Zurich - Thursday, April 9
“Ah, the woman’s a witch, a witch is what she is. A witch, I tell you.” The Templar Archivist tapped the table next to him. “But what a wonderful witch she is, yes, indeed. She’s a rare talent, and if we handle this right, she’s our rare talent.”
The Master peered from the other side of the table at the pages neatly spread before them. “Are these forgeries really that good, Patrick?”
“If he says they’re that good, then they’re that good.” The Marshall sat at the end of the table. “What the hell do you or I know about this stuff? We can look at these papers all day and hardly tell if they’re up or down.”
The Master dismissed the Marshall. “I know you don’t know anything. Surprise. That’s why I’m asking Patrick.”
The Archivist stood up and brushed a hand across the pages. “Let me take you through these,” he said, almost to himself.
“These two pictures on top are pictures of the forgeries she told Callahan and Marie she made. We went and looked at them in the collections that bought them from her.”
“This one is supposed to be a letter from Kepler, and this one is supposed to be a letter from Voltaire. Now these are on exhibit, and are accepted as genuine. I would never have doubted them until the last few days.”
Now he pointed to the pages below each picture. “Now here’s what she did in that safe house in England. Look. The handwriting exactly matches the writing in the public exhibits.”
He pulled a briefcase from behind his chair. “Now here is an actual letter from Kepler in our very own collection. We’ve had it since way before Jean Randolph was born. Look at the handwriting.” The Archivist glanced from the Master to the Marshall and sighed.
“Ok. I’ll spell it out. She wrote just like Kepler did. Same style of letters, pitch, strokes… everything. It’s like she’s channeling him.”
“You mean she writes just like Kepler did?” asked the Marshall.
The Archivist hung his head and mumbled to himself. “Yes. Very good. You get a gold star.” He stood up again. “And it’s not just a fluke, because she also can write just like Voltaire.” He pulled another manuscript from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “This is ours. Again, it’s been ours for a long time. The writing’s the same.”
The Master scanned the pages and nodded slowly. “Do we have anyone who can do this?”
“Not on your life. We have good people, but it’s mainly passports and that stuff. Nothing is handwritten anymore. More’s the pity in some ways.” He pointed to the third set of pages. “But here is the best. The top is a picture of the Treaty of Tuscany that Jean took from the Vatican Library. It’s a damn good picture, too. Below is the copy she made from the picture.”
The Marshall came down and bent over the pages. They did look the same. “Can’t read that stuff, but they look the same.”
“Exactly. The point here is that she precisely mimicked Kepler, Voltaire, and some unknown copier at the Vatican in the Twelfth Century. I bet she can do anyone’s writing better than they can themselves.”
The Master looked at the Marshall, who shrugged, then back at the Archivist. “Do you think she can do it, Patrick?”
“I do indeed. I do indeed.”
The Master rubbed the scar on his forehead. “Do it. Your mission, Patrick.”
He looked from one to the other. “Something else to remember. There’s a new Pope, this Mexican guy. From everything I have read he seems pretty good. I think we can work with him. Under the Concordat, someone has to approach him.”
Marshall and Archivist both looked at their shoes. The Master pointed at the Marshall. “You know all there is to know about the Concordat and what we face. You do it. As soon as you can.” The Archivist grinned.
Salisbury, UK - Thursday, April 9
Callahan picked up a TV in town, and Marie made a trip to the local bookstore, so Jean spent her time reading, watching TV, and exercising. She hadn’t heard anything more about forgeries since they had asked her to duplicate the Treaty of Tuscany. The man she dealt with simply refused to address anything beyond her food and immediate physical needs.
She really had boxed herself into a corner, she thought, and all her dreams were now part of a dead woman’s tragically lost future. These people knew everything she had done. They even showed her the Web page the university history department had created in her honor. They had posthumously made her a distinguished professor. Would they revoke it if she walked back into the faculty lounge and was promptly shackled for mass murder?
But these people wanted something, too, and her talent with pen and ink just might give her a bargaining position. She looked around. Some bargaining position, trapped with a TV, a stack of paperback books, cold pizza, and Cokes.
Think like a survivor. All she really did was filch that treaty. She didn’t know about the bomb. She wouldn’t have gone within a thousand miles of the Vatican if she had. Yeah, and who’d believe that?
Callahan knocked, and she obediently retreated from the futon to the corner. These were not trusting people.
He took the only chair. “You have an opportunity,” he said. “We can use your skills as a forger and a historian. We can also protect you.” She silently laid her book aside and focused her attention on him. He was an attractive man, very attractive, she thought. And he wore no wedding ring. But how many kidnappers wore rings? She didn’t know.
“To put it as simple as I can, you have the choice between working with us and death. We won’t even have to kill you. You can walk out that door and see how far you get. The London medical examiner will find an urgent need to reexamine the body found in your apartment, MI6 will get a packet detailing your recent adventures, and the tabloids will go wild. We won’t even have to call Al Qaeda. They’ll know.”
He stared at her, but Jean said nothing.
“We can offer you a very good life,” he continued. “And I can assure you that if you exhibited same level of professionalism and dedication you have shown through your career, you would be a valuable asset and your lifestyle would reflect that.”
