The Templar Throne (8 page)

Less than a minute later they reached the exit, an old gatehouse, and bullied their way out onto a narrow street lined with souvenir carts selling postcards, paper hats and little plastic golems. The whole thing was so crass Holliday almost expected one of the carts to be selling Rabbi Low action figures.

“Now what?” Sister Meg said. It was hot and a thin line of sweat had formed on her forehead where her headpiece was tight.

“I’ve got an idea,” answered Holliday. He took a quick look around to make sure that Cue Ball wasn’t anywhere in sight, then turned down Stroka Street, heading for the river. They reached the open plaza of Jan Palach Square and crossed to the statue of Antonin Dvorjak. Jan Palach Square had once been known as Náměstí Krasnoarmějců, or Square of the Red Army Soldiers, but had changed after a twenty-year-old student named Jan Palach covered himself with gasoline and set himself alight to protest the Soviet occupation in 1969.

Skirting the statue, they went down a few steps to the park that ran beside the river. Directly in front of them, in the shadow of the Manesuv Most, or Lesser Town Bridge, was a large floating dock with an outdoor café and several tour boats tied up.

A boat with a Staropramen beer ad on the side named
Vltava Královna
, Vlatava Queen, was loading passengers. Holliday and Sister Meg joined the lineup. Holliday paid thirty dollars for each of them and they went aboard. The boat was not much more than a barge with rows of seats and a fiberglass canopy. A few minutes later they cast off and headed downriver. Holliday had kept his eyes on the gangplank and there’d been no sign of Cue Ball. It looked as though they’d lost him for the second time.

The boat slipped under the bridge and continued downstream, the immense looming fortress of Prague Castle on the high bluff on the far side of the river to their left, with the Lesser Town laid out below it. They rounded a bend, making their way through a near traffic jam of tour boats and sport fishermen, and then went under the low gray span of the Cechuv Bridge.

“Just exactly where are we going?” Sister Meg asked. “Or is this some kind of mystery tour?”

“No mystery,” answered Holliday. “We’re going to the train station without Cue Ball knowing where we’re going. If he managed to follow us we’d know it. I was watching the gangway after we got on. He’s not aboard.”

Stavice Island lies slightly off center in midriver about a mile downstream from the Lesser Town Bridge where they had embarked. Although awkwardly located, Stavice had been home to Prague’s first professional hockey rink and grass tennis courts. The island was also where there had once been a series of dangerous rapids, now smoothed to a simple weir with no more than a three-foot drop and with a lock installed between the island and the nearside riverbank to make downstream navigation possible and as an aid to flood control, a perennial problem in the spring.

Their tour boat entered the long lockway and waited for the enclosure to empty before the lock doors opened to let them through.

“Come on,” said Holliday. He grabbed Meg by the hand and pulled her over to the gunwale on the right-hand side of the boat, elbowing chattering passengers out of the way as he did so.

“What are you doing!?” Meg yelped as Holliday quickly climbed up onto the broad steel gunwale. An older woman in a large floppy hat and enormous lime green sunglasses let out a squeaking shriek of alarm.

“Getting off the boat,” answered Holliday. He leaned out, grabbed an iron rung bolted into the stone wall of the lock and began to climb. Meg had no choice except to follow, acutely aware of the heavyset German in the Hawaiian shirt and his apple-dumpling wife who were getting a perfect view up her skirt.

Using swear words she hadn’t uttered since high school, she clambered up the iron ladder after Holliday. A furious-looking lockmaster came charging out of his little control booth yelling as Holliday hauled her up onto the walkway at the top of the ladder. He turned and yelled back at the man.

“Policiye!”
Holliday bellowed.

Down in the lock the captain of the tour boat sounded his air horn. Confused, the lockmaster turned and ran back into his control booth to activate the big swing doors.

“Run,” said Holliday.

They headed up a wide set of concrete stairs. At the top of the steps was a paved road, and on the far side a series of fenced-in clay tennis courts, all in use, the
pock-pock
hollow sound of tennis balls sounding like a metronome. Behind the open courts were the bloated science-fiction sausages of several canvas inflatable domes.

