by Gregg Loomis
“What say you, good brother?” asked the cellarer. As the senior brother present, he was, under the rules of the Order, acting as abbot.
“I am no brother to you,” the bailie said.
I knew not his name but seen him at the Temple before, his little swine-eyes peering from a face of corpulence as if he were a merchant about to offer a price for a bolt of cloth.
“What means this intrusion?” the cellarer asked.
The bailie motioned so that the various men-at-arms filled the room and blocked all exit therefrom, though in truth the only exit was into the store closet to which I have referred. “In the name of Philip, by Grace of God King of the French, I order you to stand forth, for you, all of you, are under arrest and all goods herein forfeit.”
A murmur of protest ran its course before the cellarer said, “So it cannot be, for we are of the Church, not subject to the laws of God’s servant Philip.”
The bailie was undismayed. He let out a laugh like the bark of a dog, reading from a document that bore the royal seal, “You are accused by your king of such crimes as idolatry, blasphemy and such physical atrocities as fondling each other, kissing each other upon the fundament and other private places, of burning the bodies of deceased brothers to make powder of the ashes which you then mix in the food of younger brothers, of roasting infants and anointing idols with the fat therefrom, of celebrating hidden rites and mysteries to which young and tender virgins are introduced, and a variety of abominations too absurd and horrible to be named.10 As such you are forfeit any rights to heard by ecclesiastical courts.”
“You will answer to His Holiness,” someone said.
“His Holiness does King Philip’s bidding,” the bailie replied.
With this pronouncement we were roughly shoved and dragged outside, placed in ass-drawn carts and taken away from the Temple and into a night illuminated by a waning moon. The darkness that gripped my spirit was without even this poor light, for the charges made against us were so far from the realm of truth as to be the product of certain perjury. My only consolation was that many of my brothers had been forewarned that very afternoon and I had witnessed their escape.
I could but ponder if the king’s men had found the document or if it was still safe in its hiding place. Mere possession of such a writing could have condemned us all.
I knew not whence we were being taken but I had little hope for what would happen once we arrived. I was well aware of the treatment accorded witches, sorcerers and heretics. The heaviest part to bear, though, was that I had just gained the hurtful knowledge in the cave that redemption was not certain. In my own heart, I was a heretic more virulent than had I been guilty as charged.
Translator’s Notes
1. Over the two centuries of their existence, the Templars had been given vast estates, most of which contained serfs. Each Temple so invested thereby became a feudal landlord.
2. Though not suitable for motorized vehicles, the course of this old Roman road is quite ascertainable. The first attempt at an accurate survey of France (1733–1789, undertaken by the father and son Jacques and Cesar-François Cassini de Thury) shows it as the main access to the area.
3. Parts of Spain were occupied by the Moors, Berbers, until 1492, although at the time of Pietro’s writing Andalus, not Catalonia, was the province under Moslem rule.
4. There was no standard size for the manuscripts monks copied by hand, but a good guess in comparison to the average size would be sixty centimeters by forty and perhaps thirty thick.
5. The writer uses the Latin in situ, meaning the original or natural position. Since a carved block of stone is hardly natural or original, the translator has taken a liberty in departing from the original text.
6. Medieval monastic orders frequently had rules of the order prohibiting running, hurrying or other rash conduct that was not conducive to an air of contemplation in the monastery itself. Whether this was true of the Temple is unknown. Perhaps Pietro is thinking about the former monastery.
7. The Black Death, bubonic plague, which wiped out nearly a third of Europe, was still fifty years in the future. More limited outbreaks were not unknown in Pietro’s time.
8. Jacques de Molay, Master of the Order 1293–1314. De Molay had, only three years before he succeeded in having Pope Boniface VIII grant the Order exemptions from taxation in England by directive to Edward I, had been given a papal promise that the “moveable goods of the Order will never be seized by secular jurisdiction, nor will their immovables ever be wasted or destroyed.”