He stood up and pushed the chair under the table. When he left, the inner door remained open, and she felt a breeze from the open outer door.
He stuck his head back in the room. “You’re free to go, Jean. This is when you make your decision. But remember what I said. If you choose to join us, and then betray us, we will definitely hunt you down and kill you. Nobody can protect you from us.” He shrugged. “Nothing personal, it’s that way for all of us.”
Switzerland - Friday, April 10
“You’re now Louise Koch. I don’t know where they get these names.” Callahan handed Jean a Swiss passport and a three-page biography detailing her new identity. “You’re Swiss. Memorize the details. When we arrive, you’ll learn more about who you are. For now, let’s just get to Zurich.”
He laid one thousand euros, two credit cards, and a cell phone on the table. “In case you were wondering, if you take off, that passport will appear on a terrorist alert list, and you’ll be behind bars as soon as you use it. Same with the credit cards.”
She picked up the phone and flicked it open. “And this?”
“The worst mistake you can make now would be to call someone… anyone… and anyone means anyone… and let them know you are alright. No exceptions, not even the exceptions you know are Ok. Calling anyone betrays us, and you know how that ends.”
“You give me all this, but I can’t use it?” she asked.
“Hell, everyone has a phone. But if you’re going to cross us, we may as well get that out of the way. It’s more efficient that way. Like I said, it’s nothing personal, just the rules we all play by.”
“And you still won’t tell me who you are?”
“Nope. Not yet. Have faith, child.” He laughed and stuffed things into his own bag.
“And I’m Sean Callahan. I can tell you that. American, if you hadn’t guessed it. You can use my name
in public. No problem there. But, I’ll be calling you Louise, Louise Koch. Poor Jean Randolph died in a tragic fire. So sad.”
* * *
Callahan leaned a hand on the railing of the deck that ran around the Swiss chalet and pointed down the valley. “The village is about three miles. A bus leaves about seven in the morning, and again around two in the afternoon. The village is the end of the line, and anyone can show you where to get the bus.”
“You sound like you want me to run.”
“Not at all. But I do want you to understand your situation. You’re not a prisoner.” He waved his arm toward the snowy mountain peaks that surrounded them. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? Think what it would cost to rent. Great hiking. Running is superb. There’s a trout stream back behind the house.”
“What about the guy with the gun?’ Jean jerked her head back toward the house.
“He’s here to protect you, not guard you.” Callahan turned to the open door to the house and shouted, “Klaus!”
Klaus appeared immediately. “Yes, Sir.”
“Klaus, Louise is confused regarding your duties. Will you please tell her your mission?”
“Certainly.” He faced Jean. “My primary orders are to keep you alive, to protect you. Beyond that, I am an excellent cook, can guide you all around these mountains, and am charged with providing whatever assistance I can. I am also explicitly forbidden to prevent you from leaving.”
“Who do you work for, Klaus?” Jean asked.
Klaus grinned. “Ah, let’s just say I report to Callahan.”
“So, what am I supposed to do here, Callahan?”
He leaned both elbows on the railing and stared at the mountains. “You’re going to forge a copy of the Treaty of Tuscany.”
That damn treaty again, she thought, always the treaty. But that’s why she was still alive. “And why do you want that?”
“You’ll be working with a team far more qualified than I am, and they will fill you in. For now, we have to get everything you will need. We can do whatever you want. Klaus can take you to Zurich. Or if you want to make a list, I can pass it to someone who will get what you need. Anything. Whatever it is, you will have it.”
“You have the parchment?” she asked. Without it, she would be worthless to them. “The Twelfth Century parchment? Without that, laser spectrography would expose it as a hoax.”
“Yes. We have the paper you tore from the bottom of that treaty.”
“I see. I could use some help. I’ll need lots of supplies, and someone who understands calligraphy, art, or these kinds of manuscripts and their production would be helpful.” She paused. “Klaus just doesn’t seem the type.”
“Ha, never under estimate Klaus. He’s a graduate mechanical engineer. I’m not sure how he drew this assignment. But, you’re right, he knows no more about Twelfth Century manuscripts than I do. But he can build anything.”
Chapter Ten
Switzerland - Saturday, April 11
Jean saw Callahan’s car coming up the dusty gravel road to the chalet, laid her book on the deck table, and went into the house to put on some coffee. These people had a good point about her chances without their help. So, for now at least, her only reasonable chance was with them, whoever they were.
“Callahan’s coming up the road, Klaus,” she called.
Klaus came from the back of the house, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Thermostat should work now,” he said. “Might make things a bit warmer at night.” He walked to the front windows and saw Callahan’s car with another following it about a quarter-mile back.
“Jean, go to the safe room until I give you the Ok.”
She knew better than to argue, and quickly locked herself in the safe room.
Klaus grabbed a carbine and a belt of loaded magazines from a cabinet and repositioned himself by the side door until Callahan parked and got out of the car. “Who’s following you?” Klaus shouted.
“A friend,” said Callahan. He looked around for Jean. “One of us. You don’t need the rifle.” He nodded to Klaus’s carbine.
