The Templar Legion by Paul Christopher Page A

Saint-Sylvestre watched him go. Finally he spoke to the guard beside him in rapid-fire Sango.
    “Tondo ni wande,” he instructed. Keep watch over the foreigner.
    “En, Kapita,” said the guard. He followed Lanz out the door.

11
     
    Michael Pierce Harris sat in his room at the Khartoum Hilton and listened to the distant satellite-echoing voice of his boss.
    “What’s the present situation?” Major Allen Faulkener asked from his London office.
    “They’re getting ready for some sort of expedition, that’s for sure,” answered Harris. “They’ve been picking up everything from bug spray and hammocks to machetes and malaria pills.”
    “The pilot, Osman?”
    “Stripping down the engines on the Catalina.”
    “Do you have any idea about their ETD?”
    “Tomorrow, maybe the day after. Osman’s filed a flight plan for Umm Rawq.”
    There was a brief silence. Finally Faulkener spoke. “There’s a Matheson twin Otter at the civilian airport in Khartoum. Take it down to Wau, on the border, in the morning. I’ll have a half dozen men on standby. That should be enough.”
    “Enough for what?” Harris asked.
    “They’re following in Ives’s footsteps,” said Faulkener, his voice rising and falling spectrally on the carrier wave. “Make sure they stumble and fall. Fatally.”
     
     
    Returning from his regular afternoon stroll through town, Konrad Lanz stepped into the Bar Marie-Antoinette at the Trianon Palace Hotel and let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The long, narrow space off the lobby was empty except for Marcel Boganda, the bartender. Late sunlight leaked weakly through the partially opened louvers on the window that looked out onto the Trianon’s colonial-style veranda.
    The room was straight out of Rudyard Kipling, complete with a gently rotating wooden fan whickering overhead, a few old, cracked brown leather banquettes and club chairs scattered randomly. The centerpiece, the bar itself, was forty feet of art deco, deep red burled bubinga hardwood, the slab surface of the bar top as dense as marble. The bar was Marcel’s pride and joy; every drink was served with a coaster and every condensation ring was wiped up almost before it had a chance to form.
    Marcel was in his fifties, round faced and short haired. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and dressed in evening clothes from the time the bar opened at noon to closing time at midnight. He was a formal, distant man and rarely spoke unless he was spoken to. It was only by accident that Lanz had discovered from a waiter in the dining room on the far side of the lobby that Marcel actually owned the Trianon.
    Crossing the room Lanz took a seat on one of the tall, high-backed leather-covered bar stools at the veranda end of the room. He put his Carl Hiaasen book down on the bar and waited. It took a moment or two but eventually Marcel wandered down and took Lanz’s order: a chilled green-and-yellow bottle of Congolese Ngok beer with its lurid crocodile logo. Marcel poured the pale, corn-colored lager into a tall glass, letting the short head rise, just so. Lanz took a sip and sighed happily.
    “Hot out there,” said Lanz.
    “Most usually is, sir,” said Marcel. “It is a hot country.”
    “Lived here all your life?” Lanz asked.
    “I went away to school, sir. To France. The Sorbonne.”
    “And you came back here?” Lanz asked, surprised.
    “This is my home,” said the bartender simply, shrugging his shoulders.
    “Kukuanaland?”
    “Fourandao, sir.”
    “What do you think about Kolingba?”
    “I try not to,” answered Marcel. Lanz wasn’t entirely sure but he thought he caught a tinge of irony in the man’s voice.
    “Does he ever come here?”
    “No, sir. Our president is not a drinker.”
    “How about his second in command, this Gash fellow?”
    “Chocolate bourbon on the rocks from time to time,” said Marcel. “Why do you ask me so many questions, sir?”
    “I’ll be honest with you, Marcel. I need an in to the