The Twelfth Ring (Noah Larsson Book 1)

by Sam Clarke

  ‘Alvastra?’

  The stupidity of my answer confirmed that she could be horribly right, I was morphing into my father’s aide.

  ‘No, idiot! A secret organisation—’

  The flimsy door swung open and framed a frustrated Viggo. ‘Guys, we had an agreement!’

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ I said, painfully aware of how ambiguous things looked.

  ‘Dude, she’s still holding your hand!’ he said crossly. Isabelle let go of my wrist as if it was on fire. He squeezed himself in the cabin, sat in a squatting position and lowered his voice a notch. ‘Look, personally, I don’t have anything against young love—’

  ‘Young love?’ screeched Isabelle. His choice of adjective had hit a raw nerve. She didn’t see their four-year gap as an obstacle, but he clearly perceived it as a lifetime. ‘You should stop treating us like children, you’re not that much older than us.’

  ‘I’m nineteen!’

  She huffed. ‘Not exactly Methuselah!’

  ‘Whatever, this isn’t about my age. Guys, nothing can happen between you on my watch. I know you’re bored, but there must be something else you can do with your time. When Knut’s gone, I’ll speak to your dads and see if I can get you out a bit more. How about that?’

  For Isabelle it was a win-win situation, she would get off Valhalla more often and spend extra time with Viggo. ‘Fine,’ she said, throwing me a fairly credible longing look. ‘We’ll behave. I’ll do my best to fend off Noah’s persistent advances.’

  ‘Persistent advances?’ he echoed, positively impressed. ‘Dude, I didn’t know you had it in you!’

  ‘Me neither,’ I muttered.

  CHAPTER 24

  When Hope arrived, Gunnar turned his head by a whole two degrees. We were supposed to complete our second confined dive but, with Knut on board, my father couldn’t spare anyone to baby-sit us by the hotel pool. Viggo had come up with an ingenious solution. Valhalla was equipped with its own shark cage – he would lower it into the pristine Caribbean waters and we would practise within the safety of its bars. Gunnar’s barely-detectable head-turn hadn’t escaped his notice and he was now in a foul mood. While Isabelle and I assembled our diving kits, they had an antagonistic exchange in their native Swedish during which, I presume, they both laid claim to Hope. I took advantage of their altercation and shuffled closer to Isabelle. ‘What else did my father and Knut say?’ I whispered.

  She glanced over her shoulder, the Nordic barking was in full swing. ‘Knut doesn’t want you around because he fears for your safety,’ she said, unaware that she was feeding me old news. ‘The secret organisation they’re part of has existed for hundreds of years and follows a strict chain of command. They never mentioned it by name, but Knut is the highest authority and your father reports to him.’

  ‘It ties in with what we’ve seen so far.’

  She pushed her face closer. ‘Knut wanted you off Valhalla as soon as possible. When Magnus refused, he pulled rank.’

  ‘He what?’

  ‘You heard. He ordered Magnus to ship you back to London.’

  ‘I take it my father stood up to him. I mean… I’m still here.’

  ‘That’s the thing: he didn’t. They’re taking this hierarchy thing incredibly seriously – Magnus begged him to let you stay.’

  ‘My father? Begging?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve known him a long time and I have never, ever, heard him plead with anyone before. And I’ve listened in on thousands of conversations,’ she added, as if she was applying for a phone tapping job at MI6. ‘Does the name Fredrik mean anything to you?’

  I placed my mask over my head. ‘He’s my uncle. Why?’

  ‘His name kept popping up. He used to be in the secret organisation too. I think Magnus took his place. Is he dead or something?’

  ‘No, but he was involved in a major accident the year my parents divorced.’

  ‘The same year? And it didn’t strike you as suspicious?’

  Hope’s voice cut our conversation short. ‘If you’re done with your pre-dive safety checks, stand on the gunwale and give me a “giant stride” water entry.’

