The Templar Concordat

by Terrence O'Brien

  “We can’t go back through the wadi. It takes too long. We’d never make it. Let’s break for that pump house.” Callahan pointed at a small shed that controlled the irrigation for the villa. “Let me get there, then you follow while I cover. You get that, Berrera?”

  “Got it. All clear to the pump house. Got you covered. Give me a minute here.” Two rifle shots doused the lights covering the area between them and the pump house. “Ok,” said Berrera, “Go, Go, Go.”

  Equardo nodded his head and adjusted the small pack with the treaties. “Ok. So shut up and go, Callahan.”

  Callahan broke into a sprint, heard his third charge explode, headed at an angle to the pump house, then darted toward it when he heard fire behind him and saw bullets hitting to his left. He dove on his belly behind the shed and scrabbled around to aim his gun back toward the villa. He saw two men carefully coming up the west wall, then heard Berrera whisper, “Two moving up the west side. Eguardo, Go, Go, Go, I have them.”

  Eguardo crouched and ran a zigzag course to toward the shed. A powerful shot rang out from Berrera’s rifle on the ridge, and one of the men fell. Callahan carefully aimed at the second man, missed, but Berrera’s rifle didn’t, just as Equardo skidded to a stop next to him at the pump house.

  A group of five clustered at the southeast corner of the villa’s walls by the wadi. “Big target. Let’s hit ‘em.” Eguardo shot around the right side of the pump house, while Callahan shot around the left. Two of the five men immediately fell, Berrera hit a third, and the other two ran back around the east wall.

  “Let’s go before they get it together again. Now!”

  Both men raced across the hard-packed sand toward the ridge. They saw the multiple flashes of Berrera’s rifle ahead of them, from a new position he had taken, and heard more confused shouting and shooting from behind them.

  Callahan looked around and saw Eguardo just ten paces behind him. Berrera waited behind the ridge about fifty feet ahead. Then Eguardo was next to him pumping his arms like an Olympic sprinter.

  “God be with you, Callahan. Pray for luck! Remember my mass!”

  Callahan looked at Eguardo, and watched him turn on a dime and charge back toward the villa, crouching and expertly weaving with the shadows. Callahan hurled himself over the ridge next to Berrera and turned back to the villa. “What the hell is he doing? What’s he doing?”

  Eguardo ran parallel to the ridge until he reached soft sand, lay flat for a few seconds, then came out of the shadow into the lights from the villa and began to slog through the sand back toward the ridge. He was hit once, spun when another shot hit him, and he went down. But he switched magazines turned and started limping toward the guards, firing all the way. The third time he was hit he didn’t get up. Eguardo lay in a twisted clump on the sand and the guards ran past him up toward the ridge where Callahan and Berrera were hidden.

  “Damn. Let’s move,” said Callahan. He jumped on the ATV, felt Berrera behind him, pushed the start button, and bounced away over the sand. Shots rang out behind them when the guards topped the ridge, but the guards could see nothing and the bullets went wild.

  Callahan kept the ATV to the low ground and the hard-packed sand, weaving between the much softer dunes. With no lights, it was difficult to see even with the night vision goggles. After what he judged was about a mile, he took a hard left turn toward the beach and ran almost to the water where the wide, flat sand allowed him to push the ATV to nearly fifty miles per hour.

  “Quarter mile more,” Berrera shouted in his ear. He had fished his GPS unit from his pocket and was watching their progress while Callahan drove. Just a quarter mile more, Callahan thought, a quarter mile without logs, birds, fishnets, or beached boats. He knew if there was anything out there, he would first know it when he hit it.

  Berrera whacked him on the shoulder. “Right here. Just head up there.”

  Callahan wheeled the ATV in a right turn and carefully picked his way between the picnic tables and concrete slabs on the beach until they bounced over the curb and were next to the Impala.

  “Let’s go,” Callahan said as he jumped into the driver’s seat. Berrera threw his rifle into the scrub, took a quick look around with the night vision goggles and joined Callahan.

