the-secret-crusade-oliver-bowden

Altaïr took a throwing knife from the sheath at his shoulder, then,
with a flick of his wrist, set it free. The captain sank to the stone with a
long groan, and by the time the guards came running, Altaïr had taken
an adjoining alley and was melting into the empty side-streets. His task
fulfilled, he had now to go in search of Osman, just as Alexander had
instructed.
Stealthy and fast, he made his way across the rooftops of the sunbleached
city, scuttling catlike across the wooden beams, until he found
himself overlooking a courtyard. There below him was Osman. A
Templar, he nevertheless had Assassin sympathies, and Altaïr waited
until he was alone before lowering himself into the courtyard.
As he did so, Osman looked from Altaïr to the wall above them, then
back again, regarding his visitor with amused eyes. At the very least he
had a high regard for the Assassin’s stealth.
‘Greetings, Osman,’ said Altaïr. ‘Alexander sends his regards, and
wishes your grandmother a joyous birthday.’
Osman laughed. ‘The dear lady, may she rest in peace. Now, how may
I help you, friend?’
‘Can you tell me why the Templars purchased Cyprus? Was it to set
up another exchequer?’
‘I don’t rank high enough to know for certain, but I have heard talk of
an archive of some kind,’ said Osman, as he looked left, then right. If he
was seen talking to Altaïr he would almost certainly be put to death in
the market square.
‘An archive? Interesting. And who is the ranking Templar in
Limassol?’
‘A knight named Frederick the Red. He trains soldiers in Limassol