The Templar Salvation (2010)

by Raymond Khoury

  “And then?”

  “Then maybe you get away—for a while. But sooner or later, make no mistake, your ass is mine.” Reilly’s concentration was lasered on him, memorizing every pore, every wrinkle, every detail about him.

  The bomber watched him, as if putting his plan through a final stress test. “She’s in a BMW.”

  Reilly’s pulse spiked.

  The man held up some car keys and dangled them, taunting Reilly. They were like a bloodred rag to a rabid bull. “A five-series. Dark blue. Brindisi plates. It’s parked by the Petriano entrance.”

  Which made sense, Reilly thought. Insurance—to use the bomber’s callous word—in case they exited the Vatican from its other gate.

  The man held the keys there for a moment, then he turned and tossed them behind him, slightly off to one side. They landed in a small stretch of lawn. He eyed Reilly, an icy smirk just cracking the surface of the hermetic expression on his face. “You’re going to want this too,” he added as he held up his phone—before turning around and tossing it too.

  Reilly’s chest seized up as he watched the phone spin in the air several times before it landed on the same grassy patch, by a couple of benches. He just froze there, every muscle in his body knotted to the breaking point, his ears cranked up to eleven, dreading a telltale, distant boom—but he heard nothing.

  “Drop the book and go get them,” the man barked, pointing an angry finger toward the lawn.

  Reilly hesitated, his feet nailed to the ground—he couldn’t hang on to the heavy book and go around the bomber to retrieve the phone. The man would have no trouble tackling him. His legs twitched, getting conflicting signals about staying put or sprinting off—then he made his move. He turned and hurled the codex as far as he could, shot-putting it behind him, away from the bomber, then tore off toward the phone.

  The bomber sprang forward at the same instant. The two men raced for their prizes, eyeing each other while angling away for safety as they rushed past each other, with Reilly harnessing all of his willpower to resist veering off his trajectory and taking the man down—which he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk it—failure meant condemning Tess to a certain death. So he stuck to his heading and was on the grassy patch within seconds. He spotted the phone and plucked it off the ground, staring at it in disbelief, hoping the fact that he hadn’t heard an explosion in the city below meant that it hadn’t triggered one, his pulse throbbing wildly—then he spun around.

  The bomber was gone.

  As was the book.

  Chapter 8

  Reilly moved with androidlike purpose, as if he weren’t in control of his body anymore. He had to do one thing, and one thing only—and nothing could be allowed to interfere.

  He stormed up the hill and cut across the hotel’s grounds, shocking its refined guests with his haggard appearance. He didn’t even notice them. He just sprinted across to the hotel’s entrance, zeroed in on a taxi that was picking up an elegantly dressed couple, charged past them, and stormed into it.

  “The Vatican, Petriano entrance,” Reilly ordered him. The man, incensed by Reilly’s move, started to mouth off in Italian, but he barely got a few words out before Reilly shoved his FBI ID in the man’s face and, with his other hand pointing ahead angrily, roared, “Vaticano. Now. Move.”

  They got to as far as maybe half a mile from St. Peter’s Square before the traffic ground to a halt.

  The whole area was crippled by pandemonium as a result of the blast. Police cordons were spreading out protectively on the roads leading up to the Vatican, while hordes of frightened tourists were being herded away from the site. On the roads, taxis and convoys of tour buses were fighting their way out of the snarl under a pall of black smoke that hovered over the cathedral’s dome.

  Reilly exited the taxi and battled his way through the onslaught of cars and people. He spotted a sign for the “Cancello Petriano” that directed him to a narrow street that was choked by fleeing tourists. He hugged the facade of a building that fronted the street and fought his way through the human torrent, heading toward the back of the curved colonnade of St. Peter’s Square. Through the swarm of people, he spotted another sign for the gate, this one pointing left.

  He cleared the building and turned left, breathing hard as he emerged from the throng. The gate was less than a hundred yards ahead of him now, with a parking area for a few dozen cars leading up to it. Reilly’s pulse sped.

