Finally the fourth.
Sandra looked at the map, completely bemused.
‘New Ross, Nova Scotia.’
Scott shook his head. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning we’ve found whatever it is.’
43
Nicole was the last person to leave the office. In the year she had spent working for the Tribunal, she had become used to working all hours, but today had been a chore.
Since early afternoon the previous day, the topic of conversation had been the article she had posted on the blog. Emails arrived in droves, phone calls came from strangers and over one hundred comments had been left by readers at the bottom of the webpage, mostly from conspiracy theorists. Clearly the topic had stimulated opinion, good and bad. She rued not being able to publish it properly.
All of a sudden, she was the hottest journalist on the web.
Mills called her into his office, and as on previous occasions, the conversation ended in argument. The predictable barrage of ‘I told you not to publish the goddamn article’ followed by retorts of ‘I didn’t, I did it on my blog, the blog is separate’ eventually led to a suspension, effective tomorrow. In all fairness, she expected it, but she was proud of herself for being so bold. She knew whatever was contained in the hidden history of the modern-day Knights Templar organisations was more important than anything else. If her boss couldn’t see that, she’d have to find her own way. She became a journalist to learn the facts, she reminded herself.
Not to be Mills’ “yes-girl”.
Nicole left the building at just after nine and walked quickly in the direction of the nearest tube at Aldgate East. The night air was cold and still. A faint wind could be heard rustling through the nearest trees, but when it did so, it made no impression on her. The outdoor temperature of 12 degrees was cold compared to Malta, but in England she was used to much worse. A dark black fleece, a Christmas present from Amanda, was the perfect insulation. The streets of London were frequently damp and wet in the cold spells, but tonight there were signs of summer. Across the street, customers frequented the local cafés and pubs, some forsaking the indoor comforts for outdoor. In the nearby parks, citizens and tourists walked leisurely, while others strode energetically as they prepared to return home after a long day out.
In the day, the street had a somewhat convivial feel, but this place sure felt different at night. Replacing the usual hustle and bustle of people in suits or people with cameras treading the pavement with excited expectation, the street had a quiet, forlorn feel. People in jackets walked past deserted shops, bars, banks and law firms, oblivious to their purpose, heading to Canary Wharf or one of the tube stations.
Nicole walked quickly. Although she was used to walking the street after dark, a street that posed no threat, on this occasion she moved quickly. Coming toward her, a group of young adults with German accents smiled politely as they continued with their sightseeing. It was amazing how the street of thousands of voices could change so suddenly and how she could hear each individual conversation as she passed.
On the opposite side of the street, a man in a brown fleece watched the building. At a casual glance, there was nothing particularly significant about him, or at least not worth remembering. The same man had returned off and on to the same venue for the past week and was still to attract any attention.
Even the most inquisitive could not tell the man named Stuart was a monk. Had they asked about his background on one of his infrequent visits to the coffee shop they might have received a polite response of a tourist or a commuter down on business, but despite the seclusion, the owner had more than enough on her plate than to be troubled by such trifling considerations. The shop, though small, was busy with customers coming in and out, some just to read the menu and leave again, while others occupied small wooden tables covered in blue and white tablecloths. The window on the left side was clean and offered unrestricted views to the other side of the street.
That was why he chose it.
As the woman left the Tribunal building, the young monk rose to his feet. He paid the owner with a five-pound note and offered that she keep the change. He left through the small door and walked slowly toward Aldgate East. On the opposite side, the young woman he had seen at the grandmaster’s funeral was walking quickly in that direction. He had seen her make the same journey several times though she was still to notice him. A quick glance in his direction might momentarily serve as a reminder that no man is invisible, but on each occasion she soon moved on.
Recent inspection had produced surprising results. Judging by the girl’s appearance and facial expression, she possessed all the characteristics of a former uni president now embarking on a career, perhaps inspired by a desire or pressure to emulate a loved one, but silently regretting her choice. He wouldn’t have been surprised had he found out her early expectations had yielded disappointing results and the person she was becoming didn’t suit her. But on closer investigation, he found himself impressed by an unwillingness to compromise. While most of the passengers on the District line substituted the quietness of journey time for sleep or reading the paper, she seemed determined to put the time to use.
The pattern was reassuringly predictable. On days when the crowd was sparse, she would take a seat in the least crowded area and open a device he now knew was an iPad. On every occasion, he saw her spend her time tapping repeatedly as if she was always working. The girl was not lacking devices. A brand new iPhone, perpetually contained in her jacket pocket, was connected to earphones. He liked the way she always had one in the right ear but nothing in the left. Every now and then he would see her eyes move, but without attracting attention. The woman was well prepared.
At least as well as possible.
Nicole passed a group of students on reaching the entrance and followed the stairs down into Aldgate East tube station. She swiped her Oyster card and continued to the platform for the District line.
