The Templar Concordat

by Terrence O'Brien

  Before she left Dhahran, she had ordered an Internet set of lock picks to be delivered to the hotel. When she got back to her room, she saw the package lying on the bed. Ok. Now she had everything she needed. Tomorrow would be the day. She couldn’t help giggling.

  She traded the fashionable shopping clothes for a dark outfit that alternated between tight and loose fitting items, smeared on dark eye shadow and black lipstick, laced up black construction boots, hung silver lightning bolts from her ears, stuck seven rings on her fingers, wrapped a chain around her waist, and stuck her hair up under a black cap. She looked in the mirror and was genuinely pleased at the horrid transformation that stared back. People would be able to describe the outfit, but not the person. Great.

  She took the elevator to the parking level of the hotel and walked out the driveway into the early evening. Time to go get a look at Professor Jean Reynolds house, and with luck, she might even get a glimpse of the target herself.

  London - Sunday, April 5

  “Do you think Zurich will ever make up its mind about this thing? They have the treaty pictures Jean took. They know exactly what the treaty says.” Callahan was leaning back in the corner of a booth in the Dorchester café, skimming the newspaper propped on the edge of the table.

  “Oh, I’m sure they will, but I bet there is one hell of a fight in the Templar Council right about now.” Marie leaned over and took his last chocolate cookie.

  “What are they fighting about?”

  “Templars take a very long view of history. They don’t think this fight with the radical Muslims will be over in a few years, or a few decades. They expect it to go on for hundreds of years. It’s already been going on for a thousand years. You know that. So, they’re trying to figure out which alternative will give them the long-term advantage. Maybe it is best to let that treaty become public, or maybe now’s not the time.”

  “So they can make it public sometime down the road? On their own timetable? When it’s more to their advantage?”

  “Exactly.” She leaned both elbows on the table and searched his plate for any remaining cookie bits. “The Church probably has the longest view of history, and then come the Templars. And let’s not forget the Hashashin. It’s hard to put yourself in that frame of mind. We live to be what? Eighty or ninety if we’re lucky? You have to step out of that life span and pretend you’re going to live a thousand years. That’s what I figure the Council is doing right now.”

  “Well, that means the probability is they will want to grab the treaty and keep it secret for now. And that means we’re going to have to take Jean Randolph pretty soon.”

  “Why’s that?” She lifted her ice cream bowl and gestured to the waiter for another.

  “Look at it like this. If we’re looking at the best time over, say, the next hundred years? It’s unlikely that this moment is the best. And if they get hold of the treaty, then they can plan some upcoming campaign and include it in that plan. If you take the long view, and you have the treaty locked up in the Templar Archives, then that would figure into how you operate in the future. It’s just very unlikely now is the best time to let it out of the bag.”

  “My God, Callahan, now you’re starting to sound like the Chief Archivist.” She swirled her new ice cream around the bowl. “You know, we should probably plan a way to take her. We never know when Zurich will give the word.”

  “How to take her? We let ourselves into her place when she’s out. Wait for her to come back. Stick her in the butt with a needle and take her to a safe house.” He gave her a quick look. “You said you have the drug kit, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I have it in a pocket of my suitcase. I suppose you’re right. Just go in and wait for her to come home. Surprise!”

  “Yeah, and that brings us back to our present predicament.” He tapped the headlines in the Guardian and read from it. “Carnage Spreads Across Europe In Wake Of Vatican Bombing.” The story detailed the rash of killings across all of Western Europe, starting in Rome. All of the victims were Middle Eastern men, all of the killings were execution style, and none of the killers had been apprehended. “It says civil rights groups are strongly protesting this savage attack on peaceful immigrants from the Middle East, and demand the government protect these innocents and apprehend the perpetrators immediately. And this idiot in Parliament says it must be the CIA.”

  He read down the column in the Guardian, and whispered, “Look at this. They even got five in London while we’ve been chasing paper. Right under our noses.”

