The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (8 page)

“I didn’t rob you and I didn’t steal your
damned car. It’s a rental anyway,” Maxie laughed. “But you’re a
good one to be calling me a criminal. You’re supposed to be the
assassin. A cold-blooded murderer. Killed hundreds, thousands to
here Miss Cecile tell it. You don’t look like much to me. Too
pretty to be of much use in a practical sense. The world would call
me a hero if I killed you right now. And just because my employer
is a bit… weird, doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if you try to hurt
her. I know which side my toast is buttered on so to speak. You
just need to keep your ancient ass out of Miss Merry’s bed.”

‘Don’t provoke him!’ Mark heard Cecile's only
words of wisdom. The man was trying to goad him.

Maxie raised the pistol. Assassin again. Who
had he killed? When? Only a Hitler or a Caesar could claim such
numbers.

“You’re not supposed to talk to me,” Mark
told him and turned his attention to the bag. “Your Valentino told
me that the servants were not supposed to talk to me. I’m a monk on
retreat, you see.”

“I’m not a servant, dipshit,” Maxie snarled
and backed out of the door again. “I will have my chance at you
sooner or later so don’t get too comfy here. She’ll get tired of
you just like she did the others and then your ass will belong to
me and we’ll get to know each real good before you leave. I’m a
patient man.”

“I’m very glad to hear that we’ll be close,
Mr. ahhh, sir. I like to kiss my victims just before I cut off
their heads,” Mark could not help but antagonize the man a bit, but
wondered why he would say such a thing. Was he as deviant as this
brute? Had he been gay before he lost his memory?

“So I hear,” Maxie laughed and then slammed
the door, obviously unimpressed by the threat.

Barely had the lock turned in the door before
Mark had checked the small, barred windows and the two other doors
in his room. A closet and a tiny bath. A shower and a shave were in
order and he needed to find his socks and shoes if possible. He
definitely needed to make his getaway soon before things got any
crazier.

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

The black, leather bag provided a good
assortment of clothes, two pairs of shoes and a pair of plain,
rather worn, black boots, belt and a shaving kit. Almost everything
in the bag was black, including the tee shirts. With a sigh of
relief, he chose a pair of black cargo pants with numerous pockets
and a black, safari-style shirt still in the wrappings from the
cleaners. The bill attached to the wrapping provided no real clue
to his identity, listing only the price he had paid for the
cleaning service arranged by a Marriott hotel in Chicago. Chicago
sounded as foreign to him as Zimbabwe. There was nothing in his
shaving kit that could have been used as a weapon. Disposable
razors, shaving cream, cologne, toothbrush… a rather mundane
assortment that anyone might have carried. No clues whatsoever to
his identity or mission… mission!

Why that word? Assassins would be sent on
missions, wouldn’t they? Perhaps someone had sent him here to kill
the idiot with the shotgun. But the man hardly seemed to have a
brain worthy of attention by… by…. Who would have sent him?
Interpol? Scotland Yard? The Surete? He might be able to get out of
the room with a little work, but first things first. He knew that
he would be going down to lunch. Perhaps a better opportunity would
present itself then.

He took his shower, shaved and dressed in the
clean clothes. While he waited, he inspected his rooms again for
possible weapon equipment. The antique tub was porcelain, on gold
clawed feet. The pedestal sink and mirror above it, offered nothing
useful. He surveyed his situation critically. Perhaps the mirror
frame might be broken and the mirror itself used as a blade… He
would have to do a bit of dismantling if nothing better presented
itself soon. Thinking was becoming a chore, especially when he had
very little to think about outside the last few hours of his life.
He wondered if anyone knew he was missing, if anyone was looking
for him.

While he was searching the interior of the
little closet, a car horn sounded from somewhere below. He had to
climb onto the cramped, velvet lined-bench in the dormer window
sill in order to look down into the driveway. The white limousine
in which he had arrived sat where they had left it. A Jeep was
parked behind it and another car was parked diagonally behind the
Jeep. Black. Gleaming darkly in the sun. A Cadillac el Dorado. His
mind lurched. This was his car!

