Why the hell would a history professor be killed that way?
For over twenty minutes she had spoken to Harper of Bowden’s past, learning nothing new. Every time the conversation threatened to turn nearer Bowden’s later days, the woman steered it back to the earlier times. She stuck to what she knew, reminding Nicole that she had not seen the man for eight years. She learned a few new pieces about William Anson, the friend of her husband and the friend of her friend, but most of the bits were trivial.
The temptation was to talk about murder, but she knew technically she was speculating. It was dangerous territory – and Harper clearly knew nothing of the circumstances, not that she should. She considered working historical questions into the conversation, but she knew she was cold on the specifics. She was unsure whether the rumour of a ritualistic killing was true or not.
Ideally she wanted to see the body.
The next lead was the book. She knew from Matt that there was another co-author. She had learned from William Anson’s publisher that the person she was looking for was Professor Sandra Richards, a fellow at the University of Harvard and Visiting Professor of European History at the University of La Rochelle. According to the woman’s schedule, she was still in France, but on sabbatical, officially working on a new history book, due for publication next autumn. Nicole had learned from the publisher that the book was the same one that Matt’s father and Luke Bowden were working on. Judging from the publisher, it was unclear, in the light of recent events, whether the book would be published or not. Nicole faked interest, but she had picked up the information she needed. The woman’s work phone number and email address were listed on the university website. No home number, though, nor would the publisher agree to provide it.
Throughout the day she had attempted to contact her but without success. She looked at her watch. The time in La Rochelle was just after seven thirty. She doubted the academic would be at work at this time, but she decided to try once more anyway. She dialled the international code for France and waited several seconds for a response. She inhaled deeply, preparing herself for an answer.
The ringing stopped, a voice message started. The message was a woman’s voice possibly early forties, though potentially younger or older. She assumed the third author was familiar with her article, or Gladstone’s article, as the case may be. Ideally a meeting face to face was the order of the day.
Maybe this woman would be able to answer some real questions.
20
Temple of the Order of the Ancient Star, somewhere in Switzerland
The rain when it came was like something out of the Scriptures. Throughout the last hour, the sky had darkened considerably. Heavy nimbus clouds covered the starlight, their thickness increasing with the lateness of the hour. At certain angles, the denseness of the cloud obscured the peaks of the mountains that dominated the geography. Lush green forests swept across the landscape as far as the eye could see. Though magnificent in the day, the greenery of the mountains seemed to soak up the darkness at night. The colours camouflaged the scenery. Only at the most remote points, where the glorious arches were at their most rugged, were the rocky outcrops illuminated by the faint rays of moonlight that penetrated the cloud.
The moon was not the only light. Down below, seemingly unending voids of blackness were interrupted by sparse light coming from oncoming motorists, moving like fog before disappearing eerily without a trace. Even the busiest of the roads were lonely. At times a driver could drive for miles on end in what appeared to be pitch-blackness. Should one look out of his window and be distracted by the faraway lights of a small hamlet or hotel, he could easily misjudge the distance by tens of miles.
The location was not for the inexperienced traveller.
Even in the day the mountainous roads were treacherous. A rookie driver heading north might pull over from time to time to study the map, only to return to the road to find all sense of direction was lost. For those who knew the roads, the location was still disturbing. The voices of wisdom long spoke of the loss of loved ones or friends of friends who drove into the pass one night and never returned. Every so often an intrigued journalist from America or Australia would investigate the claims, but the records were equivocal on the subject. According to the locals, the accidents were themselves attributed to a greater force.
The pass itself was steeped in legend. Folktales from the 14th century told of the strange emergence of white knights from the west, appearing without warning and disappearing just as quickly. Their descriptions varied, but the core facts were usually the same: glorious white mantles, reminiscent of the story of the Transfiguration, marked in the centre by crosses the colour of blood. In later years the descriptions drew parallels with the nation’s emblem, but in inverted colours. Thick armour covered their bodies; their weapons ranged from swords and halberds to axes and spears. According to some, it was these same men who folklore tells appeared in force in 1315 to prevent the passing of Duke Leopold of Austria, but proof was impossible to find.
Like the nation’s famous banking system, the pass thrived on secrecy.
Stories of knights were not the only anomaly. On certain nights a strange red mist would surround the summit of one mountain in particular, similar in appearance to that described in the Book of Exodus as “The Glory of the Lord”. On slow news days the appearance of the mist would make the papers, sometimes the nationals. The theories were far ranging: anything from ancient spirits to plasma. It seemed everyone had their opinion on its origin, whether it be crusader soldiers, Bavarian deserters, zombies, aliens, or even the damned from Atlantis.
Everyone’s favourite seemed to be the ghosts of the grail knights.
The mountains were located between the cantons of Uri to the north and Ticino to the south with most of the region technically belonging to Uri. The Canton of Uri is located to the north of the Swiss Alps and is geographically an assortment of forests, lakes and glaciers. At night, the dark landscape is littered with the flickering of lights from villages and hamlets seemingly miles from anywhere. From a distance, the cold waters of the lakes were still and distracting.