  He folded the paper and smacked it down on the table. “The Templars have gone to war, and we’re lunching in the café of the Dorchester having an extended dessert of cookies and ice cream. Doesn’t really bring ‘Death in Battle’ to mind, does it? It feels like I’m missing in action.”

  “Speaking of missing in action, what’s the word on my good friend Professor Zahid?” she asked.

  Callahan shook his head. “We’re being punished by God.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. He’s toying with us.”

  Marie held a hand over her heart and said, “Oh, no. He’s not making fun of your whizbang computer gadgets, is he?”

  “I’m afraid so. Remember that tracker the Zurich guys put in his laptop? The gizmo that called them each time he got on the Internet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The same one that dialed the local cell phone system and gave them his GPS coordinates every hour?”

  “Yeah, I’m not going to like this, am I? You’re going to tell me I set all this up for you and your gizmo doesn’t work? You geeks blew it?”

  Callahan sat up. “No. Of course it works. It’s just that when he stopped for a day in Cairo to visit with his family, he left the laptop there, with his daughter, the twelve-year-old. But all isn’t lost. Now we get to follow her adventures in FaceBook, and read emails about the cute boy in math class, a kid named Akhom. And we even know her exact GPS location to within two meters all day. The Americans could drop a cruise missile right on top of her.” He shrugged. “If it matters, she’s been to school, a shopping mall, and a few friends’ houses in the past few days.”

  She tapped her spoon lightly on the table top. “And Zahid? The guy who was going to lead us to the treaty? Where did he go?”

  “Zahid got back on a plane from Cairo to Dhahran.”

  “And?”

  “And then?” Callahan flipped his palms up. “Who knows? That’s what the whizbang tracker in his laptop was going to tell us.”

  She shook her head. “You people are hopeless.”

  She stood up, slid a book bag over her shoulder, and looked at her watch. “Well, it may not be battle, but Professor Randolph and I are meeting in the bowels of the British Museum to look at some charters from Henry II. Nothing to do with our treaty. Just fun.”

  She raised an eyebrow at Callahan. “Maybe you can arrange to romance her? You’re not that bad-looking. She’s a good-looking woman, and I don’t see a man anywhere in sight. I mean, we do what we have to do to complete the mission.”

  “Not my type.”

  “So what? You think that psycho in Costa Rica was my type? Think about it. You’re lucky he wasn’t gay. The longer Zurich takes, the harder it gets to keep tabs on her.” She gave Callahan an appraising look. “In fact, I’d say you and Jean would make a cute couple.”

  He laughed. “Now I guess we really are talking ‘Death in Battle.’”

  “Ok. Think about it. I have to go meet our gal now. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

  * * *

  Jamilah hauled a two-wheeled cart of cleaning supplies up Jean’s street, looked at a paper she pulled from a pocket, and turned up the walkway to Jean’s building. Nobody noticed her. Nobody ever noticed cleaning ladies.

  She had just followed Jean to the Totenham Court Station, so she knew she would be gone at least thirty minutes. She had to wait for a train, get to another station, go somewhere, and then return. She’d probably tak
e more than an hour. That would be more than enough time to get settled.

  Much as Callahan had done, she picked the Schlage lock and let herself in, paused to listen, then carefully locked the door from the inside so Jean would suspect nothing when she returned.

  She pulled on the latex gloves, unpacked her equipment from the cart, and carefully laid the items out on a side table. Duct tape, two syringes, drug kit, rope, and sheath knife. She loaded both syringes with a knockout drug since not everyone went down with one dose.

  She practiced dragging a sturdy, straight-back wooden chair from the workroom into the living room. Now she went back to the workroom and laid out the melting pot, matches, butane mini-torch, silver wire and small vice she had purchased at the art supply store. At the other end of the table she put paints, brushes, art paper, turpentine, solvents, and a clean white towel.

  When she determined where each item would go, she carefully repacked them in her cart and pushed the cart out of sight in a closet off the workroom. Since she knew where everything would go, when the time came, there would be no hesitation, no choices to be made, less risk, and no delay.