He recognized it and it was like finding a
long, lost friend. A rental Maxie had said. Not really his, but
perhaps there were papers there. Drivers license or other
documents. Clues to his life. He pressed his forehead against the
glass and watched the activities below with great interest. Two men
were searching the car. Mark felt his temper rise as they ransacked
his personal belongings. One of them took a black case full of CD’s
from the passenger seat and flipped through them. Their shiny
surfaces flashed and sparkled in the sun. Next, they removed a
long, black box from the boot. Valentino came from the house to
join them, carrying a mug in one hand.

Mark slapped the window in frustration. He
could not see She stood by watching as one of them partially opened
the box and allowed her a peek inside. Whatever it was he knew
instinctively that it was the very thing he needed to jog his
memory. She nodded her head vigorously and pointed back toward the
house. The man took the box in the house and Valentino followed
him. The other man continued his search through the car, turning up
nothing more of importance. And what had been in the box? His
machine gun? His sniper rifle? Surely, an assassin would carry some
sort of weapon. Whatever it was, it angered him beyond measure to
see it in their hands. Mark felt like crying in desperation as the
man got into the car and drove it away, out of sight.

Presently, he heard a key in the lock of his
door.

He climbed quickly out of the window seat and
sat on the bed trying to calm down, trying to look bored and
aggravated rather than enraged and desperate. His heart pouned, his
head still hurt and his face burned with residual anger. He hardly
expected to go down to lunch now. She had found something else that
captured her attention. The door opened and the dark-haired woman
entered, still carrying the mug. One of the men from the yard
followed her inside, carrying another black, leather bag that
matched the one on the bed.

“The rest of your clothes,” she announced as
the man dropped the bag. He’d not closed the hasps, nor zippered it
very well. It burst open and spilled his tumbled belongings on the
floor.

Mark said nothing, but raised one eyebrow in
disgust at the man.

“Sorry,” the man mumbled and looked at
Valentino apprehensively. It was quite obvious that he wanted to
get away.

“Very impressive,” Valentino mused as she
kicked at the bag and dragged out a shirt with her toes. “I like
Ralph Lauren myself, but each to his own. At least you have
developed good taste in your old age. I expected Calvin Klein or
maybe Armani for you. Or a kilt or two.”

Mark looked at her without comprehension at
first and then noticed the little symbol on the over-sized
tee-shirt she wore over a pair of striped shorts. She was talking
about fashion while he was having a heart attack. He picked up a
tan shooter’s shirt and held it up. The label said Tag Safari.
Safari? He knew it was a shooter’s shirt. It had quilted pads on
both shoulders. Was he a hunter of exotic game perhaps?

“I’m flattered. I must have missed a turn in
Timbuktu, no doubt. I hope you found my car keys as well?”

"I found something much more interesting than
that, Mr. Ramsay," she said and then held up one of his CD's. The
Scottish singer Loreena McKinnitt’s The Book of Secrets lay on top.
“How quaint. Scottish folk music? No acid rock. No raging
punk?”

“My apologies, Chevalier Ramsay, for his
clumsiness," she smiled down at his clothes. "They don't work for
me. Mechanics from town. You know, your accent reminds of Sean
Connery. I really liked him in the Name of the Rose. Have you seen
it? It’s about Bernard Gui, the famous Inquisitor, and his
investigation of some mysterious murders at a monastery somewhere
in France or something. Anyway it should have been right up your
alley. He’s the one who decided that the Cathars were heretics in
the fourteen century. You must remember him. I understand that the
Cathars were of special interest to the Templars?”

“Who decided they were heretics? Bernard Gui
or Sean Connery?” he asked and her smile faded.

Mark felt insulted, incensed and infuriated
by the woman. She was again insinuating that he was several hundred
years old again. He remembered Gui alright, but not personally. He
ignored her and began to pick up his clothes[, smoothing and
folding them carefully as if he hadn’t another care in the world.
There was a bit more color here. A brown jacket, another white
shirt, some ties and dark brown slacks. He tried to ignore her and
the idiot with the shotgun behind her in the hall.

“Fastidious, aren’t we?” She asked after a
moment. “I see your eye is better.”