9. The chapter house was the room where the various chapters of the rules of the Order were read to the brothers and such business matters as concerned the Order were discussed. 10. The original draft of the complete charges, eighty-seven in number, is preserved in the Tresor des Chartres and includes various forms of idolatry such as animal worship and imbuing the Grand Master with the ability to forgive sins.
10. The original draft of the complete charges, eighty-seven in number, is preserved in the Tresor des Chartres and includes various forms of idolatry such as animal worship and imbuing the Grand Master with the ability to forgive sins.
Part Four
CHAPTER ONE
1
London, Piccadilly
0530 hours
Lang’s internal clock woke him. For that one instant, yesterday was as ephemeral as the dream he could no longer remember. Pegasus and the Templars were some living nightmare he expected to vanish like smoke. In their home in Atlanta, Janet and Jeff were getting ready for work and school. Lang needed to check his electronic notebook for the day’s appointments.
The feminine smell of the room and the sour taste of last night’s greasy Chinese were more substantial. Those and his aching hand, bruised from driving it into the man’s stomach the night before, were real.
Lang had dropped off without bothering to undress. That, along with a day’s beard, didn’t show him the image he would have preferred when he checked the mirror over the vanity. He knocked on the door to the adjacent bath. No response. Not likely any of Nellie’s girls were up at—he checked his watch—five-thirty. Once in the small bath, he latched the far door before peeling off clothes that felt as if they had become part of his skin.
He had to fiddle with the knobs and adjust the detachable shower head before he got a decent spray. The floral aroma of the soap—eau de hooker, he imagined—was a little strong, but it did get him clean even if he did smell like . . . well, like he had just come from exactly where he was.
As needles of hot water massaged his back, he planned how to get across London, an international border and through whatever French towns and cities might be necessary. He wasn’t going to bet that British rail stations and airports weren’t being watched.
He finished his shower, reluctantly using the only towel. It reeked worse than the soap. In the cabinet above the sink he found a cute little pink safety razor. Trying not to think of where it might have been used, he carefully shaved around Herr Schneller’s moustache. He had become as accustomed to it as if he had grown it himself.
Dry and dressed, Lang surveyed the results: an ordinary working bloke in rumpled clothes. It would have been nice if he had dared to go shopping for new attire. Nice but too risky.
He left the room to see if anyone else was awake.
In a small kitchenette off the main salon, he found a tall black woman in a shiny emerald dress. The garment’s deep neckline and high hem told him she had just come in from a night’s work.
“Hullo,” she said, her voice husky with a West Indian accent. “What cat dragged you in?”
“Nellie let me spend the night.”
She turned to face him, her back to a gurgling Mr. Coffee. A sculpted eyebrow arched. “I hate to think what that cost you, honey.”
“And I need to get to Manchester,” Lang added as though it were an afterthought.
She twisted her long body to fill a mug with steaming coffee. She had to bend over so tha
t her already short skirt rose another six inches. Lang didn’t think the effect was accidental.
“Manchester?” she repeated. “You a long way from home, sweetie. Yo wife sho gonna know you gone ’fore you gits home.”
“I’ll pay for the ride,” Lang said.
“I ain’ no taxi service, dahlin’. Jes’ got in mysef. You gonna have to take the train like everbody else.”
But she seemed to be thinking it over as she sipped from the mug.
“Too bad,” he said, making a disappointed face. “I’ll have to hire a car. I’m sure Nellie knows a service. . . .”
Eyes the same color as the coffee contemplated him over the mug. Lang felt like a heifer being appraised at a county fair. “You some kinda special friend o’ Nellie’s?”
He couldn’t resist the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Seeing a cup on the counter, he held it out. “Mind?”
Her head gave a slow shake without her eyes leaving him. “Hep yo’seff.’
He filled the cup with the remainder of the pot. “Known Nellie a long time.”
She emptied her mug and set it on the counter, smacking her lips as though tasting something particularly good. “How much you gonna pay somebody, drive you to Manchester?”
