The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  Caedmon pointed to a set of heavily carved wooden doors. ‘This way.’ Still holding her hand, he pulled her towards the crowd who’d bottlenecked near the exit.

  Moments later, having shouldered their way through the swarm, they exited the cathedral. Caedmon hurriedly ushered her down a long flight of stone steps that led to a small square enclosed on two sides: a monastery to the right of them and an imposing clock tower to the left. Although sirens wailed in the near distance, clusters of tourists leisurely roamed, apparently unaware of the pandemonium inside the cathedral.

  Halfway down the flight of steps, Edie stumbled, pitching forward. Without missing a beat, Caedmon swung his right arm out to the side, catching her before she fell on her face.

  ‘Keep moving,’ he said gruffly. ‘You can rest later. Right now, we need to get free and clear of the square before Calzada shows up.’ Although his tone was brusque, Caedmon reassuringly squeezed her arm.

  ‘Do you think that he –’

  ‘I’m certain,’ he interjected, peering back at the doorway. ‘He was merely stunned. He’ll be back on his feet in no time.’

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Caedmon clamped a hand around Edie’s elbow and pulled her over to a large fountain in the center of the square. Crystal-clear water arched through the air, expelled from four stone horses placed around the base. Cool droplets misted her face. Without thinking, Edie scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on her flushed cheeks.

  Suddenly hearing a plunk, she glanced down, surprised to see the gun nestled at the bottom of the water basin.

  ‘Why did you toss the gun in the fountain?’ she asked, confused. ‘I would think that you’d want a weapon.’

  ‘If I keep custody of the Beretta, not only will the airline officials not permit us to board our plane, I’ll be arrested on the spot.’ He snatched hold of her hand. ‘Come on! If we’re to catch our flight, we need to get to the rental car.’

  Free and clear of the square, they raced through the labyrinth of narrow streets that surrounded the cathedral.

  By the time they reached the car, Edie was on the verge of total collapse. Grateful to have safely reached the Volkswagen Passat, she hurriedly opened the passenger door and climbed inside. They’d purposefully left the doors unlocked to enable a quick getaway.

  ‘We did it!’ she exclaimed, slamming the door shut. ‘We successfully eluded the bad guy.’

  ‘Think again, pretty lady.’

  Hearing the unfamiliar, slightly accented voice, Edie swung her head towards the back seat, horrified at finding herself face-to-face with a dark-haired, moon-faced man. Who, she presumed, had been hiding in the rear footwell. Seeing the gun grasped in his hand, she instantly recoiled, clutching the dashboard to steady herself.

  ‘Where the bloody hell did you come from?’ Caedmon snarled. ‘You’re supposed to be in India.’

  Wielding the gun with confident ease, the other man snickered and said, ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  Cursing under his breath, Caedmon placed his hands on the steering wheel while Edie obligingly put hers into the air. The age-old act of surrender, of yielding oneself to a deadly foe.

  The devil take the hindmost.

  49

  Anala opened one eye, then the other.

  Peering through the branches of her leafy bower, she could see that dawn had arrived with a tangerine glow. She sucked in a deep breath. The early-morning air had a chill brace that was strangely medicinal. A tonic for the fear and anxiety of the night just passed. Straining her ears, she listened attentively, relieved that the only sound she could detect was trilling birdsong. The cacophony put a smile on her lips. The first in days.

  The nightmare had ended.

  Ready to set sail, she cautiously crawled out from under the brier bush, scraping her arms and face in the process. Not that she cared. She was free. And rested. Ready now to tackle the problem of finding a safe harbor. Not insurmountable by any stretch. She simply had to find a kind stranger with a mobile phone who would notify the authorities about the kidnapping ring. Once that was done, she would immediately call her mother who was undoubtedly out of her mind with worry.

  A very good plan.

  Slowly rising to her feet, Anala brushed off the leafy debris from her clothes as she gazed at the verdant landscape. Last night’s gloom had morphed into a bucolic splendor teeming with trees and rolling hills and vast green expanses. Not a soul in sight.

  ‘I’ve got my work cut out for me.’

