The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (read any book txt) 📕

“I don’t understand. Why would they need a cover story?”

“One of several reasons. They might not want to give away that they know about the Templars. They might fear revealing sources. Higher-ups might not want to encourage vigilantism. Maybe it’s French pride. It’s pretty embarrassing that a civilian group knew more than they did and acted when they didn’t. In truth, I don’t really care why. I won’t be involved with this charade. Besides, I don’t think they want my help. They probably want to keep an eye on me.”

Baldwin sipped her water and looked toward the kitchen to see if their food was on the way. She must have been very hungry.

After a moment, she said, “I think you’re right. Besides, I’m done with this city. Maybe if we come back in a couple years, the magic will have returned.” She put her hand on Evart’s. “Paris always comes back. I’m sure the city wasn’t pleasant during the Nazi occupation.”

“Nor during the Revolution, the Black Plague, the Great War, or any other calamity.”

She nodded. “When are you going to tell Durandus?”

“If you’re ready to go, let’s get the hell out of here. We eat, return to the hotel, you change our return flight, and I’ll pack. Somehow, I’ll get Megan to rescind her offer for me to stay. We have an important council meeting this month on flood damage. We both need to be there, and she knows it. After we’re through airport security, I’ll call Durandus and tell him official obligations require me to decline his generous offer.”

A few months previously, California had been hit with the most severe flood since 1862. Santa Barbara had suffered enormous damage to its infrastructure and in the next council meeting, the city needed to figure out how to pay for repairs.

Baldwin grinned. The beam on her face was not for Evarts, but for the food arriving. She always had a healthy appetite, yet somehow managed to keep her lithe figure with only twenty minutes of exercise a day.

When Evarts took his first bite, he realized he was also famished. Evarts couldn’t fathom how the French made such delicious sandwiches using a buttered baguette and a thin amount of ham and cheese. The french fries were also perfect. Neither spoke as they focused on lunch. Afterwards, they ordered café au lait.

“Anything more from your army friend?” Baldwin asked.

Just to be sure, Evarts checked his phone. “No, but I’ve been thinking about his first response. Other than mentioning that I was in Paris, I was cryptic because certain words trigger NSA computers, but news of the terrorist attack on Pont Neuf should have given him a damn a good hint on why I was texting. He didn’t ask what the hell I was talking about. Instead, he merely said that he’d look into it and get back to me. Look into what? Here’s the thing, I didn’t mention the Templars. I obliquely referred to an unnamed Catholic order. I didn’t even say it was ancient or extinct. There are hundreds of Catholic orders. The fact that he didn’t asked for clarification meant he knew what I was talking about.”

“You think your Pentagon contact knows there’s a vigilante group using the Templar name.”

“I do. And that’s troubling.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s more evidence Durandus was lying through his teeth this morning. He dismissed the Templars as a conspiracy theory when he knew better. It might be bureaucratic ass covering, but my gut tells me it’s more. I think this group is very hush-hush and he let the cat out of the bag.”

“You said a chief inspector wouldn’t spread internet conspiracies. It seems just as unlikely he would blab a deep, dark secret.”

“You’re right … except when we met, he was convinced I was a member of the Templars. To him, that meant I already knew about them.”

She sipped at her coffee. “Greg, if it’s super-secret, how would your friend at the Pentagon know about it.”

“Lieutenant General Jim O’Brian is the head of Army Intelligence,” Evarts said.

Chapter 7

Evarts and Baldwin had no trouble booking or boarding a flight to the United States. Evidently, Durandus hadn’t issued an alert on their names. He probably felt comfortable that they would remain in France at least for the remainder of their scheduled stay. Evarts had bet that if they gave Durandus no cause for concern and moved fast, they could get out while the French police were overwhelmed with the aftermath of the terrorist attack. He had been right.

On arrival in Santa Barbara, Evarts returned to his office only minutes before Mayor Walsh came bursting in with all the energy of a youngster on Christmas morning. Unusual. She normally summoned him to her office.

“What the hell was that all about?” she asked breathlessly, obviously having walked the few blocks from City Hall.

“Mayor, I just arrived. A long flight and seemingly longer drive up from LAX. I just stopped in to check on things before seeing you. Also, I need coffee. Can I offer you some?”

“If it will get me quicker answers, sure.”

He got up and circled his desk to signal that they would fetch it for themselves. A few people were in the breakroom reserved for police brass, so they conversed a few pleasantries as each fixed their coffees. He nodded to other people, wondering who had alerted the mayor that he had entered the building.

When they returned to the privacy of his office, Evarts asked, “What do you know?”

“Practically nothing. The Paris police begged to borrow you for a month or so to consult on the Pont Neuf terrorist attack. They insisted you were crucial to the investigation. The next thing I learn is that you’re on a flight home … supposedly because I recalled you. Which, of course, I didn’t.” She smiled conspiratorially. “What happened? Did you piss off your French counterparts?”

“No, but only because of that ruse. Thanks for covering for me, by the way.”

“What makes you think