The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (20 page)

Another of the Knights at the table cleared
his throat. William Montague, the most recent addition to their
assembly indicated his desire to speak as his discreet, British
manner required. He was a quiet, reserved gentleman of about forty
years of age dressed in a dark business suit. He had been an
apprentice until 1944 when his master had been killed in Italy
during the second Great War of the century. The Grand Master
excused his strange, modern ways and beliefs, but had little faith
in his untried abilities in the field. He was a good enough
accountant, but had tasted little of the rigors of the
battlefield.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Sir Montague stood
up.

The Master looked at him as if he had never
seen him before. He cleared his throat and spoke in perfect,
well-refined English, also disdaining the French as his well-bred
British upbringing demanded.

“The treasury is not what it used to be. Not
that we are straitened or anything near it, but if we were to incur
considerable expenses such as those recently discussed with Sir
Dambretti for additional support facilities in Jerusalem and
expanded operations in Bhutan and Nepal, it may well deplete our
reserves in short order. I would like to expand upon one item in
particular brought up by Brother Beaujold, Your Grace, and that is
that Sir Ramsay does indeed keep the secret of the Philosopher’s
Stone as well as the Key of Death. It has been over twenty years
since he has added even one gram of gold to the account. Of course,
he never lets us run short, but, as you know, we live… rather well.
If anything should happen to him and the secret were to be lost…
need I say more?”

Montague eyed Beaujold thoughtfully.
Montague’s Master had been Beaujold’s friend as well as his
Brother. They had both been present when Ramsay had dispatched
Beaujold's former Master into the ether. There had been no other
choice. He would never forget it, but he also would never forget
the scene between Ramsay and Beaujold either. At the time, he had
thought that they were going to kill each other had it not been for
the intervention of Dambretti and d’Ornan. Things had never been
right between them after that. Montague felt the Master’s decision
to send the Knight of the Sword to bring Ramsay home was an error
in judgment. He doubted seriously that Ramsay would be afforded a
fair hearing if Beaujold had anything to do with it.

Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not
sink: let me be delivered from them that hate me, and out of the
deep waters.

Armand d’Bleu stood in the open doorway of Christopher Stewart’s
cell. The bleak light of an oil lamp filled the gloomy little room
with deep shadows.

“What are you doing, mon ami?” he asked after
a few moments of confused silence.

Christopher jumped and then let out a sigh of
relief at the sight of his dark-skinned friend.

“What’s it look like?” he asked irritably and
continued to stuff clothes in the open duffel bag on his cot. “I’m
packing.”

“Where are you going, Brother Christapoo?”
Armand used the nickname he had adopted for Christopher for use
during their unofficial meetings. One that never failed to
infuriate his friend.

“To America. Ahh....Mer…Eek… Ahh, muss yoor
Blue Cheese,” he answered the jibe.

Armand’s golden eyes bugged and he quickly
closed the door. He sat on the end of the cot staring at
Christopher in disbelief. He picked up a tattered, black tee shirt
with a picture of the Grateful Dead on the front.

“Hmmm. I don’t recall his most excellent
hiney including you in the list of Knights traveling to that
foreign land,” he mused and frowned up at the bare ceiling. “It
will never happen, cherie.” His English was heavily accented.
French was Armand’s native tongue. He was an unusual looking young
man with golden-brown skin, amber eyes and soft hair that lay tight
against his head in golden curls.

“They won’t know I am going until I am gone,
and then it will be too late,” Christopher assured him with a
shrug.

“They will know,” Armand’s expression changed
to one of serious concern. “They will be expecting it, my friend.
Prepare yourself. Your outburst in the assembly did not go
unnoticed. Everyone was talking about it afterwards, especially
when you did not show up for study hour. You know that apprentices
are not allowed to speak in assembly.”

