by Gregg Loomis
As though agreeing with someone Lang hadn’t heard, Morse nodded to him. “Broke in here with two knives and winds up taking the quick way down rather’n stay in the same room with you, Mr. Reilly? That your story?”
“And I’m sticking to it.”
“Hard to believe perp’d kill hiss’sef like that rather’n take th’ collar. Way the courts work, wasn’t even facing major time. Sure you didn’t use some kinda persuasion to throw him out, jujitsu him through the glass there? You sure as hell be justified, him breakin’ in here like he did.”
Lang shook his head. “Nope, like I said, I knocked the knife outta his hand, hit him a lick on the back of the head and he dropped the other one. He jumped through the glass door.”
Morse ran a hand across the bottom half of his face. “You about the baddest ass I’ve seen. Where you do your workouts, Parris Island? Where you learn to handle a man with a knife?”
“Navy SEAL,” Lang said. The story was as verifiable as it was false.
Morse eyed him with renewed interest. “SEAL, huh? Thought them guys were career. You don’ look old enough to take retirement.”
“Was in Desert Storm in ’90, took a raghead bullet clearing Kuwait City harbor.”
Morse’s crime scene crew was poking around the room, moving objects on the secretary with pencils, inspecting the bottoms of furniture. Lang couldn’t even guess what they hoped to find. Grumps watched with declining interest.
“Lemme get this straight.” Morse was consulting his note pad. “That dog growls, you hear somebody foolin’ with th’ lock. ’Stead o’ callin’ 911 then, you jus’ wait for him to come in. Like, meybbe you want to bust him yo’seff?”
Lang straightened the rug with his foot. “I told you: there wasn’t time. If I’d been on the phone instead of ready for him, there’s a good chance the homicide would be here instead of down there.”
Morse’s eyes were searching the room again. “You got a phone in the bedroom. All you had t’ do was lock yo’seff in an’ call the police.”
Lang chuckled, although he couldn’t put much humor in it. “That’s what you’d do, put your life in the hands of the local 911 operators, same ones let a man croak of a heart attack last month while they argued about whose jurisdiction he was dying in? I’d be better off calling the San Francisco police.”
“Okay,” Morse admitted with a raised hand. “Meybbe all the bugs ain’t worked out yet.”
“Yet?” Lang asked, incredulous. “System was installed in ’96. The ‘bugs’ are the mayor’s friends, sold it to the city.”
“You own a firearm?” the detective wanted to know.
The change of subject almost caught Lang off balance just as he surmised it was supposed to. It was standard practice for the Atlanta cops to confiscate, or at least hold as long as possible, every handgun they could find on whatever excuse they could manufacture. This wasn’t a time to be unarmed.
“You got a warrant?” Lang parried.
Morse sighed. “Not only you dangerous to be around, you a smartass, too. You want a warrant, I can get one.”
He apparently intended to bluff it out.
“From whom, the Wizard of Oz? You got zip for probable cause.”
Morse gave Lang a glare. “Okay, keep your artillery. We ain’t gettin’ ennywhere thisaway. You ever see this dude before?”
Lang set the overturned chair upright and sat in it, motioning Morse to the other. “Never.”
The policeman sat as he shook his head. “You sure? Ain’t easy believein’ perp goes to all the trouble to sneak into the buildin’, come up here jus’ to kill a stranger. You tellin’ me ever’thin’?”
“Sure,” Lang said. “Least I can do to assist our law enforcement personnel.”
Morse grunted. “ ’Nough wise-assin’.” He grew serious. “You mus’ think I’m some kinda stupid, I’d believe a guy come up here t’kill a perfect stranger an’ wind up taking a long walk off a short balcony. You know somethin’ you not tellin’. You know itsa crime, lie to the police?”
Lang’s hand touched the pocket with the pendant in it. “You think I’m being less than candid?”
Morse leaned forward. “You know somethin’ you not tellin’.”