  Up to the challenge, she set off, filled with a breathless expectancy. Bobbing awkwardly, lightheaded from hunger, she stumbled on a stone. She glanced down, noticing that her bare feet were filthy dirty.

  Oh, for a hot bath. And an artery-hardening, high-calorific fry-up served with a steaming pot of breakfast tea.

  About ten minutes into the ramble, she came upon a low-lying stone wall that separated the fields and woodland from a paved lane. Thrilled, certain that she’d soon happen upon a village or hamlet, she scurried over the stone partition. She scanned the horizon in both directions, seeing what appeared to be a building of some sort situated atop a knoll. Tacking in that direction, she picked up the pace, anxious to put the whole traumatic episode behind her.

  Trudging along, Anala glanced up, just in time to see a flock of birds in flight, all in perfect triangular formation, flapping across the blush-hued sky.

  ‘I’m jealous. They obviously know where they’re going,’ she muttered good-naturedly. ‘Not like some of –’

  Hearing a car engine, she stopped in her tracks. My prince has come! Bursting with excitement, Anala stepped out into the middle of the lane and waved her arms madly.

  ‘Help me! Help me!’ she hollered as the vehicle approached.

  The white SUV swerved to one side to avoid hitting her, the driver slamming on the brakes. Anala ran towards the SUV, noting with great surprise that there were New York State plates affixed to the back of the vehicle. Blimey! It had never occurred to her that she’d been spirited to the United States.

  The driver’s side window slid down. A handsome middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper gray hair gaped at her in wide-eyed astonishment.

  Anala leaned towards the open car window. ‘Can you please help me, sir? I . . . I’ve been kidnapped . . . and against all odds, I . . . I’ve managed to escape my captors,’ she blurted haltingly, not wanting to unduly alarm him. ‘If you could take me to the authorities, I’d be ever so grateful.’

  Clearly shell-shocked, the man nodded jerkily, leaning over to unlock the passenger side door.

  Kind stranger, indeed!

  Anala scrambled into the passenger seat, somewhat taken aback that the man behind the wheel was dressed in black clerical garb.

  Having yet to find his vocal cords, he handed her a bottle of water.

  ‘Bless you.’ No sooner did she utter those words than Anala giggled, succumbing to a bout of giddiness. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to say to me, isn’t it?’

  As he turned into a tree-lined driveway, the clergyman smiled wordlessly at her.

  Peering anxiously through the windshield, Anala sighted a majestic stone mansion on the knoll. An estate right out of America’s gilded age, it boasted numerous turrets, gables and arched walkways.

  The clergyman pulled the SUV up in front of a six-bay coach house. Like the nearby mansion, it was constructed of stone. No sooner did he turn off the ignition than Anala heard the patter of shoe leather crunching on gravel. Within seconds her car door was yanked open and she was forcibly dragged from the vehicle.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’

  The boom crashed to the deck so quickly, Anala could barely process the fact that it was one of her guards who now held her in a vice-like grip, her arms pinned behind her back.

  ‘Take Miss Patel to the old root cellar at the caretaker’s cottage,’ the driver instructed.

  Anala immediately recognized the clergyman’s voice. It was G-Dog!

/>   Hammered with a burst of fear, she bucked and writhed, trying, without success, to break free. In mid-struggle, she felt a stab of pain in her bicep. Turning her head, Anala saw a hypodermic needle protruding from her arm.

  ‘Please forgive me,’ G-Dog murmured before he turned his back and headed towards the stone mansion.

  ‘You heartless bastard! I hope you rot in –’

  In the next instant, the ship went down, quickly sinking into a cold, dark sea.

  50

  Sanguis Christi Fellowship, Dutchess County, New York

  ‘Keep her alive until the third plate has been recovered.’

  ‘I’m not questioning your wisdom in this matter, Your Eminence, but . . . is it really necessary to –’

  ‘Yes, it is absolutely necessary,’ Cardinal Fiorio interjected with a testy edge to his voice. ‘Grácion, surely you know that you are doing God’s work? More importantly, it’s your sacred duty to protect our Holy Mother Church from the heretics bent on destroying her. And you have my word, you will be amply rewarded. Keep me informed of any further developments.’