“Where are we?” Meg asked.

“Stavice Island. It’s a big public sports complex.”

“Why here?”

Holliday pointed to the left. Through a stand of trees Meg could see the approaches to a bridge.

“That’s Hlavkuv Most,” said Holliday. “The Hlavek Bridge. Cross that and you’re on Wilsonova, which is where the main Prague train station is. Satisfied?”

“Wasn’t there an easier way of getting here than by playing Tarzan?” Meg asked.

“Just being careful,” said Holliday. “When you’re tailing someone you usually use more than one person. If there was a second tail on the boat we lost him, too.”

They began walking down the road toward the bridge.

“Do you honestly think all this cloak-and-dagger stuff is necessary?” Meg asked, her tone sour. “It really does seem a little over the top, you know, climbing over walls into graveyards and jumping off boats. Bald spies skulking about looking suspicious. People following us halfway across Europe. Come on now, Colonel.”

“Come on, yourself,” Holliday answered. “This ark you’re looking for, how valuable would you say the contents are, if they exist?”

“They’d be priceless, of course,” she replied.

“Right, and I’ve seen people killed for a lot less than ‘priceless,’ believe me, Sister.”

The Prague Hilton was located just off the multilaned, elevated Wilsonova on Porezni Street, only a block away from the river. It was a huge place with a glass-pyramid-enclosed atrium and everything a well-heeled international traveler could want. It took less than ten minutes for Holliday and his companion to reach the hotel from the island and half an hour more to shop for the things they needed, including a couple of small designer suitcases for their purchases.

It was three in the afternoon by the time they finished, so they took a taxi for a short ride to the station. They picked up tickets in the new belowground station and then walked down the long concourse to the original Art Nouveau station, which had been turned into a large
kavarna
, or café.

They sat in the big stained-glass-domed restaurant drinking excellent coffee and snacking on jam-filled
palačinky
, the Czech version of crepes. At four fifteen the early boarding call for sleeping car passengers on the through train to Venice via Vienna was called and they went back down the concourse to the main station and boarded.

Neither Holliday nor Sister Meg had noticed the slight, neatly bearded man and his attractive companion seated on the concrete bench next to the waiting train, and they wouldn’t have recognized them even if they had noticed, although Holliday had once seen them from a distance in front of a hotel on the Côte d’Azur more than a year ago.

Like Cue Ball, the bearded man and the woman had been waiting outside the convent that morning and had followed them to the Vlatava restaurant as well. They’d seen Holliday and the nun do their little vanishing act and had watched, amused, as Cue Ball panicked.

The man and the woman hadn’t bothered to keep up their surveillance. The man had already correctly deduced Holliday’s eventual destination and the woman concurred. They might go back to their hotel, but from the look on their faces it was clear that they’d discovered something in the gallery-convent, and it was equally clear that they’d assume that the airport at Ruzyne just outside the city would be under surveillance as well.

The train station was the most likely answer. They’d arrived well before Holliday and Sister Meg, and they’d been behind them in the line when the ex-Ranger and the nun bought their tickets to Venice. They followed suit, purchasing a double berth two doors down from Holliday’s compartment. The bearded man then bribed a porter to let him wait for the train to be called at trackside and they watched as the couple boarded the train.

Calmly, Antonin Pesek, Father Thomas Brennan’s chosen arm’s-length assassin, and his Canadian wife, Daniella Kay, got up from the bench and stepped aboard themselves. A few minutes later amid a flurry of horns and clanging bells the lumbering overnight train to Venice left the station.

Venice stinks like an open sewer. Although rarely mentioned in the brochures, this is a simple, smelly fact of life in that otherwise beautiful city; household waste is flushed out with the tide every day, but some of the backwater canals remain stagnant and repulsive. Serenely beautiful Venice is not quite as romantic as it’s cracked up to be.

