by Gregg Loomis
They looked at each other and Jacob shrugged. “Possibly, but I doubt it. I expect the lads from the police and Inspector Fitzwilliam will keep your former hosts quite busy for some time. I don’t know Portuguese law, but I’ll book someone’s going to have to explain a lot of illegal arms.”
As an American, Lang had forgotten how difficult it is to legally possess anything other than sporting firearms in Europe. “Who’s Fitzwilliam?” he asked.
As they crossed a meadowlike area, Gurt and Jacob took turns explaining that and how they had followed Lang to the Languedoc and then to Sintra. Lang had never before been unaware of what country he was in. He found the experience disorienting.
Beyond the open area was another wall, this one without razor wire. They climbed it, coming down in front of the Templars’ next-door neighbor’s estate, about a quarter of a mile away.
By the time the trio reached the Fiat 1200 parked a street further up the hill, the pulsating of sirens seemed to come from all directions. Two police cars, lights flashing, wailed past.
CHAPTER TWO
1
Rome
Four days later
They took turns driving, stopping only for gas and snacks, until they were back in Rome. There Gurt had access to a safe house, a small apartment on the top floor of a building on the Via Campania. From the window of the tiny living room, they could look across the ancient city wall to the green of the Villa Borghese, Rome’s largest public park.
Jacob took the foldout and Gurt and Lang shared the single bedroom. Happily, the shock torture had no permanent effects.
The moment Lang woke up on the third day, he knew it had to be Sunday. Not only were the busy streets quiet, but he could also hear children’s excited screams and laughter along the park’s walkways and bike paths.
The three managed to keep out of each others’ way long enough to prepare a hearty breakfast in the cramped, galley-style kitchen. Either out of consideration for two stomachs not quite at ease with the smell of fish first thing in the morning or merely because he couldn’t find smoked herring in Rome, Jacob had foregone the kippers and had fried sausages instead. The spicy salsiccia were a welcome substitute for bangers.
Lang was enjoying his second cup of espresso when Jacob fired up his pipe and Gurt lit a Marlboro.
“Jesus, guys,” Lang said, futilely waving the smoke away, “there wasn’t much point in rescuing me only to give me lung cancer.”
Jacob replied, “Demonstrates we can’t stay here forever. Exactly what did you have in mind for your future?”
Lang forgot the smoke. “I’m going to expose the bastards, reveal their secret to the world,” he said, cold fury in his voice. “Once their secret’s out, there’ll be no more extortion money. That will be the end of them.”
Jacob made a sucking noise through his pipe, noted it had gone out and prodded the bowl with a matchstick. “And spend the rest of your unnaturally shortened life looking over your shoulder? Once the secret’s out, that letter doesn’t protect you any longer.”
“Those sons of bitches killed my sister and my nephew. They follow that act by framing me for two murders I didn’t commit,” Lang snapped waspishly. “What do you suggest, kiss and make up?”
Gurt had a question but Jacob spoke first, talking between puffs as he applied a new match. “I’d suggest you think of some form of revenge other than exposure. If not for yourself, for a few hundred million Christians. I mean, I’m a Jew, never was too keen on the Church, but Christianity’s a stabilizing force in the world. You destroy it and . . .”
Gurt had been following the conversation so closely that she had let her cigarette’s ash grow. It fell unnoticed onto the worn rug.
“Destroy Christianity? What . . . ?”
Jacob pointed the stem of his pipe in accusation. “That’s what Lang’s talking about. Tell her.”
“Yeah, tell me.”
Lang sighed. “Jacob read the Templar diary, he made the same guesses I did and we were both right.
“The Templar who wrote that diary was familiar with the Gnostic heresy, a . . .”
“The who?” Gurt asked. Her cigarette had burned to the filter and she flinched as she touched the hot ash with her fingers before she stubbed the smoldering butt out in a cracked ashtray.
“The Gnostics were an early sect of Christians. They believed Christ was mortal, by God, not of God. Therefore, His spirit, not His body, ascended into heaven after He was crucified.