The time was approaching 9:18pm. In the near distance, she could hear the sound of a train approaching.
A man in a black woolly hat, dark jacket and jeans sat on a metal bench, waiting for the train. Despite the earlier day being warm, the headwear served a purpose. His master had warned him about the pitfalls of drawing attention to oneself, and his weakest facial characteristic was his eyebrows. The brown of his hair, unmistakeably Swiss, was completely at odds with the darkened bush that without regular shaving proved to be a monobrow.
It did not do to be distinguished.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a new arrival among the passengers waiting to board the next tube. Dressed in black, the girl stood awkwardly. Her stance was unsurprisingly defensive. Her left hand was placed down by her side while her right grasped the strap of her leather handbag. He noticed that she placed the bag on the side where there were the least passengers. The girl was clearly prepared.
The announcement of a train through the speaker system was followed by the arrival of the tube. Slowly, he rose to his feet.
The tube came to a standstill in front of her, and the doors opened with a familiar blast of air.
The usual announcement of ‘please mind the gap’ preceded a handful of people leaving before a larger number got on. The carriage was relatively crowded and with very few unoccupied seats. Waiting for the on-comers to disperse, Nicole walked in the direction of the side seats and sat down by a woman in her sixties.
She was in no mood to work.
Stuart entered the carriage one door up from Nicole and instantly took up a position leaning against the nearest pole. From there he surveyed the passengers. A small gathering of Asian males in their early twenties sat chatting loudly, some listening to music through headphones. A handful of men sat alone minding their own business, some texting on mobiles while others read the Metro. A large, bearded man in his late forties sat wearing a baseball cap with the Arsenal logo, next to a pretty woman slightly younger than him who he assumed was his fed-up wife. Despite the late hour, t
here were still a large number of commuters heading home at the end of another busy Friday in the city, but by comparison, women were in the minority. There was no hint of anxiety or fear in the woman journalist’s expression.
He looked at his watch and then over his shoulders at the less densely populated area of the carriage. He failed to notice the man in a woolly hat standing in a similar position by the next door.
He made sure he waited until everyone else was onboard before he got on. Standing by the door, he watched the woman take her seat. She sat in the middle of the carriage, the worst possible position to make a getaway.
He adjusted his hat, making special effort to ensure that his eyebrows were well hidden.
Nicole paid little attention as various gatherings of passengers came and went between Tower Hill and Temple. More still left at Embankment while another large gathering boarded. At Westminster, the same thing happened. A surprisingly small number of passengers disembarked at St. James’s Park and Victoria and less still got on. Her route from Victoria continued west to Earl’s Court where most of the passengers would usually depart, heading for one of the Kensington stations, while others would head southwest to Wimbledon.
The District line was the most straightforward line for Nicole to travel from home to work. When moving in with Amanda, she deliberately chose an apartment that was close to a tube station, and Wimbledon Park to Aldgate East could be done in less than an hour with only one change.
Nicole waited until the tube left Sloane Square before reverting her attention to work. She changed seats as the tube began moving, taking one in a deserted area near the exit, previously occupied by the Asian lads. She removed the book by Belroc from her handbag and began browsing the penultimate chapter for the umpteenth time. No matter how often she read it, the result made her shudder.
That chapter, the eleventh, was deeply shocking. She had read the book by von Gostel cover to cover, but Belroc’s was the only one that mentioned anything of the man’s past. According to the author, von Gostel was of German-Swiss origin and had been raised a Catholic in an area that was dominated by Lutherans. To Nicole, the choice of denomination was hardly shocking, but the further she looked into it, the more the possibility was surprising. Though von Gostel was largely unspecific, the Frenchman had concluded that the core of the Order of the Ancient Star had been Protestant, unexpected given that the Templars in Scotland had remained Catholic. In many ways it surprised her that men who had been outlawed by the Pope should remain conscripted to the Vatican, but the author stated that the Templars were aware of the Chinon Parchment, absolving them of any guilt, despite it not being recovered till less than ten years ago.
If the Templars were pardoned by the papacy, then their excommunication suddenly made no sense. If the King of France was dead, then there seemed no way that the Templars were threatened. Why continue in secret if they had nothing left to fear? That was the author’s question. Why did it matter that the Templars in Switzerland became Protestant? What was the author getting at?
The train stopped at South Kensington and another handful of passengers disembarked. She looked out of the window at some young couples, possibly students, walking along the platform, and looked quickly over her shoulder. The carriage that was practically full when she arrived was now deserted and quiet. The familiar bleep as the doors closed stopped suddenly, giving way to the sound of the engine, followed by the strange gliding sound as the carriages passed through the darkness.
She looked around the carriage with interest. Something had changed. Behind her, a man in a black jacket was standing, leaning against the side of the carriage. She had noticed him when he embarked, but at the time she paid little attention to him.
