11
Sintra
0700 hours
Though stunned by the blow, Lang could feel the throbbing pain. as though the back of his head might have a meat cleaver in it. He was being dragged to his feet by two men carrying rifles.
Excited voices were shouting. He was being hauled towards the back of what looked like a medieval castle. The sound of engines made him twist in his captors' grasp. Five or six long black cars were gliding up the driveway. Either Lang was witnessing a Mafia state funeral, a pimp's convention was in town, or somebody really important had arrived. His head hurt too much for him to care which.
Then he saw two guys in khaki, either militia or police. Sometimes in Europe it was hard to tell the difference. Even with the pain fogging his thought process, it hit him: Somehow the cops had found him. This time, the cavalry had come to Little Big Horn in time.
His relief didn't last long enough to enjoy. He was being taken away from his rescuers. One of his escorts pressed a rifle against Lang's throbbing head. The unspoken message was clear: if he made any sound that attracted attention, it would be his last. Despair replaced elation. The building in front of them was big enough to hide Lang easily. The cops would never find him.
"Lang! Here!" Lang recognized the voice calling to him from somewhere along the wall. Was he hallucinating?
If so, the guys on either side of him were, too. They both whirled to their right, rifles pointing away from Lang. He took what seemed to be the only chance he had and made a headlong lunge.
They spun back around, weapons coming to bear. Lang could see the dark hole of the muzzles; was expecting to see a flash, likely the last thing he would see on this earth.
Instead one, then both, of the men pitched forward as though struck with an invisible hammer. At the same time, the whipcrack of the rifle that had killed them bounced from wall to wall.
Stooping, he intended to grab both their weapons, but the same voice urged him on. "Run for it, Lang!"
Ahead, he could see a rope dangling tantalizingly over the wall. He would later come to believe that with proper encouragement a man can equal or break any track record in the books. He knew he did in reaching that rope. Winding hands around it, he used his feet against the wall to climb faster than Tarzan ever had. He didn't even notice the pain in his twisted shoulder.
Painfully aware that he made an inviting target, a dark body against the white wall, he expected the sound of shots any minute. Then he almost sighed his relief. There would be no gunfire. The Templars wouldn't dare shoot unless they wanted a war with the whole Portuguese police force.
There was growling below and something struck at his feet as he pulled himself up. He could only hope the dogs weren't particularly good jumpers. Someone was pulling on the rope, reeling it up, by the time Lang reached the top of the wall.
He wasn't surprised to see Gurt, her cheek pressed against the rifle stock in the standard sitting position for competition shooting. He had recognized not only her voice but also her marksmanship. He was, however, astonished to see Jacob beside her.
"You're too old for this," Lang blurted.
"I appreciate your bloody gratitude," the Israeli said, calmly dropping the rope down the other side of the wall, "but you can express it fully when we get down from here." He wrinkled his nose. "And are those your mates down there?"
Below them was a milling, barking, growling mass of fur and teeth.
Gurt held her sniper's rifle in one hand and reached for the rope with the other. "You two may here sit and all day talk. For me, I am getting gone."
She disappeared feet first as she rappelled down the outside of the wall. Lang followed, this time fully aware of the needles of pain jabbing into his shoulder. Supporting even part of his weight tensed his crotch muscles, sending jolts of burning agony from scrotum to stomach.
The three stood in a wooded area beside the wall as Jacob twitched the rope until the hook disengaged. Gurt disassembled her weapon and stowed the parts in an attaché case.
"Shouldn't we hurry?" Lang asked. "I mean, I don't want you guys to do anything that's uncool like running, but shouldn't we be getting the hell out of here?"
They looked at each other and Jacob shrugged. "Possibly, but I doubt it. I expect the lads from the police and Inspector Fitzwilliam will keep your former hosts quite busy for some time. I don't know Portuguese law, but I'll book someone's going to have to explain a lot of illegal arms."
As an American, Lang had forgotten how difficult it is to legally possess anything other than sporting firearms in Europe. "Who's Fitzwilliam?" he asked.
As they crossed a meadowlike area, Gurt and Jacob took turns explaining that and how they had followed Lang to the Languedoc and then to Sintra. Lang had never before been unaware of what country he was in. He found the experience disorienting.
Beyond the open area was another wall, this one without razor wire. They climbed it, coming down in front of the Templars' next-door neighbor's estate, about a quarter of a mile away.
By the time the trio reached the Fiat 1200 parked a street further up the hill, the pulsating of sirens seemed to come from all directions. Two police cars, lights flashing, wailed past.
CHAPTER TWO
1
Rome
Four days later
They took turns driving, stopping only for gas and snacks, until they were back in Rome. There Gurt had access to a safe house, a small apartment on the top floor of a building on the Via Campania. From the window of the tiny living room, they could look across the ancient city wall to the green of the Villa Borghese, Rome's largest public park.
Jacob took the foldout and Gurt and Lang shared the single bedroom. Happily, the shock torture had no permanent effects.
The moment Lang woke up on the third day, he knew it had to be Sunday. Not only were the busy streets quiet, but he could also hear children's excited screams and laughter along the park's walkways and bike paths.
The three managed to keep out of each others' way long enough to prepare a hearty breakfast in the cramped, galley-style kitchen. Either out of consideration for two stomachs not quite at ease with the smell of fish first thing in the morning or merely because he couldn't find smoked herring in Rome, Jacob had foregone the kippers and had fried sausages instead. The spicy salsiccia were a welcome substitute for bangers.
Lang was enjoying his second cup of espresso when Jacob fired up his pipe and Gurt lit a Marlboro.
"Jesus, guys," Lang said, futilely waving the smoke away, "there wasn't much point in rescuing me only to give me lung cancer."
Jacob replied, "Demonstrates we can't stay here forever. Exactly what did you have in mind for your future?"
Lang forgot the smoke. "I'm going to expose the bastards, reveal their secret to the world," he said, cold fury in his voice. "Once their secret's out, there'll be no more extortion money. That will be the end of them."
Jacob made a sucking noise through his pipe, noted it had gone out and prodded the bowl with a matchstick. "And spend the rest of your unnaturally shortened life looking over your shoulder? Once the secret's out, that letter doesn't protect you any longer."
"Those sons of bitches killed my sister and my nephew. They follow that act by framing me for two murders I didn't commit," Lang snapped waspishly. "What do you suggest, kiss and make up?"
Gurt had a question but Jacob spoke first, talking between puffs as he applied a new match. "I'd suggest you think of some form of revenge other than exposure. If not for yourself, for a few hundred million Christians. I mean, I'm a Jew, never was too keen on the Church, but Christianity's a stabilizing force in the world. You destroy it and…"