you think?”
* * *
The Templar Master sat in the back of his armored limo and thought about the Treaty of Tuscany. Twenty minutes after the Marshall left his office, the Templar Archivist had essentially summoned him. So what on Earth was the Treaty of Tuscany, and what’s so important about it? The Templar Archivist might be a pain in the ass, but he was the smartest man the Master had ever known. If he was sounding the alarm, then he better pay attention.
His driver turned in to a driveway to an old stone building on the edge of the university campus, adjacent to the university, but not on the campus itself. More modern structures were off to one side, but the old stone defined it. The Kruger Institute was one of the premier private research libraries in the world. Its origins were a bit murky, intentionally murky, but an endowment from a Templar company in the late 1800s, plus astute management of the endowment by another Templar company, allowed it to maintain its independence and become a destination for scholars from all over the world.
When the car stopped in the back parking lot next to the staff entrance, a silent young man held the library door for the Master and escorted him to the Archivist.
“Well, well, well, come in. Come in. What a surprise.” A short, wiry man looked up from a desk piled high with books and papers. “Wonderful to see you.”
“You called me this morning, Patrick, so let’s drop the crap.”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I seem to remember something like that way back in this addled brain and broken body that is no longer fit for field duty.”
The Chief Archivist of the Knights Templar shuffled around from behind his desk. Wire spectacles sat on his forehead, and his old cardigan sweater hung nearly to his knees. This would be another difficult meeting. They had all been difficult since the Master had taken the old man off the active field roster after sixty years as a Templar.
“Well, have a seat, and let’s see what you want. I presume you are here to pursue learning? The French are so backward.” The Archivist pointed to a set of matched armchairs. The instant the Master reached to help him into the chair, he knew he had made a mistake.
“Get your skinny claws off me,” hissed the small man. “I can still sit in a chair under my own power, and I expect to be doing it long after you’re moldering in the dust. I’ve been doing it for eighty-five years, and it’s not something that takes a lot of practice. You, you might forget, but not me. And you might remember it was me who pulled your sorry French carcass from the clutches of the Saracen fiends. Not the other way around.”
The Master recalled being injured and trussed up in a Beirut cellar many years ago after a particularly stupid move on his part. The man in front of him had bounded down the cellar stairs with a bloody knife in each hand, cut his bonds, and carried him out to safety. On the way out, they passed his three guards piled in a bloody heap with their throats cut. Well into his eighties, the Archivist still taught knife technique in training.
“Yes,” replied the Master, “and good afternoon to you, too, Patrick. And once again, I thank you for my worthless carcass. I’m always grateful for the good cheer you bring to my otherwise miserable life.”
“Ok. Now, what do you want?” asked the Templar Archivist. “What do you want? I’m busy, and don’t have time to waste on nonsense.”
“What do I want? I want to know about the Treaty of Tuscany. You’re the one who called me about it. What is it?”
“Tuscany? The Treaty of Tuscany? Oh, yes.” The Irishman cocked an eyebrow and the Master swore he could see new life leap into the small man. “Now, Tuscany? Nobody knows about Tuscany. But just this morning, our own Marie Curtis calls up out of the blue. She calls in from Costa Rica and asks about it because she ran across it while having high tea with one of our
* * *
The Templar Master sat in the back of his armored limo and thought about the Treaty of Tuscany. Twenty minutes after the Marshall left his office, the Templar Archivist had essentially summoned him. So what on Earth was the Treaty of Tuscany, and what’s so important about it? The Templar Archivist might be a pain in the ass, but he was the smartest man the Master had ever known. If he was sounding the alarm, then he better pay attention.
His driver turned in to a driveway to an old stone building on the edge of the university campus, adjacent to the university, but not on the campus itself. More modern structures were off to one side, but the old stone defined it. The Kruger Institute was one of the premier private research libraries in the world. Its origins were a bit murky, intentionally murky, but an endowment from a Templar company in the late 1800s, plus astute management of the endowment by another Templar company, allowed it to maintain its independence and become a destination for scholars from all over the world.
When the car stopped in the back parking lot next to the staff entrance, a silent young man held the library door for the Master and escorted him to the Archivist.
“Well, well, well, come in. Come in. What a surprise.” A short, wiry man looked up from a desk piled high with books and papers. “Wonderful to see you.”
“You called me this morning, Patrick, so let’s drop the crap.”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I seem to remember something like that way back in this addled brain and broken body that is no longer fit for field duty.”
The Chief Archivist of the Knights Templar shuffled around from behind his desk. Wire spectacles sat on his forehead, and his old cardigan sweater hung nearly to his knees. This would be another difficult meeting. They had all been difficult since the Master had taken the old man off the active field roster after sixty years as a Templar.
“Well, have a seat, and let’s see what you want. I presume you are here to pursue learning? The French are so backward.” The Archivist pointed to a set of matched armchairs. The instant the Master reached to help him into the chair, he knew he had made a mistake.
“Get your skinny claws off me,” hissed the small man. “I can still sit in a chair under my own power, and I expect to be doing it long after you’re moldering in the dust. I’ve been doing it for eighty-five years, and it’s not something that takes a lot of practice. You, you might forget, but not me. And you might remember it was me who pulled your sorry French carcass from the clutches of the Saracen fiends. Not the other way around.”
The Master recalled being injured and trussed up in a Beirut cellar many years ago after a particularly stupid move on his part. The man in front of him had bounded down the cellar stairs with a bloody knife in each hand, cut his bonds, and carried him out to safety. On the way out, they passed his three guards piled in a bloody heap with their throats cut. Well into his eighties, the Archivist still taught knife technique in training.
“Yes,” replied the Master, “and good afternoon to you, too, Patrick. And once again, I thank you for my worthless carcass. I’m always grateful for the good cheer you bring to my otherwise miserable life.”
“Ok. Now, what do you want?” asked the Templar Archivist. “What do you want? I’m busy, and don’t have time to waste on nonsense.”
“What do I want? I want to know about the Treaty of Tuscany. You’re the one who called me about it. What is it?”
“Tuscany? The Treaty of Tuscany? Oh, yes.” The Irishman cocked an eyebrow and the Master swore he could see new life leap into the small man. “Now, Tuscany? Nobody knows about Tuscany. But just this morning, our own Marie Curtis calls up out of the blue. She calls in from Costa Rica and asks about it because she ran across it while having high tea with one of our
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