“I only said one word. And that not very
loud,” Christopher muttered. He was clearly aggravated. He had been
unable to restrain the ‘no’ when the Grand Master had upended
Ramsay’s cup. He had no idea what the meaning of the symbolic
spilling of the wine might be, but it did not look good to him.
“And I am prepared. Look!” he added and held up a black wallet. A
plastic accordion filled with shiny cards unfolded in front of
Armand’s eyes. “American Express. Visa. Master Card. Discover. You
name it. I got it. Master Ramsay always says that one should be
prepared for every contingency. He gave these to me just before he
left and he said ‘Just in case’. I ask you, Armand, what better
‘just in case’ than this particular case can there be?”

“Just in case what, my friend?” Armand
frowned.

“Just in case something just like this
happened. Do you believe the charges that Sir von Hetz brought
before the Council?” Christopher stopped to frown at his friend. He
had been horrified at the dark Knight’s words. Fornication? Lost
soul? Whore of Babylon? He’d never heard the man speak so
indelicately in Council. He could not believe that von Hetz knew
what fornication meant.

“I don’t know. It is awful. Master Ramsay, a
traitor. It is very sad.” Armand started to shake his head, but
suddenly found himself with his neck stretched back and a
razor-edged dagger pressed against his throat.

“You will retract that,” Christopher breathed
in his ear.

“Mon dieu!” Armand held out both hands in
surrender. “I am sorry. I apologize. Se’el vous plait! Do not kill
me. I am your friend, your brother, your sister, your mother, your
wife and your daughter!”

Christopher let go of his friend’s hair and
shoved him off the bed. The young man looked up at him in surprise
and then grabbed his ankle, jerking him to the floor. They rolled
about briefly, punching and slapping each other and then got up
laughing.

“You had best be quiet, my friend. Are you
sure you won’t change your mind?" Armand asked when he caught his
breath. "We could stay here and you could teach me some more
American cuss words.”

Christopher shook his head. The French boy
took him by the shoulders and gave him a kiss on the lips in the
style of the Templars’ greeting among Brothers. “I will cover for
you as long as I am able, little Brother.”

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

“It was Latin,” Valentino told Maxie with
authority and shoved the little yellow notepad across the desk for
him to see. “Spes mea in Deo est,” she repeated the words written
there. “It is the by-line of the Templars so to speak. ‘My hope is
in God.”

“He probably talks in lots of languages,”
Maxie shrugged, totally unimpressed. “I don’t see the importance of
it.”

“He said it to me this morning,” she said and
leaned back in the chair, taking up her cup of chocolate, smelling
it thoughtfully.

“This morning?” Maxie frowned and looked
about the patio in alarm. It was only seven o'clock. “You’ve seen
him already? You shouldn’t go up there without an escort. He’s real
dangerous, Miss Valentino. We didn’t get the power back until five.
The surveillance equipment was out last night. I don’t know why he
ain’t kicked down the door and got out already. You and Miss Merry
keep on going in there with the key and expect me to show up and
save you. That room ain’t exactly a secure place, you know. You
hired me to protect you and I’m doing the best I can, but you ain’t
helping me none.”

“It was all right,” she smiled wickedly. “But
don’t you see? He doesn’t want to leave. He came here for a reason.
Just because we headed him off and brought him here a bit early,
doesn’t mean much to him. He’s still looking for Anthony. The
bastard. He thinks he’s playing us for fools. If he has no memory
of his Templar associations, then why would he quote that line to
me? I believe that the hypnosis session was a real failure from the
beginning. It didn’t work on him. He may have mind control
capabilities that I don’t know about. He may not have been
responding to the stimulus properly.”

She tapped a pencil against her perfect teeth
and stared into the distance. Maxie had no idea what she was
talking about. When she went into her intellectual modes, he closed
his mind completely to keep from getting mad at her superior
attitude. It always drove him crazy.

“Why did he quote that line to you anyway? If
he’s insisting that he ain’t one of them, wouldn't it give him
away?” Maxie raised both eyebrows. “Exactly what made him speak
Latin to you? Was he talking in his sleep or a trance or
something?”

“No, he wasn’t asleep,” she laughed and
hugged herself. “Quite the contrary. People say a lot of things
under… stress.”

