In it, as Isaac had described, were two items. A pouch, wrapped protectively in an oiled leather skin. And a small, wooden box. Sebastian put the box down and unwrapped the skin, exposing the book and its tooled cover.
He stared at it, his eyes drinking in the curious, mesmerizing symbol on its tooled cover. He opened it. The first pages were made of smooth, strong, and burnished paper. They were filled with beautiful, richly rendered, full-length illustrations of the human body and of its inner workings. Numerous labels of writing swamped them. Other pages were covered with careful and precise Naskhi script, in black ink, with elaborate rubrications throughout. He tore his attention away from the pages and turned it over and saw what Isaac had spoken of. The back cover of the book was missing. Its torn binding indicated that some of its last pages were also lost. The last couple of pages that remained were shriveled and rough, the ink washed away long ago and leaving behind nothing more than an intelligible, bluish smearing.
With a burning ache in his heart, Sebastian understood.
A key part of the book was missing. At least, that was what Isaac and Sebastian’s parents had hoped, once the flaw had revealed itself: that the missing pages would hold the secret, the key to overcoming it. But they couldn’t be sure. The flaw was, perhaps, insurmountable. Perhaps there was no cure. In which case the book was of great danger, and the whole venture was doomed to failure.
He put the book down and picked up the small box. It also had the symbol carved into its lid. Hesitantly, he unhooked its copper clasp and opened it.
The box’s contents were still there.
And on that lonely hill, Sebastian knew what his destiny would be.
He would continue their work.
He would try to overcome the flaw.
Even though doing that, he knew, would place his life at great risk.
TRACING THE BOOK’S ORIGIN wasn’t easy. Sebastian’s father and Isaac had worked on it for years. The most they’d been able to ascertain was that the book was part of several crates of codices and scrolls that had made their way to Tomar after the fall of Acre in 1291.
The texts had been collected by the Templars during their forays into the Holy Land, when the knights were known to have explored the mysticism and knowledge of their Muslim enemies, long before the order had been suspended by Pope Clement V in 1312. Following the arrests of the Templars in France, their possessions across Europe were ordered to be transferred to the Knights of the Order of St. John of the Hospital—the Hospitallers. Provincial councils, however, were allowed to judge the Templars locally, and in Spain, the Tarragonese Council, led by Archbishop Rocaberti, a friend of the Templar warrior-monks, convened and decreed the innocence of the Catalan-Aragonese Templars, as well as those of Mallorca and of the Kingdom of Valencia. The order would be dissolved, but the brethren would be allowed to remain in their monasteries and to collect a pension for life.
James II, the king of Aragon, who didn’t want the Templars’ riches to end up in the coffers of the increasingly powerful Hospitallers, created a new order, the Order of Montesa, and effectively folded the old Templar order into it. The members of the new order, now known as montesinos, would submit to the rule of the established Order of Calatrava, which was also Cistercian and followed similar ordinances to those of the Templars. They would keep their belongings, and they would protect the kingdom from the Granada Muslims, the last remnants of Islam in the Iberian Peninsula.
In Portugal, the king, Dinis, hadn’t forgotten the Templars’ great contribution in defeating the Moors. He cunningly championed the order’s legacy. After calmly confiscating all their belongings, he waited for Clement V’s successor to be voted in, then convinced the new pope to allow the creation of a new order that he would name, simply, the Order of Christ. The Templar order basically just changed its name. The Castilian-Portuguese Templars weren’t even interrogated, much less tried. They simply became members of the new order, also accepted to follow the rule of the Order of Calatrava, and carried on unscathed.
The castle of Tomar had been the headquarters of the Templars in Portugal and remained so under the new order. A towering edifice of startling architectural beauty that has lost none of its splendor, it was famous throughout the peninsula for its elaborate Gothic, Romanesque, and Manueline carvings and motifs and for its distinctively Templar round church, where many of the Templar masters were buried. Over the years, a convent and cloisters had also been added, and it became known as the Convento de Cristo.
Isaac had told Sebastian that the Templar records showed that the chest that had housed the damaged codex had come from the Levant. Further detail of its provenance was hard to pin down, as Portuguese Templar documentation was difficult to unearth. A concerted effort had been made to bury any written evidence that the Templars had brazenly morphed into the Order of Christ. The Portuguese Templars—and, eventually, the Order of Christ—had also absorbed most of their French brethren who had managed to escape King Philip the Fair’s persecution. Their distinctly French surnames had to be cloaked to avoid potential challenges from the Vatican.
Still, there were crypts and libraries that Sebastian’s father and Isaac hadn’t been able to access. Sebastian, on the other hand, as an officer of the Inquisition, could. And so the young man began, with great care and discretion, to explore the hidden archives of the Church, in the hope of learning more about the codex’s clouded origin.
He spent hours at the archives of Torre de Tumbo in Lisbon. He visited the old Templar churches and castles at Longroiva and Pombal, wading through ancient records of donations, concessions, disputes, and codes of law, searching for clues that would either elucidate the contents of the missing pages or tell him where he might find another copy of the book. He rode out to the castle of Almourol, built by the Templars on a small island in the middle of the Tejo River and rumored to be haunted by the ghost of a princess who yearned for the return of her lover, a Moor slave.
