Only two small lamps lit the room, both on a rough writing desk near the far wall. A shadow moved behind the lamps and the Marshall spun to cover their backs while the Master crouched, drew a short sword, and took the front.
“Don’t you gentlemen know it is a capital offense under Canon Law to draw a weapon in the presence of the Pope?” A gray-haired man wrapped in a simple wool cloak stood behind the desk, put a candle in the lamp flame, then held it to his chest. “Come in, gentlemen. Please come in. Allow me to light a few more lamps and candles.” He stopped and sighed. “But, perhaps I should let you inspect the room first? It’s difficult to communicate while worrying about daggers in the dark.”
The Pope waited for the Marshall to check the room, then closed the large book in front of him. “Let me throw another log on those embers. It’s not so much the cold as the dripping dampness here. I think all these places were built wet and never dried out.” He rose and went to the woodpile and grabbed a log. “Sit, please. I assure you I am capable of putting a log on the fire.”
Pope Urban VI went back to his seat at the desk. “Welcome to Nocera.” He looked around the room. “I can’t offer you much in my present situation, but we do what we can. I may be guest, prisoner, or hostage here. I’m not sure. It’s difficult to tell, and I probably shouldn’t push the question.”
It was difficult for the Master to believe this was the same man they saw screaming in the window that afternoon.
The Pope threw back his head and laughed. “I suppose you expected a madman? That’s to be expected. I try hard enough to act like one, but that’s all part of the struggle. Two Popes have Western Christianity split between them. England and France support Clement, and Germany and Italy support me. Now it’s all plots, murders, and betrayal. It has taken on a life of its own, and makes one yearn for the simple life.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
“Now, to business,” said the Pope. “That Concordat you proposed? I’ve taken the liberty of making a few changes.”
The Master frowned as the Pope reached behind him, grabbed two parchments, and handed one across to the Master.
“What you proposed, Sir,” said the Pope, “is essentially an alliance between the papacy and the Templars. Now, the world thinks the Templars were destroyed seventy-five years ago in 1307. But when the Master and Marshall of the Templars are sitting right in front of me, that’s obviously wrong.”
The Master tried to scan the Latin on the parchment while listening to the Pope. What had he changed?
“You’re looking for what I changed. Let me elaborate.” He motioned the Master over to the table, moved some oil lamps, leaned close to the table, and pointed at the parchment. “You suggested an alliance. I amended that to an alliance at the discretion of each Pope. If a particular Pope wants an alliance with the Templars, he enters into it at the beginning of his papacy.
“If the Pope doesn’t want an alliance, then both Church and Templars agree to leave each other alone, and not meddle in the affairs of the other for the reign of that particular Pope. When the next Pope is elected, he makes the decision for his own papacy. So, we may help each other if a Pope chooses, but will not harm each other even if he does not choose an alliance. It’s either alliance or nonaggression.”
The Master squinted and carefully read the lines the Pope indicated. “Holiness, when you asked for our help in dealing with your enemies and your current situation, I believe you suggested an alliance between the papacy and the Templars, an alliance that would bind both groups forever, not an alliance only if the reigning Pope likes it.”
“True. True. But upon reflection, I can’t commit the Church to an alliance with any organization forever, since I can’t predict what that group will do in the future. That would betray my duty to the universal Church. Even with my own perplexing situation here,” he waved toward the besieging army outside, “I still can’t trade the Church’s future for my own.”
Crafty old fox, the Master thought. He wants the Church to turn the alliance on and off with each Pope. “I understand what you say, Holiness, and I have to say it prompts me to wonder the same thing. Do the Templars want to be beholden to an alliance with some Pope who may be less honorable than yourself? You do have a point, and I guess it works both ways. Perhaps we should add that both the Pope and the Templar Master must agree to an irrevocable alliance for any particular papacy?”
To be expected, thought the Pope. He slowly nodded several times. “Yes, I think we can do that. Yes, I think we can.” He made some notes on another page.
