The Lost Treasure of the Templars (15 page)

“Which means?”

“Which means there must be other people out looking for us. We're not out of the woods yet. Where the hell are we? And how do I get out of this town?”

Robin looked through the windshield.

“I know exactly where we are,” she said. “Take the next right. We need to get onto College Way because that's the main road out of the town.”

She gave him further directions, which Mallory followed, now making sure he stayed at or below the speed limit. With a loaded pistol in the car, the last thing he wanted to do was get pulled over by a policeman.

“Right,” Robin said as they made another turn. “This is Newcomen Road. Keep going straight through the one-way system, and then we'll end up down by the river, on the North Embankment. You have to turn left at the end of that to go past Coronation Park. Then you go left again, and that's College Way, the A379. No problem.”

Despite the running gun battle they'd been involved in, the town of Dartmouth seemed quiet and normal, with no signs of any unusual activity, though Mallory assumed that the area around Robin's shop and apartment would be knee-deep in rozzers by then. The traffic was light, and they encountered no holdups.

“That's Coronation Park, right in front,” Robin said, “so we're nearly there.”

Mallory nodded, swung the Cayman around to the left to follow the street, and then left again to start climbing the hill, the looming bulk of the Royal Naval College clearly visible over on their right.

And then, when they'd almost reached the top of the hill, seemingly out of nowhere, a black Range Rover materialized from a side turning directly in front of them, perhaps sixty yards away, stopping broadside on to block the left side of the street.

Both the windows on the right-hand side of the car
were lowered, and in the light from the Porsche's headlamps Mallory could see two bulky figures, arms extended, both holding pistols that were pointed straight at them.

It wasn't over yet.

Dartmouth, Devon

The control room operator who had picked up Mallory's triple-nine call had had very little information to go on. But she had heard, and heard very clearly, the shouted statement that some kind of firearm was involved in the incident, as well as the agonized scream of a woman. Those two factors had immediately increased the importance of the call, and her response to it, with the approval of the duty inspector in the control room.

As well as ordering the nearest regular patrol car to head for the address in Dartmouth that the automated location system had provided, she also ordered the crew of an ARV, an Armed Response Vehicle, from the Tactical Aid Group of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, to attend.

The ARV was a BMW estate car, painted with the usual distinctive pattern of blue-and-yellow high-visibility squares, but with two small yellow squares on each end of the front bumper just below the headlights to indicate that the occupants were armed, the only external indication of the vehicle's special status.

The car was on the road between Plympton and Ivybridge when the call came through. The driver immediately flicked on the roof bar lights and siren and headed east as fast as the traffic would permit along the A38 dual carriageway, while the codriver talked with the control room operator to try to get as much information as he could about the incident.

“Could be a hoax, from the sound of it,” Eddie Fulton said as he concentrated on covering the ground as quickly as he could.

The BMW had just passed the outskirts of South Brent, the speedometer needle holding steady at a hundred and ten miles an hour as the car headed northeast. One problem both the officers were well aware of was that they weren't then actually heading toward Dartmouth, there being no fast roads that offered a direct track to the address they had been given.

“Which route are you going?” the codriver, Dave Chambers, asked.

“Not a lot of choice, really. I'll stay on this as far as the interchange, then go east to Totnes and south and east to Dartmouth from there. You'd better tell the operator we're going to be at least another twenty minutes on the road.”

Chambers made the call, adding that unarmed officers should not approach the scene until they arrived, just in case there really was a man there waving a gun, unlikely though he thought that would be in sleepy Dartmouth, and it wasn't the far more probable scenario of a couple of drunken locals having a laugh.

In the end, they made better time than Fulton had expected, and he pulled the BMW to a halt a little under seventeen minutes after Chambers had passed his original estimate. Two other patrol cars were already on the scene
at the back of the building from which the call had been made, and an ambulance was parked a few yards away, the crew waiting inside the vehicle in case they were needed. Another patrol car had been parked at the end of the alleyway that terminated on the main road to cover that exit, its flashing blue lights reflecting eerily from the windows of the antiquarian bookshop that the police had already established was owned by a Robin Jessop, the same person who owned the apartment from which the emergency call had been made.

Inevitably the relatively heavy police presence had attracted a crowd of interested observers, most of them eagerly recording the scene with the cameras in their mobile phones. Uniformed officers were doing their best to keep them away from both the front and the back of the building.

Moments after Fulton stopped the BMW, he and Chambers climbed out and opened the trunk to unlock the firearms safe. Two minutes after that, both men were fully equipped, Glock semiautomatic pistols in holsters at their sides, and each carrying a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, all weapons primed and ready to fire.

The on-scene commander was a uniformed inspector—his name tag read
WILSON
—and before doing anything else, Fulton and Chambers reported to him.