  A dark blue BMW with Brindisi plates.

  It had to be here somewhere.

  He had started toward the parked cars when a cop who was shepherding the evacuation cut across him and tried to block him. The cop was rambling something incomprehensible in Italian, his sweaty face bristling with stress. Reilly brushed him aside without breaking pace and kept moving. The cop recovered and caught back up to him and grabbed him by the arm, hard this time, yelling at him, his other hand waving a steel baton angrily and gesturing with it for Reilly to turn around and join the exodus. Reilly reached into his pocket for his creds—then remembered he couldn’t use them, not there. He was probably on their most-wanted list right now. He met the cop’s gaze, and the cop seemed to read his hesitation.

  No choice.

  Reilly raised his hands defensively with a sheepish half grin—”Prego, signore ,” Please, sir—then decided this would take too long and just sucker punched the cop in the gut, then followed through with another to the jaw.

  The cop dropped.

  Reilly was on the move again, his eyes scanning the rows of cars, desperately looking for the BMW. He thought of using the remote control to trigger the door locks and let the alarm’s beeps announce the car’s location to him, but he didn’t want to risk it, worried that the bomber might have booby-trapped the car with just that in mind.

  A whistle broke through his concentration. The punched cop was pushing himself back to his feet and calling in backup. Within seconds, cops were rushing at Reilly, converging at him from the gate and from behind—and just as the first of them reached him, he spotted it: navy blue, white plates with the BR provincial code that had to stand for Brindisi.

  A cop was yelling “Alt“—Stop—at Reilly and moved in to block him. Reilly shoved him aside and kept going, now only a few feet from the car. Another cop joined in, the two of them now screaming furiously, arms spread and weapons drawn, ordering him to stop moving. Reilly spread his arms wide with evident frustration, motioning for them to stay calm—while still inching his way closer to the BMW.

  “The car,” he fired back, his voice hoarse with tension. “There’s a woman in that BMW.” He was jabbing his finger toward it, his face contorted with rage. “In the goddamn car,” he repeated. “She’s in there.” He put his wrists together, miming someone with tied hands.

  The cops’ faced clouded with confusion as they moved with him, their arms wide, trying to corral him, but he stared them down and kept moving until he got to the BMW.

  He gestured again to them, using his hands and the desperate expression on his face to implore them to give him a second as he eyed the back of the car, his mind buzzing with questions.

  Was Tess in there? Was she still alive? Was there a bomb in there with her? Was the bomber watching from somewhere nearby, waiting to take them all out any second now with a second remote trigger? Or did he even need to? What if that sick son of a bitch had booby-trapped the trunk lid?

  The carabinieri soon cut short his torment. One of them lunged to hit him with his steel baton—setting Reilly off. He grabbed the cop’s hand with both of his own, blocking the hit and twisting the man’s arm to wrest the stick from his grip before spinning him around and shoving him back onto his colleague. Now armed with the baton, he dashed around to the driver’s side of the car and tried the door. It was locked. He swung the baton and smashed the window, and the car’s alarm started blaring just as the cops reached Reilly. They couldn’t stop him from leaning in, and with a silent prayer flashing across his mind, his instincts taking over, hoping as
hard as he could that he wasn’t making a gargantuan mistake, he reached down to the base of the driver’s seat and tugged the trunk’s release lever. He spun around, willing away the explosion that would rip him to shreds, and glimpsed the trunk lid pop open and glide upward harmlessly just as the cops slammed him against the car—hard—winding him as more cops piled in to join them.

  He yelled at them as they pinned him down, pressing his face against the roof of the car, crushing his cheek and ear, Reilly fighting back, desperate to lift his head up and see what was inside the trunk of the car. And then he heard it—a cop who’d moved back for a look went ballistic and started shouting wildly.

  Tess.

  Reilly stiffened as fear and hope ripped through him, his mind scrambling to understand what the man was blurting out. “English,” he shouted. “Say it in English, damn it. Is she in there? Is she okay?”