He found nothing.
He kept Isaac informed of his movements, but the old man was getting progressively worse. An infection had settled into his lungs, and Sebastian knew he would not survive the winter. But his inquiries caught the attention of his superiors.
He was soon summoned to appear before the grand inquisitor. Francisco Pedroso knew of the young man’s visits to the dying Marrano and had heard of his inquiries across the land. Sebastian excused his trips as the overzealous pursuit of heretic texts, making sure he didn’t taint anyone with his actions. He also shrugged off his visits to Isaac’s chamber as the final, vain attempts to save the man’s soul.
Through bloodless, aged lips, the sinister priest told Sebastian that God kept a close eye on all of his subjects, and he reminded the young man that speaking on behalf of victims was regarded as more criminal than the accused.
Sebastian knew that his efforts in Portugal had come to an end. From here on, he would be watched. Any misstep could lead to the dungeons. And with the death of Isaac that winter, he realized there was nothing left for him in the land of his birth.
His parents’ legacy, and Isaac’s, had to be safeguarded. More than that, their work needed to be completed, their promise fulfilled.
On a brisk spring morning, Sebastian guided his solitary horse across the Ponte Velha and into the eucalyptus forests of the surrounding mountains. He was headed for Spain and to the Templar commanderies at Tortosa, Miravet, Monzón, Gardeny, and Peniscola. If need be, he would continue his search at the very seat of learning and translation, in Toledo.
And when those inquiries would yield little result, he would follow the trail of the snake-eater back to its source, across the Mediterranean, by way of Constantinople, and all the way to the very heart of the old world and to the veiled secrets it sheltered.
Chapter 14
T he wailing dawn prayer call from a nearby mosque seeped in through every pore of the concrete-block wall of the interview room and yanked Mia out of her sleep.
She checked her watch g
roggily and frowned. She’d only just managed to overcome the discomfort of her bedding—two prickly blankets that she’d folded up and laid out on the tiled floor—and block out the noisy racket of the call-outs and bookings that rocked the station throughout the night.
Things brightened up marginally a couple of hours later, when a lone cop with a pleasant demeanor appeared at the interview room’s door bearing a fresh bottle of water and a piping hot man’oushi—a thin, pizza-like pastry topped with a rich mix of thyme, sesame seeds, and olive oil. In an act of supreme courage, she asked to use the toilet again, knowing full well that a second visit to the station’s facilities and their medieval vileness might require years of therapy—and quite possibly some antibiotics—to overcome. She was brought back to her makeshift cell and locked in for several galling hours, which she spent pacing around and trying to rein in her darkest thoughts, until, around lunchtime, the door creaked open and ushered in hope in the form of Jim Corben.
He introduced himself as one of the embassy’s economic counselors, and asked if she was alright. The ferret and Inspector Platitude were with him, but she could immediately tell that a completely different set of dynamics was at play here. Corben had presence, and the detectives were very much aware of it. His posture, his handshake, the firm tone of his voice, the confident eye contact—two different species of man, she thought when comparing him to Baumhoff, and that was before she got into the gaping physical chasm that separated the two embassy men. Baumhoff was totally outclassed on that front—porcine, balding, pasty-skinned fifty something versus trim, cropped-haired, slightly tanned, and midthirties. Her impressions were also unreservedly tainted by the fact that just after asking her if she was alright, Corben had uttered the magic words that cut right through her despair and almost brought tears to her eyes, six little words that she’d never forget.
“I’m here to get you out.”
It took a second or two for the bliss of it to sink in. Then he took charge and ushered her out the door. The detectives didn’t object or say a word, even though she hadn’t yet given a formal statement. Corben had obviously laid down a higher law, and they simply stood aside and watched her go. She followed Corben, in a daze, through the back of the police station, out a back entrance, and into the brightness of the sun-soaked outside world without so much as a form to fill out or a release to sign.
He led her briskly to his car, a charcoal gray Grand Cherokee with dark-tinted windows and diplomatic plates that was parked among the Fuhud’s patrol cars and SUVs, and helped her in before jumping behind the wheel. He negotiated his way out of the station’s lot and, with a quick nod to the guard manning the gate, slipped into the midday traffic.
Corben glanced in his rearview mirror. “There are a couple of reporters outside the station. I didn’t want you to get caught up in that.”
“They know about me?”
Corben nodded. “There were a lot of witnesses last night. But don’t worry. So far, we’ve managed to keep your mom’s name out of it, and you haven’t been mentioned anywhere either, which is how I’d like to keep things, at least as far as you are concerned. The guys at the station have their orders. They know what to say and what to keep to themselves.”
Mia felt as if she were coming out of hibernation. “Mentioned—you mean in the news?”
“Your mom’s kidnapping made the morning papers. Right now, they’re just talking about a nameless American woman, but they’ll get her name later on today, the embassy’s going to have to make a statement. We’re trying to play it down, but it’s picking up steam. The government isn’t too keen on publicizing it either. It’s bad press for the country, and things are a bit sensitive right now, as I’m sure you know. They’re going to spin it as a deal for stolen relics that went bad, smugglers fighting over the spoils, that kind of thing.”
