Red Templar by Paul Christopher Page B

with a perfectly placed reading lamp and a side table stacked with books and magazines.
    Holliday looked at the titles:
WoodenBoat,
Hortus, The Marine Quarterly
. On top of the pile was a paperback called
Black Fish
by Sam Llewellyn, a sailing thriller. Holliday seemed to recall that he’d read some of Llewellyn’s early historical novels and quite liked them.
    “I smell a rat,” said Holliday.
    “¡Una rata!”
Eddie said, jumping up out of his chair.
“¿Adónde va?”
He whirled around frantically.
“¡Odio las ratas!”
    “The books and the magazines,” said Holliday. “They’re all in English. I thought Genrikhovich didn’t speak any English.”
    “¿No hay ratas?”
Eddie said, confused. “There is no rat?”
    Genrikhovich came back into the room. “I’m sorry to have deceived you, Colonel Holliday,” the Russian said, his English tinged with a slight Oxford plumminess. “I assure you that it was entirely necessary, given the circumstances.”
    “Sorry isn’t good enough,” snapped Holliday angrily, turning to face the Russian. “I’m in a shitload of trouble with the secret police because of you. People are dead because of you, Mr. Genrikhovich, and now I find out you’ve been lying to me.”
    “It’s Dr. Genrikhovich, Colonel Holliday,” said the Russian stiffly. “And as I have already informed you, my deception was completely necessary.”
    “You’ll have to explain that,” said Holliday. He dropped down in one of the stuffed chairs. Genrikhovich sat down in the recliner. Eddie stood for a moment longer, scanning the baseboards carefully and muttering in Spanish. He finally seated himself again.
    “I know who you are, Colonel Holliday, and more important, I know what you are.”
    “So who and what am I?”
    “In effect, you are the keeper of the king’s keys; do you know what that is?”
    “I’m a historian, Genrikhovich; of course I know what it is. It’s what they sometimes call the chief yeoman warder of the Tower of London. For seven hundred years the chief yeoman has locked up the Tower every night at exactly nine fifty-three; he goes through a pass-and-be-recognized ceremony with the sentry.” He recited the ancient exchange:
     
    Who comes there?
    The keys.
    Whose keys?
    The king’s keys.
    Pass, king’s keys. All’s well.
    Holliday frowned. “But I’m not sure what any of that has to do with me.”
    Genrikhovich smiled. “In this case the king in question happens to be Czar Nicholas the Second, emperor and autocrat of all the Russias, and now formally recognized by the Russian Orthodox Church as Saint Nicholas the Passion-bearer.”
    “I still don’t see the connection,” replied Holliday, his voice stubborn.
    “You perform the same function within your order. With the exception of Brother Dimitrov at the monastery outside Ahtopol, you are the last of the White Templars, the keeper of their keys, their secrets, their wealth and their power.”
    “Fairy tales, Genrikhovich. There are no Templars, and the original Templars were anything but ‘white.’ They were bankers, builders, spies and speculators. Somewhere on the Pilgrim Road they lost their way. I’m not convinced they ever found it again.”
    “A cynical point of view, Colonel.”
    “I’ve fought in half a dozen wars, some legitimate, some not. Scratch any soldier my age and you’ll find a cynic; believe me. I’ve seen too many boys with their guts all over the ground calling for their mothers to be anything but cynical, especially when it comes to the activities of medieval mercenaries hiding behind a cross.”
    “You imply they do no good at all.”
    “I don’t know one way or the other.”
    Genrikhovich smiled calmly. “Yet here you are, Colonel, and no one forced you to fight for your country or for the downtrodden of other lands. You did it by choice. Free choice, Colonel. Your choice.”
    Holliday thought about what the Russian had said and suddenly realized that he had no pat answer to