The Templar Cross Read Online Free PDF

of violence and superstition,” said Holliday from behind the wheel. They had been driving since leaving their Paris hotel early that morning, going due south for the better part of three hundred miles, making only bathroom stops and a half hour halt just outside Limoges for a quick sandwich-and-coffee-to-go lunch at an Autogrill on the highway. “For all the talk of knights in shining armor, I wouldn’t give you five cents for life in the Middle Ages. Smokey rooms, bad hygiene, rotten teeth and the plague. Not my idea of a good time.” They drove on in silence, the forest on both sides dark and gloomy.
    “I’m still not sure that this isn’t all a waste of time,” said Rafi, finally. It had been a theme he’d been harping on ever since they’d arrived in France, and his chafing arguments were starting to irritate Holliday. “I can’t see how talking to this Pierre Ducos is going to get us any closer to finding Peggy.” The Israeli shook his head. “We should be talking to the police in Alexandria.”
    “That and five dollars at Starbucks should be just about enough for a cup of coffee in Egypt,” Holliday answered, negotiating yet another hairpin turn on the tree- covered hillside. The Peugeot was beginning to strain and he dropped the transmission into low. “You really think the Egyptian authorities are going to give much time and energy to an Israeli and his American friend trying to track down a bunch of Catholic priests?” He glanced over at his companion. “Or do you have friends in the Mukhabarat that I don’t know about?” he asked, referring to the Egyptian version of the CIA.
    “I’ve told you a hundred times, Doc: I went to school with a guy who works for Mossad now. As far as I know he does something with computers. That’s my only connection with spooks and spies, really.” He shook his head again, his expression tense with worry. “If I had pull with Israeli Intelligence I would have used it by now, believe me.”
    “Whatever,” Holliday answered wearily. “We’ll see what Ducos has to say and take it from there.”
    “What makes you think he’ll even talk to you?” Rafi asked.
    “I know the secret handshake,” replied Holliday.
    They made a final turn and drove through the twin-towered, high-arched gate in the fortress wall that surrounded the town. The streets were narrow, stone buildings on either side almost a thousand years old, windows shuttered, roofs slate, doors with iron strap hinges. There wasn’t a modern building to be seen. They found the French lawyer’s office in a small building next to a bistro named Godard with a sign showing a plump goose waddling across a village street. Directly across from the office there was a tiny hotel called the Relais des Chevaliers. The street was so narrow Holliday had to park the car with the offside wheels up on the sidewalk to give another vehicle space to pass.
    “Built for horses and carts, not cars,” commented Holliday. He knocked on the heavy wooden-planked door and waited. Nothing happened.
    “Maybe he’s not there,” Rafi said.
    Holliday rapped harder. Still nothing.
    “Maybe he doesn’t exist,” said Rafi, his tone a little acidic.
    Holliday ignored the comment. He tried the latch and the door opened. He stuck his head into the doorway. The interior of the building was dark and cool. Holliday stepped into a cramped, low-ceilinged hallway. Rafi followed. The walls were plaster, mottled with age. There was a wrought iron chandelier above them that looked as though it had been designed for candles. “Hello?” Holliday called out. Somewhere there was a rasping cough.
    “Viens,” called out a thin voice. Come. The voice echoed from behind a door on the left side of the hallway. Holliday opened the door and stepped inside the room, Rafi on his heels.
    The office was from another time, like something out of Les Misérables.
    An ancient case clock ticked away loudly in one corner. Rows of wooden file cabinets