“That’s bullshit,” Mia protested. “My mom wasn’t a smuggler.”
Corben shrugged sympathetically, but he didn’t seem convinced. “How well did you know her?”
Maybe it was because she was exhausted and hungry, or maybe it was because there was some remote validity to his insinuation, but Mia didn’t really know what to think anymore.
“She’s my mother,” she shot back regardless.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Mia frowned. “I’ve only been here for three weeks, alright? I was in Boston before that. So I can’t say we’ve been two peas in a pod, but she’s still my mother and I know what she’s like. I mean, come on. Have you met her? She’s messianic when it comes to archaeology.” She heaved a tired sigh, then added, “She’s a good person.”
A good person. She knew how vacuous that sounded, but, bottom line, she believed it.
“What about your dad? Where is he?”
A distant sadness clouded Mia’s face. “I never knew him. He died shortly after I was born. A car crash. On the road to Jordan.”
Corben glanced at her and nodded, seeming to process her words. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
She stared quietly out her window. People were out in the streets, getting on with the routines of their lives. A pang of envy tugged at her heart. She coveted their insouciance—before remembering that they probably weren’t as carefree as they seemed, given what they’d just been through, and the fragility of the country. She didn’t know what was going on behind their affable façades, and it made her think that maybe when it came right down to it, when it came down to the crisis points that define who people really are, maybe we didn’t really know as much about others as we thought we did. With a twinge of guilt, she found herself wondering if maybe Baumhoff and Corben could possibly be right. She didn’t really know her mother that well. She didn’t know what was really going on in her life. And that was where gut feelings and hard truths could easily diverge.
The car slowed and stopped, caught up in traffic in the narrow, single-lane road. She turned to Corben. “You can’t seriously think she could have been trading in looted relics?”
He met her gaze straight on. “The way I understand it, they were after her specifically, and unless she’s the first in a campaign targeting foreigners, which our intel suggests is highly, highly unlikely, it’s the only angle we have to work with right now.”
Mia’s spirits sank visibly as she digested his words. Corben studied her thoughtfully. “Look, it doesn’t matter why they took her. The fact of the matter is, someone’s got her, someone’s grabbed a woman, an American woman, off the street, and the reason behind it only matters if it’ll help us get her back. ’Cause that’s what we’re after, that’s the endgame. Getting her back. The rest we can deal with later.” A gentle reassurance had crept into his voice.
Mia managed to find a half-smile. Her eyes brightened with his resolve, and she nodded appreciatively.
“I know you’re tired,” he added, “I know you’re probably desperate to get back to your place and jump under a shower and wash the whole experience off, but I really need to talk to you about what happened last night. You were there. What you tell me could be crucial in helping us find her. Time is always against us in these situations. Do you think you can handle that right now?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded.
Chapter 15
A n acrid, bitter smell speared Evelyn back to consciousness.
She jolted upright, shaking its sting away. Her eyes shot open, only to be assaulted by the fierce neon lighting in the room. It seemed to be coming at her from all sides, as if she were sitting in a white box. She squeezed her eyes back shut.
Slowly, hints of awareness broke through her daze. For one thing, she wasn’t stuffed in the car’s trunk anymore. She was sitting on a hard, metal-framed chair. She tried to shift her position and felt a burning pain from her wrists and ankles. She tried to move them, but couldn’t. She realized she was cuffed into place.
She sensed movement around her, and warily she opened he
r eyes. Inches from her face, a blurry hand was pulling away. Its fingers held something, a small cylinder of some kind. As she regained her focus, she realized it was a capsule. She thought it must be the smelling salts. She caught a final whiff of it as she followed the hand up. A man was standing there, facing her.
The first thing Evelyn noticed were his eyes. They were an unusual blue, and utterly devoid of any emotion. The word arctic came to mind. They were fixed on her, scanning her with detached curiosity, alert to every twitch in her body.
They never blinked.
She guessed that the man was in his fifties. He had a handsome, distinguished face. His features—the brow, the cheekbones, the chin and nose—were prominent, aquiline, and yet, finely sculpted. His skin was slightly tanned to a rich, golden hue. He sported a full head of undulating, salt-and-pepper hair, which he wore suavely gelled back, and he was tall, easily over six feet. What stood out mostly in her mind, though, was how slim he was. Not in a bulimic, waiflike manner. Just skinny, which his height only accentuated. He clearly looked after himself well and had his appetite on a tight leash and didn’t seem any weaker for it. His posture exuded confidence and influence, and his cold eyes presaged a steely, uncompromising disposition, which she found unsettling.
For some reason, her instincts were telling her he wasn’t Arab. Which was confirmed by his accent, when he finally decided to speak up. Not to her. To someone she hadn’t noticed, behind her.
“Give her some water,” he ordered calmly, in an Arabic that was definitely not indigenous but that, oddly, had an Iraqi tinge to it.
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