The Larmenius Inheritance

by John Paul Davis

  Matt smiled ironically.

  ‘The exact facts of the Old Testament were often believed to lack credibility,’ Jura said, circling the tabernacle. ‘The possibility that it contains evidence of such genuine occurrences and locations has long been the topic of debate. But in recent times, archaeology has gone some way toward enhancing their credibility.’

  ‘Locations such as Sodom and Gomorrah were long considered mythical until archaeologists successfully excavated their ruins,’ the priest said.

  The banker nodded. ‘People of the 21st century are often incapable of understanding history from history’s perspective. It has often been said that an historian can teach you more about the way an event is seen from his own time rather than the time he is studying.’ Another wry smile. ‘Regardless of his opinions on the mysticism and validity of the stories of the past, what shouldn’t be forgotten is that they believed it, traditions change, and you should never ever underestimate the power of faith.’

  He observed Matt closely.

  ‘Past and present, men have died for their beliefs; such things will continue well into the future. Right or wrong, they exist. And up until this point, no man has successfully used science, or modern beliefs, as a way to curb the enthusiasm of a true believer.’

  Matt nodded. Clearly the Templars believed something that the people of today didn’t.

  ‘And what of Solomon? In their opinion?’

  Jura shrugged. ‘Find what became of him and many questions will be answered.’

  The sound of banging from above attracted their attention.

  ‘Ah, that will be Sister Maria,’ the priest said, ‘here to do the flowers. Excuse me, gentlemen.’

  The priest left the vault and moved quickly in the direction of the steps.

  Back down below, Matt looked at the banker with a perplexed expression. Silently he questioned what he knew of the past.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it? Located within this tabernacle was the most important king of all time. The man entrusted with the wisdom of the creator. A man who actually spoke to God.’

  Matt remained sceptical. ‘You believe that really happened?’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. But it could be the power of an overactive imagination.’

  ‘How would you feel if you saw it? Would it affect your own faith?’

  The question was tough to answer. He came with his family name, not their beliefs.

  ‘I guess it probably would.’

  ‘Either way, you agree that as a symbol, the First Temple represents something more powerful than anything ever said in the Bible?’

  ‘I guess it probably goes hand in hand. Should the First Temple have existed, it probably gives more credibility to all of it. Old and New.’

  Jura nodded and smiled. ‘I think at last, Mr. Anson, we’re talking the same language I talked with your father.’

  The comment surprised him. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Why is it that people fight?’

  He shrugged. ‘Human nature.’

  Jura laughed. ‘Come now, Matthew, you’re smarter than that.’

  The answer was simple. ‘I guess most people spend too much time focusing on the differences rather than the things they have in common.’

  The answer was clearly the one he wanted. ‘Exactly.’

  Father da Bonisca strolled leisurely along the central aisle of the main church and paused on reaching the door. The earlier banging he had heard had ceased.

  Odd that the flower lady should knock that hard.

  He removed keys from his pocket. They made a slight jangling sound as they knocked together against one another. He picked out the correct one and inserted it into the lock.

  He opened the door.

  Outside, the entrance was deserted.

  From behind the nearest pillar, the young monk watched the priest disappear from sight. With his face covered, he knew that he was in no danger of being recognised.

  Slowly, he eased forward. The priest reappeared in front of him.

  He turned.

  Something moved to his left, too quickly for him to respond. A well-built man had appeared. He was perhaps six feet in height, evidently trained in combat, and knew the layout well enough to avoid being seen. A grey jacket and bottoms dominated his features, casting his face in a black void. He could tell from the man’s eyes that his cause was worthy of taking a life or perhaps losing his own.

  The priest felt his feet leave the ground. A bang to the head was followed by a fall to the floor. The blow knocked his glasses straight from his face. As he fell, he shouted.

  The sound could be heard in the vault. Matt turned away from Jura, his vision falling along the shadowy corridor. The sound of a crash preceded a groan. He thought he could hear the scampering of footsteps, but if he could, they soon disappeared.

  Matt moved rapidly, heading straight for the steps. He scaled them two at a time – care giving way to haste. Despite the light, the narrowness of the stone made it difficult to keep his footing.

  The church appeared to be deserted. Moving quickly along the central aisle, Matt could find no sign of life. Worse yet, the sounds of distress were gone.

  The door to the church was open, not wide, but swinging against the stationary one opposite. He thought the priest had locked it.

  A body was slouched against the nearest pillar. The sound of a groan informed him the man was alive, though clearly dazed.

  Matt sprinted toward the man, slowing as he approached. He knelt down beside him. A large cut split the man’s right cheek, gruesome but in no way significant.

  Matt returned to his feet. Outside, the church’s epic bell tower was the first thing he saw. The location was deserted – too deserted. A soft breeze blew across his face from the right, causing his eyes to water slightly. Directly in front of him, the pavement outside the church was devoid of any sign of life. As usual, the sun was beating down strongly; a long shadow crossed the concrete surface as the light shone down on the bell tower.

