The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  However, given all that had transpired in the last week, he was no longer certain that a religious conversion was on the horizon. The stain was too dark.

  26

  Biting back a joyful yelp, Edie watched as Caedmon unlimbered his tall frame from the motorized rickshaw.

  ‘Caedmon! I’m over here!’ she hollered, waving an arm in the air to get his attention. She’d been sitting at the pool for the last two hours waiting for his return.

  Overcome with relief, she leapt from her poolside deckchair and ran across the dimly lit hotel lawn towards the front veranda, heedless of the fact that she was attired in a red bikini, a colorful sarong wrapped around her waist. While it was perfectly proper attire for the pool, it wasn’t so proper for the rest of the hotel, Indians a modest bunch.

  She met Caedmon on the circular drive in front of the lobby entrance. About to hurl herself at his chest, she pulled up short.

  ‘Ohmygod! Where have you been?’ Horrified by his battered appearance, she gently touched his face, shocked to see dried blood on his temple and smeared all over his shirt front.

  ‘The correct question is “Where haven’t I been?” A trip to hell and back would have been an easier jaunt.’

  ‘Let’s go sit by the pool and you can tell me what happened,’ she said, taking him by the arm. As she led him across the lawn, she wondered if he had any idea how worried she’d been. Having spent the last several hours on tenterhooks, she’d been on the verge of contacting the local authorities when the rickshaw pulled up to the hotel.

  Grunting softly, Caedmon eased himself into a deckchair.

  In nursing mode, Edie snatched her water bottle and a clean napkin. Soaking the cloth, she used it to clean the gash on his temple. ‘The next time that you go off the reservation, I’d appreciate a phone call or text message –’ she glanced pointedly at the mobile phone in plain view on the tabletop –‘anything to let me know that you’re okay.’

  ‘Why are you so upset? It’s not as though we’re joined at the hip. Furthermore, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’ As if to prove that very point, he shoved her hand aside.

  ‘Well and good, but I still worry about you.’ The reason why she’d called him, repeatedly, finally abandoning the effort when she surmised that he’d turned off his mobile.

  To Edie’s surprise, Caedmon suddenly reached for the hand he’d only just spurned. ‘I’m sorry, love. You’re right. I should have called with an update,’ he said contritely. ‘Ever since Gita showed up in Paris, my gut’s been twisted in a Gordian knot.’

  Hoping to mitigate the awkward interlude, Edie slid a plate of fresh fruit in front of him. She’d ordered the mangos, melons and bananas a short while ago, but had barely touched the plate, too upset to eat. ‘So, tell me what happened. Did you speak to the guy with the moustache?’

  Caedmon forked a cube of mango. ‘Ah! You’re referring to Hector Calzada.’

  ‘You found out his name. That’s great!’ she enthused, relieved that he’d made some progress. ‘What else did you learn?’

  ‘I learned a great many things.’ For several long seconds, Caedmon stared at the palm fronds that rimmed the edge of the pool before saying, ‘Anala was abducted by three young Latin-American men, all of whom hail from New York City. Moreover, they’re working under the tutelage of a Catholic priest.’

  ‘So then the bad guy really does dress in black.’

  ‘No surprise there. The history of the Catholic Church is saturated with blood and gore. The stuff of legends.’ Scowling, he speared a piece of watermelon on to the end of his fork. ‘And though it took a bit of coaxing, I managed a Skype call with the duplicitous priest.’

  ‘Did you ask him for an extension on the deadline?’

  ‘I did. And the request was promptly denied.’

  Hearing that, Edie shook her head, baffled. ‘I don’t get it. The Catholic Church has been searching for the Evangelium Gaspar for the last seven hundred years. Now, suddenly, they have to have it in five days’ time.’

  ‘A fact which makes me sick to the back teeth.’ Finished with the fruit plate, Caedmon shoved it aside.

  ‘I also have an update,’ Edie said, reaching for her iPad computer. ‘Earlier today, Gita stopped by the hotel to share some very interesting research pertaining to Fortes de Pinós.’

  Caedmon sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Enlighten me. Please. I’m in dire need of some uplifting news.’