Maxie eyed her suspiciously. He must have
missed something very interesting, but he had to sleep sometime.
Too bad he’d gotten drunk and fell asleep before turning on the
video recorder for the monitor in Ramsay’s room. But it didn’t
matter. The power was out most of the night and the generator was
on the blink. In fact, he needed to check on that problem. He
didn't want to risk running into their 'guest' in a dark
hallway.

“Anyway it gave me an idea,” she said
mischievously, trying to ignore the stupidity of her
co-conspirator. Why had Gavin Nash gone off just when she needed
him? Gavin would have known what to do. “If he really is suffering
from a memory loss and he really not respond to the treatment like
I expected, then we might be able to trick him into telling us
where d’Brouchart is. We can send a ‘brother’ to see him. He's got
me confused and that's a fact. Maybe we can confuse him as
well.”

“You mean a spy?” Maxie’s frown deepened.

“Yeah, sort of,” she continued. She wished
Maxie had a brain, but if he did, he probably would have gotten a
better job. “We’ll set someone up to contact him. They can give him
the not-so-secret codes, say this phrase and convince him that they
are brothers of the order. They can plan his escape. I think I can
modify the hypnotic techniques to use the fake brother to make him
think he is with one of his own and he will answer the imposter’s
questions. He may not be as clever as he thinks. I am quite sure
that he is suffering some sort of effect from the elixir you used
on him, but I still don’t buy the complete amnesia bit.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Maxie agreed. He had no
idea what the hell she was talking about, but it was his job to
agree with her and agree with her he did. “Then after that, we can
interrogate him some more and then get rid of him before he kills
one of us, huh?”

“Yeah, sure,” Valentino sighed and then
smiled condescendingly at the big man. He really didn’t have a
clue. “You can have him.” She repressed a shudder. Ramsay would eat
him alive. Where had Gavin found this so-called 'security expert'
anyway? She almost felt sorry for Maxie, but she would have to get
rid of him no matter what the outcome of the situation. He knew too
much in spite of his stupidity.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Mark Andrew was starving again. Actually
starving. He finally began to beat on the door of his room. He had
already hurt his foot trying to kick it open, but he was on the
wrong side of it for kicking and the doorframe was exceptionally
well made. Real hardwood. Real brass hinges and hardware. He could
find nothing in the room with which to pry the hinge pins. The
window opened, but the bars were set too close for him to squeeze
through. There was nothing in the toilet mechanism that would work
on the lock. He had tried to dismantle the bedpost to make a
weapon, but it, too, was made of solid wood. It would have taken
days to dismantle it. The antique bed frame was put together with
pegs and wood screws. He didn’t have any tools to work with and he
didn't have days to figure it all out. He would be dead of
starvation in a few hours. No one answered. What were they doing?
Where had the Pixie gone? He’d let her get away again. If he kept
allowing his hormones to win out over his common sense, then he
deserved whatever happened to him. He was disgusted with himself
though the depression had lifted a bit.

Just when he decided that he might have to
hang himself with the bed sheets and take his chances in hell, he
heard a key scrape in the lock.

The door opened slowly, almost timidly. Mark
narrowed his eyes and waited.

A smallish, balding man slipped inside the
door and closed it quickly behind him. The fellow stood nervously
near the door, staring at him wild-eyed. He reminded Mark of one of
the rats from his dreams. Maybe this man was supposed be his
breakfast. He almost laughed at the thought of killing and eating
the weasely-looking fellow.

“Spes mea in Deo est,” the man said
expectantly. Even his voice was squeaky like a rat’s, but he was
taken aback by the man’s words that carried a familiar ring.

“No comprendo, mi amigo,” Mark replied and
advanced on the man a step or two causing him to cringe backward.
He had the key to the door, but Mark Andrew wondered what other
weapon he might have concealed in his pockets. Every time he
decided to do something, things would take another twist. “Go away.
Bring food, little man.”

“Go away?” the man frowned in confusion.
“Chevalier du Morte. My Brother. Don’t you remember me? Spes mea in
Deo est!”

“I said ‘no comprendo’,” Ramsay repeated.
What were they up to now?

“But I thought you knew I would come,” the
man backed up a step and bumped the door. “I've come to take you
home. To help you escape.”