Valley of the Templars by Paul Christopher Page A

sir,” Thompson said quietly.He wiped the spit and rain from his face, then slapped the Cuban hard across the back of the head.
    Clonmel was less a street than a broad alley between two buildings on Harcourt Street. Reaching the open gates of the park, Black saw that the yellow and red fire brigade ambulance was already in place.
    “What is this!” the Cuban said, balking, eyes widening at the sight of the ambulance, its rear doors already open and waiting.
    “It’s a fucking trolley bus,” said Tommy Thompson. “What did you expect, an embassy limousine, mate?”
    “I will not get in this thing.”
    “Oh yes, you bloody will,” said Tommy. He grabbed the little man under the armpits and heaved him headfirst into the rear of the ambulance, following close behind. Black stepped up into the ambulance, as well, and together he and the sergeant managed to get the Cuban strapped down onto the gurney inside.
    “Why are you doing this to me?” Selman-Housein moaned beseechingly, his eyes filling with tears.
    “Verisimilitude,” said Black.
    “Qué?”
    “To make it look real,” explained Black, slapping a slab of sticking plaster over the man’s mouth, followed by an oxygen mask. That done, Black rapped on the driver’s partition wall with his knuckles. Thesiren started and they hurtled up Clonmel to Harcourt Street and began to weave through the streets of Dublin at rush hour in the pouring rain. Twenty minutes later, siren still wailing, they reached the N4 and headed west toward the Lujan Bypass and the countryside beyond. Five minutes later, the siren silent, they turned in at Weston Executive Airport and the waiting, unmarked white Gulfstream 5.
    Without removing either the mask or the tape, they got Selman-Housein down off the ambulance and up into the sleek white jet. One of the leather couches had been removed from the rear of the aircraft and the gurney fit perfectly, clipping solidly onto the two U-shaped bolts in the fuselage wall. The door closed with a hiss and the pilot and the copilot began to spool up the Gulfstream’s twin Rolls-Royce engines. A few moments later they taxied out to the runway and then hurtled down it, finally leaping into the air and heading southwest, climbing steadily, finally getting out of the rain and into the fading blue sky beyond. Far to the west the sun was already heading downward into the night.
    Black finally took off the mask and ripped off the tape from Selman-Housein’s mouth. “Get me down from here,” snapped the Cuban doctor angrily.
    “Not a chance,” answered Black. The thought of listening to the man’s complaints for the next six hours was intolerable. He took out his CO 2 -poweredsyringe and recocked the arming lever. He pushed the syringe tip against the bulge of the older man’s fatty love handles and hit the FIRE button. The doctor was unconscious almost instantly. The shot would keep Selman-Housein deep under all the way to Washington. Black smiled. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. Render unto Joseph Patchin’s that which is Joseph Patchin’s.”

9
    Back at the hotel, Holliday took his
National Geographic
map of Cuba out of his suitcase and spread it out on one of the beds.
    “Show me,” he said quietly. Eddie shook his head.
    “Not here,” said the Cuban. He pointed to the French doors leading out to the balcony. Holliday nodded. Eddie opened the doors and Holliday stepped out into the cool evening air.
    A table and chairs sat facing out toward the sea and the Malecon far below. The tide was in and people were promenading along the famous seawall, half of them tourists and the rest predatory prostitutes. A breeze was blowing. From the balcony it was a vision of paradise, but Eddie ignored it. He was too busy checking the table and chairs and even the candle lamp in the middle of the table for bugs. He found what he was looking for under the third chair, an old-fashioned radio microphone that belonged in a Cold War museum.