  Isabelle went first. I didn’t remember her double-checking my gear, but I stuck the regulator in my mouth, dangled my leg over the side of Valhalla and jumped. I panicked the moment I hit the waves: I was sinking too fast. I should have inflated my BCD to compensate, but I coiled around Isabelle instead and she tried her best to keep me afloat. Viggo leaned overboard in that precise moment and completely misread the scene. None of the words he said contained more than four letters. He spent the rest of the day watching us like a hawk.

  #

  The following morning, I woke up later than usual. My alarm clock lay in the middle of the cabin, where I had catapulted it two hours earlier in an attempt to shut it off. I dragged myself to the bathroom and shuddered at my own reflection. The shadows under my eyes could have sheltered a caravan of Bedouins. I had been up most of the night googling Fredrik. I hadn’t discovered much, but my parents had filed for divorce exactly three months after his accident. Could Isabelle be right? Were the accident and the divorce somehow related? Had my father truly replaced Fredrik in the Swedish mafia – or whatever mysterious organisation they were part of? I splashed water over my face, got dressed and yawned all the way to the kitchen. A jubilant Viggo was loading the dishwasher. ‘Knut’s leaving this afternoon,’ he announced. ‘The facial recognition software didn’t generate any hits.’

  Checking for fingerprints was pointless, the Russians had never removed their gloves. Viggo rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘Dude, the timing’s perfect. With Knut gone, I should be able to get the night off.’

  I poured myself a glass of milk. ‘What happens with the map?’

  ‘The original will be stored in a secure facility, but Knut has agreed to leave a copy for you and Magnus to work on as a side project. I doubt you’ll be making any progress without the Arabic pages, but if you come up with anything, you’ll have to notify him immediately.’

  ‘Typical,’ I snorted, ‘we reach a dead-end and he lets me back in.’

  I wasn’t proud of it, but I wished I could find the ring just to rub it in my grandfather’s stern face. I tried to focus on the positive: with Knut gone, everything could have gone back to normal – whatever normal was. An unknown man walked in and helped himself to the filtered coffee jug. I did a double-take, I had never seen my father in a suit. I was amazed he owned one. Viggo jumped at the chance to tease him. ‘Bank loan or bail hearing?’

  My father chuckled. ‘Cut it out, I’m having lunch downtown with Knut and Miguel. It’s a jacket and tie venue.’

  ‘Am I still driving Knut to the airport later?’ asked Viggo.

  My father nodded. ‘I also need you to stop by the dive shop, my new speargun has arrived.’

  ‘Can I have the night off afterwards?’

  ‘Hope?’ asked my father. Viggo’s grin confirmed the obvious. ‘Fine, but you’ve got to be back in time to cook us breakfast.’

  CHAPTER 25

  The majority of Gunnar and Moshe’s suitcases were hard-shelled and I suspected they contained items that were not usually seen (or even allowed) on commercial flights. I had just found out that Knut would be going directly to the airport without coming back to Valhalla. Officially, the lunch was running late, but I had a feeling that my grandfather wanted to avoid saying goodbye. Viggo would pick him up from the restaurant and drive him to his waiting plane. I loaded the last suitcase in the minivan and wiped some sweat off my face. ‘Thanks for helping out, dude,’ said Viggo. He climbed into the van and retrieved something from the glove compartment. ‘I’ve wrapped Hope’s present, check it out.’

  For a moment, I wished I was blind. He had picked the worst gift paper in the world: it was covered in tired lilac flowers and the way they bent to follow the soft shape of the cardigan made them look wilted. He chucked the horrid bundle on the passenger seat, got the engine revving and gave me
a fist bump. ‘Wish me luck for tonight.’

  Judging by his gift, he needed it.

  #

  Girls have an overdeveloped sixth sense. I had just started thinking about Isabelle, when she stormed into my cabin and announced that she had reached an epiphany. I indulged her, partly because I was curious, partly because I couldn’t be bothered with my homework and partly because I was depressed. Aside from not making any progress on the map, I hadn’t heard from Cressida in a while. The hopes that she could be vaguely interested in me were on the brink of extinction. Isabelle loaded a map of Norway on my laptop. ‘This is just for show,’ she specified, as if being caught doing homework would dent our reputation. My apathy irritated her. ‘You could look more excited, you know? Why the long face? Is it about Water-Cressida?’

