Valley of the Templars by Paul Christopher

silvery curtain of rain.
    “Goddamn bloody Ireland and its bloody weather,” said Black. He and Major began to run. The brass band was playing “Tonight’s the Night” from the
Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour
.
    They reached the fountain and at first Black thought the doctor had rabbited, but then he saw him slouched on a bench a few yards away gettingwhatever slight protection he could from the large oak tree spreading its branches above him.
    “Give him your coat and hat,” Black said to Major.
    “But…,” said Major.
    “Do it!”
    Major did as he was told. Gripping the doctor by the arm, Black led the frightened man down the narrower southern path away from the fountain. Behind them Black could hear raised voices, at least one of then in Spanish.
    “
Lo que está pasando?
” The doctor asked, getting more upset with each passing second.
    “Everything’s going to be fine,” soothed Black. He jerked his head and Major peeled off and headed back toward the fountain.
    Hunched over against the pounding rain, Black and Selman-Housein moved quickly down the pathway. It was the Garda Band playing under cover of the bandstand’s conical Victorian roof, the brass buttons on their policemen’s uniforms as shiny as their instruments.
    They were playing “Teddy Bear’s Picnic” now, much to the delight of their audience, a giggling flock of young children all dressed in yellow slickers, boots and rain hats, just like the children in the
Madeleine
books his mother had read to Black as a child.
    Far behind them now Black heard the frantic wailing of a police car on the far side of the Green.
    “I have changed my mind!” Selman-Housein moaned. “Let me go!” The doctor tried to pull away from him, struggling against Black’s grip, but Black held on ever harder, almost lifting the older man off his feet.
    “Too late, amigo,” said Black harshly. “You made your bed and now you’re damn well going to lie in it.”
    Four was waiting at the open gate exiting onto the street. Four was a man in his fifties named Tommy Thompson, an ex–SAS Special Forces master sergeant with a face like granite and biceps like steel.
    “The doctor’s having pangs of homesickness, Tommy,” said Black.
    “Not a problem, sir,” replied the hard-faced sergeant. He gripped Selman-Housein by his other arm and together he and Black propelled the smaller man through the gate and across the rain-soaked road to the opposite side. They piloted the Cuban fifty feet south to the front door of Staunton’s on the Green, two Georgian houses joined to make a small boutique hotel.
    They lifted him up the single step, pulled open the door, then marched him straight down the main hallway and out the rear patio exit. They stepped backout into the sheeting rain and followed the narrow brick pathway to a small gate. Holding the doctor firmly, Tommy Thompson lifted the latch and the three men stepped out into Iveagh Gardens.
    The Gardens, a smaller version of St. Stephen’s Green, was hidden from sight on three sides by buildings and on the fourth by a high brick wall and a screening stand of trees. The gardens had been a gift from Benjamin Guinness of the beer dynasty and named for his son, Edward, the first Earl of Iveagh.
    Empty now because of the downpour, the Gardens had a sinister, brooding look like something from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Ignoring the feeling of imminent doom creeping down his neck along with the rain, Black pointed the doctor down the path to the only public entrance to the Gardens on Clonmel Street, halfway down the park.
    “Listen to me! Listen to me!” Selman-Housein screamed. “I must go back to the hotel! I have left important documents there!”
    “Come along, then, Doctor—there’s a good fellow,” said Tommy Thompson. “I wouldn’t like to hurt you, now, would I, sir?”
    “
Me cago en tus muertos!
” Selman-Housein screeched. He turned his head and spit in the sergeant’s face.
    “Whatever you say,