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

“Sleep tight.” General O’Brian ended the call.

Now what the hell was going on?

It took only minutes for Evarts to call his assistant and asked him to book a flight from LAX to Dulles. Since this trip was not for city business, Evarts instructed the cost to be charged to a personal account. He’d get the Pentagon to reimburse him for the first class ticket.

Now he had to stay awake until his assistant called with the flight information. If the flight were early, he’d arrange a car service to drive him the two hours to the airport so he could nap. Although most of the time it made little difference, on bad days he appreciated being independently wealthy. Both he and Baldwin had inherited substantial estates which allowed them to smooth out the rough spots in life.

After another Macallan’s, his assistant called back with a civilized mid-morning flight that would get him into D.C. in the evening. He had also arranged a private hop from Santa Barbara to LAX. Perfect. If it were that damn urgent, the Army could pay for his expensive transportation. Evarts sent O’Brian a text with his flight info and a request that he make hotel reservation.

With relief, Evarts trudged upstairs and crawled into bed again.

This time Baldwin rolled toward him and her warm body welcomed him to bed.

“What was that?” she asked, not quite awake.

“Nothing that can’t wait until breakfast,” Evarts answered. “Go back to sleep.”

It was a needless instruction.

Just before Evarts fell asleep, he had a worrying thought. O’Brian had sounded serious about sending the FBI to fetch him. Had he evaded the French to become ensnared by the intelligence apparatus of his own county. He had a premonition that his life’s trajectory had been tipped in a new direction.

He fell asleep hoping for a brief hiatus.

Chapter 9

Evarts scanned the people waiting beyond the airport glass security wall. Despite her civilian clothing, Evarts recognized an earnest young woman as a soldier and most probably his driver. They made eye contact and a slight nod confirmed his supposition. Was he similarly obvious as a cop? No. He wore casual attire that would scream West Coast, but not cop. She must have a photograph of him.

When he exited the security area, she did not offer her hand or a smile. She gave a sideways nod and walked toward the exit without even a glance to ensure that he followed. Evarts took comfort in that she exhibited not the slightest skill in spy craft. She acted like an enlistee doing duty she found disagreeable.

She led him to a small Korean hatchback. Evarts threw his carry-on into the back which was littered with toddler toys. He brushed crumbs off the front seat before sitting. As he fastened his seatbelt, he noticed she carried a sidearm under her over-sized sweat jacket.

“Personal car?” He asked knowing the answer.

“Orders. I guess they don’t want a grand announcement of your arrival. I’m Sergeant First Class Wilson. You’re Greg Evarts, Chief of Police, Santa Barbara. Since you’re not military, you may call me Diane.”

“Thank you for picking me up, Diane. Where are you taking me?”

“To the Watergate. You’re to check in straightaway, then meet your host in the downstairs bar. I’ve been instructed to tell you not to dally.”

“Who is my host?”

“I was told you would know.”

“I do. I was wondering if you knew.”

“I don’t have a need to know. I’ll drop you off at the entrance and then I get to go home to my family. When we arrive at the hotel, hop out quickly or my husband might get a notion to cook dinner and that’ll be on you.”

“I’ll be quick as a bunny.”

“Good.”

She said nothing more. She had been around supposed hotshots before and felt neither the need nor the inclination to butter up self-important strangers. That told Evarts that she had a serious job in the Pentagon and had been recruited on the fly for this menial task.

“Diane, are you always armed when you pick up people at the airport?”

After a sideways glance, she said, “I’m military police.”

“Unusual duty for an MP sergeant first class.”

“Someone thought you needed special handling.”

Special handling? The coddling variety or the protective variety? He was not a big wig, so it was likely the second category. Also, Sergeant Wilson was dressed casually and used her personal vehicle. Not standard operating procedure for ego-stroking red-carpet treatment. Evarts thought. The exact purpose of his visit could not be mentioned on an open line, but it had something to do with terrorism. Was he a target?

Evarts asked, “Were you warned that I might be in danger?”

Another glance. “I was told to remain alert.”

“What unit are you assigned to?”

“Financial forensics. My unit investigates terrorist funding and expenditures.”

Evarts did not miss the emphasis on the word my. Commissioned officers may hand down orders, but the sergeants ran the show.

Evarts asked, “Do you have a secure communication device?”

She nodded.

“May I borrow it?” Evarts asked.

“No.”

“I need to call the person I’m meeting in the Watergate bar.”

“No.”

“Our prior communication was vague because my side wasn’t secure. After an update, I suspect he’ll want to invite someone else to our meeting.”

“No.”

“He carries a lot of weight on his shoulders.”

“He’ll be in civvies.”

“You can’t shed that kind of weight by changing out of uniform.”

“Ah hell, you’re meeting General O’Brian.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“Been thinking on it. Not many can jerk my boss around, and fewer would have a clandestine agenda. General O’Brian fits the bill.”

“Can I call Jim?”

“Yes.” She handed over a cell phone. “Clever of you to use his first name.”

Evarts punched his number from memory. When O’Brian answered with a curt hello, he said, “Hi, Jim. We’re on the way to the hotel.” He looked out the window. “Probably see you in about twenty minutes.”

“Then you’ll be ten minutes late,” O’Brian said.

“Traffic. I’ll have a double Macallan’s on the rocks. Appreciate it if you could have it ready for me when I arrive. Thanks.”

He terminated the call and