  The street to his right was virtually deserted, but in the distance, he saw movement, a grey shade moving quickly, almost out of sight. It was not difficult to establish that the person was running.

  The young monk cursed himself. Any hope that the vault was located out of earshot was clearly unrealistic.

  His right shin was hurting. He felt the hot itchy sensation of blood trickling down his leg. The bang against the door had caused him to catch the bone.

  He cursed himself.

  The late morning sun was beating down relentlessly. The sky above was cloudless and a deep azure blue. Inside his clothing, the monk could feel the temperature rising. The fine material he wore was stifling, creating an oven as he ran.

  He sprinted to his right on leaving the church, heading north. He paused for traffic where the Largo Matadouro approached Dona Maria II before continuing in the direction of the Rua Santa Iria.

  Behind him, the figure of Matthew Anson was running furiously in his direction. He had forgotten how quickly the boy could move.

  The last time he had seen him, he would have proven less of a challenge, but today the monk was worried.

  All that training in the navy had completely transformed the lad’s physique.

  Matt didn’t need to wait for instruction. The man in grey was clearly well built, tall and evidently a pro. He could tell from the man’s haste that being seen was undesirable, but capture, that was simply worse. He guessed that the man was armed, but that was perhaps less of a priority.

  The area was crowded.

  He followed the monk across the busy road, narrowly avoiding getting hit. A barrage of honking and swearing in Portuguese came from at least two cars as they slammed on their brakes.

  The sun beat down, but the route suited the monk: the wooded area to his right, although difficult to use, at least bore the brunt of most of the sunlight. Matt saw the monk fake a right that would have taken him along the Rua Carlos Campe�
�o before doing the same at the roundabout some fifty metres later. Less than twenty metres in front of him, the monk took a left along Central Norton de Matos and continued across the bridge. Cars crossed in both directions, largely at low speeds. The monk zigzagged in between both streams of traffic, followed by Matt. Once again horns honked, windows were wound down, and drivers shouted at the maniac on the road.

  The bridge ended with another roundabout: four directions, including straight on and back where they came from. Again the monk pretended to go one way before changing his mind, heading to his right, north along the Rua Everaro. He followed it for over thirty seconds before weaving once again to the right, temporarily out of sight.

  The image before Matt was magnificent. Passing a streetlamp, decorated with its usual bouquet of flowers, he followed the monk across a small footbridge before continuing north along a deserted road. To his left, a levada of the River Nabão sparkled in the sunlight.

  Gradually he was gaining. His heart was pumping, his lungs gasping. Beads of sweat now slid down his forehead, but he knew for the monk it was worse still.

  Ten metres was the only difference. Then nine, eight, seven…

  As the monk stumbled, Matt realised his chance. He pounced and hit him hard in the face.

  He recoiled, his hand in pain. He had not noticed before that the man was masked, his features resembling something out of antiquity. He couldn’t see the face, but it was clearly nothing Matt had seen before.

  The monk used the chance. He kicked Matt hard in the stomach before returning to his feet.

  Slowly Matt followed, winded. He forced himself to move, struggling with his breathing.

  The monk was back in control. At the end of the road, he turned right, heading for another bridge, this time the Rua Marquês de Pombal. High up to the west, the castle that surrounded the Convento de Cristo stood like a beacon, its orange stone glowing in the sunlight.

  Matt drove his tiring body on across the deserted bridge, finally catching the monk.

  Directly in front of him, the monk slowed. Matt saw the man look over his shoulder before jumping onto the side of the bridge.

  Matt came to a surprised halt. ‘Face me, you coward.’

  The monk looked back, his attention on Matt. He looked briefly down at the water, then again at the former navy lieutenant.

  Matt bit his lip. For a moment he remained still, rooted to the spot. Then as he neared, the monk disappeared from sight.

  He sprinted to the side, his attention on the water. Directly below, the monk was standing. He had landed in a boat, driven by one other.

  The monk looked up at him, clearly panting. He held his gaze as he continued along the river, eventually moving out of sight.

  36

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Nicole walked quickly through the old town and paused on reaching Wenceslas Square. She understood from the map that the building she needed was just up ahead, located somewhere off the square.

  The last ten hours had been hectic. After making the connection with the deceased Dr. Bell and the widow of Lawrence Denison, her thoughts moved on to finding the original journalist. Thanks to the genius of Amanda, she had learned that the man’s last occupation was freelance with a newspaper in Prague, and on asking his contacts, she had also found an address. Even if it wasn’t the same man, the chance was worth it.

  She booked the first flight to Prague from Gozo on leaving the apartment and was airborne two hours later. The cost was irrelevant: aside from the fact that the amount would be reimbursed by her employers, she decided to enjoy the break. She never recalled Prague as being an expensive city, particularly for a travelling Brit. A student could lose an entire loan instalment on a night in Soho; in Prague, it would probably buy a small bar.

  She arrived at 7pm and headed straight for the city centre. After stopping by her hotel, a comfortable four-star located on the border of the old town and the Jewish quarter, she took the scenic route to the square, passing the Charles Bridge and the castle.