  They dimmed the headlights until they reached the main road, then waited until there was no traffic and turned south, away from the direction of the villa.

  Total failure, thought Callahan. Now Hammid had both the original treaty and the forged treaty. Eguardo was dead. Everything Jean Randolph did was wasted. The Knights Templar had entrusted him with the mission, and it was a total failure. The Templars lost, the Hashashin won, and they now had a good chance to keep on winning. Templars never left the battle while they could still fight, but there was nothing left to fight for. So Callahan left. Total failure. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Callahan flipped open his cell phone. Out of range.

  “Go about eight miles,” Berrera said, “then we turn off onto a construction site. There’s a construction camp there and we can stay there for the night.”

  “Who’s in the camp?” asked Callahan.

  “Don’t worry,” answered Berrera. “The labor is all Filipino.”

  Neither said a word about Eguardo.

  Dhahran - Friday, May 15

  Hammid woke with a start and immediately felt for the treaty case under his left arm. With his right hand, he grasped the M16 automatic rifle that lay across his lap and thumbed off the safety. The room had no windows, and his Rolex showed 5:15 AM. He had last awakened at 4:47 AM. He was soaked with sweat again, and his heart was racing. It had been like this ever since they had killed that Filipino thief and recaptured the treaty.

  He laid his head back in the armchair, closed his eyes again, and tried to sleep, but all he saw was that man in the black T-shirt cresting the dune with his treaty, Hammid’s treaty, stuffed in his grubby backpack. Thank God none of the bullets had hit the treaty.

  Who could he trust? His own compound had been penetrated easily, his home violated, his own guards killed. Had they been asleep? Drunk? How had one man… the guards said there were more… managed to come through his twenty guards? And if one had done it last night, how many more were waiting? He had to deliver the treaty to Cairo, where it could be encased in steel and bullet proof glass like the Magna Carta or the American Declaration of Independence. Just let him get it there and into the hands of the experts for the remaining tests. That’s all. Just a few more hours. Zahid had already conducted all the tests the panel would run, and it passed every one. Victory was so close, and would be his forever.

  Filipinos, he thought. Saudi Arabia was overrun by six million Indians and Filipinos. His people couldn’t build their own houses, fix their own cars, or maintain an airplane. No, they were too good for that kind of work. So what did they do? Instead of changing attitudes and training their own people, they imported millions of foreigners who polluted their culture. His people couldn’t even take pride in an honest day’s work.

  He rose and slipped across the room to listen at the door. Nothing. He silently turned the knob and peered out at two of his men looking back at him, and two more facing outward guarding their backs. When he opened the door wide, one stepped into the room and called to the others that it was clear. Only then did they lower their weapons.

  “Good morning, Sheik. I hope you slept well,” said the first guard.

  Hammid composed himself. He had to look confident, rested, and in command. “Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you, I slept very well. All quiet?”

  “Yes, Sheik. Nothing since we killed that pig last night.” Hammid noticed he failed to mention the guards the pig had killed.

  Sure, they killed the Filipino, but it was only blind luck. “Good. I will be going to my room, and I want you with me. We don’t know if there will be another attempt by the infidels to steal the treaty.” Hammid patted the plastic case under his arm. “But that can never happen, can it?
”

  “No, Sheik. We will all die first.” The others nodded, but with little enthusiasm.

  Yes, thought Hammid, and if anymore Filipinos like the guy last night are around, we all probably will.

  Hammid vowed to keep the treaty with him every second until it reached Cairo later that day. Who else could he trust? But when he reached his private quarters and laid the treaty on the counter by the sink so he could shower, he wondered about the effects of steam on something that old. “Call Professor Zahid,” he told the guard. Zahid could sit in the next room, under the eyes of the guards while he showered.

  When Zahid arrived, Hammid told him to sit, gave him the treaty and instructed him not to move until Hammid came out of the shower. Zahid assured him the plastic case was impervious to external humidity, but Hammid didn’t want to take a chance.

