Templar 09 - Secret of the Templars by Paul Christopher Read Free Book Online Page A

copies?”
    â€œNo, sir,” answered Smart.
    â€œThank you for your good work as always, Rusty.” It was a dismissal.
    â€œThank you, sir.” He stood and left the room. Christ, how he hated the name Rusty. It had followed him from grade school, when his hair had been the color of a traffic light and his face was covered with freckles. Though it was half gone and a nondescript brown now, the name still stuck.
    Kitchen waited until his assistant slithered off to his little hole before he picked up the reportand went down the hall to George Abramovich’s office. George had replaced Harrison White as director of the Central Intelligence Agency eighteen months earlier. George was a player, which meant that whichever way the wind blew, he blew in the same direction.
    Abramovich’s office was crammed with nautical paraphernalia—model boats in glass boxes, a brass ship’s bell, bits of scrimshaw and even a bicorn hat that supposedly belonged to John Paul Jones. The walls were covered with pictures of Abramovich’s climb through the ranks all the way to secretary of the navy. Abramovich himself looked like a boxer gone to flab, his cheeks sagging and his skull retaining just a few wisps of hair. He looked uncomfortable in a suit, and was obviously missing his uniform, which was resplendent with gold and a lifetime’s achievement on the broad patch of ribbons on his chest. He looked up from something he was reading as Kitchen entered the room, and handed him the folder.
    â€œGive me the short form.”
    â€œParis lost them.”
    â€œAny contacts?”
    â€œA man named Spencer Boatman.”
    â€œWho is he?”
    â€œBig-time academic. Oxford don, lot of pull in high places. He does work for MI6 every nowand again. Codes mostly. IQ is in the stratosphere.”
    â€œHow does Holliday know him?”
    â€œThey met briefly at Georgetown University years ago. Boatman was a kid, some kind of superstar. Holliday was twice his age or more, working the GI Bill.”
    â€œDo we know what they talked about?”
    â€œNo, sir. I’m afraid not.”
    â€œFind out. I don’t give a shit how you do it, just find out. This whole thing is getting out of hand.”
    *   *   *
    Rusty Smart left the office at six o’clock, his usual time, but instead of going home to his apartment in Georgetown, he headed out of McLean and into Fairfax County. He made sure his car’s GPS unit was shut off before he made his way to Earl Street and parked at the end of the residential backwater. Most of the large ranch-style houses were lit, their curtains pulled against the encroaching dusk. He took the Nikon from the seat beside him, climbed out of the car and headed down the trail into the park that led off the dead end. The small bridge was about two hundred yards in.
    Rusty took a few pictures, making sure that hewas alone, then slipped down the embankment, opened up the camera and took out the chip. He reached into his pocket, took out a foil gum wrapper, quickly folded it around the chip, then tucked the little packet deep under the struts of the bridge above. As he climbed back up to the trail he took a green thumbtack out of his other jacket pocket, pressing it into the inside face of the bridge’s support post. He then took a few more shots, headed back down the trail to Earl Street and climbed into the car. He drove off and headed for home.
    â€œGo get it,” said the older of the two men hiding in the underbrush fifty yards from the bridge. He carried a 35-millimeter camera with a 350-millimeter zoom lens and had photographed all of Rusty Smart’s activities at the bridge. His name was Morton Banks and he was an ex-marine MP turned private detective who now worked for only one client.
    His companion went and fetched the chip, which Banks then downloaded onto his phone. He returned the chip to his companion, who replaced it under the bridge.