Holliday and Sister Meg arrived at the Venice Mestre train station on the mainland just after eight in the morning and took a double-decker commuter train to the Santa Lucia station on the far side of the Liberty Railway Bridge. The day was already blisteringly hot by the time they arrived and the vaporetto they hired had no canopy. By the time they reached their hotel Holliday had a flaming headache and Meg was showing the first flushed sign of sunburn.

They booked two single rooms at the Rialto, the only hotel Holliday knew in Venice. He’d been to the city only once before, honeymooning with his late wife, Amy; married at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii, where he’d been based at the time, honeymooned in Italy.

They’d laughed when it had rained throughout their precious ten days—while Hawaii was having perfect weather—but they didn’t really care. It had been hideously expensive fifteen years ago; it was a nightmare now. Almost sixteen hundred dollars a night for two junior suites overlooking the Grand Canal and the Rialto Bridge for which the hotel was named, the only available accommodation in the hotel.

But it was familiar and that was all that counted right now.

“I can’t afford a place like this,” whispered Sister Meg, looking around the ornate marble and woodpaneled lobby. The floor was laid out in black and white marble squares like a chessboard and polished to a brilliant sheen. It made you want to take off your shoes.

“Neither can I, at least not for long,” Holliday whispered back. It wasn’t entirely true, but Holliday wasn’t about to reveal that he had access to the various Templar numbered accounts he’d discovered in Switzerland, Lichtenstein, Malta, and Cyprus.

Their suites were side by side on the fifth and top floor of the pink stucco hotel; the decor was something out of a Merchant Ivory film with lots of dark furniture and gauzy curtains on four-poster beds blowing in the breeze coming in from the balcony, except for the fact that the arched doors leading to the narrow balcony were closed and the only breeze was coming from the air conditioner, which was set at arctic levels and was making Holliday’s headache even worse.

He pulled the heavy drapes closed, blotting out the view, and kicked off his shoes. Twenty minutes flat on his back with his eyes closed would fix him right up. He dropped down onto the gigantic bed and was sound asleep within seconds of his head hitting the soft down pillow.

 

Holliday heard a faint knock on his door and opened his eyes. It was dark in the room and for a moment he was disoriented. Then he realized the drapes had been drawn shut.

“Coming,” he said groggily. He yawned, then stood up and half staggered to the door. Probably the nun wanting to rant at him about something. He yawned again and cracked open the door an inch. It was Sister Meg. She was dressed in jeans and a man’s white shirt, although she’d kept on the idiotic head covering.

“I was getting worried,” she said.

“About what?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Holliday glanced at his watch. Eight fifteen; that couldn’t be right.

“Eight?” He frowned. “Time for dinner?”

“Breakfast. Eight in the morning. You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

Holliday stared at her for a moment, blinking away sleep.

“Give me a few minutes,” mumbled Holliday.

“I’m going down to the dining room,” she said. “I’ll order you some coffee.”

“And an orange juice,” added Holliday. “A big one.” His mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. His breath had to be atrocious.

The nun nodded, still looking worried, and turned away. Holliday retreated into his suite and headed for the bathroom, stopping briefly to get his toothbrush and toothpaste out of his bag. He splashed water on his face and began brushing his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. If he didn’t know better he might have thought someone had drugged him, but in his heart he knew that it was simply age catching up to him.

There was a scattering of gray at his temples now and his one good eye had dark circles beneath it. He didn’t have a chicken neck yet, but the caliper lines around his mouth were getting deeper every year. You didn’t fight as many battles as he had without bringing home a few scars, both on your body and in your heart.

He had a brief flashing image of Helder Rodrigues, the Portuguese monk, dying in his arms in the rain on that tiny island in the Azores and then he thought about West Point and the classes he’d taught. A few years ago he’d wondered if he was going stale, and he was certainly bored with being off the battlefield; now he wasn’t so sure.

He’d left the Point almost a year ago, packing his life away into boxes that were now entombed in a self-storage locker in New York. He’d considered rebuilding his uncle’s house in Fredonia, reduced to ashes shortly after his death, but in the end he felt the old wanderlust tugging at him.