He nodded, but did not look at her. It seemed
completely proper not to look at her. She was trouble in every
sense of the word.

"You know why you are here,” she stated.

“I do not,” he contradicted her.

“You are Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay, Knight
of Death,” she told him. “Master of the Key of Death. Order of the
Red Cross. Templar. Poor Knight of Christ? Ring a bell?”

“You have me confused. I am not a
bell-ringer,” he said simply, still avoiding her eyes.

“I am not ignorant of your identity and your
humor leaves something to be desired.”

“I have no brothers,” he said again and a
pang of sorrow struck him from out of the blue.

“I am particularly interested in your Grand
Master, the Knight of the Temple, in charge of the Council of
Twelve, Sir Edgard d’Brouchart.”

Mark froze momentarily at the mention of the
name. The Grand Master. He saw him in his mind: a fierce, strong
man, though somewhat short of stature, fair of countenance, with
long, locks of curly red hair and deceptively mischievous blue
eyes. He continued folding his clothes. The image put fear into his
heart as nothing he could have imagined until that point. Even the
dreaded Maxie seemed to pale in comparison to the man she had
mentioned.

“You have me confused with someone else,” he
reiterated almost rotely. “My name is… John. John Larmenius.
Period. End of story,” he lied and waved one hand in dismissal.
“These elegant titles and mysterious words mean nothing to me. I
suggest that you release me and I will continue on with my
business.” Perhaps he had killed Mark Ramsay and stolen his car and
his belongings and then they had mistaken him for this fellow,
Ramsay. “How do you know that I didn’t kill this Ramsay fellow and
now you think that I am your man?”

She laughed at his suggestions and he was
surprised to hear it. He watched her from the corner of his eye.
She held the cup under her nose and smelled the contents again and
again without tasting it.

“My name is Cecile Maria Valentino,
Chevalier,” she announced after a moment. “I am the Grand Master of
the Rose Cross.”

“Grand Master?” He finally turned to look at
her directly. “Don’t you mean mistress or matron?”

“That, too,” she told him. “Whatever the
title, I am in charge here.”

“Then Chevalier is not your family name?” He
asked, attempting to aggravate her. “A title then?”

“Of course,” she looked at him as if he were
stupid. “Chevaliers and Chevalieres. Don’t play with me, Mr.
Ramsay. You know it is a title. You are a Chevalier yourself. A
Knight of the Order. You are trying to mock me because you think
women don’t belong in chivalric orders. You have worn that title
for countless years and you think that women are nothing more than
vessels for your seed.”

“Countless years,” he repeated the words and
went back to his work. “Do I appear so old to you? Vessels for my
seed? Do I look like a fucking farmer? Your language is a bit
strange.”

“Appearances are not what they seem,” she
shrugged and smelled the cocoa again. “I am really surprised to see
that you have been able to maintain your looks so well. As I said,
I had expected less. But do not take my position lightly. I
consider myself a worthy opponent in all things.”

“All things?” He asked wondering what the
hell she was talking about. “How in the name of St. John are you my
opponent?”

“There! You see? Who else but a Knight of
Christ would say ‘in the name of St. John’? You don’t hold all the
secrets, Sir Ramsay. Perhaps I’ll bargain for your Key as well. It
could be very useful in the long run. I might find myself
surrounded by people I would rather not be associated with…
forever.”

“You would become an assassin then, if the
need arose?” He needed to know more about this particular subject.
He had to assume that she was insane, but she might know something
useful. “You are doing quite well now assassinating me by way of
starvation. You really need to let me go before something terrible
happens to you and your household.”

“Finally a threat,” she smiled. “Perhaps you
do have a temper after all.”

She headed for the door and he resisted the
urge to attack her physically. He reached for his dagger, but
remembered he had none. These sudden urges to kill and destroy
bothered him immensely. There must be some truth in what they were
saying. It was hard to accept, but the instinct to kill was
hovering just below the surface.

“Wait!” He called to her before she closed
the door. She turned back to him with renewed interest. “What is it
you want? Are you planning to keep me locked here forever?”