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

“Are either of you a Mason?” Evarts asked suddenly.

“Both,” Durandus answered. “It’s part of why we were assigned to this special task force.”

That told Evarts a lot.

“How did they kill the four terrorists?” Evarts asked.

“Sniper fire,” Durandus answered.

“And you didn’t catch them?”

“No. They abandoned their rifles and disappeared into the crowd of onlookers.”

Evarts thought. Durandus remained silent and let him think.

“Why didn’t they shoot right away?” Evarts asked. “Before the killing started?”

“We’re not sure, but our guess is that their priority was to kill the gunmen, not the swordsmen. They were on the Left Bank, at least six of them. As people fell or hid, their line of sight became clear, and the Templars took the shooters out. By that time, you had taken care of the other two.”

“If they were waiting,” Evarts said, “they must have infiltrated the terrorists’ organization.”

“That we do know … and they have.”

“To ambush the attack, they would need spotters on the ground and possibly someone on the bridge,” Evarts mused.

Durandus didn’t respond.

“You think Greg is part of this vigilante group?” Baldwin exclaimed. “No way. You don’t know my husband. He doesn’t join causes. None. His life is me, the police force and surfing. He also plays singles tennis and prefers to ski by himself. He’s a loner … and nonpolitical. I need to remind him to vote … even when his friends are on the ballot. He attends Mason meetings only occasionally. And I can tell you this, he did not arrange our wedding date four years ago to coincide with this terrorist attack.”

“You’re here for your anniversary?” Durandus asked.

“We are,” Baldwin answered. “Today, as a matter of fact. That’s the reason for the Sequana reservation. We ate there on our honeymoon.”

Durandus flicked his finger and Guerin left the room.

“Were you in the military?” Durandus asked.

“Army,” Evarts said.

“What specialty?”

“Telecommunications. Signal corps.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t explain your performance on the bridge.”

“It probably had little to do with it, but I’ve taken martial arts lessons.”

“No team sports?”

“None. Except police versus firemen softball.”

“Not in school?”

“Not in school. Team sports took me away from surfing. Why this line of questioning?”

“As your wife said, I don’t know you. Understanding a man’s character tells me a lot.”

“Are you going to ask about what happened on the bridge?” Evarts asked.

“We know what happened on the bridge. Seven cameras caught the attack. Now we’re looking into deeper questions. Tell me, Chief Evarts, what was the terrorists’ strategy?”

Evarts thought before he spoke. “The job of the two sword carrying terrorists was to cause panic and herd people into the waiting guns. The goal was maximum carnage. Due to shopping galleries, museums, Notre Dame, and traffic patterns, the Right Bank is heavily patrolled. If the attack started from that side, Police or soldiers might have responded before the swordsmen could instill complete panic. However, an attack started from the opposite bank would draw first responders toward the bridge to defend people from the assailants. That would pull them out of the surrounding streets and put them into the field of fire.”

“And that tells you?”

“If everything had gone to plan, police and soldiers would have been shot or drawn away, allowing the shooters to merge with the victims and gawkers.” Evarts paused. “The shooters weren’t expendable extremists. They were trained operatives that took the risk because they believed they had a chance to survive.”

“Excellent, Chief. And what else?”

“This was not a one-off, Capitaine. They have something else planned.”

Chapter 4

Evarts ordered a Macallan’s on the rocks and a chardonnay for his wife.

Earlier at the station, Durandus and Guerin had left the room for a private conversation. On their return, they had given Baldwin and Evarts permission to leave. The police station, not France. Durandus ordered them to remain in Paris and return at eleven in the morning to make a formal statement. A uniformed officer drove them to their hotel and admonished them not to change hotels without notifying Durandus.

The hotel bar was tiny, but they could take their drinks to the comfortable lobby. At one in the morning, no one else was about.

Baldwin took a long sip of her wine and raised her eyelids in appreciation. “Oh, that tastes good. Thank god we’re out of that awful room.”

“For ten hours, anyway.”

“I’ll take it,” she said. “Thankfully, the French don’t start their day early.”

“I believe Durandus and Guerin were tired.”

“I don’t care,” she said flatly. After another sip, she set her glass down, leaned over, and gently kissed him. “Thank you for saving our lives.”

“Me? It was your impersonation of a rabid policewoman that saved our bacon.” He leaned over and kissed her, a little more seriously. “Thank you.”

“We’ll thank each other … but not in the lobby.” Her youthful face conveyed innocence but her smile did not.

Patricia Baldwin had just turned thirty-seven but appeared as if she was still in her twenties. Most men would have called her cute, not pretty. She wasn’t vain about her appearance except for her expensively highlighted brunette hair, which she kept short and purposely disheveled. Along with her glasses and smooth skin, she looked more like a coed than the youngest full professor in the University of California system. Or at least she was at the time she was awarded her professorship at age thirty-one. Evarts had no idea if someone else held the title now. He was not about to ask.

“How do you manage to look so fresh after such a harrowing day,” Evarts said in wonderment.

She shrugged. “Genes, I guess. How long do you think they’ll keep us in France?”

“I suspect we’ll find out tomorrow. No longer than we planned on staying, I suppose.” He smiled. “Now that they no longer suspect that I’m a vigilante.”

“Can you read Durandus?”

“To a degree. He’s good. I’d hire him in a heartbeat.”

“But what about that Templar thing? Is that serious?”

“I presume so, but I never heard about it. Santa Barbara is not a terrorist target.”

“Why not?” She asked.

“Hard to get to, I suppose … harder