“Evening, sir. What's the situation?”

“What have you been told?”

“Very little. The control room operator who took the triple-nine call heard a scream, possibly from a woman, and then a man's voice, slightly muffled, shouting that somebody had a gun. That's it.”

The inspector nodded.

“There's not a great deal that I can add,” he said. “We've secured the perimeter, and since the first car
arrived on-site, nobody has entered or left any part of the building.”

Wilson paused for a moment and pointed up toward the second floor level. “There's at least one light switched on in the apartment, and the entrance door is standing ajar, but we've seen no sign of any movement. One of the constables thinks he heard a couple of thumping sounds when he arrived and got out of his car, but that's it, and we've no idea what could have caused them. And of course they might have nothing at all to do with this incident.”

He turned back and smiled somewhat bleakly at the two armed officers. “Anyway, you're the cavalry, so over to you. The only access we can see to the apartment is up that metal spiral staircase, though there might be some internal stairs as well leading down into the bookshop. Both parts of the property are owned by somebody called Robin Jessop. We've been trying his mobile phone, but it's switched off and we have no idea where he is at the moment. Obviously our major concern is that he's up there in the apartment, perhaps injured or worse, but we've been ordered to wait for you before investigating further. I've got floodlights positioned already, but I assumed you'd rather make a covert approach to start with.”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Chambers said. “In this case, I think quiet is much better than noisy. Now, could you please pull your men back to a safe distance, and we'll take a look. If you monitor our transmissions, we'll give you a shout if we need the lights.”

Both men checked their weapons and equipment, each running his eyes over his companion's gear as well as a final check on their mutual readiness, and then they began moving forward slowly until they had a better view
of the apartment and the external staircase leading up to it.

They stopped about ten meters from the base of the staircase and for a few moments just studied the scene.

“I think I can see a shape up there on the balcony. Could be a person, or maybe just a pile of something, clothing maybe,” Chambers whispered. “I don't see anything else.”

“Nor do I. Let's go. I'll lead. We're going in now.”

“Understood,” Wilson's voice came through loud and clear in their earpieces. Both armed officers were equipped with specially designed radios that allowed them to transmit without removing their hands from their weapons.

Fulton stepped forward, his submachine gun aimed and ready, covering an arc in front of him as he approached the base of the staircase.

When he was a few feet away he stopped and looked down for a few moments.

“This is Fulton,” he said quietly into his microphone. “There's a pistol lying on the ground here near the base of the staircase. It looks like a Beretta, and the magazine is in place. Suggest you upgrade the status of this incident accordingly.”

“Copied,” Wilson responded.

“I'm starting to climb the staircase now.”

Slowly and really carefully the armed police officer began ascending the metal spiral staircase, his weapon pointing upward to where any threat would materialize. Chambers stood a few feet away from the base of the staircase, also aiming his Heckler & Koch upward but ensuring that his colleague was never in the line of fire, scanning the entire balcony and looking out for any signs of danger.

Moments later, Fulton had climbed high enough so
that he could see along the length of the balcony at the top of the staircase. The vague shape that he and Chambers had spotted from the ground was now only a few feet from him, and it was immediately clear that he was looking at a man.

Fulton paused for a moment, trying to check whether or not he was looking at a dead body or at a person who could offer a threat to him, perhaps lying in wait to attack him as soon as he stepped onto the balcony. But almost immediately he could see that the man was lying in an awkward position, facedown and with his arms pulled behind his back, the wrists together. He could also see that the man was not moving, though in the darkness he had no idea of his condition.

Fulton cautiously climbed up the last few steps and crouched down to examine the figure. What he discovered didn't make sense, but there was enough light for him to clearly see the man.

“This is Fulton,” he murmured quietly into his radio. “One male lying on the balcony, his wrists and ankles secured with plastic cable ties, and he's been shot through the head, clearly dead. Proceeding inside the apartment.”

“Copied,” Inspector Wilson said.

“I'm coming up after you,” Chambers murmured. “I'll wait on the balcony until you've cleared the apartment.”

The door was not open quite wide enough for Fulton to slide through the gap, so he cautiously eased it open a little farther, then stepped into the tiny hall, checking all around him as he did so. Most of the apartment was in darkness, but the internal door directly in front of him was standing open and clearly that room was the source of the light that had been visible from the ground below.

Taking extreme care to make as little noise as possible,
Fulton eased forward until he could see inside the room, the submachine gun held ready to fire throughout, his right forefinger resting lightly on the trigger. But what he saw inside the room made as little sense to him as the condition of the man lying on the balcony. Two heavily built men, both clearly dead, shot execution-style through the head, and who had clearly been restrained by the almost unbreakable plastic cable ties wrapped around their wrists and ankles, lay on the floor of the room. The amount of blood on the floor and their visible head injuries showed him that checking for a pulse or any other sign of life would be completely futile.

