Templar Cross

by Paul Christopher

  “You’re Colonel Holliday?”

  He hadn’t used his rank when he’d called on the telephone.

  “You know I am.”

  “What is it that you want?”

  “You know exactly what I’m after,” answered Holliday.

  A younger man walked in front of them, another priest, this one carrying an attaché case, which was a bit strange since any kind of backpack or parcel had to be left at the coat check downstairs on the admissions floor. As the younger man passed he shook his head briefly and continued on. The older man on the bench beside Holliday seemed to relax. He nodded his head toward the display of funerary jars in a glass display case across from where they sat.

  “An odd people, don’t you think, Colonel? Dividing up the body into its separate parts before burial.”

  “Like the Nazis separating Jews into their separate parts to get the gold from their teeth,” said Holliday.

  “A cumbersome analogy, but I presume you’re referring to Colonel Rauff,” replied the man beside him on the bench.

  “Standartenführer Rauff, you mean,” said Holliday. “He wasn’t regular army—he was S.S.”

  “I suppose you would be able to make such distinctions,” murmured the other man.

  “Just who are you?” Holliday asked.

  “You can call me Thomas,” said the man.

  “Doubting Thomas?” Holliday said.

  “If you like,” answered the man, smiling lightly. “Now, how can the Church be of help?”

  “The church can give me back my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Peggy Blackstock. The photographer who accompanied your expedition into Libya led by a man named Charles- Étienne Brasseur. They were supposed to be looking for the tomb of Imhotep. They were actually looking for a shipment of bullion flown out of Germany in 1944 on a captured American bomber named Your Heart’s Desire.”

  “Your information seems very detailed,” answered Father Thomas, still smiling blandly.

  “The answers are always in the details,” said Holliday.

  “As I understand it from the newspaper reports Father Brasseur and the rest of the expedition are being held hostage by a terrorist group known as the Brotherhood of Isis.”

  “The Brotherhood is a crock and neither Peggy nor Brasseur is being held hostage by them. Two days ago they were seen getting into a helicopter on Santo Stefano Island about fifty miles south of here.”

  “Seen by whom?” Father Thomas said.

  “Me,” Holliday answered bluntly.

  “Really?” Father Thomas said. “You are a resourceful man, Colonel Holliday, to know such things.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Holliday. “Peggy and your man Brasseur were in the company of a thug named Massimo Conti. He works for a criminal organization known as La Santa. The same people who were apparently transporting the Rauff bullion out of Libya and into Marseille. Your hirelings, in fact, just like Pesek and Kay, the husband-and-wife team who took out Valador.

  “It took us a while but my friends and I finally figured it out. Alhazred found the gold that the Vatican ratlines lost in 1944. He got in touch and you did a deal, but you betrayed him. The only trouble is Alhazred had already hidden the gold again. Now Alhazred’s disappeared and so has the bullion.”

  “A fanciful tale, Colonel.”

  “But pretty close to the truth, I’ll bet.”

  Father Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh. “So, you have a proposition?”

  “Give us Peggy, we give you the gold. About three tons of it, by my calculations. That would finance a lot of your nasty little group’s operations for a while.”

  “And what nasty little group are you referring to?” Father Thomas asked mildly.

  “You’ve had a lot of names over the years,” said Holliday. “During the time of the Templars you were known as Organum Sanctum, the Instrument of God. During the twenties and thirties you were called Sodalitium Pianum, the Brotherhood of Pius. During the Cold War it was Propaganda Due. The Church has always needed plausible denial, like Nixon’s Watergate plumbers. You’re it, whatever you call yourself, the Vatican’s version of an arm’s-length CIA. Bullyboys answerable to no one. In the twelfth century Henry the Second said, ‘Who will rid me of this troublesome priest,’ and four guys just like you went out and murdered Thomas à Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Ax men. Every big corporation needs them. You’re up to your ears in it. Holy crap, as Peggy would say.”

  “Why would an extraordinary organization such as the one you suggest have any interest in kidnapping a news photographer like Miss Blackstock?” Father Thomas replied.