The fire consumed several more logs as both men quibbled over small, meaningless changes to the wording of the agreement. When dawn crept around the edges of the window sack cloth, they sat back, each satisfied he had bested the other.
“I think we have a Concordat,” said the Pope, “a Concordat that will bind both Church and the Templars forever. I do not take this step lightly, but the dangers faced by the Church justify it.”
“I think we do have a Concordat, Holiness. I think we do. And I assure you, it will bind all my successors as Templar Masters.”
The Pope squinted at the Master and gave a lopsided smile. “Now, if you will forgive me, gentlemen, before I say my morning prayers and get some sleep, the Mad Pope has some curses to hurl.” The Pope walked over to the window, pulled aside the sack cloth, stepped up on the ledge, and poured damnation down on the army below.
Three days later, with identical signed, sealed, and witnessed Concordats, the Templars smuggled the Pope out of the castle and onto one of their waiting galleys that took him up the coast to Genoa.
Chapter One
Nicoya, Costa Rica - Tuesday March 17
The thin, olive-skinned man focused on the filleting knife in the bartender’s hand. It slipped through the limes, each piece falling against the other, all lined up by the time the knife worked its way to the end of the lime. He looked up at the woman on the other side of the bar, bit his lower lip, then glanced back at the flashing knife. The juice ran down the cutting board when the bartender swept the slices off the board with the blade, wiped it on a towel, and guided it to open another lime. His eyes locked on the blond woman in the wet, white bikini top circling her tongue around the rim of her glass, pretending not to look, and leaning her breasts on the bar. Then he looked back to the knife opening the lime. The bartender moved off to another customer, and Rashid grabbed a slice of lime from the cutting board, then slipped the wet knife up his sleeve.
When the American dropped the second gin and tonic into the pool, the woman next to him hitched up her white bikini top, crushed her pack of cigarettes in her fist, bent close to him, and very quietly hissed, “You’ve embarrassed me for the last time today. If all you wanted to do was drink, you could have stayed in Toledo. I’m so goddamned sick of you.” She looped a small wallet around her neck, composed her face, slid off the bar stool, and waded through the waist deep water to the steps leading out of the pool.
Rashid peered over the tops of his aviator shades and carefully appraised her retreating figure as he had for several days. Her initial excitement at this beautiful, tropical paradise slowly changed into a bitter resentment and rage. Each day she and her husband emerged from their room like any normal couple on a holiday ready to enjoy the sunshine and surf. Then the day wore on, the drinks kept coming, the abuse began, and she finally left with whatever tattered dignity remained. But Rashid would treat her better, much, much better. He knew she wanted him. They all did.
“Toledo! Ohio! Buckeyes! Go, Buckeyes! Yeah! One more for the road for me, yeah. And give her one for the ditch. The ditch for the bitch, yeah!” shouted the American. He turned sideways, watching her leave, leaned an elbow on the wet bar, and crooked a finger at the bartender. “A double gin and tonic for me, and a flagon of your finest hemlock for the lady!” She didn’t look back. He fished a wet US hundred dollar bill from the pocket of his flowered shirt and slapped it down.
The Costa Rican bartende
r quietly replaced the house phone and paid especially close attention to a customer ordering on the far side of the oval bar. The bar was a shaded island in the pool, with a fake thatched roof, granite top, and calypso music to set the mood. Guests waded or swam up to it and ordered tall tropical drinks in frosted glasses with orange slices, straws, stir-sticks, and little umbrellas.
“Garcon, a drink, my kingdom for a drink!” The American threw his arms straight back over his head, fell slowly into the pool, then hauled himself back up on the barstool and shook his head. “Oh, yeah! That’s a wake-up call. Yes!” He snorted, coughed, and waved a finger at the honeymoon couple a few stools away. “Ok to swim in, but don’t never ever drink it. No way, not never.” He turned and leaned toward the couple and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial leer. “You know what fish do in water, don’t you?”