“Two more males inside the office, both dead with shots to their heads. That's the room with the lights burning just down the corridor from the apartment door,” he reported in a quiet voice. “Both of them incapacitated, wrists and ankles tied, just like the man outside. No threat. I'm clearing the rest of the apartment.”

Dartmouth, Devon

Mallory reacted instantly.

Shooting their way past simply wasn't an option, not against two armed men in a stationary car. Their only option was to outrun them somehow. On the open road, it would have been no contest—the Porsche would simply leave the Range Rover in the dust—but in town, especially a town as constricted as Dartmouth, sheer speed was unimportant. They would have to outthink their pursuers, as well as outdrive them.

As both of the men fired their weapons, one bullet carving chucks out of the tarmac right beside the Porsche, Mallory hit the brakes, swung the steering wheel hard over to the right, and at the same time pulled on the hand brake, hard. The rear of the Cayman swung out to the left, tires howling in protest, and as it did so Mallory stamped on the power again, swinging the car round to head back the way they'd come.

“A J-turn,” Robin said, sounding unexpectedly calm. “I am impressed.”

“Don't be,” Mallory snapped. “Just tell me how the hell we get out of this town.”

In his rearview mirror he could see the SUV swinging around to follow him down the hill. They had a lead of over a hundred yards at that moment, but Mallory was certain that would quickly evaporate once they found themselves back in Dartmouth's narrow streets. And then a couple of well-placed bullets to shoot out the Porsche's tires, and it would all be over.

“Keep going straight,” Robin ordered. She pointed at the dashboard clock and asked, “Is that accurate?”

Mallory looked where she was indicating and nodded. “Yes, pretty much. Why?”

“Just a thought. Keep going.”

The Porsche swept down the hill, its speed well over the limit because now Mallory's priorities had changed. The street forked at the bottom into the one-way system that ran around Coronation Park, and Mallory suddenly saw a possible escape route. He slowed up slightly to steer round the bend and glanced across at Robin. “We can do a U-turn round this park thing, then go straight back up the hill and out of town. They won't catch us on the open road.”

“You can't guarantee that, not on the kind of roads we have around here. We need a lot more space between us and them.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Mallory asked, his voice clouded with irritation.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” she replied, glancing to her left as Mallory made the turn by the Floating Bridge Pub and swung the car south onto the road running between Coronation Park and the river Dart.

“Now what?”

“Timing is everything,” Robin said enigmatically. “Go round the park again, quick as you can.”

Mallory saw two cars in front as he straightened up, a couple of slow-moving sedans, and weaved and accelerated hard to get past them before they reached the sharp bend ahead. Both drivers hooted in irritation, probably because they simply hadn't seen him coming, but then Mallory was past, steering the car to the right, rear tires smoking and leaving black streaks of rubber on the street, and heading back toward College Way. As he made the turn, he saw the Range Rover almost two hundred yards behind them, heading down the stretch of road that ran beside the river.

“Now what?” he asked again.

“Go round again, but slow down when you get near that pub.”

“What are you trying to do? Get behind them?”

“Not exactly. I'm trying to get us out of here,” Robin said.

Mallory powered the Porsche around the corner at the junction with College Way, tires squealing and the lateral g-force pushing Robin against the passenger door. He headed back toward the river, retracing the route he'd followed less than a minute earlier.

“Now,” Robin said, sitting forward in her seat and staring straight ahead. “Slow down. More. Slower. Now. Go straight on, there,” she finished, pointing slightly to her left.

Mallory braked harder, turning the car off the main street and down a short section of street that led directly to the river.

And then he saw exactly what she had planned.

Right in front of the car, a man was just closing the barrier at the stern of a ferry that was clearly preparing to leave on the short crossing over to the other side of the river Dart.

Robin leaned over in front of Mallory and gave an imperious toot on the Porsche's horn. The man glanced toward them, opened the barrier again, and waved them onto the vessel, closing the gate behind them. Seconds later, the ferry began to move, easing slowly away from the bank.

“Clever,” Mallory acknowledged, switching off the Cayman's engine. “That's why you wanted to know if the clock was accurate.”

Robin nodded. “Yes. I use the ferry quite a lot, so I know the timetable. I looked at the ferry when we passed the pub the first time—the fact that it's called the Floating Bridge is a bit of a clue—and I could see they were just getting the last couple of cars on board. If we'd joined the queue then, the bad guys would have been right behind us, and that would probably have been it, but by going round the park one more time, it worked out just right.”