  Happy to comply, Edie pulled up the genealogy chart that Gita had discovered online. ‘It turns out that our fourteenth-century Knights Templar has a twenty-first-century direct descendant: a Spaniard named Luis Fidelis de Pinós who happens to be the twelfth Marqués de Bagá.’

  ‘How could Fortes de Pinós have a direct descendant? The Knights Templar were a celibate order.’

  Sliding her chair a few inches closer to his, Edie showed Caedmon the genealogy chart. ‘As you can see, in the year 1279, when he was eighteen years old, Fortes got married. He and the missus then had four children. Ten years later, his wife died. At which point in time, he joined the Knights Templar.’

  Caedmon stared pensively at the iPad. ‘Since widowers were allowed to join the order, it does explain how a man who took a vow of celibacy could have a direct heir.’

  ‘Funny that you should mention the word “heir”,’ Edie replied, pulling up the next computer file, a news article from the English language edition of El País, a leading Spanish newspaper. ‘According to this article, the Marqués de Bagá runs an organization headquartered in Madrid called the Sovereign Order of the Temple.’

  His lips twisted into a sarcastic sneer. ‘Fancy themselves to be latter-day Knights Templar, do they?’

  ‘Do they ever,’ she said with a vigorous nod, having spent several hours online researching the group. ‘Not only do the members of the Sovereign Order of the Temple claim to be the rightful heirs of the medieval Knights Templar, they recently filed documents in the Spanish court system to sue the Vatican for return of all property and valuables stolen from Spanish Templar preceptories in the wake of the fourteenth-century auto-da-fé. Assets which the Marqués claims are worth twenty billion euros.’

  ‘Even if Jesus Christ himself adjudicated the case, the Sovereign Order of the Temple will never win their case,’ Caedmon said. ‘The Vatican has an army of canon lawyers at their disposal; legal sharks who’ll ensure the Holy See doesn’t relinquish one euro of their ill-gotten gains. While it makes for a headline-grabbing news story, I suspect the Marqués de Bagá is nothing more than a Spaniard looking to make an easy haul.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ she countered. ‘The Marqués has publicly stated that he has no desire to financially ruin the Vatican. He merely wants to bring to the public’s attention the maniacal plot instigated against the Knights Templar in 1307 which culminated in the order’s ignominious downfall. Personally, I think it’s highly significant that this man is a descendant of Fortes de Pinós.’

  Staring at the iPad, Caedmon pushed out a deep breath. ‘I agree. Even if the Marqués de Bagá has no knowledge of the Evangelium Gaspar, he may be able to provide us with some useful information regarding his ancestor.’

  ‘My thinking exactly. So, let’s go to Madrid and put the screws on him. Figuratively speaking,’ she amended a split-second later, her gaze darting to Caedmon’s bloodstained shirt. ‘I already checked the airline schedule. There’s a flight that leaves for Madrid in four hours’ time.’

  ‘Although a Spanish aristocrat thirty generations removed is a bit of a dark horse, at the moment it’s the only nag in the race.’ Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, Caedmon wearily pushed himself to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going up to our hotel room to take a shower before we leave for the airport.’

  ‘I think I’ll stay out here a bit longer.’

  ‘Right.’

  Her heart in her throat, Edie watched as Caedmon made his way to the hotel’s front entrance. Stoic though he might be,
he was going through an emotional crisis.

  One that she feared would tear him asunder.

  27

  Porta Sant’Anna, The Vatican

  ‘Rome, sweet Rome,’ Cardinal Franco Fiorio muttered under his breath as he sidestepped the cluster of jabbering, finger-pointing tourists who blocked his path.

  Wrinkling his nose at the noxious fumes belched by a passing motorbike, he crossed Via di Porta Angelica and headed towards the Borgo. Not only did all roads lead to the Eternal City, but they were often congested with a jostling mix of the faithful, bibles and rosaries in hand; wide-eyed tourists; and the increasingly rude rabble. The thundering herd, as Franco secretly referred to them.

  Despite the fact that Roman Catholics around the world were in the midst of the novemdiales, the official nine days of mourning that began after Pope Pius XIII’s Requiem Mass, the lively crowds appeared far from bereaved. Last week’s grief had clearly dissipated, replaced with a flurry of anticipation over the upcoming conclave.

