Free The Templar Conspiracy by Paul Christopher Page B

bought it—it wasn’t the kind of furniture you wanted in your living room, which meant Tritt had placed it here, either bringing it from another room or perhaps even farther afield.
    But why lug a big desk around when all you really needed was a simple, modern desk from somewhere like Ikea? It wasn’t logical, and if there was one thing he knew about Tritt and the place he lived in, it was that plain, clear logic prevailed. He started taking the empty drawers out and examining their outer surfaces, sides, backs and bottoms. He found what he was looking for on the back of the second drawer down on the right. Three phone numbers, the top two in faded pencil and the bottom one inked neatly with one of the Rapidograph pens, the sevens crossed in the European manner.
    He sat up straight in the chair, the drawer upright in his lap. He let out a shrill whistle, then took one of the pens and a sheet of paper from the middle drawer. A moment later, Peggy and Father Brennan appeared in the doorway.
    “It’s rude to whistle, even if you’re Lauren Bacall,” said Peggy, referring to the old Bogart movie based on a Hemingway book.
    “What country code is four-one?” Holliday asked.
    “No idea,” said Peggy.
    “Switzerland,” said Brennan.
    “You’re sure?” Holliday said.
    “Positive.”
    “What city code is two-two?”
    “Geneva,” answered Brennan.
    “I found three phone numbers on the back of one of the drawers,” said Holliday. “One of them has the Geneva city code, one is in France, I think, and the last one is in Switzerland, too.” He looked at Brennan. “Any ideas?”
    “Call the last one,” said the priest.
    “It’s two in the morning over there,” warned Peggy.
    “Maybe you’ll get a message.” Brennan shrugged.
    Holliday reached for the phone.
    Peggy stopped him. “Wait,” she said abruptly. She crossed to the desk. “This phone has a redial function.” She hit the speaker button, pressed REDIAL and watched as the numbers scrolled out onto the caller ID screen. Geneva again. The phone double buzzed for four rings before a sleepy voice came over the little speaker, rising and falling in the particular way associated with satellite calls.
    “Mandarin Oriental, Jean-Pierre speaking.”
    “You’re a hotel?”
    “And have been for quite some time, monsieur. I am the night manager. Would you like a reservation?”
    Holliday gently cradled the phone receiver.
    “There’s a Delta flight to New York via Atlanta in an hour and a half. . . . If we hurry we can just catch it.”

    By the time they reached New York it was all over the news. Senator Richard Pierce Sinclair stood on the broad steps of the Capitol and made his announcement.
    “It has come to my attention that the various intelligence agencies in this great country of ours have been withholding information that is fundamental to the safety of our citizens, and those citizens have a right to know where the danger lurks, believe you me.” Here the senator paused and gave the cameras one of his patented scowls.
    “According to my sources the people responsible for the assassination of the Holy Father in Rome are yet another organization of fundamentalist fanatics hell-bent on destroying the very fabric of our democratic society and the moral standards set by the founding fathers. The name of this group is Jihad al-Salibiyya , the ‘Enemies of the Cross,’ and I have it on good authority that this group of madmen intends to strike here, at the heart of America—and soon.”
    “Cat’s out of the bag,” said Holliday, staring at the monitor in the Avion Airport bar. “We don’t have much time.”

9
    General Angus Scott Matoon sat across from Kate Sinclair in the baronial living room of her immense vineyard estate at Chateau Royale des Pins just outside the town of Aigle, Switzerland. Instead of the red wine bottled at the vineyard, the general sipped from his favorite Wood-ford Reserve Bourbon, a case of which the elder Sinclair