  “Ask the bald guy who was on the helicopter, the one who almost beat my friend Rafi to death a year ago. Ask the dead guy in that back alley in Jerusalem, the one who tried to kill me and Peggy because of the Templar sword. You knew what the real secret of the Templars was even then: the secret was their continued existence, the secret contained in that little book Helder Rodrigues gave me as he lay dying. Ten thousand connections to a trillion dollars in assets. A great deal of power for anyone who could wield it. That’s why you kidnapped Peggy when the opportunity fell right into your laps. Bait. You knew I’d come looking for her and you were right.” Holliday stood up. “Well, here I am,” he said. “Make your play.”

  “Do you have proof of any of these peculiar allegations?” Father Thomas asked calmly, staring up at him.

  “I don’t need proof,” said Holliday. “I’ve got the gold.”

  Father Thomas stood. “You’re at the Alimandi Hotel?”

  “Just across the street.”

  “We’ll be in touch shortly,” said Father Thomas. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Holliday.” The priest turned on one expensive heel and walked away.

  “Did they buy it?” Rafi asked when they met back at the hotel.

  “Some of it,” said Holliday. “I think they were worried that I was wired.”

  “The man with the attaché case?” Tidyman asked.

  “I think so,” Holliday said and nodded. “Carrying a bug detector in the briefcase.”

  “They’re being careful,” said Rafi.

  “They could stonewall till the cows came home,” said Holliday. “That’s what worries me. They know we’ve got more to lose than they do. They don’t have to play along at all.”

  “I’m not sure of that,” mused Tidyman, sipping a cup of excellent room service coffee. “These people are greedy, just like others of their kind. Like Alhazred. Like the unfortunate Mr. Valador of Marseille, the one smuggling the gold.”

  “Which makes them very dangerous,” reminded Holliday. “Our Czech assassins Pesek and Kay put a hatpin through Valador’s brain, remember? They tried to kill me and Peggy once—they’ll try again, I guarantee it.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Tidyman. “Greed makes people dangerous. It also makes them vulnerable. And that is how we win this game, my friend; we play to their vulnerabilities.”

  24

  Father Thomas called the following morning to arrange another meeting.

  “We were on your turf before,” said Holliday. “How about somewhere else this time?”

  “Where do you suggest?” Father Thomas asked. Holliday could hear the muffled sound of traffic in the background. Thomas was on a cell phone, probably sitting in a car.

  “You could come here,” said Holliday.

  “I think not, Colonel,” the priest replied with a laugh.

  “You’re welcome to bring along your techno-geek with the attaché case. We’ve got nothing to hide,” said Holliday.

  “As the Beatles were so fond of saying, Colonel Holliday, everyone’s got something to hide except me and my monkey.”

  “All right then,” said Holliday. “How about a restaurant? They’ve got a nice roof garden here.”

  “Again too close for comfort,” said the priest. “And too well known. Somewhere a little more discreet, perhaps.”

&nb
sp; “There’s a pizzeria around the corner,” suggested Holliday. “On the Via Candia. It’s called Piacere Molise, a little family place.”

  “You know Rome, Colonel?” For the first time the priest seemed surprised.

  “We ate dinner there last night,” explained Holliday. “The concierge at the hotel suggested it.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Holliday could hear the up-and-down wail of a siren coming over the phone. He could also hear it coming through the open balcony doors. The priest was close by. They were being watched.

  “All right,” said Father Thomas. “When?”

  “Early,” replied Holliday. “It gets crowded quickly. Five okay?”

  “Of course,” answered Father Thomas.

  “How many do I make reservations for?”

  “I shall be bringing a colleague,” said Father Thomas.

  “The techno-geek?” Holliday smiled.

  “Yes, but only briefly. The other man will be a principal in our discussions.”

  “You mind if I bring a friend along?” Holliday said.

  “The more the merrier,” answered the priest. There was a smile in his voice again. “It’s always wise to know one’s enemies.”

