‘Can I get you gentlemen anything else?’ asked the waiter, dipping both hands into the large front pockets of his black apron. ‘We’re closing early tonight.’
Harker sipped the last drops of his latte and shook his head. ‘No thank you, we’re fine.’ After making it away from the ditched Agusta helicopter, they had flagged down a passing taxi and then travelled south to the small commune of Pontorson, before deciding on one of the restaurants in the area, called le Brazza. The small pizzeria had been busy and they finally found the furthest table from the door, in a corner, and had been there for the past forty-five minutes.
With the authorities undoubtedly looking for anyone connected to the dead pilot in the helicopter, Harker had thought of heading deeper into France but he had reconsidered. He had no idea how the authorities would be handling the situation and, not wanting to potentially get caught up in any police roadblocks, he had opted for the small town of Pontorson, just sixteen kilometres away from the Mont itself.
Harker had since called his Templar contact, John Shroder, multiple times but still heard nothing. Besides having Chloe’s well-being on his mind, he was now preoccupied by the deaths of those two Templars – three if he included Michel Beaumont – and the stolen Illuminismo. Worse still was Vlad’s threat to go after the Templar organization, and as of this moment he had no way to warn them. The past few hours seemed to have been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster, and Harker was feeling at his lowest ebb. Carter, however, was taking things remarkably well and, despite the attempt on both their lives, the ex-don maintained a stiff upper lip.
‘Surely there has to be another way we can reach the Templars?’ Carter asked for the umpteenth time. ‘We can’t allow those nutters to make good on their threats.’
‘How many times do I have to say it, David?’ Harker replied sharply, becoming increasingly wound up at hearing the same question over and over again. ‘I only have a single number, and he’s not answering it.’
Carter slumped back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee. ‘Then what are we doing next?’
The question was fair, but with the third Codex page now in Vlad’s hands, and with no way of getting in touch with the Templars, there was only one thing they could do. Harker let out a heavy sigh.
‘What option is there? We wait for “God” to call.’
Carter sat there flicking at the rim of his cup in frustration as the last other patron headed outside, leaving them alone in the restaurant.
‘Well,’ Harker said, getting to his feet, ‘I’m going to the toilet.’
‘Yeah, four cups of coffee in a row will do that,’ Carter replied, returning to his rim flicking as Harker made his way over to the other side of the empty restaurant and through the doorway marked Hommes. The toilet was empty and Harker stopped by the basin mirror to inspect his appearance. He looked tired as he rubbed at his eyes and then massaged his aching jaw muscles. Given the erratic nature of ‘God’s’ communication, it was impossible to tell when the old man’s next tiresome call would come or what the hell he would say. Should Harker lie and pretend the third page was still in his possession? But so far the bastard had managed to know exactly where and what he was doing at any given moment and Harker found himself struggling to figure out how. ‘God’ had known he was at Carter’s house back in Berlin and, judging by that courier collecting the first page, he had been followed. This feat of stalking, though, didn’t explain how the tiresome man had known he was with Brulet. Secondly, how was it that Vlad had been able to follow him to Mont-Saint-Michel? Carter? Not likely, but whatever was going on, the answer had to be somehow close at hand.
He turned on the cold tap, let some water pool in his hand and then applied it to his face. He was enjoying the refreshing sensation when behind him he heard the sound of the toilet door open and then swing shut. He looked up, shook the water from his eyes, and through blurred vision could make out the reflection in the mirror of a figure standing directly behind him.
Harker grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser to dry his eyes and the absorbent material was still doing its job when he felt something hard press against the base of his neck. His body went stiff and he let the towel drop into the sink as he now caught a clearer image of the person standing behind him. Harker turned around slowly and, although relieved to see who it was, the Browning automatic being levelled at him immediately dampened any enthusiasm.
John Shroder stood there with the gun in one hand and with the other raised his forefinger to his lips and shook his head to indicate silence. Harker obliged as the MI6 agent reached over and patted him down. Shroder then went straight for Harker’s jacket pocket, retrieved the iPhone and, impressively, one-handed, removed its cover and popped out the battery. Satisfied the mobile was now dead, Shroder dropped it into his trouser pocket and placed the Browning automatic back in his shoulder holster.
‘Hello, Alex,’ Shroder began with a friendly smile. ‘Getting yourself deep into trouble as always, I see.’
‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling you regularly for the past couple of days,’ Harker almost yelled and then, pointing towards the gun concealed in Shroder’s leather jacket, ‘and what the hell was that all about?’
Shroder waved a placating hand in the air. ‘I apologize, but it was necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they were listening to you,’ Shroder explained and tapped at the now inoperative mobile in his pocket. ‘I know a place we can go,’ he continued, reaching for the door handle ‘Let’s go get your friend and I’ll explain everything to you, but not here…and not now.’