Bending gingerly, he reached down for his pack. She braced him as he staggered. “Yeah, well, that rock will think twice before going 10 rounds with me again.”
Hayek still hadn’t called her back, and she knew he was usually in the office by 8:00, so Georgia played her final card as she sipped her coffee at a corner table in the hotel lobby. “I know you’re dodging my calls. If you don’t return my call in five minutes, my next call is to the Senate Intelligence Office. I’m sure they’d love to hold hearings on why our Homeland Security agents are assassinating U.S. citizens.” She would need to act quickly—it wouldn’t take Trey and his posse long to track their prey.
Two minutes later Hayek phoned. To his credit, he didn’t lie about not getting her messages. “I was hoping you wouldn’t push this.”
“Too late. Unless you’re trying to stop a world war there’s no way you can justify this mission.”
He exhaled; Georgia pictured a cloud of blue smoke engulfing the phone. “Maybe not a world war. But close.”
She had been in the intelligence business long enough to know the mindset at Langley—every loose end was the thread that, if pulled, would unravel the entire fabric of Western civilization. Hayek wasn’t a bad guy, but you couldn’t spend a career in the CIA and not develop paranoid tendencies. “Mr. Hayek, with all due respect, the whole world is not a nail.”
“I get that. And I’m not just a man wildly swinging a hammer. I’m trying to deal with this surgically, quietly. Before it escalates.”
“Hammer, rifle—it’s all the same to the nail. And to Amanda Spencer and her fiancé.” She paused. “There must be another way to handle this.” She was at a disadvantage, since she didn’t really know what ‘this’ was. She softened her tone. “Can you at least give me a little more info? You assigned me to this case presumably because you valued my expertise.”
“Fair enough. This goes back to the Knights Templar.”
She chuckled. “Doesn’t everything these days?” The Templars and their secrets fascinated many of her friends in academia; they also knew admitting to that fascination was tantamount to academic suicide. Studying the Templars had become like viewing pornography—many did it, few openly.
“The reality is that the Templars, along with the Catholic Church, were the most powerful entity in the world for almost 200 years. To ignore them is to ignore history.”
“And, like the Church, they kept secrets.”
“Which brings us to the Clairvaux Codex.” Hayek explained that though the Templars were technically the fighting arm of the Church and beholden to the Pope, Templar leaders were educated noblemen who often butted heads with the Church and its orthodox doctrine. Georgia knew all this but let him continue; her grandmother told her that God gave her two ears and one mouth, and to use them proportionately. “The Templars spent a lot of time in the Mid-East and forged relationships with many groups in the Arab world. More importantly they acquired knowledge from these Arab sources, knowledge that had been lost in Europe during the Dark Ages.”
“Lost, and also suppressed by the Church.”
“Exactly. The Church didn’t want common folks to read or be educated.”
Again, Georgia knew all this. It was why masses were held in Latin, and women healers hung as witches, and science viewed as blasphemy. Knowledge—whether in the form of science or medicine or culture—threatened a church based on blind faith and obedience. Curing disease through the use of herbs rather than by a donation to the local priest undermined both their authority and their financial health. The Church thrived amidst the ignorance of the Dark Ages. “But the Templars weren’t buying it,” she said.
“Right. They learned about medicine and architecture and astronomy and navigation and alchemy, and they brought that knowledge back with them to Europe. The Church wasn’t happy, but the groups were able to coexist for a couple of hundred years because they had other common interests, most prominently the Crusades. But one thing the Church could not abide was the Templars acquiring knowledge about the true history of early Christianity.”
“Are you talking about Jesus being married to Mary Magdalene?”
“That, and things perhaps even more inflammatory. The Church had for centuries whitewashed the history of early Christianity—writings or records that did not correspond to orthodox doctrine were either burned or buried deep in the Vatican archives.”
“And any person brave enough to question that doctrine was slow-roasted at the stake. So what does all this have to do with January’s artifacts and the Catskill Mountains?”
“I’m getting to that. This whitewashing covered all of Europe. But even the Church’s tentacles couldn’t reach to the Middle East and northern Africa. Or, for that matter, southern Spain, which was controlled by the Moors. In these areas the Templars learned of ancient writings and artifacts that revealed the true history of the Church. And suddenly the soldiers of the Church learned that the Church was built on a foundation of lies.”
“Again, are we talking Da Vinci Code stuff, or is there more?”
Hayek sighed. “I don’t know the specifics, but apparently these revelations undermine the entire foundation of Christianity. From what I’ve been able to learn, the Templars created a half dozen scrolls which record the true history of Christianity.”
The true history of Christianity. What would be the ramifications if ancient texts called into question the New Testament? Would Christians riot in the streets? Probably not. But the Middle-East was a different story. “Things could get ugly. The entire dynamic in the Middle East—all the pilgrimages and holy wars and Crusades and intifadas—it’s all based on competing claims to sacred religious sites and shrines. What would happen if the justification for those claims turned out to be false?” She honestly didn’t know. And neither did anyone else. But it was her job, and the Agency’s job, to assume the worst and work to prevent it. She suppressed a shiver. “As if that pot needs to be stirred any more than it already is.”