The woman reddened and looked down, and he howled, “Yeah! Yeah! You know. You know. Little fishies…” He held one hand on top of the other and wiggled them together. “Leeetle feeshies…”
The man stood up and faced the American, but his wife grabbed at his elbow. “No, Chuck, let’s just go. Come on, honey, let’s just get out of here. Please?” The couple left, both red-faced, one with embarrassment, the other with anger.
“Mr. Nelson, good afternoon, Sir.” The assistant manager of the hotel had donned a pair of swim trunks and stood in the water next to the American. The American swayed at the edge of the bar and tried to focus on him. “Tequila, Garcon. Tequila with a worm for my friend the village bellhop in his… yeah… in his native loincloth!”
The assistant manager flipped on his professional smile. Business everywhere had been slow, and they needed every guest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson, but the bar is closed now. But I’m sure we can have room service bring some gin and tonics to your room. Compliments of the house, of course.” He leaned close and whispered, “It’s the bartender, Sir. We think he’s skimming, and the police will be here soon. Help us out, and don’t let on that you know. Just pretend everything’s normal. We may need your testimony.”
The manager shifted his eyes back and forth. “You know how these people are. You know? Indians?” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I’m sure you know what I mean.” The bartender overheard the conversation, rolled his eyes at the manager, and went back to polishing glasses on the other side of the bar.
“Hmmm, yeah, I spotted him. Made him for a skimmer. Was going to tell you.” The American leaned on the manager and slipped off the stool. The manager caught him and used the slip to ease him toward the pool steps. “Hope Jungle Boy here gets what’s coming.” He hooked a thumb at the bartender. “I knew he was bent first time I saw him.”
When he dragged the American out of the pool, the manager looked back at the bartender and scowled. The grinning bartender gave him two thumbs up.
Rashid checked his Rolex. Right on time. That was all anyone would see of Mr. Nelson until sometime tomorrow. Mrs. Nelson, as usual would eat alone, and watch the sunset. But tonight would be special for her, very special.
* * *
Callahan fell flat on his back on top of the bed when they reached the room. By then, “Mr. Nelson” had become dead weight the manager had to heave through the door toward the bed. He snorted through his nose, hung his mouth open, inhaled huge snores, and then even that shallowed out to a deep, rhythmic rasping.
For three days he had played that drunken Mr. Nelson with such a nice and attractive wife. What, the other guests had thought, was such a nice girl doing with him? He spent about five minutes on the bed, heard nothing, then stripped off the gin soaked clothes, threw them in a corner, and headed for the shower. It wasn’t easy spilling all that gin and tonic while pretending to drink it. When this was done, he swore he’d never even go near gin for the rest of his life.
But he had to admit it really was a great spot for a vacation. The beach, surf, fishing, and diving were everything he could ask for. It was all there. So, what was he doing? He spent all day playing the drunken buffoon.
He had changed into cargo pants and a T-shirt when Marie knocked on the door. Three raps, followed by two raps, followed by one. He turned the bolt and his “long-suffering wife” entered their room.
“God, it stinks in here,” she laughed. “Maybe it’s time for you to switch brands.”
“Tell me about it. You think being the town drunk is easy? If Zurich ever sees the bar bill, they’ll flip.”
“Here, eat something.” She handed him a white bag with cheeseburgers, fries, and a Coke. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“Thanks.” He stuck a hand in the bag. “How’s our friend looking?”
“Well, he was sure looking today,” Marie said. “He had his eyes all over me at the bar. Threw me a few smiles. I snuck some looks at him and got caught looking, batted my baby blues a few times, did the wet bikini thing. You know? The frustrated American whore begging to be bedded by a real man. You know how these guys think.” She flipped her hair. “Especially if a girl has dyed blond hair and blue contact lenses.”
“Well,” said Callahan, “say what you want about him, he does have good taste in women.”
“Just doing my job, remember that. We all have our talents, and do what we have to.”
He held up his hands defensively. “I know. I know. So, what do you do when you’re not on a job like this?” Callahan asked. They hadn’t worked together before, and had been on purely professional footing for the last few days.