The bald photographer and the woman with the suitcase were standing by the door, their investigation complete.
Lang went to the door and opened it. “Detective, I give the police every bit of credit they’re due.” He extended a hand. “Nice to have met you, although I can’t say much for the circumstances.”
Morse’s grip was strong, consistent with what Lang would have expected of the lean body, like a runner’s. It was easy to imagine the detective winning a foot race with a fugitive.
“We may well be back.”
“Any time.”
5
Atlanta
Later that night
Lang was too tense to sleep. Instead his mind spun in what seemed like endless circles.
Was the pendant a clue or simply a bit of personal jewelry? Lang was unaware he was shaking his head no. A man who didn’t even carry a wallet would hardly wear an individualized item.
Unlikely Lang was dealing with a sole person. A lone individual would have a hard time conducting twenty-four- hour surveillance, a harder time planning the theft of military thermite.
And why would a reproduction of a painting by a minor artist be worth the lives of whoever possessed it? Whoever they were, they had the fanaticism of zealots, a willingness to die for something Lang did not understand.
Yet.
It was all too bizarre. Perhaps it involved wackos, nut- balls who had a serious if irrational grudge against that picture and anyone who had anything to do with it.
Lang had already made up his mind to find out.
If there was an organization, people other than the body on the pavement below his condominium, responsible for Janet and Jeff, he had to know or be looking over his shoulder the rest of his life. And given the murderous nature of these people, that might not be very long. Besides, if others were involved, Janet and Jeff demanded he get even.
Lang knew precious little to begin with, but he was fairly certain the answers were not in Atlanta. He was due a little vacation anyway.
Once at the office, he had Sara begin preparing requests for a leave of absence in each of his cases. He had to specify the time, so he gave himself a month. He didn’t have to state where he was going, though. Just as well. He wasn’t certain.
He wasn’t certain what he would be searching for, nor for whom. What did the painting have to do with it? Was the pendant significant?
He was certain of only one thing: The vendetta had begun.
THE TEMPLARS:
THE END OF AN ORDER
An Account by Pietro of Sicily
Translation from the medieval Latin by Nigel Wolffe, Ph.D.
1
THE CROSS AND THE SWORD
The crimson cross on his surcoat was elongated, emulating the huge sword that required both hands to wield, yet the cross he cherished was the small one of equal arms, the one in the silver circle he wore about his neck, the one described by the four equal triangles.
But I confuse my sequence in hastily composing these, my last notes. I shall commence again, this time at the beginning.
I, Pietro of Sicily, write of these things in the Year of Our Lord 1310,1 three years after my arrest and false accusation and the false accusation of my brethren of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon and the issuance of the Papal Bull, Pastoralis praeminentia, which commanded any Christian monarch to seize our lands, our chattels and all other goods in the name of His Holiness Clement V.
In past years, to write of myself would have constituted pride, a sin in the eyes of God. Now I am unsure there is sin and, heaven help me for my blasphemy, if there is God at all. The events of which I write or those that have led me to apostasy are those I set out herein, not because I, God’s humble servant, deserve note b
ut because I have observed that the powerful write the histories and those who have caused the downfall of my brothers are powerful indeed.
Although it is not important, just as I am not important, I was born to a serf of a minor lord in Sicily in the fourth year of the reign of James II of Aragon, King of Sicily.2 I was the youngest of six children, the one whom my mother died birthing. Unable to support his family, my father took me to a nearby house of Benedictine friars that they might succor me, raise me in the faith and benefit from such labours as they, and God, might choose for me.
Would that I had cleaved to our founder’s admonition that, to attain purity, one must “seek solitude, submit to fasting, vigils, toils, nakedness, reading and other virtues.”3
The monastery was given largely to farming, close enough to the town to see the three towers of a new castle built on heathen ruins. Like all such institutions, it was dedicated to intercession for its patrons and the souls of its benefactors and caring for the poor.