  “Humor me, Professor. It’s been a long night. Just sit for a few minutes.”

  When Hammid disappeared into the shower, Zahid glanced at the treaty he had spent so many hours examining. It had survived the previous night’s gunfight without a scratch. Was that a message from God, or just dumb luck? Who knew how God operated?

  He idly began to read the Latin that was visible without special lighting. It was all so familiar, he could almost recite it from memory. He couldn’t read it all, but it held his interest until he finished. Eight hundred years old, and now it had returned. God certainly did operate in mysterious ways.

  When Hammid emerged from the shower, Zahid gave him the treaty. Hammid looked at it and spoke to it. “Do you know how much trouble you have caused me?” Then he glanced at Zahid. “This has to get to Cairo,” he laughed. “Now I’m even talking to it.”

  Before Zahid left the room, Hammid told him to be ready to leave for King Fahd International in one hour. “The final leg of a very long journey for us, Professor, and an even longer journey for this treaty and our people. I think we can both be proud of what we have accomplished here.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we can.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cairo - Friday, May 15

  Patrick Mulroony, Chief Archivist of the Knights Templar, managing director of the Kruger Institute, and renowned medieval scholar, sat around the conference table in the Antiquities Building of the University of Cairo with the eight other scholars whose job it was to determine the authenticity of the Treaty of Tuscany.

  Nobody mentioned the treaty. They had come to an unwritten and informal agreement that they did not discuss the treaty outside the formal meetings of the panel. Nobody had proposed such a rule, and nobody acknowledged it, but that’s how it was.

  Ahmed Al Qatani looked at his watch. “Al Dossary should be here any minute now. He said eleven o’clock.”

  “And when you have your own private jet, I suppose you can set whatever time you want,” laughed the man from Harvard.

  “Let me ask you, John,” said Henry Green of Cambridge. “If you could do it over again, would you rather be a software mogul with a private jet, or a history professor at Harvard?”

  “To tell you the truth, Henry, I’d rather be a history professor at Harvard… a history professor with a private jet.” They all laughed.

  Mohamed Harketi from Karachi grinned at the Archivist and said, “Patrick, I hear the Kruger Institute has a private jet.”

  “A private jet? At the Kruger? What wonderful fantasy you weave, Mohamed, and I do wish you were right. But I’m afraid my board of directors would find a good stout rope and hang me from the nearest oak tree if we did.” He cocked an eyebrow and looked down the table. “But I do have to confess we have a very generous patron who is equally generous with his jet from time to time.”

  A technician from the university was setting up the overhead projectors and light filters that would allow them to examine a projection of the treaty on a large screen.

  Hammid had given them all multiple copies of the treaty made under different lighting, so they could make out all the words. But they had only seen the treaty itself once before, when they carefully snipped the samples for the laser analysis. But today they would actually take the treaty from its case and work with the original. Nothing else would do.

  The technician was calibrating his equipment with a Tenth Century Mameluke manuscript that was in much the same condition as the treaty. Some of it was readable to the naked eye, while other areas of the page needed special lighting. By trying different combinations of filters, the technician was able to find one that allowed all the script to be easily read.

  “That looks good,” said Al Qatani, looking at the projection of the Mameluke manuscript. “What number is it?”

  “It’s filter 118 and 207, Sir,” said the technician.

  “I see it pretty well. How about the rest of you?” When they all nodded, Al Qatani told the technician to start with those filters when the treaty arrived.

  The Chief Archivist glanced at his Blackberry under the table. Nothing. No missed calls. No text messages. No voice messages. Nothing from Zurich about Callahan. Pity.

  He figured Callahan was probably buried under a sand dune somewhere in the desert. They all knew their plan was a long shot, but one worth taking. Death in Battle. That’s the life, and that’s how it sometimes ends.

