The Templar Concordat

by Terrence O'Brien

He had a workroom for the equipment and materials he would need to examine what he understood to be a very old manuscript. He also had a comfortable bedroom, excellent food, servants on call, and the run of the estate. But he couldn’t leave the estate. Whenever he went out to the gardens, two armed guards followed at a respectful distance.

  Then he waited. Hammid told him the manuscript he was to examine would be there soon, but didn’t say when, and didn’t say what it was. Did he really think he had that treaty he had suggested back in Cairo? Some people swore by UFOs, too.

  He was particularly distressed when Hammid’s people launched their celebration the day the Vatican was bombed. A thousand innocent people were killed and these fools were dancing around? People who never did a thing to harm Arabs or Muslims? Children? Is this what the Arabs had come to? How could anyone who witnessed this glorification of cowardice ever celebrate the culture that produced it? We are better than that.

  So, he kept to himself, read a great deal, and waited for the arrival of whatever manuscript Hammid wanted examined.

  The Friday after the Vatican bombing, Hammid came to his workroom and placed a plastic case containing an old brown manuscript on the table. The document, he explained, had just come into their hands, and he wanted Zahid to give his opinion on the authenticity of the manuscript as soon as possible.

  “The first thing I must do with something this old is ensure it doesn’t deteriorate. If we’re not careful, you might end up with nothing but a pile of dust.” That thought seemed to shake Hammid. Hadn’t he thought of that? Zahid held up the plastic case by the edges and peered at the brown parchment. “This is a good container, though. Whoever put it in here knew what they were doing. I can’t tell what shape it’s in right now, but let’s assume the worst. I’ll get pictures like it is, then remove it for examination.”

  “How long will it take to authenticate?” asked Hammid.

  “A few days here with what I have.” He was now paying less attention to Hammid and more attention to the manuscript. “Uh… Let me take a look and see what we have. Where did you get it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Zahid shrugged. “Ok. Do you know how it was stored?”

  Hammid stroked his chin. That shouldn’t be a problem. “We understand it was between the pages of another book. For how long, we don’t know.”

  “Excellent,” said Zahid.

  “And can you tell me what it is?” Zahid continued to turn the plastic case in the light and squinted at the script.

  “You tell me what it is, Professor. That’s your job.”

  “I can do that before anything else. The filters I have should bring out the dark area in the center of the page. I won’t even have to remove it from the plastic.”

  * * *

  Arabic was a beautiful language, capable of lyrical melodies and poetic flights that escaped almost every other tongue of the world. But Hammid had insisted the translation of the Treaty of Tuscany into Arabic be as exact and precise as possible. He ordered no exaggerations, no literary flourishes, and no interpretations. Every Arabic word had to be as close as possible to the meaning of the original Latin. The raw bluntness of the words on the page before him had a power that could never be matched by a more refined or sophisticated translation.

  Hammid leaned his hands on the table and hung over the three pages before him. The first was a transcription of the original Latin printed on a Sony Inkjet. The second was a direct translation into Arabic, and the third was a translation of the Latin into English. It was the English most of the world would see, but the Arabic that would make the difference.

  English was a practical language, but a rude language. It could say many things, but said nothing well. It had no inner beauty, no flow, and no life, not at all like Arabic. But this Arabic translation was much like English. It was rude, blunt, to the point, and offensive. It was a fitting vehicle for the cold, dripping evil that burned at the core of Western Christianity. And now he had proof of how evil that core was. He had proof from two Popes, channeling their God for their three mightiest kings. What more could he ask for?

  Well, he knew what more he could ask for. He could ask for proof the treaty on the table before him was real. Before he announced his find to the world, he had to be sure, one hundred percent sure, that the finest scientific analysis available would verify the treaty.

  He knew what would happen. They would scoff at the treaty, deny it, and claim it was an elaborate forgery. But how would they respond when he laid the treaty on the table and offered to let the world’s leading scientists examine it? Would they start tearing through their own records? Turn their libraries upside-down hunting for some reference? Would they question if someone would submit a forgery to the most rigorous analysis?