  It was approaching 8:40pm. Despite it being a Monday, the city was vibrant, as she remembered. The atrocious weather of the past six weeks was at last over, and the evening air was warm and pleasant. Tourists and citizens in short sleeves walked the street, occasionally forsaking the warmth to take a tram or go for a meal in one of the area’s fine restaurants or bars before heading on to a club. Elegant buildings lit up the night sky with colour, casting the city in a soft atmospheric glow. The castle and its famous walls were brightly illuminated, rising into the sky like a giant moon, reflecting its light up into the blackness and onto the river.

  She continued across Wenceslas Square and stopped in front of a large building, located just off a side street. The complex was similar in size to the one lived in by Lorraine Denison though clearly much older, probably 18th century.

  Since leaving Malta, Nicole’s mind was focused on the journalist. From what she had gathered, the man was not only a distinguished journalist but also a poet and author of non-fiction, who had been born in Paris, raised in Nice, and travelled throughout Europe ever since. Most of his past was art related, prose related, or somehow bordered on conspiracy theory. His website was one of the strangest she had ever seen. It was as if Picasso had merged with ET. The man’s personality was unquestionably rogue, and his writing showed him to be an historian and mystery lover who had written at least two books on the Templars and probably believed in aliens. It was obvious from his website that he had dedicated much of his life to investigating conspiracy theory.

  She needed to know what he knew about the murdered doctor. She pressed the buzzer at the front door and seconds later heard a voice from the intercom.

  ‘Allo?’

  ‘Excuse me, Monsieur Belroc.’

  A slight pause preceded the man’s response. ‘Sorry, no one of that name lives here, goodbye.’

  Nicole froze, surprised by the response. She checked the number of the apartment and saw it agreed with the information she had. Though it was possible the man was telling the truth, the signs suggested otherwise. The man’s accent, unmistakeably French; the man’s age, possibly late thirties…

  But most importantly, there was fear in his voice.

  Yes, the signs were there.

  This was a man who didn’t want to be found.

  She stood by the front door, hoping for a way in. Seconds later a woman was leaving, blonde, attractive, presumably Czech. She took the opportunity to enter the foyer and continued in the direction of the lift. She got out on the fourth, the floor she needed. She walked along the well-lit corridor and stopped in front of the final door.

  She knocked.

  The sound of rustling from inside confirmed the man was in.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Monsieur Belroc, my name is Nicole Stocker. I’m from England.’

  Another pause. ‘I told you before: no person of that name lives here. You are wasting your time. Please leave.’

  ‘Monsieur Belroc, please let me in. I want to talk to you about one of your articles.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m looking for information on the Order of the Ancient Star.’

  The door inched open, only the length of a chain on the inside. The man poked his head around the door. As best Nicole could tell, he had dark eyes, typically French skin and dark brown hair. She recognised him from the photo on his website.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Nicole Stocker. I’m a journalist from England.’

  He squinted. ‘Nicole Stocker?’

  She nodded. ‘I read your article on the Order of the Ancient Star. Please help me.’

  The man paused, looking at her as though in a trance. For several seconds he didn’t even blink. Slowly, the man closed the door, the latch clicking shut.

  The rattling of a chain preceded the opening of the door, and Nicole entered. The apartment was large, elaborate, and unquestionably old. The walls, the layout, it all screamed 18th c
entury.

  Nicole surveyed the layout and turned her attention to the man. He was about five foot ten in height with a medium to well-built physique and appeared somewhere between a French cheese trader and a professional footballer. Though his build was elegant, his appearance was scruffy. It looked as though he hadn’t slept for weeks.

  She flashed a smile. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  The man replaced the chain. ‘You must be very careful, Ms. Stocker. It does not bode well for a pretty little female journalist to get caught up in such a world.’ He looked through the spy hole, clearly nervous.

  ‘You clearly know more than me.’

  He looked at her closely, his eyes lost. ‘I am not blind. Nor am I a fool. I, too, read what you write for your sacred Tribunal.’

  ‘I’d hardly call the Tribunal sacred.’

  He laughed. ‘You London girls with your flowers and your tiffin. Never can you understand what is going on under your very noses.’

  The man walked quickly across the apartment. He looked out the window, his attention on Wenceslas Square. He watched for several seconds before closing the curtains. With the shades drawn, the room was bathed in a much softer light.

  Nicole cleared her throat. ‘About a week or so ago, I read one of your articles. It was written for a paper in Zürich.’

  He nodded. ‘Oui, I work for them sometimes.’

  She continued to watch him. ‘Why Prague?’

  ‘I like the nightlife and the brothels.’

  A wry smile. She could tell that was a lie.

  ‘Sir, ten months ago you wrote a story about a Dr. Gray, an English doctor murdered in Switzerland.’

  He hesitated. ‘Oui.’

  ‘I was wondering if you could tell me about it.’

  ‘I know only what you see in article.’

  Nicole was unconvinced. She guessed from the man’s website he was no rookie on the subject of ritualistic killings.