The Templar's Curse Sarwat Chadda (top books of all time TXT) 📖

“Better than we were?” Billi replied as she stretched out the aches and loosened the bruised ribs.

Mo smirked. “Better than you, maybe. I’m still pretty amazing.”

“I liked you better when you were more modest. You still have a lot to be modest about.”

Mo pretended to be shocked. Then he reached into his back pocket. “All unlocked and awaiting your pleasure.”

Billi took Lawrence’s mobile. “That was quick. I only gave it to you last night.”

Mo shrugged. “What can I say? Old habits die hard. I couldn’t hack all of the accounts, but managed to salvage some interesting emails.”

“You looked?”

“Of course I looked. Check out the thread between Lawrence and a George Cartwright. General Sir George Cartwright, retired.” Mo sighed loudly. “Gwaine is glowering at me. I better get back to work.”

Billi scrolled through the emails. There were a lot between Lawrence and this Cartwright bloke. “You know where I can find this Cartwright fella?”

“Company address is right there on the email,” said Mo as he nodded at Carados to put on his pads. “I’d tell you not to cause trouble but, hey, who am I kidding?”

***

One thing about living in the very heart of London was that everywhere was near. Still, Billi waited till the day was ending. She’d parked up her motorbike off Bloomsbury Square and headed to Bedford Way just after five when the streets were filling with everyone rushing home.

It didn’t stand out. You could pass it every day of your life and not know it was there. Bloomsbury was all discreet Georgian uniformity and subtle splendour. It was just north of the British Museum and that couldn’t be a coincidence. Lawrence had said the museum was founded on loot, after all. It just proved nothing had changed, despite all the years.

She’d been sitting at the bus stop opposite for the last hour, watching the comings and goings from Outremer Consultancy. What would you think it was, just glancing at the small brass plaque on the side of the main doors? Something to do with banking? Or maybe one of those management firms who teach bosses how best to fire their staff?

The day was over, but the lights on the upper floors were still on. The boss worked late. Billi waited until the door was opening then started across the road, meeting the man while the door was still open as he fumbled for his umbrella. You could always count on the weather to provide opportunities. He looked at her as she came up the few steps to the entrance.

He frowned as he wedged his briefcase under his arm, fiddled with his umbrella and tried to block her from passing. “May I help you?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Now listen, Miss. I don’t know what you think —”

Billi pulled his briefcase from under his arm and tossed it onto the road. The guy stared from her to the briefcase to the taxi heading straight towards it, yelled and ran onto the road. Billi slipped through the open doorway and closed, then locked, the door behind her.

She and the receptionist faced each other across the plush front room, complete with Persian carpet and portrait of the Queen over the marble fireplace. Billi smiled. “I want to speak to Sir George.”

“I’ve called security,” snapped the receptionist. She stayed still behind the desk, hoping the heavy oak furniture was defence enough against this mad girl off the street.

Billi crossed the room and picked up the phone, holding it out to her. “Tell him I need to speak to him about all the priceless artefacts he stole from Iraq during the war. Tell him I either talk to him, or I tweet it to every news agency in the world.”

The side door swung open as two big men barged in. They took a step towards Billi, until the receptionist raised her hand, sharply. “It’s alright. It’s fine. This… young lady is staying.”

The two men nodded warily, then retreated out of the room. The receptionist made a call, followed by a whispered conversation and quick glances at Billi. She put the phone down, straightened her shoulders as she stood up. “Sir George will see you now.”

CHAPTER SIX

Sir George was old-school privilege. Raised on tales of the Empire he was the sort of man used to dominating everyone and had been taught that the world was his and that was both right and natural. So he didn’t quite know what to make of this half-Pakistani girl in a biker’s jacket apparently ready and willing to tear his entire world down around his ears. So he did what any Englishman in his position would do. “Would you like some tea, my dear?”

Billi nodded. “Why not?”

Sir George glanced at the receptionist. “Agatha, tea for two, if you’d be so kind.”

He showed Billi into his office. It was on the upper floor with tall bay windows overlooking the garden at the back. The curtains had yet to be drawn and the droplets upon the glass glistened in the light from his table lamp. There were portraits upon the wall, one of Duke Wellington, another of Churchill. Upon the mantelpiece were photos of family and some birthday cards. Seems that Sir George had just turned seventy. He looked good for seventy. Thick silver hair just a tad long, straight backed from a life on parade and a proud chin, the sort of chin used to ordering men to their deaths. His mouth was wide and hard, the smile as fake as it was polite. He adjusted his tie with the Sandhurst pin as he sat down behind his desk. Billi stayed standing. She didn’t want to sit with her back to the door.

Sir George gazed at her with heavy, hooded eyes. Some people might have found that intimidating. “Agatha says you have some fanciful tale? Something you found on the internet, no doubt?”

There were some really beautiful items upon the mantelpiece alongside the silver framed family photos. “Relax, Georgie. I’m not here to ruin you. At least, not today.”

“What