turned on to the Autostrada Serenissima, which ran almost due west towards the French border. Driving through Switzerland would have been a shorter route, but he didn’t want any possible problems at the border, and thanks to Schengen there were no border controls of any sort between Italy and France.

While they drove, Angela talked, partly to rehash what they knew about the putative temple, the obliterated inscription and the killings, but mainly, Bronson knew, to keep him awake as the seemingly unending tarmac of the autostrada unrolled in front of them in the early morning. Simply staring at it was hypnotic, and there was surprisingly little traffic at that time of the day so any kind of an external stimulus was a bonus.

They made it into France and as far as an autoroute service station beyond Lyon before Bronson finally admitted defeat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but that’s it. If I try to drive any further I’m going to fall asleep at the wheel.’

‘There’s no hotel here,’ Angela pointed out, ‘so shall we just stay in the car?’

‘Unless you’ve a real problem with that, yes. I just need to close my eyes for a few hours, and then we can get on the road again.’

They ate the last of the sandwiches Angela had bought at the airport in Milan, then reclined their seats as far back as they would go and closed their eyes.

Bronson was snoring in minutes.