The alternative was so haunting she feared to consider it.
Matt replaced the papers in the drawer before making his way to the other side of the room. The book was nowhere to be seen on that side, nor was it on the bookcase.
He took a seat at the desk with the computer on it and started going through the top left drawer. The top drawer was mainly cluttered with CDs and DVDs. The second was identical.
The third drawer was also irrelevant.
He turned away, his attention on the floor, now in between the wardrobe and the bed. He bent down to look through the pile of clothes.
He smiled to himself.
He’d found it!
Nicole walked slowly onto the balcony, wary of the possibility of an intruder. The area seemed to be as it normally was. Two pot plants were placed on either side of the door, blooming in the wet weather.
The concrete below was wet from the rain that had been falling steadily. In front of her, the apartment gave a pleasant view of the park and the All England Club. She always wanted to watch the area in the summer, when Wimbledon was at its peak.
Today, though, the area was deserted, and the courts appeared gloomy in the poor weather.
To one side, the roof of the building outside her flat was soaked with puddles. The location disturbed her. The roof below was easy to climb onto.
But there was nothing else to concern her.
Only the start of the storm.
She turned, walking back toward the lounge. Then she noticed something from the corner of her eye.
She felt a hand on her face.
Matt opened the book and immediately began scanning the content. The book was old, clearly history related, and judging by the title, the one he wanted.
Rising to his feet, he left the room and walked quickly along the corridor, stopping on reaching the lounge.
He stopped in his tracks. A cold draught was blowing through the room, but it wasn’t obvious where it was coming from.
Seeing no sign of life, he called out for Nicole. He waited, but received no answer. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. The silence seemed loud: it was as though he was walking through a graveyard on a cold evening, knowing he was alone but failing to shake the feeling he was being followed.
He continued into the kitchen, checking it for Nicole. It was deserted. He tried the dining room, same result. Returning to the lounge, he noticed that the balcony door was wide open, accounting for the chill.
He walked towards it, keeping his focus directly in front of him.
Then he heard footsteps coming from outside.
His instincts directed him toward the nearby roof. He looked out across the dark night, his attention on the next building.
A man in tracksuit bottoms and a fleece was dragging Nicole in the direction of the fire escape.
60
Matt didn’t need any instruction. The faint cry of a woman screaming was instantly recognisable as belonging to Nicole. But the cry was restricted, demonstrating the use of the man’s hand blocking her mouth.
The balcony was protected by a railing, wet and slippery as a result of recent weather.
Matt placed his hands on top and guided himself over. The water caused him to lose his grip, and he fell, hitting the roof of the adjoining building, some five feet below him.
The roof was equally slippery, making it difficult to run, particularly balancing the book. A large gash had formed on his right knee. Despite the cold, he felt blood oozing, sliding down his leg and creating a warm sensation.
He made his way across the roof as quickly as he could and straight through a metal door leading to the fire escape. The staircase below wound in a rectangular shape, similar to those in many multi-storey car parks. He heard sounds from below, unmistakeably running footsteps, but the view was nonexistent.
He increased his pace. Almost immediately, the sound of footfalls below became louder.
That wasn’t the only sound. The faint cry he had heard outside was still present, now more audible as the sound echoed up the staircase. It indicated that the man was struggling, but his overall grip was strong.
Matt shouted her name. ‘Nicole.’
Though he heard no direct response, the sound of a muffled scream gave him hope. He sprinted down the steps, jumping the last three of every segment at every go.
The pain was relentless. With every passing step, he felt the jolt through his bones intensify as the soles of his feet hit the hard floor. The bleeding from the knee continued, forming a sticky, crusty substance. His shirt was wet, a combination of puddle water and rain mixed with the clamminess of sweat. Though it was cold, the air was humid and close, and his shirt was sticking to him.
He heard the sound of a door opening and closing. He jumped the last three steps and turned quickly, finishing at the bottom. A swinging door, attached to another one that was bolted, identified the only way forward.
He exited quickly and stopped.
In front of him was a dead end.
Three hundred metres away on the other side of the street, Stephane Degen opened the rear door of the black sedan and threw Nicole inside.
The engine roared into life, and within seconds, they were away.
Matt continued along the road, now desperate for any sign of life. The area was deathly quiet. The only sound of cars was from the distance.
He cursed himself.
The ringing of his mobile phone stole his attention.
He removed it from his pocket. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the Devil have you been?’
He recognised it was Robert. ‘They have Nicole. They came down on her apartment.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Okay, relax. Come to our headquarters. Tell me everything.’
The London headquarters of the Knights of Arcadia was located in the heart of the city, a stone’s throw from Regent Street, Oxford Street and Mayfair. From the outside, it was branded as a typical private members’ club, one of many in the area, and was unwelcoming to passers-by. Historically the headquarters had been in Bloomsbury, but a move had been forced when the four-hundred-year-old mansion was destroyed by a rogue bomb during the Blitz. In 1947, the new grandmaster bought five Georgian townhouses and, in time, merged them together to provide accommodation for any member of the order or clergy as well as boardroom facilities for their personal businesses. The grounds comprised two acres of scenic beauty, rare in the city centre.