  He read the panic in the cops’ eyes and heard the word “Bomba” blurted repeatedly, its meaning glaringly obvious. Then he heard another word, “Donna,” over and over—the word shredding his heart. Donna—woman. But—alive? Or—

  He drew on reserves of strength he didn’t know he possessed and heaved back, shoving the cops off of him, then fought his way to the back of the car and looked in.

  She was there.

  Wrapped up inside a sleeping bag, strapped down to the base of the trunk, silver duct tape across her eyes and mouth, her nose and two strips of her cheeks the only visible skin on display.

  She wasn’t moving.

  And next to her, in the right corner of the trunk, a jumble of gray Semtex packs, wires, and a digital detonator with a small red LED indicating that it was armed.

  Reilly didn’t give it a second glance. He reached in and settled his hands softly against Tess’s neck, his thumb brushing against her cheek, looking for a pulse.

  Her head twitched sideways.

  His face flooded with relief. He glanced at the cops next to him, who were watching in silence, dumbstruck—then carefully peeled the tape off Tess’s face, first the strip across her mouth, then the one around her ears and eyes.

  She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears of fear and joy, her upper lip trembling.

  It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Chapter 9

  Mansoor Zahed glanced into his rearview mirror one last time before he pulled into the driveway. He didn’t spot anything that gave him cause for concern. The house that the agency had rented for him was on a quiet residential street. Curious eyes weren’t a problem, especially given that the small driveway was shielded from the street by tall metal gates.

  He wasn’t planning on sticking around too long. Now that what he’d come for was lying in the foot well of the passenger seat, he thought he was probably done with Rome. The American historian, Simmons, would soon confirm whether or not that was the case. In doing that, Zahed hoped, the man would also figure out what their next destination would be. Zahed’s instincts told him he’d be on the move again soon, leaving the Eternal City behind as just another blood-soaked entry in his infamous—if anonymous—resume.

  He reflected back on his day and felt reasonably satisfied. Things hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped, but all that mattered was that he was here, he was safe, and he had the codex with him. Mission accomplished, he thought with a small smirk—he just loved that expression and its recently minted, delicious irony. But as he replayed the day’s events in his mind’s eye, his mind kept latching on to the actions of the FBI agent, and he felt a murmur of unease about him. Which wasn’t something Mansoor Zahed was used to. Nor was it something he tolerated.

  The agent had been easy to manipulate. Zahed had managed to lure him to Rome. He’d fooled him into believing he was the spineless scholar Sharafi. He’d pushed enough buttons to get the agent to take him into the deepest recesses of his religion’s inner sanctum. Sean Reilly hadn’t flinched then, and he hadn’t flinched in all that followed. He’d done what was needed of him without hesitation. He’d turned himself into a criminal and ridden roughshod across the very epicenter of his faith without worrying about the consequences.

  And that unsettled Zahed.

  He wasn’t used to seeing such commitment, not in these soft Westerners. Not that he’d taken the man lightly. Even though he hadn’t had much to go on before meeting him, what he had managed to dig up on Reilly had suggested that the man wasn’t a lightweight, nor was he particularly concerned with sticking to the rule book. Which had pleased Zahed. Their joint venture needed someone with a reinforced-concrete spine. But there was a tipping point at which the very qualities he needed the man to have would turn him into a pain in the ass.

  They were already way past that tipping point.

  He wondered whether he’d made a mistake by letting Reilly live, and frowned at the thought. He’d had his chance. He could have made his move when Reilly ran for the phone, when they’d rushed past each other, but in the heat of the moment, he’d felt a stab of doubt, unsure about whether or not he could take the man in hand-to-hand combat. He’d pulled back. He’d seen something in Reilly, a blaze of determination and self-belief that had made Zahed second-guess his own considerable skills. Which, again, wasn’t something he was used to. Or tolerated.

  Mansoor Zahed chided himself at his momentary lapse. He should have taken him down, there and then, and walked away without the worry that was now dogging him: that this FBI agent could well become a serious pain in the ass for him.

