The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

Chapter 11

Evarts threw his overnight bag onto an empty bed. Where was Trish? He hadn’t run into her downstairs. Had she left the house? As he walked toward the master bath, he heard the shower. He turned around and went downstairs to make coffee. He was dead tired and would need caffeine to explain his trip. She’d want a full explanation. He wished he had one.

Trish wandered into the kitchen before the coffee finished brewing. Using a towel to dry her short hair, she asked, “You didn’t stay in D.C.?”

“No, just back. Hour meeting in a hotel bar and caught a red eye. Hope you got a good night’s sleep.” He started pouring coffee. Over his shoulder, he added, “I sure didn’t.”

“Fitful. Still on Paris time, I guess. Woke up a few times wide awake. I assumed you were holed up in a hotel room, so I didn’t want to wake you. What the hell happened?”

He handed her a steaming mug. “Beats me. They wanted a debrief on our European adventure. When they were satisfied, they told me I could go home.” He raised both arms in a hopeless gesture. “So here I am.”

“Who’s they?”

“One man. You know him.”

“Jim O’Brian? Why is Army Intelligence interested in Paris? Is there a military angle?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but I bet the White House is highly interested. That means the CIA is on this. My bet is that someone assigned Jim to debrief me because of our past association. They already had the French file, so all they wanted was a personal assessment of its completeness and accuracy.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense.” She took a sip of coffee. “Is this the end of it then?”

“I’m going to act as if it is.” He took a large gulp. “Listen, I going to take a nap and get into work about noon. Wake me around eleven, okay.”

“Set your phone. I’ve been called into school.”

“For what? You’re on vacation.”

“They said the story is big news and the school’s name came up. The French kept our names secret, but they made reference to a professor at UCSB. The school wants to discuss how to handle press inquiries.”

Evarts drank his coffee and thought. That didn’t make sense. The French would never disclose details or names during an ongoing investigation of a terrorist attack. And they certainly wouldn’t drop clues that would make it easy to identify a victim—or a hero, as was the case with Trish. Trish? Untrained, she would have difficulty thwarting interrogation tactics.

“I’m going too.”

“Why? This is PR stuff.”

“When I’m sure that’s all it is, I’ll come back home, but this is not PR rocket science. All they need to say is that they will not disclose a name, their colleague was unharmed, and to their knowledge that individual knows nothing about the incident beyond being frightened. Not wanting to relive the incident, this person is refusing all interviews. Thank you. We will not be taking questions.” He snapped his mug down a little too hard and splashed coffee onto the countertop. “An attack on foreign ground will fade away in a couple days. How simple could it be?”

“Greg, I can handle it. Take a shower and a nap. I’ll probably be back before you leave for work.”

“I’m going. I want to see who’s in the room.”

“What do … oh … you think this is an interrogation … by some goddamn spooks?”

Evarts took a dishrag and wiped up his coffee splash. He took a long time responding. Finally, he said, “I was ordered to Washington. Told the FBI would transport me if I didn’t agree to come willingly. They reserved a nice room for me, expecting me to spend the night. But I flew home instead. Now I hear some UCSB administrators want to talk to you. Nothing’s certain, but it sure seems like they purposely separated the witnesses to compare answers.” He threw the rag in the sink. “I could be wrong. If I am, I’ll be home and in the shower, inside of an hour.”

“And if you’re right?”

“Good question.” He thought. “At minimum, I’ll know more. Beyond that, I’m not sure.” He smiled. “But I won’t jeopardize your academic position by being an ass. At least not in the room.”

“Then what damn good are you?”

She was not smiling.

“Excuse me. Are you saying you want me to challenge these jerks if they’re really doing a clandestine interrogation?”

She swallowed the last of her coffee and slid the mug onto the counter. “I’m going upstairs to dress. I’ll be leaving within fifteen minutes. Be ready. And if you spot any spooks, give them a piece of my mind.”

Evarts smiled broadly. “Will do.”

“Academics expect cops to be rude. That won’t be a problem. I know how to apologize for my knuckle-dragging husband.”

She whirled around and marched out of the kitchen.

As she climbed the stairs, she yelled back, “But don’t punch anyone.”

Chapter 12

Evarts counted three people sitting at one end of a long conference table. He knew Samantha Tiller, the chair of Trish’s department. The young woman with a steno pad was probably Tiller’s assistant. The other was a mystery. Evarts internally dubbed him Mr. Horn Rim Glasses. Big, heavy, black glasses. And a blindingly white starched shirt with links to close the cuffs. Cuff links? Starch? Evarts didn’t know laundry services still offered starch. Mr. Horn Rim Glasses wore no suitcoat but sported a preppie school tie. Whoever he was, his dress was not common in academia. At least not on the West Coast.

Before they sat, Tiller said, “I’m sorry Greg, this is a confidential meeting. Would you mind waiting outside?”

“I would.” Evarts took a seat at the table.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly. This is not a public meeting.”

Baldwin noisily scraped a chair away from the table but remained standing. “Greg and I were both on Pont Neuf during the attack and he has extensive experience in public relations. I want him here … for support … and to help