She looked at him closely. There was something different about him, something she hadn’t noticed before. He wore a woolly hat, but now it revealed slightly more of his features than before. The man’s eyebrows were dark, surprisingly dark, and from a distance, they looked as if they might join in the centre.
She shifted position. For several seconds the man remained focused on the floor.
She turned away and looked again over her shoulder. She knew she had done it too quickly. She could tell from the man’s eyes that he was looking at her, and his expression was unfriendly.
She had seen him before. She closed her eyes and searched her memory. Instinct told her she had seen him recently, but she could not tell where or when.
It was recent; it had to be. She remembered paying particular attention to her surroundings at the airport, but instinct told her it was not then.
Why had Belroc been killed so soon after she visited him? It didn’t make sense.
She had seen those eyebrows. She knew that under the woolly black hat was a full head of brown hair. She had definitely seen him somewhere, but where?
A restaurant? No.
A hotel? No.
The marina?
Suddenly she recoiled in horror.
She had seen the man in Prague.
The monk named Stuart had moved from the doorway and took a seat on the opposite part of the carriage. Despite the partitions, his view was good. The reflection from the glass against the black background was sufficient notice that the girl was considering moving, strange considering she would be getting off at Earl’s Court.
He chanced exposure. A man with a dark woolly hat was standing by the doorway on the other side. His demeanour suggested he was an ordinary passenger waiting for his station, but instinct told him something was wrong. There was something about the man, either the way he stood or the way he looked, that disturbed him.
His attention fell on the man’s eyes.
He had seen this man before.
For several seconds Nicole struggled to move. The overwhelming feeling throughout her body was one of being held down, not physically but by some greater force. Stunned, she looked timidly again over her shoulder, barely able to move. The man with the black hat was distracted, his eyes on his mobile phone in his hand.
Suddenly something startled her. Inside her handbag, her iPhone was vibrating, accompanied by the sound of her ringtone.
She retrieved the phone and looked at the screen. The number was withheld. She looked again quickly over her shoulder at the stranger. Not for the first time he monitored her with a distracted stare. She turned away again.
She answered. ‘Hello?’
The voice was unrecognisable. ‘The train is about to stop. Get off.’
The caller hung up.
The train began to slow. Several minutes of non-stop black came to an end. A series of flashing lights took its place, followed by the appearance of a well-lit platform. The next station was announced, this time Gloucester Road.
The train slowed to a standstill. She closed her book slowly, careful not to draw attention to herself.
Another look over her shoulder. The man in the black hat was looking at her again, this time with disturbing emphasis. In the background, the sound of the open doors bleeped in her ears.
The man with the black hat stood silently, his back leaning against the partition. It was obvious from the woman’s demeanour that she was nervous, but it was not clear why. Had she spotted him? Recognised him even? He knew arrogance must be avoided, but he knew he had been careful.
He looked over his shoulder at the carriage. The man in the brown jacket was now standing by the furthest door, this time more remote than before. He thought he recognised him, but he couldn’t be sure.
He watched the man exit as the doors opened.
Suddenly he noticed.
The woman had gone.
Nicole escaped the train just as the doors were closing and headed quickly in the direction of the stairs. She had used Gloucester Road in the past, and she knew that she had three options. Ideally, she would wait for the next train to Earl’s Court, but she knew that was risky.
She needed to make a quick decision. The best option was the Circle line to High Street Kensington. From t
here she could get off again and get another train to Earl’s Court.
She walked along the platform, not daring to look back. Through the passing crowd, a man had appeared on her right. He was dressed in brown and his face fixed in a serious expression.
‘Get on the first train eastbound, and take a seat in the last carriage. Wait for me there.’
She looked at him, completely overcome. ‘But…’
‘Do it unless you want to get killed.’
She felt as though the wind was knocked out of her. The man in the brown jacket left her and disappeared from sight. She stopped and looked for him, standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Fortunately the man with the woolly hat was also nowhere to be seen.
She made her way up the stairs, heading for platforms 2 and 3. She decided that once on the train she would get off at the next station and get back on the westbound. If her luck held, the detour would only lose her twenty minutes.
She looked over her shoulder. The sound of sprinting echoed from the stairs.
The man with the black hat, named Stephane Degen, sprinted through the closing doors and stumbled on reaching the platform. His lapse in concentration had cost him. Worse yet, he had lost sight of her.
He regained his feet and calmly brushed himself down. To an unsuspecting traveller, he had lost his footing as he vacated the train and was now feeling slightly embarrassed about it. As luck would have it, only two other passengers had disembarked.
He followed a man in a tweed jacket and a woman holding a barely needed umbrella in the direction of the stairs and overtook them on the second step. He was aware that the station had three options. She could double back, head back east, or take the Circle line to High Street Kensington.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 30