  I hated the nickname she had given her. And I hated that Viggo’s unusual name couldn’t be easily modified for mocking purposes. I silently cursed his mother for her invincible choice. Isabelle was in a frenzy and flapped around my cabin like a bird facing a strong wind. ‘When you hear what I have to say, Water-Cressida will be the last thing on your mind. I did some research and, incredibly, it all makes sense.’

  ‘What does?’ I asked, moving my glass so she wouldn’t knock it over.

  The bird landed on my desk. ‘Our clues are 1119, a vermillion cross and a centuries old secret organisation, right?’

  ‘Uhu.’

  She pushed my books to one side and flattened the printout of a medieval knight in chain mail armour on my desk. The vermillion cross emblazoned on his white surcoat caught my eye. ‘Who’s he?’ I asked.

  ‘Not who, but what,’ she replied cryptically.

  I hated how she was dragging this out. ‘I know what he is, he’s a knight.’

  ‘Not just any knight, a Templar Knight.’ She resumed her flapping. ‘Don’t you find it peculiar that our fathers and Viggo have the Templars’ symbol tattooed on their bodies?’

  I could sense where she was heading and it was too crazy for words. ‘You can’t seriously think—’

  ‘Our fathers are Templars!’ she said, with a passion I didn’t know she had.

  I chuckled softly. ‘That cross represents millions of other things.’

  She hated being contradicted. ‘Shut up, there are other clues. The Templars followed a strict chain of command, like everyone on Valhalla—’

  ‘And in most organisations around the world! Try a summer job in a fast-food restaurant if you don’t believe me! Look, the Templars were wiped out, I don’t remember the exact date, but they were destroyed by King Philip IV. He was French,’ I added accusingly.

  Patriotism took over. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’

  ‘Are you for real?’

  She huffed. ‘We’re getting distracted. The point is that, theoretically, the Templars were wiped out, but nobody knows for sure. We’re onto something, Noah! I can feel it!’

  I had serious doubts the Force was strong within her. ‘It’s a fascinating theory,’ I began, ‘but can you really imagine Viggo as a Templar? When he’s not loading the dishwasher, he’s texting our diving instructor!’

  She got her face level with mine. ‘Do you know when the Templar Order was founded?’

  I didn’t, but her smugness was more palpable than usual. ‘1119?’ I asked, just to be sure.

  Her lips curled in a triumphant smile. Ignoring her ramblings had become a whole lot harder.

  #

  Isabelle and I immersed ourselves in medieval times. Since being recaptured by the First Crusade in 1099, Jerusalem had become the top destination for spiritual tourism. The city itself was relatively safe, but the same couldn’t be said for the rest of Outremer – a French term used to describe the Crusader states. Once the pilgrims reached the Jaffa Port, they were very much on their own, much to the joy of the local bandits who routinely attacked the ever-present supply of travellers.

  In 1119 a group of nine Frankish knights saw a gap in the market and decided to found an order aimed at protecting the Christian pilgrims who were flocking to the Holy City. The knights volunteered their services to the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin II. Since, I’m sure, he wasn’t exactly inundated with such requests, he welcomed them with open arms. The order’s business plan was more hopeful than practical, its members had no assets and optimistically planned to survive on donations. The first, tangible one came directly from King Baldwin, who let them set up their headquarters on Temple Mount, in the captured Al-Aqsa Mosque which was believed to be directly above the ruins of the Temple of Solomon. And so The order of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon (and I thought knights were men of few words!) was officially born. The knights became widely known as the Knights Templar or, simply, The Templars.

  In 1129 the Roman Catholic Church officially endorsed the order and shot the Templars into medieval stardom. Affluent families flooded them with all sorts of donations, from money, to land, to non-inheriting sons that could serve as knights. As if things couldn’t get any better, Pope Innocent III issued a papal bull (which, I found out, isn’t a devout animal) exempting the knights from obeying local laws and taxes anywhere. The order would report directly to the Pope.