  Next, she slowly walked through every room, listening for the telltale squeaks and creaks that could give her away. The main hallway was solid, and she could move along the route from the workroom to the bedroom without a sound. The living room, however, was a symphony of squeaky floor boards. That made her choice simple. Wait in the workroom and move on Jean when she entered the bedroom, since all women went to the bedroom soon after coming home.

  This wasn’t that hard to do. She had learned that all it took was planning, surprise, and a willingness to employ extreme violence. Anyone can hit someone over the head with a hammer or stick them with a knife if they’re not expecting it. The talent lay in managing expectations. And she was a Grandmaster at that.

  With that done, she passed the time going through closets trying on jackets and accessories that Jean wouldn’t need anymore. They took the same size, and the woman had good taste. Pity to let them go to waste.

  * * *

  Marie was genuinely disappointed when the curator at the British Museum gently hinted they would have to be closing soon. The charters Jean had shown her from Henry II were in excellent condition, showing the beginning of his effort to create a single common law from Roman law, Church law, Norman law, and Anglo-Saxon law. Too many systems were costing him money.

  “You want to grab dinner?” asked Marie as they left the museum.

  “What are you up for?”

  “How about Chinese? Is there one around here?”

  “I have a better idea,” said Jean. “There’s a great Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood. Let’s get some take-out and head back to my place.”

  So I get to see the place, thought Marie. How much better can it get? “Lead on, ma’am. It’s Chinese at the House of Randolph.”

  When the taxi left them off at the Chinese restaurant, Marie turned the subject to men, thinking of Callahan. No, said Jean sadly, there were none in her life at the time, not that she wouldn’t welcome a decent man. But, as Marie must know, the best were taken, and the available pool was running thin on attractive prospects. Maybe she’d just live out her years seducing graduate students and an occasional pool boy in Majorca. The common plight of the successful woman reaching her middle years, she laughed bitterly.

  Callahan, your number’s up, Marie thought. It’s time for you to meet this charming professor, liar, thief, forger, and mass murderer. What more can a guy ask for?

  * * *

  Jamilah peeked through a crack in the curtains when she heard the laughter coming up the walkway. She was with another woman. Damn. Grab her cart and get out the back, or stay and wait for the visitor to leave? What if she didn’t leave? What if her guest stayed all night? Decide. Now. She decided and dashed into the workroom with her cart, and backed into a narrow closet. Why did she do that? It was the bags, bags of carry-out food. But that made no sense. No time to debate in her head. Instinct had committed her. Instinct kept her alive. Now she had to play the hand. Thank God she had loaded both syringes. She might need both. She placed them on a shelf next to her in the closet, flicked open the folding knife, and held it in her hand.

  But, the other woman wouldn’t be staying, and she could tell from their conversation they weren’t good friends, nor were they pickups. Most of what they talked about was history and scholarly programs at different universities. Jamilah had passed through her own university years in something of a fog, never understanding what kept anyone tied to the academic life. But, right now, her job was to remain silent and wait for the visitor to leave.

  She relaxed every muscle, starting from her feet and moving up her body, breathed deeply into her diaphragm, silenced her solar plexus, willing herself to be invisible, unnoticed, and balanced. She heard the words of her instructor. Calm, relaxed, let events come to you, never push an unfavorable situation, surprise is your friend, you are always safe when the enemy doesn’t know you are there. When it is time to strike, strike swiftly, strike silently. Maintain control at all times. Patience is an ally. Never hesitate. Hesitate and you die. Relax and let it happen.

  The two women talked for two hours, and Jamilah waited for two hours, calm, relaxed, with the unfocused awareness that kept her aware of everything. She had been through this before, and she would get through it again.

  At last the visitor was leaving, but first she had to go on and on about some guy Randolph just had to meet. Oh, she knew they would get on, and why not give it a whirl? She would jump him herself if he was in Zurich, but he was based in London. Yes, I know Americans are strange, but this one has been away from America for a long time. Hmm… this American sounded interesting. Then her instructor’s words came back. Don’t be defeated by your own thoughts. Control them. Think.