Matt made his way directly to the headquarters and was greeted by Robert on arrival. He took him through the building’s elegant hallway, stopping in a quaintly styled sitting room that incorporated sofas and armchairs, a log fire and white walls covered with all sorts of historical and religious memorabilia.
The abbot was sitting quietly, surrounded by all of the key Arcadians, including Scott.
‘Someone was waiting for us. They have Nicole.’
Robert looked at him, his concentration on the areas where the blood had come from.
‘What happened?’
‘Someone was waiting. They kidnapped her.’
Matt made eye contact with his brother before turning his attention on the rest of his body. His shoulder was heavily bandaged, hiding a line of eight stitches that had been sewn into the wound. In previous years, medical attention had been banned according to Rule, but in recent centuries, the order had learned to adapt with the times.
‘It was not our father who sent you the letter of Gaspar Corte-Real, Matthew. It is not usual for outsiders to be entrusted with the property of the order – even if it was for family members. It was equally foolish of you, getting involved in this.’
‘How the hell was I supposed to know?’ Matt shouted.
‘I’d have hoped that the last couple of weeks might have taught you and your journalist friend the value of keeping away from things that you don’t fully understand.’
‘She was just doing her job.’
&n
bsp; ‘Her job was reporting on a dead academic, not exposing the secrets of mankind,’ he said glibly. ‘There’s a reason why her editor refused to publish her stories. However, the man might have other uses.’
Matt returned his gaze. ‘Care to elaborate?’
The monk walked slowly around the room. ‘It is important to remember that not all members of a society that carries out work of evil are necessarily evil themselves. If you really are as clever as you wish to be, you will see the importance of separating one side from the other. For every evil member of the society, there are over a hundred whose knowledge is limited. If I am correct, the total council of the true Order of the Ancient Star is limited to three or four. Those who come below are only puppets.’
Matt stopped in front of him. ‘I don’t care about any of this. Didn’t you hear me? They have Sandra; they have Nicole.’
‘Yes, Matthew, I heard you. Unfortunately, we have an even bigger problem.’
Matt turned his attention toward the gathering of men surrounding a long table. There were no frivolities, no handshakes, no jovialities.
The mood was sombre.
‘What is it?’
‘Less than one hour ago we received this,’ Niven Anson said, pointing the remote control at the flat screen television. A video started playing immediately. A man of Middle Eastern features was standing in the centre of the shot, behind him what appeared to be a medieval dungeon.
Almost immediately, he began to speak.
‘Greetings, brothers.
‘Earlier this evening a sacred tomb and many other belongings were returned to our temple. For over seven hundred years, we have waited while the brotherhood of deserters maintained what was rightfully ours.
‘Now that time is over.
‘We have taken two of your journalists; we have also in our cell, the one you call the academic,’ he said, the camera confirming Amanda and Sandra were there, in shot with him.
‘In accordance with our law, they will be executed one at a time, beginning at sundown next. A copy of this will be sent to every world leader.’
The recording ended abruptly, leaving the room in silence. Matt watched with alertness as he waited for any sign of acknowledgement.
Robert looked at Matt calmly. ‘As you can see, we have a situation.’
Matt was dumbstruck. ‘Who are these people?’
‘The Order of the Ancient Star has one aim. To rebuild the empire that once existed. Their aim is to regain control of the Middle East.’
‘And who are they?’ Matt said, a hint of sarcasm. ‘You say Jura was not involved.’
A shake of the head. ‘There are probably no more than four on the entire council. Probably at least one of their men is Egyptian, another descended from ancient Phoenicia and another Jewish.’
‘When I met Charles Jura, I saw a few men like that.’
Robert eyed him closely. ‘Any names?’
He frowned, attempting to remember. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just the one in the video.’
Robert looked at Matt, disturbed. ‘You met him?’
‘Jura introduced me. He said he was Lebanese.’
Robert was almost speechless. ‘What was his name?’
‘Mansell. Wilfred Mansell.’
Matt looked across the room.
The abbot put his hand to his face. ‘Oh dear.’
All present eyed him.
‘What?’ Matt asked.
Robert paced around the room, noticeably animated. ‘Wilfred Mansell is one of the richest men in the world,’ he said. ‘He is also one of the most dangerous.’
He paused, attempting to catch his breath.
‘He is one of the world’s most dangerous terrorists.’
Sandra watched with worried eyes as Wilfred Mansell entered the dungeon area.
He stood in front of her, arms folded. He was dressed all in white and radiated an air of dominance and discontent that seemed a permanent feature.