  If we should cross paths again, it’ll be more his misfortune than mine, Zahed decided before vaulting the thought and focusing on more immediate matters.

  He waited for the gates to swing back shut before getting out of the car, a rented Fiat Croma. It was a common family sedan that wouldn’t attract attention. He’d left it in the Trastevere area, not far from the riverbanks of the Tiber, before taxiing to the airport to meet Reilly. He’d then recovered it once he had the codex in his grips, which was when he’d had to improvise—rushing back down the hill, pulling a hapless teenager off his Piaggio scooter and using it to get back to his car. He wasn’t worried about being tracked. Not in Rome. If he had been in London, things would have been different. That city had unashamedly embraced an Orwellian vision and sported CCTV cameras on every block. Rome was different. Old world. Low-tech. Which suited Zahed—and the Cosa Nostra, who had influence over most City Council decisions—just fine.

  He made his way into the house. It had the musty, dank smell of somewhere that hadn’t been lived in for months. The few pieces of furniture that were in there were covered up with old sheets and blankets that Zahed hadn’t bothered removing. He double-locked the door behind him and stepped into the hall, pausing at the mirror in the entrance foyer. He studied the figure that was staring back at him with cool disdain. The plucked-back hairline, the cheap glasses, the drab clothes—they were all necessary for the deception. He was happy to revert to a character in whose skin he felt more comfortable, something he could now do.

  He took the stairs down to the basement and unlocked the door to a storeroom. He stepped inside and flicked on the light switch. Simmons was—as expected—just where he’d left him: on the floor of the windowless room, his back to the wall, his mouth taped shut, his right wrist tied to a radiator pipe with nylon cuffs.

  JED SIMMONS HEARD THE DOOR squeal open just before the bare lightbulb that dangled from a cord in the middle of the room came on. He glanced up the stone staircase. After the darkness of the last few hours, even the pale glare was painful. Beyond that, just raising his eyelids felt like an Olympian effort. He didn’t recognize himself in this pathetic state—so weak that he could barely move his limbs, his breathing labored, his confused mind adrift in a foggy swell with no ports in sight.

  A brief, cruel moment of hope—that it was a rescuer, that somehow, someone had figured out what was happening and was here to end his nightmare—was quickly extinguished as the now familiar silhouette of his abductor came i
nto view.

  A spurt of adrenaline shot through him as his anger flared. He felt outraged at being held like this, by someone whose name and intent he knew nothing about. His abductor had been maddeningly disciplined about following his need-to-know code. Simmons didn’t know anything beyond the bare basics: that he was there to help the man recover whatever it was some small band of Templars had whisked out of Constantinople. Beyond that, who the man was, who he was working for, why he was after it—none of that was forthcoming.

  He wondered if he’d die without knowing. The thought angered him even more.

  A shiver rippled through Simmons as he spotted the codex the man had brought with him. He watched helplessly as the man got down on his haunches in front of him and, with one quick flick, ripped the duct tape off his mouth.

  “Good news,” he told Simmons as he set it down on the tiles in front of him. “I have it. Which means that you’re still useful to me.”

  “Tess … Where is she? Is she okay?” The words were coming out weak and slurred.

  “She’s just fine, Jed. She’s perfectly all right. She helped me, and so she’s free. You see? I’ll do the same for you if you just do what I ask and help me find what I’m looking for. How does that sound?”

  Simmons stared at him, a caustic hatred burning his gut. He wanted to believe the man, wanted to believe Tess was all right, but somehow, he doubted it was true.

  “What about Sharafi?”

  The man smiled. “He’s fine too. I don’t need him anymore, so he was free to go. It’s that simple.” He reached out and gave Simmons’s cheeks a patronizing squeeze. “Now … how about we get you nice and comfortable—and awake—so you can get to work?”

  The man’s hand slipped down into his pocket and came back up with a syringe in it. His other hand brought out a small bottle of medication from another pocket. He plunged the needle through the rubber cap of the bottle and sucked the clear liquid up into the syringe, then held it up for the obligatory squirt to clear out any air holes.