“Standard procedure,” said Klaus. “I’ll go get Jean from the safe room.” Callahan just nodded and turned to wait for the other car.
When Jean came out on the porch, she greeted Callahan, looked at his companion coming up the steps, and froze. Marie Curtis? What was she doing here? Be calm, girl, she told herself. This is your life you’re playing for.
“Marie? They got you, too?”
Marie smiled. “Hello, Jean. How are you? No, they didn’t get me. You see, I’m one of them.”
Jean looked from Callahan to Marie. “You two are in this together? In London? At the British Museum? This whole time?”
Marie shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. But you asked for help. Paper, pens, ink, medieval history, paleographics, and help? Well, I’m the help.”
“Who are you working for?”
Marie looked at Callahan who shook his head. “I guess that’s your answer, Jean.”
Jean didn’t have many cards in her hand, so she had to play them well. Ok, so let the games begin.
“Fine with me, Marie. So what are we really doing here? You have to know more than Callahan, so let’s just get it done.”
“Spoken like a true professional,” said Marie. “Let’s get started.”
* * *
“If you want me to do the Treaty of Tuscany, there’s a lot of stuff we need that you just can’t get in the local art supply store. You can’t get it anywhere. You make it or go get it yourself.”
“Stuff like what?” asked Callahan.
“Stuff like goose quills from the left wing… because I’m right-handed. Oak apple and gum Arabic for ink, natural cinnabar for red dye from Spain, azurite for blue, malachite for green. Gold leaf for gilding the papal insignia at the top of the page, a nearly vertical writing desk to keep the quill at a ninety degree angle to the page so the ink won’t run. I mean, this isn’t just whipping off a page from your pocket notebook.”
Jean tried to think like a medieval scribe assembling his tools.
“Then we have to make all our ingredients and test them to be sure they will pass a modern analysis as coming from 1189.”
Callahan rubbed his chin. “Where did you get all this stuff before?”
“I made it with a great deal of effort over the years. Lots of effort, and lots of years. And I stored it all in my flat in London.” She glared at Callahan and Marie. “Until somebody burned the place down.” Now she folded her arms across her chest. “Any idea who would do a thing like that?”
“Take your pick,” snapped Callahan. “It was either your ink or your ass. In fact, it still is. So, if you’re too goddamned sensitive to work with us, now’s the time to let us know.”
“Good point, good point,” said Jean, back pedaling furiously. “Look, you people seem to have pretty good resources. Suppose I make a list of everything we need, a detailed list, and give it to you. Can you get people to the Pyrenees, the Levant, and the Italian Alps to do the collecting?”
“Just make the list,” said Callahan. “We’ll take care of it. Chemists, botanists, naturalists, goldsmiths, poets, priests, soldiers, artists, and bums. Whatever. Just make the list.”
Jean looked at Marie with a question in her eyes.
“He means it,” Marie said. “All of it. Make the list. And we can run all the tests on samples of ink and dye to make sure they generate medieval origins.”
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”
Marie turned on her. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, we might have made a big mistake, Jean. You also need to make a list of the equipment needed to process the materials. I don’t know… beakers, Bunsen burners, stills, ovens… whatever.”
“Look, Jean,” Callahan glared at her. “You’re either on board or you’re not. Your choice, not ours. Choose. We’re not going to play temperamental artist here.”
Marie grabbed a laptop and stood up, “Come o
n, Jean, let’s make a pot of tea and go out on the porch. We’ll enter it all in the laptop so we can send it off.” She looked back at Callahan. “And it’ll let us get away from this grouch.”
As they left the room, Marie winked over her shoulder. Good cop, bad cop. Hell of a woman, thought Callahan.
Vatican - Monday, April 13
And this just in to CNN International… University of Cairo officials… in Egypt… have announced the recent discovery of the Treaty of Tuscany, an 1189 treaty between the Vatican and the kings of England, France, and Germany. Sources tell us this treaty calls for the virtual elimination of Islam as a world religion, and the forced conversion of Muslims to Christianity.
We have no official word yet on how or where the treaty was found, but sources tell us it was unearthed during the recent excavations under the Vatican for a new parking lot. This same project recently unearthed a completely unknown network of burial chambers.
Remarkably, sources tell us that even though this treaty is over eight hundred years old, it may be binding on all Catholics… possibly all Christians… because of the nature of the Catholic doctrine of infallibility. This says what the Pope binds under the doctrine of infallibility can never be wrong, and can never be changed.
Father Carlos Perez brought the Pope a tray with his usual breakfast, two raw eggs, two apples, two oranges, two bananas, one cup of grapes, and half a cup of almonds.
“What news today, Carlos?” Pedro Sanchez, now Pope Dominic I, still wore his T-shirt and running shorts from his run around the papal gardens. He tipped his chair back on two legs and shook his head.
“I’ve made my own breakfast since I was five years old,” he waved a hand at the tray Carlos held, “now it’s coming in on a silver platter. Cardinal Agretti told me the other day I was upsetting precedent by refusing to utilize the papal dressers… like I can’t dress myself, either. And I can’t even run outside the Vatican walls because too many people want to shoot me.”
The Templar Concordat Page 23
