Read Lost City of the Templars for Free Online Page A

me when they’re ready and I’ll meet you at Rosati’s. Good, good, see you then. Give Papa my love.”
    •   •   •
    Hank Rand sat on the couch in the Oval Office with his boss, Harrison White, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, seated beside him. Hank Rand was director of the National Resources Division, the most secret of the CIA’s covert departments.
    “I hope you’re right about this, Hank,” said White, flipping through the brief they were about to hand to the president. “You know how he hates that bitch, but I don’t want him thinking we’re ass-kissing.”
    “It’s from our team in Venezuela and it’s rock solid, Harrison. One of the Pallas Group’s subsidiaries is about to bomb the piss out of the Indians in northern Brazil. Another Pallas division is managing that big dam project in the region.”
    “And another division provides contract security troops and VIP transport in Iraq and Afghanistan and have been since Bush and that bozo Cheney,” Rand responded. “And the guy who sits behind that big desk over there would like nothing better than to boot their asses and put Kate Sinclair in jail. This is his chance.”
    The president came in, slipped off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and dropped down into the high-backed chair behind the resolute desk. There was nothing on the desk except a telephone and a wooden box full of giveaway pins. On the windowsill to his right were a few family pictures, including his wedding portrait.
    “Boy Scout Medal of Honor Award with Crossed Palms,” said the president, having just come from a photo op.
    “What do you do to get that?” Harrison White asked.
    “This twelve-year-old kid was walking back to his tent at a jamboree or whatever you call them and he found two little kids, Cubs, I suppose. It turned out these two kids had been chewing on some sort of house plant that paralyzes your throat. He used two pieces of a ballpoint pen and a penknife to give them emergency tracheotomies.”
    “Jesus!” White said.
    “So now he wants to become a surgeon, I suppose.” Hank Rand smiled.
    “Nope,” said the president. “He wants to become a lawyer.”
    “Why in hell would he do something like that?” White asked.
    “Said he’d have a better shot at the Oval Office. Twelve years old, he’s already after my job.” They all laughed briefly. The president leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “So, what do my favorite spies have for me today?”
    “Kate Sinclair on a skewer if we play our cards right.”
    “Best news I’ve had today. Almost as good as Osama bin Laden shot full of holes. Now, that was something to see!” The president gave a sigh of contentment and leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Do tell, gentlemen.”
    •   •   •
    The jungle unrolled like a mottled green undulating carpet of forest beneath the wings of the old aircraft. Charlie Diaz flew the plane on a rock-steady course that followed the dark snaking river a few hundred feet below them.
    Contrary to Peggy’s fears, Charlie Diaz was a top-notch pilot and the old bush plane flew without a clatter or a bang. Holliday sat on one of four jump seats directly behind the cockpit, and Eddie had the copilot’s chair. Between Eddie and Diaz on the dashboard was a plastic sign that said COPILOT’S CHECKLIST: DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING AND KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT. It was repeated in Spanish and Portuguese. Rafi and Peggy sat opposite, Peggy clutching the side of her seat white-knuckled. The rest of the cabin was stuffed with their gear.
    “So, what do you think now, Peg?” yelled Holliday, raising his voice above the unmuffled monster outboard motor bellow of the engine.
    “I think I’m going to puke,” she answered, her face white. “He flies like he’s operating a roller coaster.”
    Rafi patted her knee consolingly. “Is smooth as silk,” he said. “It just
sounds
like we’re going to crash any second.”
    Right on cue