“I’m with the Kruger Institute in Zurich. On the public side, I’m curator of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Century collection. On the private side, I work with the Chief Archivist in the Templar Archives down below. There’s always a seminar somewhere, or some collection to visit. It lets me get around. You know? For things like this.”
Turnabout is fair play, she thought. “How about you?”
“Computers. Security systems for computers and buildings with security controlled by computers. Usually with Triad International. It lets me get around a lot without too many questions.”
“Triad? That’s a pretty big outfit. They did our security system at the Kruger. I didn’t know it was Templar.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t know the Kruger Institute was Templar, either. I suspect there is a whole lot that’s Templar that we don’t know about. Zurich likes it like that.”
“Strange life.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I get the idea they think we are robots. Just work with someone without knowing anything about them.”
“Tonight?” he asked, getting back to business.
“I think so. I’ve done everything but send him an invitation on a little silver plate.”
“Hey,” he looked at her, “this guy is no joke. He’s flat out deadly. He’s good. Real good. The best the Hashashin have. He was behind the attack on the Vatican last year, and they would have killed the Pope if one of those Swiss Guards hadn’t taken the bullets himself. He killed one of our guys a few years ago and got away from the others. And he ran the job that blew up that airliner with three-hundred people over the Atlantic. Don’t let your guard down for a second.”
“Yeah, I know. Take a look at this. It came in while you were still spilling your gin all over the bar.” She opened a laptop on the desk, hit a few keys, and pointed to the screen. “Zurich thinks the Hashashin or their Al Qaeda franchise have another Vatican attack coming up. I’m not sure how they know, but our guy Rashid did the last Vatican attack, and they think he’s a big player in a new one. Zurich sent a bunch of new questions for him. I copied them so you can wipe the message when you’re finished.”
Callahan leaned over the desk and read the message. “I wonder what Zurich is up to. Under the Concordat, Templars have to keep hands off the Vatican and the Church at least until this Pope dies. And that means they stay completely away. You know how they hammer us that the Church is strictly off-limits while this Pope lives.”
“Well,” Marie said, “Templars might have to keep h
ands off, but that doesn’t mean Zurich can’t gather intelligence. They might know the complete attack plan, but still not tell the Vatican because of the Concordat.”
“That’s the world we live in. So, I guess we’ll see just how much Rashid knows. And don’t underestimate him. He’s not just an armchair planner who…”
“I know, I know. I’m a big girl.” She cut him off. “He’s a bad one. But that just makes taking him off the board more satisfying. I’ve been a Templar since my father died, and I intend to have a long and eventful life and peacefully die in bed. No Death in Battle for me.” She turned serious and sat down on her bed. Callahan started to speak, but she held up a hand. “But you’re right. Everything we know about Rashid says he’s one of their best. I really don’t intend to tangle with him.”
She saw doubt in his face. “Callahan, get your head screwed on straight! I’ve done this before. So have you. Remember, I do the same thing you do. This isn’t a frontal attack. Not with a guy like this. Not for either of us. If we just follow the plan it will all work out. Believe me, these clowns think every woman on the planet is panting for them.” She took a breath and gave him a hard look. “This guy makes my skin crawl, but I know you have my back.” Then she smiled. “Be cool.”
* * *
Marie had changed into a white tropical dress and sandals and sat alone in a wicker chair on the hotel terrace watching the Pacific. She crossed her legs, dangled a sandal off one foot, held a tall iced tea in one hand, and fingered a strand of pearls with the other.
“A beautiful sunset, isn’t it?” Rashid had come up next to her. His Oxford accent held just a trace of his native Arabic.
“Oh, I love it here in the evening,” she said without looking up. “The breeze, the trees, the smell of the salt air, the waves. What more can you ask for?” She bounced the dangling sandal, looked up at him, and smiled sadly. “The sun, look at it. I’ve heard there is a green flash sometimes just as the sun disappears. Just one. One sudden, intense, emerald flash. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
The Templar Concordat Page 2