  The visitor finally left, and Jamilah heard Jean turn the deadbolt and fasten the chain. She heard her in the bathroom running water, then the shower. Now she would be barefoot and harder to hear. Through a crack in the closet door, Jamilah watched Jean come into the workroom while she wound a towel around her hair. She dropped something on the table, then left for the kitchen.

  A refrigerator door opened and closed. Then the lid on the garbage can closed? She heard the whistle of a teapot. When the kitchen light went out, creaks came from the living room and the glow from that light vanished. She left the closet, squatted and peeked above the door hinge. The only light came from the bedroom. The main bedroom light went out, then a dimmer light came on. Reading light? Was she going to bed this early, or just going to read for a few hours?

  She left the workroom and hugged the wall, silently sliding toward the bedroom door. She heard the sound of blankets moving, then mattress and spring straining. Jamilah went to her knees and extended a small mirror rubber-banded to a pencil just beyond the door’s edge. Freeze, then look. Jean was lying on her back in bed with a book propped on her chest. Wait. Patience. Blankets rustled again, and the mirror showed her turned on her side, facing away from Jamilah, and balancing the book on the bed.

  How long would she read? If she waited to attack until Jean fell asleep, she might waste half the night. And that time could be much better spent in a trendy club. The target is in bed, turned away, wrapped in blankets. She could do this. But her instructor’s words still ran through her mind. Patience, her instructor had said, patience is your ally. Patience? Patience, my ass…

  Jamilah took a syringe from her pocket, checked that its spring was cocked, and stole a last look in the mirror. Jean was still turned away. Now. Her bare feet made no sound as she entered the bedroom, and patiently slid toward the bed. Grace. Patience. Feel every step. No hurry. No need for a fight now.

  Jean closed the book with a thumb in the page, and cocked an ear. Just as she began to turn over, Jamilah struck, plunging the needle through the blanket and into Jean’s hip. Jean shot up and smashed Jamilah across the nose with the edge of the book and grabbed
two fistfuls of hair and head-butted her in the nose.

  Damn. Work the needle, work the needle, work the needle, Jamilah thought. Hold her. Empty the syringe into her. When Jean pulled away, the needle fell to the floor and Jamilah wrapped her arms around Jean’s legs, dragging both of them to the floor. Jean kicked and kneed hard, but her movements slowed, the struggling ceased, and her head lolled to one side.

  God, that was terrible, thought Jamilah. What’s wrong with that woman? She whipped a looped length of rope from her pocket and wound it around Jean’s ankles, rolled her over and bound her hands behind her back. She ran to her cart in the workroom and grabbed the duct tape. Returning to Jean, she ran one strip over her mouth, and another over her eyes. That should keep her for a while.

  She dragged her cart into the living room and laid out her things in their prearranged spots, then dashed into the workroom and did the same with the art equipment she had brought with her. She opened the solvent and tipped it over, making sure it soaked the papers on the table, sopped the rag with it, and positioned the propane torch so she could light it and leave. Back to Jean, and a few loops of duct tape around the ankles and wrists just for safety

  In a few seconds she had dragged the straight-backed chair she had located earlier into the living room, pulled Jean by the ankles to the chair, and boosted her into a sitting position. One minute later an unconscious Jean was sitting in the chair, securely duct taped to the wooden arms and legs.

  Now she would wait about ten minutes for the knockout drug to wear off, wait another ten minutes for the panic to subside, then administer the next drug and get the information Hammid wanted. If she did this right, she would have time to get back to the hotel, change clothes, and get to that new Soho club she had heard about.

  When she rubbed her eyes there was blood on the back of her hand. Blood? Whose? She went to the bathroom mirror and saw an ugly cut on her nose where Jean hit her with the edge of the book. Was the bitch a martial arts type? But the cut needed attention immediately, or it might leave a scar. A scar? On her face? The bitch! She ran to the bedroom, grabbed the book, and smashed the unconscious Jean across the face as hard as she could. How do you like it, bitch?