  What could he do now? He knew the treaty would pass the textual analysis. He had already done it himself using the pictures Jean Randolph had taken. And the treaty had passed the laser analysis. Tomorrow the ink test would be consistent with the Twelfth Century, and the scroll work around the edges would match hundreds of other manuscripts from that century. The noose was slowly tightening around their necks, and he didn’t have a clue how to get out of it.

  Once that happened, the Muslim world would screech like banshees demanding reparations and concessions from the West. Europe would cave in, the Americans would have a great internal political battle and probably pull their troops back, and Israel would be alone, alone with a few hundred nukes. And that’s just what the politically correct West would give up without a fight. When that was over the real fight would begin as the Arabs and Muslims finally had a rallying point they all could unite around.

  The Vatican would be under siege, the Pope would probably denounce the treaty and dump the whole notion of infallibility, the Church would split down doctrinal lines, and they would all be at each other’s throats again for a few hundred years.

  Everything moves back to 1189 and starts over from there, with all the blood, bigots, bias, and superstition of the Middle Ages. Oh, the Templars would have their work cut out for them.

  * * *

  We’re here at the University of Cairo with Hammid Al Dossary, who just arrived from Saudi Arabia with the Treaty of Tuscany.

  CNN: Mr. Al Dossary, can you tell us what you hope to accomplish today?

  Al Dossary: Greg, I won’t be doing much. My job is to deliver the treaty to the eminent scholars assembled here. It is they who will determine the truth about the Treaty of Tuscany.

  CNN: What do you expect they will find, Sir?

  Al Dossary: What will they find? Why, they will find the truth. I’m sorry, no more questions.

  There you have it, Peter. Our cameras are following Al Dossary up the stairs of the Antiquities Building, where he promises the panel of scholars will determine the truth about the treaty. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, this eight hundred-year-old mystery that has so captivated the attention of the world may be solved.

  This is Greg Howard, CNN, Cairo.

  * * *

  Four Egyptian plain clothes security men entered the conference room and took positions at the four corners of the room. Hammid Al Dossary followed in a Saville Row suit and burgundy tie, carrying an expensive leather briefcase.

  The president of the University of Cairo trailed a few feet behind with a small man in the clerical garb of a Catholic priest. After welcoming the panel, the President introduced Bishop Gustuv as the official Vatican observer. Both Al Dossary and Gustuv would observe, but they wou
ld not participate in any discussions.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” an energetic Hammid rubbed his hands together. “I apologize for my tardiness. And I welcome Bishop Gustuv to the proceedings.” Gustuv nodded to the panel and took a chair against the wall.

  “This is the treaty,” Hammid said, “and I now turn it over to you gentlemen for your textual examination. As agreed earlier, when you complete your testing here, we will once again take samples for laser analysis so there is no doubt this manuscript is the treaty in question.” Hammid paused, then made a show of handing the case to Greene. Hammid bowed and walked to a chair on the opposite side of the room from Gustuv.

  Greene put on white cotton gloves, placed the case on the table and carefully opened the clasps. Then he slid a stiff piece of plastic under the treaty, lifted it out of the case, and placed it on the viewing table of the overhead projector.

  “Let’s start with the 118 and 207 filters you used before,” Greene told the technician. When the image appeared the words on the periphery were clear, but the center was still cloudy. The technician expertly switched filters several times until the script on the page was clearly visible.

  “Thank you,” said Greene. “Let’s leave it there. And can we get some hard copies?”

  The technician clicked a few keys and eleven clear and crisp copies of the treaty printed out. He distributed one to each man. Hammid glanced at his and sat back to watch victory unfold.

  Oh, God, thought the Archivist, here’s Hammid looking bright and cheerful and all ready to go. Well, here we go. Falling straight down into the shitter.

  Cairo - Friday, May 15

  The nine men leaned forward and stared at the bright image of the treaty on the screen. The Papal insignia was at the top, the seals of the two Popes and three kings at the bottom, and the tight Papal Minuscule script layed out the provisions of the agreement.