“In 325, about the time the Roman emperor Constantine made Christianity the official religion of the empire, various bishops of the church met at Nicea to decide some troubling issues. First, they had to choose among a number of accounts of Christ’s life. They selected four: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Possibly one of the reasons these were preferred over others is that all four have Christ being resurrected, body and all. Hence, His immortality and triumph over death, the basic Christian message as well as fulfillment of Jewish messianic prophecy. Subsequently, the Gnostics and any others who didn’t share the official view were hunted down and liquidated as heretics.
“The Templars discovered the Gnostics were right: Jesus’s body had not ascended into heaven or anywhere else. Instead, His brother and wife fled Palestine, taking the body with them.”
“That was what was in the ‘vessel’ Pietro read about in the Gnostic writings,” Jacob interjected.
“In one form or another,” Lang said. “Jewish funerary custom of the time required the body be allowed to decompose for at least a year. The bones were then put in an ossuary, a small stone box, and permanently entombed. Whether Jesus’s body was brought to the Languedoc and his bones then moved or was hidden until only the bones were left, we’ll never know.”
“Why not leave the body where it was, where it was placed after the crucifixion?” Gurt wanted to know.
Lang shrugged. “I can’t say for sure, but I can make a number of guesses. One would be that the Jewish messianic prophesies all called for resurrection of the body. Leaving the corpse would deny messiah status to Christ and stature to his disciples. Second, that would also occur to His followers, who might well take the body themselves if His family didn’t. Third, Christ was executed as a common criminal. Tombs were for the wealthy. It would be just a matter of time before the body was dumped or placed in a lesser grave.”
“So, the body, or just the bones, is moved to southwest France?” Gurt had another Marlboro in her hand.
Lang nodded. “And the Templars discovered exactly where. You can imagine the havoc the appearance of Christ’s remains would have caused the church. The Templars had a good idea. They began to blackmail the Church, the pope.”
Gurt lit up, puffed and looked up at Lang. “If you’re talking about the Middle Ages, the pope would have been powerful enough to simply go destroy the body, move it where it couldn’t be found or eliminate the Templars.”
Lang thought a moment. “Again, I’m only guessing, but I don’t think the pope was that powerful. He had to hire mercenaries every time he had to go to war. The Templars had what amounted to a standing army and had fortified the area around the tomb with the castle, Blanchefort. Any attempt to take the body would have chanced the Templars making their secret public. Plus, I’d speculate no pope wanted to be involved in desecrating the tomb of Christ, even though they weren’t willing to admit it existed.”
Both Jacob and Gurt were silent for a moment, no doubt trying to poke holes in Lang’s theory.
Jacob asked, “Assuming you’re right on, why didn’t the Templars just move the ossuary, take it someplace they could keep secure?”
Lang had wondered about this before and thought he had the answer. “To find the tomb, they had to have a clue. They had some sort of documentation that placed Christ’s tomb right where it is. If they moved it, the ossuary lost its authenticity.”
“You mean, like a picture, a painting no one knew existed, that turns up in somebody’s attic without a provenance but with
what looks like Rembrandt’s signature on it,” Jacob said, ruefully regarding a cold pipe again. “You can test the pigment, the canvas, but there’ll always be a smidgen of doubt.”
“A doubt the Templars couldn’t afford,” Lang said.
Gurt filled her coffee cup before raising an eyebrow at Jacob.
“No thanks,” he said. “That stuff would melt the spoon, you tried to stir it.”
“It’s espresso,” she said. “It’s supposed to be strong.”
Jacob pushed his cup a few inches away. “It may be authentic Italian espresso, but my nerves can’t take any more caffeine.” He looked at Lang. “Which still leaves the question of what you plan to do.”
He was right, of course. Exposing the Templars’ secret would give Lang great personal satisfaction but it would devastate a large part of the world’s population. He thought of Francis, how the revelation would destroy his faith, his reason for life, just as it had Pietro’s. He remembered the peace religion had given Janet. Who was he to singlehandedly undo two thousand years of good works? Well, mostly good works, anyway, overlooking the Crusades, the Inquisition and a few other unfortunate excesses.
