by C. M. Palov
When Ari first took ill with a bad case of the chills, they naively assumed the hacking cough and elevated fever would soon dissipate. A few weeks later, he began to spit up blood, the respiratory ailment worsening, Ari so weak he could barely make the ten-block walk to the hospital. When the doctors diagnosed his friend with having a virulent strain of antibiotic-resistant pulmonary tuberculosis, Saviour had refused to believe it.
My God! It was a death sentence. He’d been sorely tempted to grab one of the shiny instruments off the bedside tray and jab it into the doctor’s soft underbelly. He was that enraged. And when the hospital staff quarantined Ari, refusing to release him until the danger of contagion had passed, Saviour had to be dragged from the hospital by two burly security guards.
Painfully aware that his friend needed more comfort than his meager income could provide—servicing dockworkers kept him fed and shod but paid for little else—Saviour quickly devised a plan to earn more money. Even a seventeen-year-old wharf rat knew that the male prostitutes who paraded along the Leoforos Nikis were in great demand; wealthy tourists and businessmen paid a hefty price for the pleasure of their company. Saviour also knew that those same tourists and businessmen had discriminating tastes. Meaning he had to somehow transform himself from a dirty wharf rat to a stylish escort.
Determined to provide for his ailing friend, he spent hours studying the haughty young men who strolled the Leoforos Nikis, the café-lined promenade that hugged the Thermaic Gulf. He spent even longer hours staring into a cracked mirror, affecting an aloof expression that conveyed a purposefully ambivalent message—that he might deign to spend some time with a client. Provided the price was right. Even then, it wasn’t absolutely assured. Because in those hours spent on Leoforos Nikis, he’d noticed a curious phenomenon: For the wealthy men with the well-padded wallets, it was all about the ritual of the hunt.
Needing to properly outfit himself for the ritual, he must have sucked a hundred cocks before he had enough money to buy a pair of white trousers, a striped boatneck jersey, and a small bottle of Paco Rabanne cologne. In a cost-saving measure, he’d stolen a pair of handmade leather loafers from a five-star hotel, sneaking in while the maid was changing the bedclothes.
His thick wavy hair professionally styled, his body bathed and scented, Saviour was now ready to join the other beautiful young men on the Leoforos Nikis.
His first night, a Saturday, a tall Dane with a memorable lack of body hair hired him for the entire evening. Saviour proceeded to spend what seemed like an eternity on his hands and knees. The next few nights passed in a blur. An entire group of Japanese businessmen. An American professor at Aristotle University. A French diplomat. At week’s end, he had enough money to rent a small one-bedroom flat just south of Egnatia Street. Close enough to smell the wafting incense at Agía Sophía. On Sunday, his well-deserved day of rest, he splurged on lamb and green beans. The next day, Monday, the doctors agreed to release Ari to his care. As he ushered his pale, pathetically thin friend into their new residence, he bit his lip, worried that Ari might not like the sparsely furnished flat. Side by side, they stepped across the threshold, the sun streaming through the newly washed windows. Ari reached for his hand. Too moved to speak.
In time, Ari’s illness forced him to reinvent himself yet again.
Saviour lit another cigarette. Suddenly hearing a static crackle in his headset, he readjusted the hearing device. Detecting a third voice, he turned up the volume.
“It’s been said that every great treasure hunt starts with a centuries-old rumor.”
At hearing the dead archaeologist’s voice eerily transmitted through his earpiece, Saviour nearly choked on a mouthful of smoke.
Skata!
It was like a ghost whispering into his ear.
CHAPTER 15
It’s been said that every great treasure hunt starts with a centuries-old rumor. My hunt is no different. Flashback five years ago to when I was a Ph.D. candidate at Brown University. That was the year I had an internship with the department chair, Dr. Cyrus Proctor, an expert on American Indian archaeology. A groundbreaking ceremony doesn’t take place in Rhode Island until Dr. Proctor has examined the site to determine if it has any cultural significance. God help the commercial developer if Dr. Proctor finds Native American artifacts buried in the soil. But I digress.