  Via Candia was a nondescript street of old apartment blocks with shops and restaurants carved out of their ground floors over the years. Piacere Molise was located in a salmon-colored building at number 60, across from a knockoff perfume store and a knockoff sportswear store. It was late summer, and by five o’clock, with the exception of the restaurants and coffee shops, most of the stores had drawn their gates and rolling shutters. The cars parked at the curb were uniformly small and relatively cheap; Via Candia appeared to cater to the middle class; the men and women on the streets were all dressed like secretaries and clerks. There didn’t seem to be many children.

  Once upon a time Piacere Molise had been the building concierge’s apartment, located beside an old-fashioned porte-cochere that ran through to a courtyard in the back. Now it was three narrow rooms and a kitchen painted a friendly yellow with perhaps a dozen tables inside and four more on the sidewalk outside. The décor was made up of framed prints of famous impressionist painters scattered everywhere interspersed with decorative plates. The rooms were lit by a few modern chandeliers. The tablecloths were yellow and the place mats matched the rust and yellow marble checkerboard tiles on the floor. As the name suggested the restaurant was clearly informal, piacere—come as you are.

  Not surprisingly Father Thomas was already there when Holliday and Rafi stepped into the little pizzeria. He was sitting at one of the double tables in the middle room along with two others. One was the bald man they’d spotted getting out of the helicopter on Santo Stefano; the other was the young priest with the attaché case they’d seen at the Egyptian Museum the day before.

  “I don’t know if I can sit at the same table with that bastard,” said Rafi softly.

  “Baldy?” Holliday said. “Imagine him in his underwear.”

  “Imagine him dead,” grunted Rafi.

  As they approached the table the young man with the attaché case stood up. He had a small wandlike device in his hand and a single-button headphone in his ear. He waved the wand in their direction, passing it up and down their bodies, concentrating on the sound from his earpiece. After a few moments he shook his head, opened his attaché case and tossed the wand inside.

  “Qualcosa?” Father Thomas demanded.

  “Nulla,” said the young man, shaking his head again. “Sono polito.” They’re clean.

  “Andar via,” ordered Father Thomas, making a little brushing movement with his hands. The young man nodded and snapped the attaché case closed.

  “Come desideri, Padre.”

  The young man picked up his attaché case and left the restaurant. Holliday and Rafi sat down across from the priest and his companion.

  Holliday got his first good look at the bald man from the helicopter. Big, muscular even in a plain dark suit. Big-knuckled hands like hammers. He wasn’t bald at all; his head was shaved clean without a hint of stubble. The face was hard and Slavic, maybe Russian, the cheekbones high, the cheeks themselves slightly cavernous and the chin sharp. The eyes were a pale cornflower blue, the pupil on the right eye with a cast that made it look as though a black tear was staining the glittering iris. The man was staring at them like a butcher-bird deciding which spiky thorn it would impale them on. The stare of a true believer; the stare of a wild animal tugging at its leash. Holliday knew exactly why the priest had brought him to the meeting: he was a hound being given the scent of its prey.

  Father Thomas smiled across the table at Holliday.

  “I gather that Dr. Wanounou and Father Damaso have already met,” said the priest.

  The bald man looked at Rafi with an expressionless stare. Then his lips twitched, briefly revealing a double row of surprisingly white teeth. Rafi looked back.

  “We were never formally introduced,” said Rafi.

  “Father Damaso was very pleased to discover that you had come to Rome. He tells me the two of you have some unfinished business.”

  “We’re not here for a pissing contest,” said Holliday.

  “I’m not entirely sure what we’re here for,” said the priest.

  A young waiter in a long apron appeared with a dish of olives and a basket of bread. He put them both down on the table, then brought a large pepper grinder out of one of the apron’s deep pockets and a scratch pad from another. He put the pepper grinder on the table, then asked for their order in very broken English. The priest immediately questioned the waiter in Italian and the young man responded with a list of things that sounded as though they could be dinner entrées.

  The priest turned back to Holliday.