As if motivated by a single thought, they turned simultaneously and stared through the rear window of the car. The black Range Rover had just pulled to a stop on the short stretch of road leading to the ferry dock, and as they watched, two dark-haired men wearing black suits got out and stared impassively at the stern of the departing vessel. Then they climbed back into the SUV and the driver reversed it away from the dock.

“They'll probably go round by road and try to intercept us on the other side,” Mallory said.

Robin nodded. “Yes, well, that's the point, you see. They'd stand more chance of catching us if they simply stayed in Dartmouth and caught the next ferry over, because going by road is a hell of a long way round. Their fastest route would be to go all the way west to Halwell, then north to Totnes and east toward Paignton, because
all the minor roads are really narrow. That route's like three sides of a square. If we were heading to Paignton, we'd only be doing one side of the same square, driving seven or eight miles instead of over twenty. More important, by the time these men reached Paignton, we could be halfway to Exeter, and then they'd never catch us.”

“Okay. So, two obvious questions. First of all, where are we going? Second, who the hell are these people? And what the hell have you dragged me into?”

“That's three questions, actually,” Robin said sweetly, “but oddly enough the answer to each of them is exactly the same: I don't have the slightest idea.”

*   *   *

Marco Toscanelli was extremely unhappy, and whenever he was unhappy everybody around him knew all about it.

In one fell swoop he had lost half of his team, which was pretty much a disaster. Granted they'd been executed by his own hand, though he still couldn't see what else he could have done, because if any of his men had been interrogated by the British police, Toscanelli knew he himself would probably have been the next occupant of the scarred wooden chair in Vitale's office.

That was bad enough, but if he'd recovered the relic, that would have been written off as collateral damage. Unfortunately he still had not the slightest idea where the lost parchment was, but he thought it was a reasonable assumption that the man Jessop probably had it with him. But what was really puzzling him was what had happened in that small apartment. How had an unarmed bookseller and his girlfriend managed to overpower and knock out three of his men, all of whom were carrying pistols, and all of whom were trained and experienced assassins?

That was a question he obviously couldn't answer, or at least not now. And it was a distraction from the
business at hand, which was finding Jessop and his girlfriend again and beating the information about the parchment out of them. That was something Toscanelli was really looking forward to doing.

In the meantime, although he knew exactly where his quarry was—in fact, if they were on the dock he would still be able to see them on the river—there was no way he could get to them. Or not right then, anyway.

“Head back into the town,” Toscanelli ordered, taking out his mobile and dialing a number. “We'll pick up Mario and then decide what to do next.”

The man beside him nodded and steered the Range Rover along the road that ran beside the river.

Toscanelli finished the call, telling Mario where they would meet him, then opened a road atlas to work out their options. When he saw the circuitous route they would have to take to drive to the other side of the river Dart, he cursed fluently in Italian because the situation was far worse than he had expected.

There was no possible way they could get to the other bank of the river in time to intercept their quarry. No matter how fast they drove, the Porsche would be long gone. In fact, their best option, Toscanelli realized, was to wait in Dartmouth and take the next ferry across to the Kingswear side of the river. He didn't know how long the actual crossing would take, but he guessed about five minutes. Add another five minutes at either side of the river to unload the vehicles and pedestrians, and then repeat the process, and that would put them a minimum of twenty minutes behind their targets, a lifetime in terms of an active pursuit, but still a better and faster option than going by road.

“Back to the ferry dock,” Toscanelli ordered as soon as Mario climbed into the backseat.

The driver looked at him quizzically.

“The road isn't going to work,” Toscanelli told him through gritted teeth. “The ferry is the fastest way over there.”

In fact, the crossing took rather longer than he had expected, and by the time the Range Rover rumbled off the floating bridge ferry on the opposite bank of the Dart, by Toscanelli's estimate they were at least half an hour behind the Porsche, and in reality had not the slightest chance of even following it, far less catching it, not with the network of roads on that side of the river, any one of which their quarry could have taken.

They would need some help, and quickly.

As the SUV headed in the general direction of Paignton, working on the assumption that Jessop would want to get out of the area as quickly as possible, Toscanelli took a smartphone from his jacket pocket, opened up the contacts section, and scanned down the list until he found a name and dialed a British mobile number.

“Keep following the main road,” he ordered the driver.

When the call was answered, he switched languages, but the first words he said were in Latin, not English.

“Laudare, Benedicere, Praedicare,”
he said clearly, paused for a moment, repeated the phrase, and then continued in fluent English: “In the name of the Spaniard from Guzman, my name is Toscanelli, and I need your help.”

“My brother in Christ,” the man at the other end replied, a few moments later. “I am a tertiary of the
Ordo Praedicatorum
. Tell me how I may assist you.”