  He smiled at the thought, but there was work to be done. He had to test the treaty himself before he let anyone else test it.

  Be patient, he told himself. Let Professor Zahid run his tests. Even though he was sure Zahid would be unable to prove the treaty a hoax, he had to allow him all the time he needed to try. One of the advantages of using Zahid was that he really wanted to prove the treaty was a forgery, and didn’t want it to be real. Good. Let him try. That’s what everyone else would be doing.

  It all had to run its course. When the professor finished his tests here, it had to go to London, not the whole treaty, but a sample that could be tested at the British Museum. Hammid was a patient man. They had waited hundreds of years for an opportunity like this, an opportunity to grab the Muslim world and shake some sense into it. He could wait for some tests.

  * * *

  After Zahid delivered the translations to Hammid, he laid the manuscript under his magnifying table and brought out the script again with different colored light. He wasn’t surprised at what he read. It was essentially what Hammid had suggested, and he fully expected it would be easy to demonstrate the treaty was a modern hoax. He just needed to expose one flaw to prove it couldn’t be from the Twelfth Century. Once he did that, he could show Hammid that anyone else could do the same. Expose the hoax, convey his regrets, and get back to Cairo and away from these people. Cooperate and let them down gently, explaining that it’s better to learn the news from one of their own than some smirking outsider.

  But after three days, the treaty defied everything he tried. The ink was consistent with Twelfth Century ink. The same with the parchment, scroll work, dye, pen strokes, wording, and even the seals of the kings and Pope. Was it real?

  Hammid dropped by every day to inquire about his progress, but never pushed the work, never showed impatience, and never asked how much longer it would take.

  Finally, Zahid had no choice but to tell Hammid the treaty was consistent in every way with a papal manuscript from the Twelfth Century.

  “And just what does ‘consistent’ mean here?”

  “Well, it means I can’t find anything to show it isn’t from the Twelfth century, and everything I can see matches the Twelfth Century. If I found just one item that was impossible for a Twelfth Century manuscript, that would doom it. Like, maybe it was black-lamp ink? That wasn’t around in the Twelfth Century, so it would prove it was a hoax.” He held up his hands. “But I didn’t. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s the laser analysis.”

  “Let me ask you this, Professor. Do you find the content of the treaty troubling?”

  “I find the sentiment and the ideas troubling, very troubling. But that’s as far as I will go until the laser results are available.”

  “Fair enough.”

  London - Tuesday, March 31

  She had to stop living like a mole, Jean thought. Nobody was after her, and she was turning into one of those people who rush back home to make sure she turned off the oven. Nobody has come by the flat. Stop acting guilty. Guilt brings suspicion. Stop canceling seminars, stop hiding in the flat with the drapes pulled, and get yourself out of the house. Get back to living like a normal person.

 
The missing medallions from the Vatican Library had been all over the news, but police had no leads. Who took the medallions? Hammid didn’t have them when they left the library. And there was no mention of the Treaty of Tuscany. The Vatican must be sitting on that information, she thought, afraid to let anything out.

  Hammid hadn’t called. So what? Why should he? The last she saw of him was when he shoved her out of the café. With luck, that would be the last she ever saw of him. She had her money in a Zurich bank… safe. It had been credited to her account minutes before that Arab was shot. Thank God for that. She had even transferred it into new accounts at the bank. The bankers only asked about cash deposits, so nobody noticed, and who knows how much money flows in and out of those places each day? Why should anyone care about her?

  She went to the workroom she had set up in the back of the flat and picked up the paper sample from the treaty in its little plastic bag. Everything hinged on that sample being dated in the Twelfth Century. Could the treaty be a forgery? Could it even be a forgery that was once well known, but had been forgotten over time?