  Hearing a dull click on the other end of the line, Gracián Santos replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle.

  If I am truly doing God’s work, why does it feel like I’m the Devil’s right-hand man?

  The Cardinal had even gone as far as to suggest that since Anala Patel was a Hindu pagan, her abduction – and Gracián assumed her subsequent death – would not be considered a mortal sin. When Cardinal Fiorio first broached the subject of retrieving the gospel, there’d been no mention of killing anyone. But now that Anala Patel had escaped and knew about the Sanguis Christi Fellowship, she had to be executed. And the Englishman as well.

  Gracián had no idea what was contained in the ancient gospel. But whatever it was, did it justify all of this bloodshed and brutality?

  Deeply troubled by the situation, Gracián got up from his desk and walked over to the diamond-patterned window, his gait sluggish as though each foot was weighted with a guilt-laden brick.

  Standing sentry, he watched as the Fellowship SUV pulled up to the stone porte cochère, Jacko Maciel jumping out of the back seat and rushing into Mercy Hall. Gracián had ordered Jacko and the other two Diablos who’d been guarding the Patel woman to drive to the Catskills and join the others at the Catholic retreat. He didn’t want their souls to be stained crimson red.

  ‘Yo, G-Dog, wassup?’ Jacko warmly greeted as he stepped into the office. ‘I thought I’d drop off the mail before we hit the road.’

  Gracián took the small bundle of envelopes. ‘Thank you, Jacko.’ Thinking it better not to mention ‘what was up’, he forced his lips into a semblance of a smile and said, ‘Drive safely and have a good trip. May the Lord bless and keep you.’

  ‘You too, Father G,’ the young man replied, clearly excited about the road trip.

  Sending Jacko on his way with a pat on the shoulder, Gracián walked back to his desk, the bundled mail clutched in his hand. The envelope on top was from the First New York Loan and Trust Bank. Over the last two years, he’d received so many demands for payment from the bank that he was now immune to the shock.

  Dispirited, Gracián tossed the bundle into his in-basket and left the office, making his way down a lavishly appointed corridor that displayed all the exuberance of the late-Victorian period. Originally a Women’s College, Mercy Hall had catered to daughters of the wealthy elite, the building certainly worthy of their privileged progeny.

  Stepping into the main lobby, an expansive area with dark-stained wall panels, richly carved columns and a massive oak staircase with an oriental stair runner, Gracián was unnerved by the silence. Somehow it made the flamboyant lobby seem strangely forlorn.

  That was when it occurred to him that, for the first time in years, he was completely alone. Even in prison, he’d always had a cellmate.

  Hoping that some fresh air would clear his turbulent thoughts and give him some much needed clarity, he exited the lobby. He then hurried across the crushed stone driveway to the porte cochère where his golf cart was parked. A few moments later, he was navigating the electric golf cart across the undulating fields behind Mercy Hall, careful to steer clear of the occasional rock outcropping. The terrain on the western end of the property was particularly wild and overgrown.

  Cresting a small hillock, he braked to a stop. For several moments, he admired the lovely view. This was the Promised Land. A bucolic paradise where scarred youths received the necessary education and job skills to live productive lives. Unlike other priests who would never know the happiness of being a father, Gracián had one hundred and fifty teens in his care. Not only did he love and cherish them unconditionally, but he would do anything to protect them from the violence that lurked beyond this safe sanctuary.

  He had just never dared to imagine that ‘anything’ would include murder and mayhem.

  I thought I’d left that life behind me.

  Awash with guilt, he stared at the abandoned caretaker’s cottage that was nestled in a small grove of oak and maple. In a derelict state, the two-story abode was covered in bindweed with many broken window panes. Approximately twenty meters from the ramshackle cottage, there was an underground root cellar that had once been used to store vegetables and salted meat. The underground storage cellar was entered through a trapdoor which had earlier been secured with a new padlock.

  This time there will be no escape.