Lang shrugged. “What’s it worth, coupla hundred?”
She treated him to dazzling white teeth. “Lovey, for two hundred quid, I’ll make it the most fun ride you evah, evah had.”
Lang never doubted she could have, but he just wasn’t in the mood. It didn’t seem to bother her at all when, several hours later, untouched, she dropped him off at the British Airways terminal in Manchester. It was only after she had driven off that Lang realized he hadn’t asked her name, nor she his. In fact, she had exhibited a professional lack of curiosity the whole way, saying nothing when he asked her to stop on a bridge where he could toss the Beretta into the river below.
Using the Heinrich Schneller identity and credit card was too chancy. Lang had to assume the umbrella he had left in Jenson’s shop had been traced, but he had insufficient cash for the ticket. Since his destination was an EU country, he didn’t need a passport, but he was going to have to have something identifying him as a U.K. resident.
He watched a newsstand and chose his victim carefully, a man about Lang’s age and build who purchased a Guardian and stuffed his wallet into a jacket pocket. A slight nudge, a polite apology and Lang was Edward Reece, the name on his victim’s driver’s license. Wearing a pair of newly purchased sunglasses over a face missing Herr Schneller’s moustache, Lang picked the busiest counter. Any ticket agent would expect to see his face match that on the license while Lang demonstrated no more than the usual passenger impatience as he shifted his weight and checked his watch.
He tried not look particularly relieved when the pretty woman handed his ticket across the counter. “Enjoy your flight, Mr. Reece. When you arrive in London, ask the agent at the gate for directions to the flight to Toulouse-Blagnac.”
Lang slid into the seat with a combination of the apprehension flying always brought and satisfaction that he had pulled it off so far. At Gatwick, he would change from the domestic to international gates without having to pass through security and the scrutiny of the police he was sure were looking for him. He could even use Schneller’s Visa card. That was the reason for this specific flight: He wanted to avoid Heathrow, whose configuration would have required he enter the international area through metal detectors, observant cops and cameras.
2
London, Gatwick International Airport
0956 hours
Lang was inconspicuous among the business travelers shuffling along the concourse. Many, like him, carried no baggage.
He might have been a little suspicious had he seen a passenger behind him duck into a restroom rather than continue towards the waiting flights for destinations all over Great Britain. The man entered a stall, shut the door and sat, only to flip open a cell phone.
“He’s on the way,” the man said.
3
London: Mayfair
1102 hours
Gurt sat in front of the monitor, nodding as though expressing agreement. The Visa card had provided an irresistible source of financing for Lang’s quest just as she had known it would. She congratulated herself. Men were nothing if not predictable.
Toulouse-Blagnac? Somewhere in the southwest of France, the Languedoc mentioned in those papers Lang had told Jacob about, the ones at Oxford. Apparently Lang thought he would find Pegasus’s secret there, the secret that had almost gotten him killed. Maybe he had right, was right, she corrected herself. Had right or was right, he was likely to be in trouble.
She stood and exited the smoke-sensitive computer room, pausing under a “No Smoking” sign in the corridor to light a Marlboro. She needed to call in a few more favors, go see the guys in the Second Directorate, Science and Technology, although what she needed wasn’t particularly scientific nor was it exactly high-tech.
But first a phone call on a secure land line. Ignoring the glares of the health-conscious, she kept her burning cigarette as she rode down on the elevator. Outside, a brisk walk brought her to an Underground station and a bank of public phones.
She dialled a number, inserting coins when the other end answered. “You were right,” she said without preamble. “He’s headed to France. In fact, his plane should be landing about now.” She listened for a moment. “Fine, I’ll meet you.”
4
Toulouse-Blagnac International Airport
1142 hours
As an arrival from a European Union country, there was no customs, no immigration, no reason for the two airport gendarmes near Gate Seven to notice Lang. They were far too intent on the young lady disposing of the morning’s breakfast croissants behind the small cafeteria counter. She was living proof of the unfairness of life as evidenced by the diversity manufacturers offer in bra sizes.