As fate would have it, I was sitting in Dr. Proctor’s office grading midterm exams the day that a middle-aged Indian dude walks in unannounced. The dude tells Dr. Proctor that his name is Tonto Sinclair—yeah, Tonto, I kid you not—and that he needs help tracking down Yawgoog’s treasure, Yawgoog being a mythic Narragansett folk hero. A scary-looking dude, Tonto had the word red-blooded tattooed across his knuckles. It didn’t take much to imagine him all done up in war paint with a tomahawk in one hand and a bloody scalp in the other. Anyway, Tonto produces a gold coin supposedly minted in the Middle Ages and a photograph of a large boulder carved with a medieval battle standard. He said the gold coin and the boulder were gifts from Yawgoog to the Narragansett tribe. Needless to say, Tonto had my undivided attention.
Not nearly as impressed, Dr. Proctor dismissed both items, claiming the gold ingot could be purchased on eBay, and the carved rock, which he’d seen before, was part of an eighteenth-century colonial hoax. Pronouncement made, Dr. Proctor sent Tonto packing.
For the next five years the incident haunted me. I kept thinking, What if there really was a treasure hidden in Rhode Island? Determined to answer that question, my first task was to research this Yawgoog character. To that end, I tracked down the Indian dude, Tonto Sinclair. Mistakenly thinking I was there to help the Narragansett find their lost treasure, Sinclair regaled me with the Yawgoog legends. While I’m no folklore expert, it was obvious the Narragansett Indians look upon Yawgoog as some sort of man-god. A couple of the tales in particular snared my attention. Like the one about Yawgoog, decked out in an apron, constructing a stone bridge across a river. Or Yawgoog hanging out in a cave large enough to house a small tribe. And last, but not least, Yawgoog liked to ride around on big whales.
Pleased to be taken seriously, Tonto took me out to the middle of the Arcadia Management Area, a wilderness preserve in the southwestern part of the state. First he takes me to see Yawgoog’s stone bridge. And, yeah, it’s a bridge made of stone ledges that spans a raging river. Then he shows me this big-ass freestanding boulder, which he claims had been carved by Yawgoog.
Man, imagine my surprise when I saw a cross pattée, the famed Templar cross, prominently carved on the boulder.
And that’s when it hit me—Yawgoog had been a Knights Templar.
Wearing an incredulous expression, Edie abruptly shut off the digital voice recorder.
“Can that possibly be true?”
“I believe the tale has merit,” Caedmon replied. “But where it’s headed is unclear. If the Knights Templar did make landfall in Rhode Island in 1307, they would have been technically more advanced than the native peoples. Which explains why Yawgoog had been deemed a man-god.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. But how in the world did a Knights Templar get the strange moniker ‘Yawgoog’?” Holding the sake bottle aloft, Edie silently inquired if he wanted a refill.
Caedmon wistfully stared at the proffered bottle. A fondness for alcohol was a burden borne by many ex-intelligence officers. An expedient way to soften the violent memories. And his memories were more violent than most. Five years ago the Real Irish Republican Army detonated a bomb in a crowded London tube station. He’d lost the woman he loved in that blast. Out for revenge, he used his MI5 resources to track down the RIRA leader who masterminded the attack, gunning him down on a Belfast street corner.
That act of cold-blooded vengeance did nothing to assuage his pain. Plunged into a state of inconsolable grief, he spent months in an inebriated state. Until his taskmasters at Thames House forced him to dry out.
Although tempted, Caedmon shook his head, declining the refill. Edie knew nothing of his
battles with alcohol. Easier to remain silent than make the shameful confession.
“The name Yawgoog might possibly be a butchered pronunciation of a medieval French name,” he said in answer to Edie’s question. “Curious name aside, I’m intrigued by the notion of Yawgoog donning an apron to build a stone bridge.”
“That caught my attention, too. Didn’t medieval stonemasons wear aprons?”
He nodded. “A leather apron was used to carry the tools of the trade, the mallet and chisel. And a sturdy apron protected the mason from flying chips and stone dust. But there’s also an ancient tradition of mystical adherents donning an apron. In its esoteric guise, the apron symbolizes purity.”