Everything about the canton suggested seclusion.
Of the few dwellings that marked the forested mountain overlooking the lake on the St. Gotthard Pass, the building in question was both secluded and ancient. Like the grail castle, it could only be found by those who knew where to look. A series of rarely used mountain roads were scattered across the landscape. For the few cars that did use them, their presence was often concealed by heavy greenery. A small side road, missed by most travellers, left the road flanking the lake and continued through the forest for over fifteen minutes. For the drivers who knew the way, the unexpected turns and obscure scenery were no surprise. For those who didn’t know it, this was yet another hindrance, ignorance of which could cause a man to get lost or even crash.
The invasion of privacy was practically unheard of.
For the few human beings who knew the truth, the winding forested road was both forlorn and unappealing. After about five miles, the poor surface would inexplicably turn to a finer quality, widening to a width that allowed complete mobility. As the driver neared the lake, the sound of wildlife became louder, and the clearings slightly wider. Then after ten minutes of sublime lakeside views, the road would change again. Inexplicably, it would narrow to one car width. Then the approaching human would be greeted with a sight straight out of history.
There in the middle of the forest on the mountain overlooking the lake was a castle.
At first sight, the high stone walls and elegant turrets could be mistaken for a ruin, though on closer scrutiny that was misleading. Eight round towers, rising to a height of over thirty feet and connected by double walls, formed the shape of a rectangle. From a distance the structure would be overlooked as an illusion of being at one with the landscape.
While an historian of regard might struggle with the military purpose of such a castle, its materials, colour an
d history, within those outer walls was something stranger still. Should an intruder or visitor successfully locate the main entrance on the east side and be allowed access through its drawbridge and portcullis, the interior they would see was less in keeping with a castle than an Egyptian temple, its walls rising to a height approximately two thirds that of the outer wall. Inside immense double doors, a series of pillars and archways formed the structure and framed the long aisle. The walls and ceilings were mostly decorated with murals of figures from history, usually the Old Testament, while others concentrated on the Crusades. A large altar was situated in the usual place and was surrounded by several unlit candles. Above, an arched roof and thick walls were decorated with carved figures, symbols and objects, most of which seemingly belonged more appropriately in France or the Holy Land.
Yet unlike any church or temple of historical reference, the symbolism was extensively military. Where the usual appearance of a bishop holding a cross or his religious equivalent would decorate a porch, instead the carvings were of figures that went back further. At various points the symbolism of the military was interrupted by figures holding trade tools. While to an outsider the reference was unclear, to the knowledgeable observer the depiction was communicative: as though being seen by a student of ancient Egypt reading a hieroglyph.
Yet even in this location, whose description and existence would mystify or even astound many a historian, appearances of the strange gave way to a mixture of the known but bizarre. At the north end of this deserted church, the room in question, enterable through an arched doorway, was square in shape and lit only by a series of lanterns. The walls, unlike the rest of the castle, were white and without decoration. The windowless chamber gave the impression of airlessness, enhanced several times by the poor light.
But within this strange room, the light of the lanterns did illuminate the room’s most unique feature. On entering the chamber, the stone floor changed to tile and was decorated in the form of a chessboard. On this night, a large table was located in its centre. Four seats surrounded it at equal intervals, the one located at the head the most elaborate. Sitting in its comfortable confine was the most important member of the order; surrounding him the next three. No one outside that room knew of their meeting; none knew even of its existence. That was the way it always was; established by a tight circle that had survived for over seven hundred years.
‘Abbot Thomas Winter will be elected as the 24th grandmaster of the Knights of Arcadia,’ the grandmaster of the Order of the Ancient Star, Charles Jura, said in a firm but quiet tone. The man’s usual goatee was in trim, and his hair smartly combed. ‘His election should have the confirmation of his brothers no later than the end of this week. This is the way of their order.’
The man to his left nodded. ‘Not for over one hundred years have the Knights elected an abbot to do a soldier’s job.’ The man was of Egyptian features, heavyset, and suited.
‘Decisions at times of crisis come out of necessity, not desire,’ the man opposite said. The man’s beard and image confirmed he was of Jewish origin. ‘Their Rule places no restriction on age – or calling.’
The man from Tyre, Wilfred Mansell, nodded. ‘He may be old, but with age comes great wisdom. The man knows much. He will lead the order well, no matter how briefly.’
The heavyset Egyptian, Karim el Tutken, shook his head. ‘Like you, I have nothing against him personally. Nor, for that matter, did I have anything against his predecessor. His death was in many ways unfortunate.’
The Jewish man, Benjamin Ben Fulda, nodded sombrely. ‘So sad such actions should become necessary. The world is changing; every day it seems the leaders of the world face new and unique challenges. The Crusades ended long ago, but in many ways little has changed. How I dream for unity between our societies.’
Wilfred Mansell shook his head. ‘No. The mistakes of the past still echo in the wind like a perpetually beating drum. Even today those same mistakes contribute to the uncertainties of the future.’