Lang had disembarked into a large, modern terminal that, absent the multilingual signs, could just as easily have served Birmingham or Peoria. His companions from the flight dispersed quickly, none exhibiting any interest in him. Departing passengers were herded aboard quickly, the aircraft reloaded with baggage and in minutes Lang was the only traveler left in the gate area. It didn’t look like he was being followed.
The bathtub at Nellie’s had been more spacious than the Peugeot Junior he had reserved before leaving Gatwick. Good thing he had no luggage; there would have been little room.
It was the only thing Euro Car had, so Lang presented Mr. Reece’s license, signed the rental agreement, paid a cash deposit and wedged himself in. He was fairly certain that when Reese discovered his wallet missing, he would notify the appropriate parties of the loss of credit cards long before his driver’s permit.
Once Lang found the road, he headed through identical modern high-rises, wondering why modern European multifamily housing was uniformly ugly. Signs led him to the centre de ville, or downtown. Medieval stone and plaster replaced contemporary cookie-cutter.
He noted at least one advantage to the car’s size as he shoehorned it into a parking place between an aging Deux Cheveux and a Renault. Over the top of the Renault, he could see the pink brick tower of the Basilique St-Sernin, all that remained of an eleventh-century monastery, according to the guidebook he had picked up at the airport.
Although the Peugeot fit into the parking place, there wasn’t a lot of room for Lang to open the door and squeeze out. He managed, and walked a block to the town square, which featured the cathedral ubiquitous to European towns. This morning the square itself had been transformed into a small marketplace. Temporary stalls displayed a surprising variety of vegetables for so early in the spring. There were flowers, too, in almost every color, their fragrance mixing with the odor of fish, crustaceans and mussels shining on trays of shaved ice.
Women held small children and haggled with vendors. As in Rome, there were few men in sight.
He left the square and walked down
one of the narrow cobbled streets, looking for what he needed. He passed a charcuterie with feathered fowl and unskinned game hanging in the window above fat sausages. Next was a patisserie, its pies and cakes freshly baked along with long loaves of bread. Habit made him check the glass display windows for anyone else on the street. There was no reflection but his.
He found a shop that had camping supplies and a small tent in the window. From its location, he guessed the store had mostly a local clientele.
The Languedoc was, after all, a small, largely rural province pushed against the shoulders of the Pyrenees. From what Lang had seen so far, it attracted few tourists. When people spoke of the south of France, they usually referred to the Languedoc’s neighbor to the east, the summer playground of the wealthy, the Riviera. Cannes, Nice and Cap d’Antibes were world-famous. In contrast, few people outside of France could name a town in the Languedoc other than Rochefort, home of the blue-veined cheese.
The nearby foothills and mountains did attract local rock climbers and campers, vacationers very different from those of the Côte d’Azur. The out-of-doors types were typically young, adventurous and unable to afford a trip to the more distant and prestigious Alps.
All of that might have accounted for the proprietor’s surliness. That and the fact he was French. Lang didn’t look as young as he guessed most customers would be and he hoped he looked a little wealthier. Lang was sure he didn’t appear to enjoy the grime, insects and unpredictable weather of the great outdoors, either.
But he did know what he wanted: hiking boots, Mephistos. Best in the shop and certainly the most expensive, judging from the shopkeeper’s sudden enthusiasm in showing them. Lang picked out a felt hat with a prestained leather band that Indiana Jones might have favored, a halfliter plastic canteen in a carrying case, two thick cotton shirts, two pairs of jeans, and other equipment any hiker might need such as a compass, a collapsible trenching tool and a flashlight with extra batteries. Finally, he selected two coils of rope, the strong, light-weight fiberglass variety favored by serious mountain climbers. By the time Lang paid for such a large order, probably equal to a week’s sale, all trace of French disdain had been replaced by a regular bonhomie.