“Probably because it covers the lower portion of the body,” Edie correctly deduced.
“In the Old Testament, the Levite high priest wore an apron as part of his ceremonial attire. The ephod, as it was called, had to be donned before the high priest could stand before the Ark of the Covenant.”
In the process of raising a piece of sushi to her lips, Edie’s eyes opened wide as she dropped the tasty tidbit onto the plastic container. “Well that’s an interesting factoid. Certainly throws Yawgoog’s apron into a whole new light, huh?”
“While it doesn’t bring us any closer to finding that most sacred of relics, it is a curious coincidence.”
“Change of subject,” Edie said abruptly, picking up the abandoned piece of sushi. “Lovett said that Yawgoog liked to ride around on a whale. I’m thinking that might be a quaint Indian description for a Templar ship, which, size-wise, would be comparable to a humpback whale.”
“How very astute.” An unusual mix of Victorian grace and quirky modernity, Edie Miller also possessed a nimble mind. All of which engaged his heart, his brain, and various other organs. And not infrequently at the same time.
Always intrigued by an intellectual conundrum, Caedmon got up from the sofa and walked over to the CD player on the other side of the living room. Opening a clear plastic case, he removed Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies. Music helped to hone his thoughts. His belly full, his mental pencil was in need of sharpening.
His dinner companion theatrically rolled her eyes. “Any excuse to play drippy piano music. That particular CD makes me feel like a character in a French film. You know the character I’m talking about, the one who only wears black, smokes way too many cigarettes, and speaks in existentialese.”
“You forgot to mention the beret.”
He assumed the jibe had to do with the fact that he lived nearly four thousand miles away in Paris. While he was content with the arrangement, he suspected that Edie had reservations. As for their professional relationship, she ably assisted in his research from a distance via e-mail, fax, and text messaging.
“It’s kind of morbid, listening to a dead man’s voice. Lovett’s so conversational, it’s like he’s right here with us.”
“Indeed.” He glanced at the digital voice recorder, a twenty-first-century memento mori.
“So what do you think of Lovett’s theory so far?”
Caedmon took a moment to consider his reply. Then, of two minds, he said, “The man was either brilliant or out-and-out bonkers.”
CHAPTER 16
Standing in the shadow of Edie Miller’s front porch, the intruder stared at the unlatched window lock.
Stupid bitch.
Face pressed to the glass, Saviour peered into the darkened room. Desk. Filing cabinet. Shelving units crammed with boxes and books. It didn’t appear that the Miller woman kept anything of value in her home office. Not that he was looking for something to steal. He had a different purpose altogether for wanting to break into the house.
Having already verified that no one lurked in the street, Saviour braced his hands on the top of the sash. Slowly he slid the window open. Just enough so he could bend at the waist, swing one leg over the sill, and duck inside the darkened room with no one the wiser. Yes, a very stupid bitch.
Still bent at the waist, Saviour slipped off his shoes, shoving them into the waistband of his trousers. The house had wood plank flooring; he could noiselessly glide across the polished floorboards. Straightening to his full height, he recalled an old Greek saying: I locked the house, but the thief was inside. Amused, he bit back a chuckle.
Ready to go exploring, he first slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and removed a switchblade. He pressed the smooth nubbin on the handle, releasing the three-and-a-quarter-inch stiletto. Fingering the blade with his thumb, he felt a slight impression, the word Milano incised on the honed steel. The Italians were only good for two things—making shoes and stilettos.
Noiselessly sliding to the open office door, Saviour stood in the shadows and listened, able to hear every word that emanated from the room on the other side of the hallway. Little birds cooing silly nothings. How sweet. Soon enough, he’d rip the wings from their squawking bodies.
The archaeologist actually recorded a digital diary!
If he could, Saviour would gladly kill the blond bastard all over again. And after he killed him again, he’d piss on the grave! Because of the recording, the Brit and his woman knew everything. So, the chickadees had to be smothered. Silenced, once and for all.
Glancing into the darkened foyer, he saw a light emanating from a room at the end of the hallway. The kitchen more than likely. He headed in that direction, careful to keep his movements as smooth and even as possible. An angel of death flitting past.