I was taught skills beyond those known to villeins of my birth: the making and reading of letters, the understanding and speaking of Latin and Frankish and the knowledge of mathematics. It was at this last skill that I, with God’s help, became most proficient. By my twelfth summer, I kept the accounts for the cellarer:4 the volume of grapes and olives harvested, the number of loaves made, the poor donations from those who sought our prayers, even the quantity of plates fired in the kiln.
It was also that summer I was to end my novitiate,5 becoming a full member that fall. If only I had not succumbed to the sin of ambition, I would be there yet and would not be facing the cruel fate that awaits me.
It was in August when I saw him, Guillaume de Poitiers, a knight on a magnificent white horse and the most beautiful man I had ever seen. I had been outside the monastery walls, measuring the quantity of sheep dung to be put on the vegetable garden, when I looked up and there he was.
Despite the heat of the day, he wore full armour, including a hauberk,6 underneath his flowing white surcoat which was emblazoned front and back with the blood-red cross-pattee, announcing to all that he had been to and returned from the Holy Land. His garments thereby proclaimed him to be a knight of the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, the most fearsome and holy soldiers of the Church.
On his left hip was strapped a long dagger of a design foreign to me, with a curved blade wider than the hilt, which I later learned was a weapon of the heathen Saracens. On his right was a very short knife.
His esquire, mounted on an ass, led two other horses, mighty creatures far larger than the beasts I had seen. Across their backs were strapped a lance, a long, two-edged sword, and a Turkish mace, as well as a triangular body-shield which was adorned by a crimson cross also, this one squarish with perfect triangles for arms.
I followed as he rode through the open gate into the cloister, dismounted and knelt before our poor abbot as though he were paying obeisance to the pope himself. He asked for a night’s shelter and food for his man and animals. He requested these for himself last, after his horses and esquire, as was proper for men of God as were we and was he.
As he knelt in supplication, I noted his hair was long and unkempt, his armour beginning to rust and his robe and cape covered with the dust of travel. Travel he had, as I was to learn later. He had survived the fall of Acre, the last Christian city in the Holy Land, the year after my birth. With the former residents of Jaffa, Tyre, Sidon and Ascalon, he and his remaining brethren had fled in Venetian ships along with Grand Master Theobald Gaudin who brought with them such treasure and relics as the Order had.
Guillaume had waited in Cyprus for the papal pleasure of Boniface VIII, thinking that once again it would please God to send the Knights to cleanse the infidel from Jerusalem.7
When it became apparent this would not take place soon, he was ordered to return to his original monastery in Burgundy. He was on his way there when I saw him.
Risking the sin of jealousy, I managed to kneel next to him at Vespers that evening, the better to admire the accoutrements I have described. I could not but notice the sun’s dark mark on his face and a star-shaped scar at his neck, a wound his esquire told me he received from a heathen arrow and survived only by God’s grace.
It was then I observed the circlet of silver encompassing what I had first perceived as four triangles. It was only later he explained to me the triangles described the equal arms of the Templar cross, symbolizing the Holy Rood with the equality of all the Poor Brothers of the Temple of Solomon. It was the only adornment the Order allowed its members.
He also noticed my interest in his scar, for after the last prayer, he touched the discolored skin and said, “Only the low-born kill at a distance, young brother. Knights look into the souls of their enemies.”
“Souls?” I said, curious. “The heathen, the accursed of the true God, have souls?”
At this he laughed, drawing the attention of Brother Larenzo, a devout man and prior of the abbey. “He is human, young brother. And do not forget, those figures you use in your calculations instead of Roman letters come from the infidel as do your calculations of the seasons. He is a worthy foe. And, at least for now, he holds all the Outremer,8 having ousted the best Christendom could muster.”
Brother Larenzo was making no effort to conceal that he was listening to the conversation. I was already the subject of his ire since silence and meditation after Vespers is the rule. I had had more than one beating at his hands for sacrilege, so I replied, “But surely Christ’s Church will ultimately prevail.”
