The Templar Conspiracy by Paul Christopher Read Free Book Online

There’s probably nothing to worry about; they want us to have this material.”
    “So, how do we do this?” Peggy asked. “I’m not up on my spy-craft techniques.”
    “Tradecraft,” corrected Holliday. “We just do exactly what Potsy said. Coming in from the north puts the passenger’s side closest to the abutment and the pipes that make up the bridge. I get out, with the car blocking the view from the other side of the road. I retrieve the files, get back in the car and off we go.”
    Holliday guided Peggy north up Nebraska Avenue to Military Road, then east into the park. The pines and cedars were postcard perfect with their heavy mantles of snow, and as night came a peculiar, muffled quiet settled on the park as though the land was holding its breath just before shimmering out of the present day like some illusion, reverting to the empty, lonely place it had been ten thousand years ago.
    Peggy turned the powerful car due south down Ridge Road. The snow was pristine, almost phosphorescent in the utter darkness, a gleaming white pathway between the dense stands of trees. No one had traveled here in quite a while; not surprising since the average Washingtonian had little experience driving in snow.
    “Spooky,” said Peggy.
    “Nervous?” Holliday asked. “I can take the wheel if you want.”
    “I’m fine,” said Peggy defensively.
    “Just go slow and easy,” suggested Holliday. “Put it into the lowest gear you can.”
    Peggy blew Holliday an expressive raspberry. “Sure, Granddad. Then you can tell me how you used to walk five miles to school.” She dropped the shift lever into the lowest of the six gears and headed even deeper into the park.
    The snow was developing a light crust and the big tires crunched over it, making the silence even more profound. For most of the way the road followed the course of an ancient streambed. The trees here were mostly birch and hickory, their leafless branches stark and skeletal as the Aston Martin’s halogen headlights swept across the forest with each turn in the twisting road. Holliday watched the odometer. At half a mile, just as Philpot had said, they rounded a corner and the headlights found the three-pipe bridge. The ground sloped away on both sides and the trees were thinly spread. The crunching sound under the tires was louder now; the temperature was rising. If it fell again before morning the roads here would be a skating rink.
    “There it is,” said Holliday.
    “I see it, Doc,” said Peggy.
    She slowed the sports car to a crawl and eased over the culvert bridge to the far abutment. There was a graffiti tag that looked as though it said Bad Idea . Below it was a single spray of red. Peggy stopped.
    “Kill the lights,” said Holliday. Peggy did so, the only remaining light coming from the faint blue glow of the instrument panel. Holliday eased open the door and kept low as he approached the abutment and the capped ends of the pipes. The middle one unscrewed easily. He’d been expecting a rolled-up bundle of paper, perhaps in a plastic sleeve. What he got was an ordinary mailing-room address tag attached to a USB flash drive.
    He grabbed the tag, pulled out the miniature hard drive, then recapped the pipe. The way the snow was falling his footprints and even the Aston Martin’s tire tracks would disappear in the next few minutes. He slipped back into the car.
    “Mission accomplished,” Holliday said.
    “Famous last words,” warned Peggy.
    The other vehicle came over the hill in a rush, blinding headlights blazing. Even from the inside of the Aston Martin, both Peggy and Holliday could hear the heavy clatter of tire chains.
    Peggy flipped on the Aston’s headlights, briefly illuminating the monster bearing down on them. “Oh, crap,” she said. It was a behemoth of an F150 truck with a gleaming, lethal-looking snowplow attached to the front, half raised. If it hit them head-on, the huge pickup truck would either ride up the Aston Martin and