  That air of expectancy had invaded the papal city as well, turning it into a viper’s nest of jockeying cardinals working their ‘constituency’. All very subtle, of course, no one wanting to be accused of campaigning for the papacy. Nonetheless, Vatican City was abuzz with whispers. Rumors. Spies everywhere. Plotting and scheming how best to position their candidate.

  A lone wolf, Franco didn’t trust anyone within the Leonine Walls.

  Slipping a hand into his breast pocket, he removed a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses. To the casual observer, he was a short, stocky, balding priest, dressed in a black clerical suit with a Roman collar. But to those with a more attentive eye, the pectoral cross that hung from the chain around his neck was the telltale clue that Franco Fiorio was, in fact, a Prince of the Church. One who’d left the castle grounds for an early-evening stroll down Borgo Pio, a narrow cobblestone lane teeming with cafés and family-owned businesses. Like several other prelates, he chose to reside in the Borgo rather than the papal city.

  Feeling his mobile phone vibrate, Franco unclipped it from his waist and checked the display screen. Annoyed that the Vice-Prefect had sent a text message regarding a misplaced engineering memo, Franco deleted it. He’d hoped that it was another status report from Father Gracián Santos. Earlier, he’d received a most enlightening update – the medieval scholar Caedmon Aisquith was the abducted girl’s father. A thrilling turn of events that convinced Franco that the Hand of Providence was orchestrating events. He’d promptly ordered Father Santos to question the girl and ascertain if she knew anything about the Knights Templar or the Evangelium Gaspar.

  As he made his way to his favorite café, Franco passed two young Roman women garbed in what, fifty years ago, would have been considered suitable attire for a pair of streetwalkers. While more than a few clerics slyly enjoyed the bouncing, jiggling displays, Franco was disgusted with the short skirts and cleavage-bearing tops worn by so many women. Ever since the sweeping mandates of Vatican II went into effect in the 1960s, untold numbers of Catholics had succumbed to a moral depravity. And because the Church had, for all intents and purposes, turned a blind eye, Catholics in ever-increasing numbers were using birth control, getting divorced and eschewing the sacraments with apathetic regularity.

  Too many Catholics lack the ardent faith of the Church Fathers.

  Shoulders slumped with fatigue, Franco seated himself at a vacant table shaded by a white canvas umbrella, setting his attaché case on an empty chair. No sooner had he removed his sunglasses than a waiter garbed in a vermillion gold waistcoat placed a glass of sparkling prosecco on the table. The management knew his daily routine and always took care to have his preferred table and his favorite aperitif ready for him.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Excellenza?’

  ‘No, that will be all. Thank you, Giovanni.’

  Sitting at the café and savoring a glass of prosecco was the only part of his day when, for a few brief moments, Franco could be, not a man of God, but a man of the people. Able to enjoy the fabled dolce vita.

  Raising the glass to his lips, Franco took an appreciative sniff. By no stretch of the imagination was this the life that he’d dreamed about as a boy growing up in Baltimore, Maryland. His father, Sal, a second-generation Italian-American, had proudly fought in the ‘Big One’, as he called it, with the US Fifth Army. While stationed in southern Italy, he fell in love with sixteen-year-old Rosella de Luca, convincing the young beauty to marry him. Even though Rosella ran off with the spindly-legged corporal, she never made a secret of the fact that she had big dreams. Big American dreams. But as the years passed and those dreams remained unfulfilled, Rosella was forced into taking matters into her own hands.

  A devout Catholic, his mother belatedly realized that the Church could provide their working-class family with the social status she so fervently desired. Soon it wasn’t enough to attend early-morning Mass every morning. Her two sons had to become altar boys at Fourteen Holy Martyrs Church, her husband had to take on a leadership role within the Knights of Columbus, and Rosella, who overcame the acute self-consciousness that she suffered because of her broken English, became heavily involved in local Catholic charities.