A few moments later, Saviour surveyed the tidy kitchen with its row of glass containers all neatly lined on the counter. Flour. Beans. Pasta. Sugar. And at the end of the row, a cell phone nesting in its charger.
Perfect.
To call the police, the little birdies will have to come to the kitchen. All he had to do was lie in wait.
About to slip his shoes back on, Saviour saw something out of the corner of his eye—a small metal door in the middle of the kitchen wall. The panel box for the electric circuit breakers. Even more perfect.
He softly padded across the kitchen and opened the gray metal door.
The last piece of the plan just fell into place.
CHAPTER 17
“I’m casting my vote for bonkers,” Edie stated for the record, suspecting that Jason Lovett was spinning an imaginary web. “The hunt for the fabled Templar treasure makes for a great Hollywood movie, but it’s just an urban legend.”
“Many legends have a basis in fact,” Caedmon was quick to inform her just before he pressed the Start button on the digital voice recorder.
Now this is where serendipity and Sarah Sanderson come in. Within days of meeting Tonto Sinclair, I got a text message from a woman I used to date at Brown. Sarah suggested that I check out a centuries-old circular stone tower that’s located on a knoll overlooking the bay in Newport, Rhode Island. A local oddity, nobody’s ever been able to figure out who built the damned thing. Although—and this is where the story gets interesting—the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazano made mention of the circular tower when he explored Rhode Island in 1524. Verrazano is credited with being the first European dude to come ashore in New England. Curious as hell, I drove to Newport to check out the stone tower for myself. A careful examination of the site convinced me the tower had been built in the fourteenth century by the Knights Templar.
Certain there was a connection between Yawgoog, the Newport Tower, and the Templars, I asked Tonto Sinclair if he knew where exactly Yawgoog and his extended family had lived. While he didn’t know the location of Yawgoog’s cave, he was able to show me where the family maintained an aboveground settlement. As with the carved boulder, the settlement was located in the Arcadia Wilderness Area. Anxious to conduct a field search, I rented a cottage that was conveniently situated at the crossroads just outside the park entrance. Since it’s off-season, I pretty much have the place all to myself. That enabled me to set up a large site perimeter without having to worry about nosey rangers and curious hikers.
On my preliminary field walk
of the site, I discovered slightly raised patterns on the ground surface. A little digging revealed that a substantial rubble-work structure, probably a fortification wall, had been erected at the northwest corner of the site. I’m guessing that in its heyday a settlement complex, covering a ten-acre swath, had been built at Arcadia. Although for some unknown reason, all visible traces of the settlement have been obliterated.
Needing to prove that this was a Templar settlement and not an Indian village, I used a metal detector to scan the area. It didn’t take long before I hit gold—literally—nearly shitting on the spot when I excavated a half dozen gold coins minted in the late thirteenth century. I also uncovered bits and pieces of early sixteenth-century weaponry, a sword hilt engraved with a Maltese cross, part of a rosary with a Sacred Heart of Jesus medallion, and a silver ring. The year 1523 was engraved on the rosary medallion. I then checked the historic record and learned that there were Maltese knights aboard Verrazano’s ship the Dauphine.
Since six gold coins and one tarnished ring does not a treasure make, I decided to bring in the heavy artillery and use ground-penetrating radar to scan below the surface. Imagine my surprise when I discovered a mass grave containing at least two hundred bodies on the outskirts of the settlement.
Edie switched off the device. “Whoa! I didn’t see that coming,” she exclaimed, the tale having taken a dark turn.
Caedmon’s brow furrowed. “A mass grave can mean only one thing: After more than two hundred years, the Inquisition finally found the Templars in their New World hideaway.”
“Since we can’t verify that this mass grave even exists, maybe we shouldn’t jump to premature conclusions. Or make sweeping generalizations.”
“When the Age of Exploration began in the fifteenth century, I suspect that the church fathers in Rome belatedly realized the Templars had escaped to America in 1307,” Caedmon conjectured, ignoring her suggestion to put on the brakes.