  In time, the Templars accumulated vast riches all over Europe and Outremer. Castles, fortresses, the entire island of Cyprus, you name it, they owned it. Their solid reputation as warriors spread to their accounting abilities and soon they were providing high-end financial services to a variety of secular businesses. Within two centuries, the penniless knights had become one of Europe’s richest and most powerful organisations.

  Unfortunately, all good stories come to an end. The party-spoiler, in this case, was the heavily indebted King Philip IV, also known as The Fair. He borrowed vast amounts from the Templars, but eventually realised that there was no way he could honour his debts. The idea of selling his palace and moving into a one-bed flat probably didn’t appeal to him. King Philip wanted more than just to see his debts erased, he wanted a big slice of the Templars’ wealth. Regrettably (for the Templars), Clement V, the Pope in charge, was a fellow Frenchman and nothing more than a puppet in King Philip’s hands.

  On Friday 13th October 1307 (the date is rumoured to have launched the Friday 13th superstition) Philip ordered that the Grand Master of the order, Jacques de Molay, and all French Templars should be placed under immediate arrest. They were accused of anything The Fair could come up with, from financial corruption to obscene rituals, from fraud to heresy, and everything in between. A month later, Pope Clement V instructed every European Christian monarch to arrest all Templars within their jurisdiction and seize their assets. Captured members were charged as heretics and sentenced to death.

  In 1312, at the Council of Vienne (where King Philip IV conveniently showed up with his army in tow), Pope Clement V officially disbanded the order. The combined efforts of these two clowns had achieved what no Muslim army managed in two centuries: the destruction of the Knights Templar.

  Grand Master Jacques de Molay was burned in Paris in 1314. From his pyre, he shouted something along the lines of “God knows who is wrong and has sinned. Soon a calamity will occur to those who have condemned us to death.” His last-minute curse couldn’t have been more effective: within a year, Pope Clement and King Philip had joined him in the afterlife.

  My eyes were dry, I dug for my first-aid kit where my mother had packed some artificial tears. Isabelle raised a single eyebrow. How did she do that? I could only raise two at the same time or nothing at all. Had I been King Philip and she a Templar, I would have chucked her on the closest pyre, surely only heretics could perform such a trick. ‘Is that a monogrammed first-aid kit?’ she asked with a hint of disgust.

  ‘Yes, it’s a Christmas gift from my mother.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said the heretic wryly.

  I mentally lit her pyre. ‘This is all very interesting, but—’

  ‘Look!’ she squealed. If her nose got any closer to the I-pad, she could
have used it to tap the screen. ‘The Templars referred to each other as brothers. My father often calls Magnus like that.’

  I spread my hands. ‘It’s a very common term. You’re twisting the facts to fit your theory. Did you see this?’ I navigated to the right page. ‘The Templars were a monastic order. They weren’t allowed to marry, they took vows of poverty, chastity, piety and obedience. Our fathers were married and Viggo has been buzzing around Hope non-stop. They’re even out on a date tonight – not very monastic, is it?’

  ‘Are they on a date?’ she asked, a slight quaver in her voice. I cursed my big mouth – despite her snotty attitude, her crush on my father’s aide was pretty major. She stood up and grabbed the printout of the knight. ‘I’m right about this, I know I am. Have a think about it and let me know, by tomorrow morning, if you want to investigate things further. And for your information, knights were allowed a few horses and a servant who didn’t have to conform to a specific civil status. Viggo could fit that role.’

  Before I could point out the lack of horses in our marina, she slammed the door behind her. I wasn’t sure she knew they could be closed softly. I lay on my bed and mentally re-examined the various clues. As far-fetched as it was, I couldn’t completely dismiss Isabelle’s theory: could my father truly be part of a modern-day Templar order?

  CHAPTER 26

  My rumbling stomach woke me at 1:43am. I went to the kitchen, fixed myself a boring cheese sandwich, grabbed a glass of milk and made my way to the main deck, looking forward to my midnight feast under the stars. My heart skipped a beat, a ghostly shape was swaying in the breeze. I gingerly approached – the supernatural being turned out to be Isabelle wrapped in her bed sheet. ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking half the sandwich from my plate and sinking her pearly whites into it before I had a chance protest.