  The Middle Ages were full of enterprising forgers. One could rebuild Noah’s Ark with all the slivers from the true cross, and there were enough Holy Grails to serve an army. Nor did they shy from creating manuscripts and letters.

  She had an opportunity here. She didn’t have to make her big move now. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and there was no cause to rush. But she did need to know the age of that sample now. She had begged another professor to take her seminar, so she had some time, and she had to get out of the house. Now, before she went nuts.

  It was easy to schedule time on the British Museum’s new laser equipment. As the head of the lab said, they always had an opening for her. Would she like an 11:00 am slot? She very carefully rubber-banded the plastic bag with her sample between two pieces of cardboard.

  She dressed normally, leaving the hat, sunglasses, and trench coat, and discovered a beautiful spring day with clear blue skies, a gentle breeze, and a fresh tang to the air. In London? That was a good omen. So she forgot about the dead Arab bleeding all over the table in Rome, and no matter how tempting it was, she never once looked back to see if someone was following her. That was all in the past.

  London - Tuesday, March 31

  “At your service, Sir. Night and day. I’ll be where ever you need me to be.” The Watcher in his black taxi had picked up Callahan at the London Waterloo Station where the Chunnel train stopped. “I’ve been watching for this gal you’re after for a week now, and she just shows up a few days ago. Got a flat up in the gentrified section of Kings Cross. Hah. Used to be all drugs and hookers, let me tell you. Now it’s where the sophisticated folks come to mingle with each other. And all they’re doing is drugs and hooking up, so it really hasn’t changed, I guess.”

  They slowly drove by her first-floor flat in a well-tended, three-story brownstone. “I’ve only seen her out once since she got back. Went down to the grocers and stocked up. Walked both ways, and kept looking over her shoulder like she thought she was being followed. Well, I guess she was, heh? Jumpy little thing. Wore sunglasses, a big floppy hat, and a long coat. Made it easier to follow her.”

  “Any visitors?” asked Callahan.

  “Everyone else going in the building seems to live there. Second floor has a young couple, and the third has an old lady. Haven’t seen anyone else.”

  “How about anyone else watching her? Anything at all?”

  “Not unless it’s the invisible man doing the watching. Have to say no to that.”

  The next day the Watcher took Jean’s house while Callahan visited the university and consulted a class schedule. Jean had no full-time classes that semester, just a series of seminars. He went by her office and asked about a seminar she was scheduled to give the next week.

  “Well, that seminar has been reassigned to Professor Williams, Sir. It was Professor Randolph, but now,” the department secretary ran a finger down a page, “now it’s been changed. Yes, Professor Williams.”

  He was heading back for Kings Cross when the Watcher called on his cell. “She’s moving. Going down into Momington Crescent tube station, near her place. I’m right behind her. Going down now, so I’ll lose you on the cell when…”

  Callahan had his own taxi wait at St. Paul’s. Nothing to do until the Watcher called back.

  The Watcher was back. “She’s out at Totenham Court Station. Looks like she might be headed for the British Museum.”

  When Callahan got to the British Museum, he called the Watcher. “She’s gone into something called the Document Analysis Section,” he whispered. “I’ve been loitering around here with a clip board in my hand too long. Someone’s going to say something here pretty soon.”

  “Ok. Get out of there, and go back and get the taxi. I’ll pick her up at the Document Analysis office.”

  Callahan used his iPhone to check the Internet site for the Document Analysis Section of the British Museum. He scrolled down the page and stopped at the heading, “Laser Analysis - Document Age Verification.” Marie had mentioned something about this, but what? Why was he doing this, and not her?

  He passed the Watcher on his way out. Neither gave any sign of recognition. The Watcher called him on the cell from fifty feet away. “She’s wearing blue jeans, white blouse, and a brown suede jacket. Carrying a black briefcase with a shoulder strap. Short medium-brown hair. No wig, no hat. Expensive running shoes. In good shape. Looks like she exercises.” This would be Callahan’s first sight of Jean since Rome. The Watcher had taken pictures of her trip to the grocers, but with the hat and shades, it could have been anyone.