  “Molise is a very poor region of Italy but it is known for a dish that is a specialty here: zuppa di pesce alla Termolese, a sort of Italian bouillabaisse. They also carry a rather good vintage of a local white wine, Falanghina Del Molise 2005, very nice with the fish.”

  “We didn’t come here to eat,” said Holliday.

  “An Italian never needs an excuse to eat,” answered the priest. “There is no reason why we cannot share a meal.” His smile flashed momentarily. “On me, of course,” he said. Father Thomas turned away briefly and spoke to the waiter. The young man scribbled on his notepad, repeated the order back to the priest and then scurried away, heading toward the rear of the restaurant.

  “Can we get down to business now?” Holliday asked, the irritation clear in his voice.

  “I wasn’t aware that we had any business,” said Father Thomas. He spent a few seconds preparing himself a little side plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar from the little vinaigrette decanters on the table, then tore a piece of bread in half and wiped it through the mixture. He popped the chunk of bread into his mouth and followed it up with an olive.

  “You have my cousin Peggy. We want her back.”

  “Ah, yes,” the priest said and nodded. “Dr. Wanounou’s paramour.” He smiled at Rafi, then dipped another piece of bread into the oil-and-vinegar mixture.

  “We’re offering the gold for her return,” said Holliday. “You get Rauff’s bullion in exchange.”

  “How do I know you have the gold?” Father Thomas asked.

  “I never said we had it. I said we knew where it was.”

  “How do you know we haven’t found it already?”

  “It wasn’t in the camp. If you’d managed to take Alhazred alive after your little raid he would have told you by now and you wouldn’t be sitting here bargaining with us.”

  “The Church has plenty of money, Colonel Holliday. Why should we need your so-called bullion?”

  “Number one, I’m not so sure that the Church has as much money as you’d have us think; you’re much the same as General Motors, Ford and Chrysler; you’re trying to sell an inferior product and people just aren’t buying anymore. Number two, even if the Church has money, I’m willing to bet your budget is
n’t what it once was. And number three, if any word of the Church’s involvement with Rauff and that gold became public it would put the last nail in the coffin of your continued existence. You have to get that gold back before it starts leaking onto the open market. That’s why you had Pesek and Kay kill Valador in Cannes; he was skimming. You need to get those bars re-smelted and erase any connection between Rauff and the Church. A German Pope who was in the Hitler Youth is bad enough; the Church in bed with the man who invented the modern gas chamber would be a disaster.”

  “As you suggest, Colonel Holliday, gold is probably the easiest currency to launder. Yesterday’s gold incisor is tomorrow’s wedding band. But the question is irrelevant; Standartenführer Rauff made an agreement with us in 1944. Through our organization he received aid and documentation allowing for his escape from prosecution. In return he promised us his hoard of Tunisian gold. We kept our part of the bargain and even posthumously he will keep his. The gold is ours by right.”

  “Release Peggy and you’ll have it,” said Holliday.

  There was a pause in the conversation as the waiter reappeared with the wine, followed by a man in a chef’s high hat carrying two large flattish bowls piled high with clams, mussels and seafood in an aromatic broth. The waiter set down the wine, the man in the chef’s hat put down the bowls and a few seconds later a plump, pleasant-looking woman in a flowered dress appeared carrying two more bowls of the zuppa di pesce and then withdrew with a beaming Buon appetito!

  The priest lifted his fork, picked out a mussel on top of the pile in his bowl and surgically removed the meat from its dark shell. He savored the morsel, then washed it down with a little wine. Nobody else at the table had touched either food or drink. Father Thomas gave a little sigh and put down his glass.

  “I think perhaps you should disabuse yourself of any thought that our meeting is in any way a negotiation, Colonel Holliday. You are out-gunned, outnumbered and outmaneuvered. You have nothing to bargain with. Should you decide not to tell me about the whereabouts of the gold I shall have Father Damaso here defile your cousin in ways you could not imagine in a thousand years. Should you continue to guard the secret of the bullion’s whereabouts Father Damaso will execute Miss Blackstock, slowly and painfully. And he will enjoy himself doing it, Colonel.