“Exactly. Anyway, the Templars knew at some point the Church might turn on them, so they hid these scrolls in remote locations for safe keeping. They wanted to make sure the truth survived.”
Georgia’s political instincts kicked in. “And they also wanted leverage in case things got ugly.”
“Yes, that too,” Hayek said. “But what you call leverage others call blackmail. And things, indeed, got ugly. As you know, in the early 1300s the Templars were outlawed and their leaders imprisoned and tortured.”
“The date was October 13, 1307. The famous Friday-the-thirteenth. Unlucky for the Templars.”
“But what the Templars hadn’t counted on was that the Church would be so efficient in rounding up the Order’s leaders. Under torture, the location of all of the scrolls was revealed. And, of course, all were destroyed.”
“Let me guess. All except one.”
“All except one.”
She exhaled. “What, exactly, are Trey’s orders?”
“They were purposely inexact. You know how this works.”
“So basically his orders were to make sure the last scroll stays buried.” “Yes.”
“Did it ever occur to anyone that maybe the world has a right to know the truth?”
He lowered his voice. “There is no such thing as truth, Georgia. You should know that.”
CHAPTER 14
Cam’s head throbbed. The gash on his jaw dripped blood through the saturated bandage. His left knee supported only a fraction of his body weight. His left middle finger smoldered in purple and blue. His entire torso ached from belly-flopping onto the rocks with sixty-five pounds of stone strapped to his back. And it was only nine o’clock in the morning.
But the mountain didn’t give a damn.
Neither would Buckner and his team.
Unfortunately, it was possible Amanda’s scream had given away their position despite the echoing effect of the mountain ridges. Cam tried to check in with Salazar; either he had wandered out of range, or the
rocky terrain blocked the signal, or, well, their situation had turned even more desperate.
They made slower progress now, Cam forced to use his arms to propel himself up the slope while his good leg served as a brace. He almost wished his plummet had destroyed some of the artifacts so he could lighten his pack, but they had survived intact, as had his insulin pump, his torso cushioning their fall. Fortunately the mountain leveled off a bit near the top, and after another hour of climbing they neared the summit of the ridge.
“Are we almost there?” Astarte asked.
“Yes, almost,” Amanda answered. “You can do it. And you too, Cam,” she said lightly.
Normally he didn’t like to be babied. But he probably deserved it with all the moaning and groaning he was doing. He clenched his teeth, recoiling as his molar bit into the swollen cut on the inside of his mouth. At least the cut accounted for the blood he was spitting out—Amanda had been concerned he was bleeding internally. Swallowing a curse, he hoisted himself up the last few feet of the trail and collapsed to the ground. He lowered his voice so only Amanda could hear. “Did I mention I really hate Jefferson January?”
They rested for a few minutes along the back crest of the ridge line, snacking on energy bars while studying January’s map. Amanda glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock. And she was already exhausted.
They overlooked a mini-valley, a saddle between two ridge lines. Cam had some trouble focusing, but he had studied the map the night before so was already pretty familiar with it.
“We need to climb down to the low point in the saddle and find a boulder that is flat on top, like a table,” he said.
“Do you want to rest more?”
“Yes. And I want a recliner and a cold beer. But I’m not going to get any of it.”
They hiked down the slope, skidding on the wet leaves and slick rocks. In some ways it was more treacherous than the climb up. After a few minutes Astarte plopped onto her butt and slid. “It’s like sledding,” she announced. “When you get going too fast, just put out your feet.”
“Works for me,” Cam said as he and Amanda dropped to the ground. It might be uncomfortable to sit in a hard chair the next day, but they made good time down the ridge and in ten minutes reached the base of the valley.
Amanda pointed to the left. “There’s a cluster of boulders over there.”
Five minutes later they found a large stone with a perfectly flat surface. “Wow,” Astarte said, “it is like a table.”
“It must be a glacial erratic,” Cam said, “something the glaciers picked up and dropped here during the Ice Age. Look how the rock is different than others. That’s why it’s so flat and the others are rounded—it’s like a slate, which breaks off in layers.” Weird how he was able to remember details from a college geology class but couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast that morning.
“Okay, what next?” Amanda asked.
“We go 40 paces due north of the table rock and look for another boulder,” Cam said. “That was the problem January had—he was using magnetic north as it exists today, which at this latitude is about twenty degrees off from what it was in the 12th century. So we need to angle twenty degrees to the west.”
Cam stood with his heel against the table rock and, using his compass, marched 40 paces through the brush, forcing his injured knee to extend to a full stride as he dodged trees in an attempt to keep a straight line. Amanda and Astarte fanned out to either side in case his angle was wrong. At 40 paces he stood in the middle of a wooded area. Plenty of small rocks and trees, but no boulder. Was he so foggy-brained he counted wrong? “Amanda, did you count along with me?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “I knew you’d run out of fingers and toes.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “Seriously, even if I was a bit off, there’s nothing around here that looks like a boulder.”
Cam dropped his pack at the 40-pace mark as they trudged around, exploring. Was it possible the forest floor had covered the boulder during the course of 800 years? A foot of organic material could accumulate in that time, but not enough to cover a boulder. He kicked at the leaves and dirt with his good leg as he walked, hoping to strike a buried stone.