  Ever since Anala Patel had arrived at the Fellowship, he’d repeatedly reminded himself that he mustn’t feel any compassion for her. She was a Hindu who’d willfully chosen to worship a false god – no, a hundred gods! – the Hindu religion inundated with devas, deities and avatars. Because of her chosen religion, Anala Patel was hell-bound.

  Extra ecclesiam nulla salus.

  There is no salvation outside of the Church.

  Gracián stared at the root cellar, the padlock on the trap door glimmering in the summer sun.

  ‘Keep her alive until the third plate has been recovered.’

  ‘How can I kill her?’ he whispered, overcome with a dread fear.

  Turning his head, Gracián gazed at Mercy Hall – his City upon a Hill – the massive building dominating the skyline on the eastern knoll. One hundred and fifty young people completely depended on him to take care of them. And he could only do that if he repaid the bank loan.

  His gaze returned to the root cellar.

  How can I not kill her?

  51

  Compostela, Spain

  Javier Aveles toggled his semi-automatic pistol. ‘Don’t either of you fuck with me!’

  ‘The field is yours,’ Caedmon grated harshly, not about to test the other man’s resolve. Although he could hear police sirens blaring in the distance, he suspected that wouldn’t stop Aveles from pulling the trigger.

  Edie, her earlier shock at being waylaid by Aveles having morphed into weary dejection, sagged against the car seat.

  Christ! The entire time that they were at the cathedral, Caedmon had arrogantly presumed that he was pulling the wool over Hector Calzada’s eyes when he and Edie were the ones being duped. Perhaps it was due to mental exhaustion, but he’d never considered the possibility that the third bandito would arrive in Spain; a replacement for Diaz. And because he’d not taken that possibility into account, they’d been caught with their knickers down.

  Demoralized, an abject sense of failure now clung to him. Despite the fact that he was seated in a parked car, he felt as though he were falling. Into a deep, inky-black pit patrolled by feral, phantasmagoric creatures. The sort of snarling beasts that inhabited a Schongauer print.

  He glanced at his watch. Shite! They’d squandered too many hours. With absolutely nothing to show for it.

  ‘We have airline reservations,’ he said abruptly, meeting Aveles’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘If you want the third plate, you must allow us to catch our –’

  Just then Aveles’s mobile phone rang, the ring
tone a ridiculously jaunty mariachi tune. Keeping the semi-automatic trained on them, he removed the phone from his breast pocket and flipped it open.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said a few seconds later, handing Caedmon the mobile.

  Assuming it was G-Dog, Caedmon got right to it. ‘This delay is intolerable,’ he said. ‘I’m booked on the next flight out of Compostela. If you want me to find the third plate, I need to be on that plane.’

  ‘You have an impolite manner, Mr. Aisquith. Whatever happened to English civility?’

  Hearing an unfamiliar voice, Caedmon frowned. Although he couldn’t be completely certain, he assumed that he was speaking to Cardinal Franco Fiorio, the self-styled ‘Irenaeus’ and the prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ Caedmon retorted. ‘Is that more to your liking, Irenaeus?’

  ‘Such a droll sense of humor.’

  ‘I’m not here to amuse you; I’m here to find your bloody gospel. Assuming that we’re to be released from armed custody.’

  ‘Given that you purposefully misled my associates, I can only conclude that you have designs on the third plate,’ Irenaeus was quick to accuse.

  You red-caped bastard! Do you think I’d actually sacrifice my own daughter for a blasted copper plate?

  Tamping down his anger, Caedmon said, ‘I have absolutely no intention of keeping the third plate.’

  ‘Your avowal pleases me no end. So where is it?’ the other man demanded to know.

  ‘“The virgin in the bishop’s meadow” was the encrypted clue that was carved on to the Tau stone. From that, I have deduced that the third plate is located in Paris in “the bishop’s meadow”,’ Caedmon readily confessed, there being no advantage in telling a lie.

  ‘I’ve been to Paris and so I happen to know that there are precious few meadows.’

  ‘Seven centuries ago there were fields aplenty,’ Caedmon clarified. ‘The meadow in question was located at an abbey named for a sixth-century bishop of Paris who, upon his death, was canonized as a saint.’