‘The future is always uncertain, Wilfred,’ the Egyptian said, turning. ‘Or at least I never had you down as one who studied tea leaves.’
Brief laughter resonated around the chamber. Wilfred Mansell studied the faces of all present in turn. His demeanour was like thunder; his sharp features seemed unflinching, shrouding his face in permanent gloom.
‘The Knights of Arcadia is dying,’ the man from Tyre said seriously. ‘The passing of the old will lead to further passing.’
The Egyptian was unconvinced. ‘I agree that eventually the order will die, but not yet, and not soon. Even the most incurable diseases linger.’
Mansell said, ‘The ascendancy is with us. We must use it: reclaim what is rightfully ours.’
The other three present leaned back simultaneously. Jura raised his shoulders and instantly began shaking his head.
Mansell looked on with disappointment. His eyes moved quickly, darting from side to side.
‘The advantage you speak of is only one consideration,’ the Egyptian el Tutken said calculatedly. ‘The key aspect is the location.’
Mansell’s face was stern. ‘Then to it.’
Jura bit his lip. ‘Gentlemen, as you may all by now be aware, less than a week ago, I attended the funeral of former grandmaster Anson. In accordance with his wishes, I entrusted unto his son and next of kin the contents of his deposit box. I have heard rumours that what was entrusted unto him has already been taken by another.’
A disturbed silence fell.
‘The Knights are ruthless,’ Mansell said. ‘Even to those close to their own.’
‘Do we know what was taken?’ the Egyptian asked.
‘Rumour has it, the man knew much,’ Ben Fulda said.
‘Rumour also had it, his ancestors knew a lot more,’ the man from Tyre said.
Jura nodded. ‘I, too, have heard such rumours. I dare say, what history recalls of George Anson is far from the full story.’
El Tutken was interested. ‘It seems unlikely the boy possesses the knowledge of his father.’
A vague smile crossed Jura’s lips. ‘Gentlemen, as we are all aware, when the original Knights Templar were outlawed by the King of France and dissolved by the Pope of Avignon, a small minority of its brothers, the lesser men, crossed the Channel and fled far to the north. There, they sought refuge under the guardianship of the excommunicated King of Scotland. There, things took a more disturbing twist.’
‘The deserters,’ Mansell said. The venom in his voice seemed to echo.
Jura nodded. ‘The fate of the lost treasure of the original Knights Templar, known better to us as the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, is known only to a select number, a number that excludes us. Pleasingly, however, a recent discovery has come to light that potentially changes matters.’
The Jew shook his head. ‘The church at Tomar has long been depleted. Only its memory stands. Even its ghosts have died out.’
The Egyptian smiled. The man was a scholar of some regard. ‘I, too, find it difficult to accept that the church holds anything of importance. Even if the archive is historically worthy, its content would have long since disappeared.’
Ben Fulda looked with interest at Jura. ‘Is it historically worthy?’
Jura shrugged. ‘I only know what I have seen.’
El Tutken shuffled in his seat. ‘Will I be able to see it? For historical purposes, of course.’
Jura smiled. ‘It is true that recent activity in Tomar has been enlightening. But I would be even more pleased to hear that the letters of Corte-Real had a genuine starting point.’
‘You think the answer is there?’ Ben Fulda asked. There was genuine curiosity in his voice, and hope.
‘We’ll know far more in due course.’ Jura smiled; the way he did so was almost triumphant. ‘The legacy of our predecessors has been lost for many centuries. Weakness and greed forced us apart, but fate has conspired to bring it back.’
Ben Fulda nodded. ‘Perhaps it was fat
e that we, like our brothers before us, were doomed to suffer.’
Mansell shook his head. ‘It is not God’s will that men should suffer, only weak men.’
‘All men suffer,’ the grandmaster retorted. ‘Even his own son.’
Silence fell. To Jura, the silence reflected the importance of the message.
‘The progress made at Tomar has reaped many benefits. Soon the true importance of the Corte-Real brothers will be known and the last secrets revealed. Then all that will remain is for the true descendents of the Knights Templar to inherit what is rightfully ours.’
He ascended to his feet and eyed them all.
‘Gentlemen, till next time.’
Mansell entered the black BMW through the passenger-side door. The brown-haired man in the driver’s seat switched on the ignition and began driving slowly through the forest. Under a black and cloudy sky, the full-beamed headlights offered the only light.
Mansell said, ‘I have it on good authority that the son of the former grandmaster was seen two days ago in La Rochelle.’
‘I didn’t think that was private knowledge,’ el Tutken said.
Mansell smiled. ‘I have it on the same authority that the academic was seen earlier this evening boarding a plane to Edinburgh.’
‘You think she’s still looking for it?’
‘We all know her background.’
‘You think it’s really buried in Scotland?’
‘No. But maybe she can lead us to where it is.’
Ben Fulda was less impressed. ‘Maybe they misinterpreted something. Or maybe its whereabouts has changed.’
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 14