A few minutes passed and Amanda jogged over. “I think I might know what’s wrong. I’m pretty certain a pace in ancient times was a stride with each leg, not just one leg.”
“Really? How would you know that?”
“I used to date a surveyor. Handsome bloke.” Cam smiled, familiar with her humor. She shrugged. “It’s the type of stuff they teach us in primary school.”
“Good enough for me.” He reached for his pack. “So we’re only halfway there.”
Forty more strides brought them up the incline of the opposite ridge line and to a cluster of a dozen boulders. “Bingo,” Cam said. “Supposedly there’s a carving of a bird on the side of one of these rocks.”
Astarte nodded. “It’s not a bird, it’s a dove.”
“How do you know?” Amanda asked.
She shrugged. “I just do.”
“Okay then, we’re looking for a dove.” Cam smiled.
Amanda knelt in front of the nearest stone. “There’s a lot of moss on the face of this stone.”
“Hopefully the carvers were smart enough not to carve on the north side.”
“And also smart enough to carve into a hard rock. If not, it will have weathered away.”
They split up, studying the surfaces of the boulders, Cam trying not to bend over too much because the blood rushing to his head throbbed like a thumb in an old Saturday morning cartoon gag. He looked up as Astarte marched toward a pyramid-shaped stone far off to one side. “Astarte, don’t go too far away please.”
She ignored him and dropped to one knee in front of the boulder, her fingers running across the rock’s surface as if reading Braille. “Here it is,” she called.
Amanda jogged over, Cam hobbling behind. “She’s right. It’s a bird, a dove.” Amanda hugged the girl. “Well done, Astarte.” Someone had carved a hand-sized bird near the top of the pyramid on the stone’s eastern face. Just as the 800-year-old map described. The carving appeared old—lichen growth obscured parts of one wing, and the edges of the carved surfaces had worn smooth. A geologist could estimate the age of the carving based on a microscopic examination of the weathered surface, but even Cam’s untrained eye told him the carving was not modern.
He pulled out the map and January’s notes. “The bird is like an arrow. We’re supposed to follow its beak. It leads us up to a cave, just below the opposite ridge line.” Cam knelt on his good knee and sighted up the ridge line as the bird’s beak directed. Were they really following in the footsteps of medieval warrior knights? “The beak points to a spot about three-quarters of the way up the slope.”
“You should take a compass reading, matching the direction of the bird as best you can.”
He did so. “Got it. The brush doesn’t look that thick up there; we should be able to hold our line pretty well.”
His head throbbed, but the prospect of finally reaching the cave brightened his mood. He took Amanda’s hand. “This is pretty cool.”
She smiled. “It’d be even cooler if nobody was trying to kill us.”
“Good point.”
Cam began to climb, but Amanda stopped him. “Wait. Let’s take a picture of the ridge line from here, focusing on the target spot. Then as we get closer we can use it to try to find our way.”
It was a good suggestion, even more so because they probably couldn’t trust Cam to remember exactly where they were headed. Sighting along the bird’s beak as Cam had done, she took four shots, starting with a panorama and progressively zooming in. She also took a few pictures of the bird carving and surrounding topography in case they needed to backtrack and find it again. “Done. Let’s climb.”
The mid-morning sun had climbed high enough to both cut the chill and illuminate the hillside. A few birds chirped in the trees but they still had not seen any wildlife a
long the forest floor. The slope of the ridge line rose less steeply than during their early morning climb and they made good time despite Cam’s injured knee. It helped that the forest had thinned, fewer trees able to thrive at the higher elevation. After twenty minutes they approached their target area.
Amanda compared the camera images to the landscape ahead. “I think I see a tree a bit up the way that may be spot on.”
Astarte, energized, jumped in front of Cam and scampered ahead. A half minute later she called down. “I found a cave. Hurry!”
“Don’t go in, Astarte,” Amanda said. “There may be animals inside.” She raced to join the girl, leaving Cam to limp along and contemplate what they would do if they found a bear hibernating in the cave. Maybe the evil spirit Onteora had chased the bears away along with the other wildlife.
Cam joined Amanda and a bouncing Astarte in front of a 15-foot-high and 50-foot-wide cliff face tucked just below the ridge line. Astarte pointed to a phone-booth-sized fissure in the cliff. “Can we go in and look?”
“Not yet,” Cam said, dropping his pack and removing a flashlight. He approached the entrance slowly, swinging the arc of light along the cave walls near the entrance. The beam illuminated dust and cobwebs along the cave floor, but no animals. At least not in the front area.
He stepped back and examined the cliff face. From the ridge line above it would have been impossible to see the cave, as the opening was literally under the feet of any climber. So the only way to find the opening was to climb up from the saddle via the opposite ridge line after making the same treacherous ascent Cam, Amanda and Astarte had just made. Not a path a hiker would likely choose.
Salazar’s voice crackled from Cam’s walkie-talkie. “Better hurry. You have company.”
Cam and Amanda traded a quick look. “Where are they?” Cam asked.
Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2) Page 20