Guillaume laughed again, to the prior’s great annoyance. Laughter was as rare inside these walls as the wealth we had all foresworn. “The trouble is not with Christ’s Church, it is with Christ’s kings and princes. They fight among themselves instead of uniting against the nonbelievers. They are wont to worry more about the power of rival sovereigns than domination of the very home of Jesus by heathens.” Here he moved his hand in a rough estimation of crossing himself. “Many such kings even fear us, the Poor Knights of the Temple.”
Would that I had listened with a sharper ear to this last! Had I heeded it and all it implied, I would not now be facing the fate that awaits me, a stake surrounded by brush to be lit.
I confess again to the sin of pride when this brave knight who had so valiantly served the cause of Christ chose to accompany me, rather than the abbot, to the refectory for the evening meal. I could feel all eyes upon me as I genuflected before the crucifix behind the abbot’s table to give thanks.
Once seated, our guest gave his bowl of porridge a look of disgust. “No meat?” he asked, interrupting the reading from the lectern.9
The entire room went silent, so shocked were we that anyone less than a nobleman would expect to find meat, even more so in a weekday supper.
The abbot was an elderly brother, his voice little more than a wheeze across toothless gums. He coughed, making an effort to be heard from the dais where he shared a table with the elder and governing brothers.
“Good brother,” he said, “Christ’s last meal was only bread and wine. How much more nourishing is this? Be thankful, for there are many who have not even this simple repast.”
Once again Guillaume gave that laugh as he raised his clay cup of watered wine. “You are right, good abbot. I am thankful for this meal and for the hospitality you afford a poor knight returning from the service of Christ.”
Satisfied, the old abbot continued to gum the mush of cereals that was our lot more often than not.
Without lifting his eyes from his bowl and spoon, Guillaume muttered to me, “I did not expect the killing of the fatted calf but even the laziest of men can snare a hare and I have seen countless roe in the forest hereabouts.”
Fascinated by words that would have earned me a beating for impertinence if not sacrilege, I asked, “And you Templars have hare or roe with weekday suppers?”
“And with the noon meal also. Or beef or pork. Mush like this does not sustai
n a man’s body.”
“It does keep his soul, however,” a brother on the other side whispered.
Guillaume shoved his bowl away hardly touched. It is a rich man who passes up food. Or a foolish one. “Souls do not fight the Saracen, bodies do.”
After the meal, the order’s rules required a retreat to the chapel for confession and then to individual cells for private prayer before Compline.10 I had been given a dispensation to work in the order’s small counting room. The olives were near harvest and it was necessary I calculate how many boissel11 the order would have to press into oil for sale. I was completing my initial figures on a slate and preparing to transfer them to the permanence of sheep parchment when I became aware of Guillaume.
He gave me a smile filled with perfect teeth and entered to look over my shoulder. “These figures of the infidel, you understand them?”
I nodded. “You do not?”
He looked at them from one angle, then another, frowning. “A knight does not trouble with figures or letters. They are for priests and monks.”
“But you are a member of a monastic order.”
Again the laugh. “This is true, but a special order. You note I do not wear sackcloth that stinks and crawls with vermin, and that, dusty from travel, I bathe. The Knights of the Temple do not live like other monks.”
“You certainly are not reputed to accept Our Lord’s command to turn the other cheek, either,” I said with unaccustomed boldness.
“Nor do I believe the meek shall inherit the earth. I do not believe our Lord ever said such a thing. It is cant, false dogma to keep serfs and vassals subservient.”
Such talk made me uneasy, for it bordered on heresy. Yet he was a knight whose neck bore physical witness of his willingness to die for Church and pope.
“Obedience,” I said, “is one of the basic vows of our order.”
“And without it, chaos would result,” he said. “An army marching to more than one set of orders cannot survive the enemy. It is meekness I deplore, not obedience.”
This made me feel more comfortable.