  To Rosella’s unmitigated delight, ‘Campaign Piety’, as Sal had dubbed it, was entirely successful. In no time at all, Father McCarty was coming round for dinner on a regular basis and, even more significant, Monsignor Hellerman would occasionally stop by for coffee. And, joy of joys, his mother was invited to join Our Lady of Perpetual Help Rosary Club, a small group of Catholic ladies who gathered once a week to pray, drink coffee, eat sugary pastries and make rosaries for Catholics in third-world countries.

  Between daily Mass and entertaining parish priests, the Fiorios lived a typical Roman Catholic existence. Until the miraculous event occurred. One that would forever change their lives and have a far-reaching influence.

  The unexpected event happened on a Saturday morning in mid-May while Rosella was outside planting a bed of petunias in their postage-stamp of a backyard. It was there that she was blinded by a flash of bright light. Although the day had started out clear and sunny, she was suddenly shrouded by a vaporous mist infused with the scent of roses. A beautiful woman, garbed in an immaculate white robe, her head modestly covered with a long blue veil, appeared in the mist. Rosella, awestruck, was rendered speechless. Several seconds later, the diaphanous lady abruptly vanished, smoke and all.

  The only thing that remained was the lingering scent of damask rose.

  Awestruck, certain that she’d been the recipient of a divine visitation by the Blessed Virgin Mary, Rosella excitedly regaled everyone at Fourteen Holy Martyrs Church.

  Much to the parishioners acute discomfort.

  A few of the women in the Rosary Club even went so far as to intimate that the ‘vision’ may have been a figment of Rosella Fiorio’s vivid Italian imagination.

  Fearing suddenly that the divine visitation would invite disdainful gossip, Franco’s mother immediately made a large withdrawal from the family savings account and used the money to purchase a four-foot-high painted plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The statue was prominently installed on a pedestal in the front hallway. Rosella then nagged Sal into building a small altar in front of the statue so that she could illuminate Our Lady with devotional candles set into little red glass holders. It was all part of his mother’s heartfelt attempt to lure the Blessed Virgin into making another appearance. Which she obligingly did, eight months later.

  The second visitation happened late one night as Rosella was praying the rosary in front of the statue. His mother claimed later that she’d involuntarily fallen asleep and was suddenly awakened when she fell off the velvet kneeler. In the next instant, the beautiful lady, cloaked in radiant beams of light, appeared near the stair landing.

  Several moments passed in enraptured silence. Then, extending her right hand in Rosella’s direction, the beautiful lady said, in a soft melodic voice, ‘My Son and your son.’
>
  Message delivered, the lady dematerialized in a quick flash of light, leaving behind thirteen red rose petals scattered on the stair landing. The fact that it was the middle of January convinced their parish priest, Father McCarty, that a blessed event had indeed occurred. ‘The white roses in Paradise all blushed red when kissed by the Virgin Mary,’ he had informed everyone in a hushed, reverential tone of voice.

  Vindicated, his mother became something of a local celebrity. At least in Roman Catholic circles.

  Not exactly certain what to make of his mother’s visitation, Franco, along with his father and brother Angelo, were baffled by the message given to Rosella – ‘My Son and your son.’

  What did it mean?

  Rosella Fiorio wasn’t the least bit confused by the divine communication. She knew exactly what it meant. And as Franco was soon to discover, those five fateful words would have momentous consequences for the entire Fiorio family.

  Finished with his prosecco, the Prefect of the Secret Archives set his glass on the table, signaling to the waiter that he was ready to take his leave.

  Even now, fifty-four years after the fact, those five words still reverberated.

  Continually reminding Franco that he was the chosen one. A Defender of the Faith. Commissioned by God to save His holy Church here on earth.

  28

  ‘The Knights Templar!’ Anala Patel exclaimed. ‘Are you daft?’

  Squinting her eyes, she peered at the dark silhouette barely visibly behind the bright lamp. A few moments ago, the strange man, whom the guard called ‘G-Dog’, had entered the paneled room and begun to question her.

  ‘What would make you think that my mother knows anything about the Knights Templar? Her field of expertise is Indian culture. Obviously, you kidnapped the wrong daughter,’ Anala added, beginning to suspect that she was the victim of a horrible blunder.