Sandra bit her lip. Somehow the man’s appearance oozed venom. His personality was worse still. She was used to dealing with men inexperienced with women, but his inexperience was different. His philosophies dated back to the dark days, when women were viewed as inferior. She hated everything about him.
The man approached, his eyes never leaving her. Adjacent the wall, several pieces of wood were placed down on the floor. He picked up a piece and poured oil over it. When it was sufficiently soaked, he lit a match, the sound sharp as the end brushed against the rough side of the box. In the poor light, the spark seemed all the more significant, as if a sparkler or Catherine wheel was radiating light and heat from its source. He held the match in his hand before dropping it to the oiled wood, creating a miniature bonfire on the floor.
‘When the Knights Templar were executed, a great number were first placed barefoot over an open fire. There, the inquisitors could extract lies of all kinds and manipulate them for their own greed.’
He paused, allowing the words to sink in. He opened his jacket and removed an object, initially unrecognisable to Sandra.
The man from Tyre held it over the fire.
Only then did she see it was a human foot.
The smell was overwhelming as fire torched bone and isolated pieces of rotting flesh. ‘Imagine the torture,’ he said.
He rose to his feet, still holding the foot.
‘History books often mistake the deaths of Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charny as simple burnings at the stake. In reality, their death was even more horrendous. When their executioners had them strapped to the pyre, oil just like this was placed on their feet. When they had sufficiently toasted, a man without a name cut the flesh open.’ He gestured with a knife on the bone. ‘There, their insides would gradually slide onto the fire.’
Sandra recoiled. She felt acidity in her throat, causing her to swallow involuntarily. The bitter feeling overwhelmed her, made far worse by the dryness.
‘Can you imagine the torture?’
Sandra continued to look away, her eyes refusing to open. She felt the presence of the man close to her, the musty smell that seemed a permanent feature on his neck, some eastern cologne, intruding her nostrils. Even in the dilapidated pit, it hit her hard.
The man walked away slowly, though continuing to circle her like a shark around its prey.
‘The time of reckoning is upon us,’ he said seriously. ‘Soon it will be the turn of those who deserted us to endure the pain our ancestors once endured.’
He turned away, adding more oil to the fire.
‘But first, we must honour our own dead.’
The man clicked his fingers, and there was action. Two men entered, instantly recognisable as mercenaries she had ridden with on the helicopter and then the plane. Sandra looked across with an expression of dread. The body of Charles Jura was covered in a linen shroud, not dissimilar to that worn by Christ as written in the Gospels. His left foot was missing.
The mercenaries poured oil over his body and set it up against the wall. His hands were manacled to the wall, while the rest of him was placed above the flames.
The academic recoiled. Inside, she struggled to conceal the tears.
It was fortunate that the man was already dead. Indifferent he must have been to the gathering fire. A strange look of calm registered on his dead features.
61
A quiet, distinct hush descended on the room.
Matt looked at Robert. ‘You’re dealing with terrorists now?’
Niven Anson moved forward. He was dressed impeccably, as usual.
‘Perhaps for a young man, deprived of the privilege of an ancient education, it is difficult to understand the exact circumstances that await us. We are the Knights of Arcadia, the successors of the true Knights Templar: a society of warrior monks, brother of the Cistercians, commanded by that colossus of men, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux: loyal servants to the Vatican before our excommunication on the back of the evil work of infiltrators and corrupted insiders:
‘You see, the history of the ancients is only partially described in textbooks written by novices working on second-hand anecdotes and the inaccurate work of those who came before them. The secrets of the Knights of Arcadia and those of the Order of the Ancient Star have long coincided, but the truth is the reasons are coincidental. The origin of the Knights Templar is no great mystery: they were nine knights, related by blood, wholly committed to the good of Christianity.
‘But among them, there were others whose motives were different. The secrets of the ancient Phoenicians were preserved thanks to the ancient rite of stonemasonry, keepers of ancient knowledge whose purpose included not only building and geometry but also mysticism and philosophy. When the great empires of the Israelites, Egyptians and Phoenicians finally fell, it was the view of the majority that the knowledge was lost forever.
‘In truth, the keepers of the ancient knowledge deserve credit for the foresight that has led to the work of their ancestors being saved. It took the importance of a great alliance to do so. By the end of the Crusades, the alliance had widened further still. It must have been some surprise to the King of France and the Pope that their empires were rising again.’
Matt was confused. ‘So the Templars were not just Christians?’
Anson returned his gaze. ‘Templar Rule determines the worship of one God: the same God referred to by the Christian Church as Jesus Christ.
‘For the Order of the Ancient Star, their doctrine is less straightforward. Official protocol suggests that they accept the membership of any God-believing man, be it Jew, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu, Christian or any other.
‘But only when a member gets beyond the early stages does he get to see there is more to the society than one might assume.’
Matt was now transfixed.
The Larmenius Inheritance Page 40