  “I took a few pics on the cell phone.” The Watcher was silent for a few moments. Here, I’m sending them. Ok. Look in your inbox.”

  Callahan looked at the pictures. There she was. Serious looking. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Good shape. She’d be easy to spot. Running shoes. Hmm, always prepared?

  He called Marie in Zurich. “She’s in the British Museum. Document Analysis Section. What do you think?”

  “Doc Analysis at the Brit? Best there is. They have a new system there for dating documents. It’s a Laser Spectrographic system. There aren’t too many in the world. There’s another here in Geneva, and a few more scattered around. Japanese invented it. If she needs something dated, that’s the place. Her university doesn’t have that equipment, hardly any do. If it’s older than four hundred years, the machines can figure the age of the manuscript within 20 years. It’s no good for anything less than four hundred years. Very expensive, and very accurate.”

  “Could she be dating the actual treaty?”

  “She could, I suppose. Maybe she has it. Maybe that Arab guy has it. Maybe she has a sample, and he has the rest of the treaty. But it makes sense to date it.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “About three days. They shoot the sample, then add some catalysts, shoot it again, more catalysts. You start on day one and get the final results on day three. The first day tells the age within about a thousand years, so that’s worthless unless a caveman wrote it. Day two gets it to two hundred. Day three to about twenty years. That’s as good as it gets.”

  “No waiting time? I mean, can anyone walk in there and put down a sample and get a result in three days?”

  “God, no. It’s scheduled months in advance. But, our gal probably has a lot of pull there, and she’s on her home turf. The way this works is any big university can jump the queue and get their stuff done fast. That’s life in the academic big leagues. If that’s what she’s up to, she’ll probably be back every day. The clients usually work with the techs fine-tuning each day’s laser shot. It can do more than just age, and they sort of follow where the data leads them.”

  “Your Kruger Institute have much pull with the British Museum?”

  “Oh, we have a lot. Believe me, we have a lot.”

  Callahan explained his plan to her.

  Lon
don - Wednesday, April 1

  Callahan hit the ANSWER button on his phone. “Callahan, it’s Marie. I’m here. At the Dorchester.”

  “You travel in style. I’m staying in a real dump. Smells like curry,” said Callahan. “Lots of curry.”

  “I travel for the Kruger Institute, and we stay at the best,” replied Marie.

  “Is everything set up?”

  “Yeah, we’re scheduled in the laser lab at 10:00 am this morning. That’s the first slot of the day, so I’ll be there before she gets in for her second shot. Her second shot should be around eleven or twelve, twenty-four hours since her first laser shot.”

  “Any trouble getting laser time?”

  “None at all. All the Chief Archivist had to do was pick up the phone.”

  “I didn’t realize he had that much influence.”

  “You’ve only seen him as a Templar on Templar stuff. As Managing Director of the Kruger Institute, he can get just about anything he wants from anyone. He’s written more stuff than most people have read. You should see him sometime when he has his academic hat on.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. How about the phony samples? Any chance the museum will catch on?”

  “Callahan, phony samples were your idea. I brought real samples from real research projects. We really need these samples age-dated on the laser. I keep telling you, the Kruger is a legitimate historical research institute. We don’t fake it. You don’t fake your computer projects, do you? We don’t fake our research.”

  “Ok. You win. Give me a call later when you have Jean in sight at the Museum. I’ll call when I’m done at her place.”

  “Ok. You going to buy me dinner tonight?”

  “Me? You’re the one on the Kruger expense account.”

  She laughed. “Touché. Ok. Talk to you later. Good luck.”

  * * *

  Callahan sat at a wooden table outside a construction site lunch wagon when Marie called a little after eleven. He wore a red and black-checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders, porkpie hat, heavy brown pants and scuffed brown boots.