He made a decision. “Gurt, I would be surprised if Pegasus isn’t looking for me. I don’t think it’s to our advantage for them to know where we are, sure not to yours and Jacob’s if they connect you with getting me out of Sintra. Are the stores here open on Sunday?”
She regarded him with curiosity. “Most are.”
“Could you get me a computer? A laptop, any make as long as it has a modem.”
She frowned. “I suppose this will go on my credit card just like your airplane tickets.”
She wasn’t angry about it, just unwilling to let him forget.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “You know I’ll pay you back.”
“How?”
He didn’t get her meaning. “How?”
“I would very much like to see Atlanta, visit Tara and the places in that wonderful book.”
Lang was stumped for a second. Then, “You mean Atlanta, Gone With the Wind? I didn’t know people read it anymore, seeing as it’s become politically incorrect. Anyway, those places don’t exist.”
“I never have been to Atlanta or the American South.”
“This time of year, it’s hot and the city has the second worst air quality in the country.”
“I do not intend to live outside in a tent. I am sure there is air-conditioning available.”
“And the third worst traffic.”
“I do not intend to drive.”
“Sounds lovely,” Jacob grinned.
“I still want to see it,” Gurt said. “I think you do not want me to visit.”
Truth was, he didn’t. Visiting would have been fine but the idea of sharing his small condo with a woman for longer than one night was disquieting. He had visions of beauty potions on the bathroom sink, lacy undies in dresser drawers and pantyhose draped over the shower curtain. He had experienced difficulty a couple of times with women who came to visit and were less than eager to leave. On the other hand, he owed his life to Gurt: she had helped him and was about to again. He was not an ungracious person. Particularly when the promise to be performed was in the indefinite future and a stunningly attractive woman was involved.
“Done,” Lang said. “Now what about that computer?”
“I can bring one from the Agency,” she volunteered.
“No, I want a new one, a machine that’s never had any e-mail address other than mine.” He turned to Jacob. “And I’ll need Pegasus’s e-mail address. They are a corporation registered in the Channel Islands, so they would have an address, maybe a Web site for their legitimate businesses.”
2
Rome
Two hours later
[email protected] was the address, found easily enough by Jacob. The sales staff at the electronic store had been very helpful in programming the new computer, including Lang’s own e-mail address and password so he could use his existing Internet service.
At the kitchen table, Gurt and Jacob peered over his shoulder as he slowly typed in the message all three had agreed upon:
Wish to meet to discuss matters of mutual interest. Reply before matters made public.
Reilly
Short if not sweet.
An hour passed. Unable to concentrate, Lang reread the same page of Friday’s International Herald Tribune a dozen or so times. Jacob dozed in front of the window while Gurt listened to a German-language broadcast of what she said was a soccer match. For all Lang knew, it could have been The Best of Adolph’s Speeches. The reaction by the audience would have been the same.
The Herald Tribune is the only place “Calvin and Hobbes” still exists. For once, Lang didn’t find the strip amusing. He was too busy trying to think how an e-mail could be traced to a specific phone line.
An hour had just passed when the computer made a sound like a gong and words appeared on the screen. The picture of an unopened envelope made understanding Italian for “you’ve got mail” unnecessary.
Name time, place, conditions.
That was all it said—brief, succinct. Obviously Pegasus hadn’t referred the question to the legal department.
Lang had previously asked Gurt and Jacob for their input in anticipation of just this question.
Church of San Clemente, Via di San Giovanni in Laterano. Rome. Triclinium of Mithras. 1530 hrs. Tues next. One person only.
Gurt had thought of the forty-eight-hour period. In that time, Lang could reach Rome from anywhere, therefore he could be anywhere when the e-mail was sent. The place was Jacob’s idea. San Clemente was typical of Rome in that the site contained several periods of history. At street level, or actually slightly below, the simple eighteenth-century facade at the bottom of the Esquiline Hill indicated a church that had been in use since the twelfth century. Beneath the carved altar and mosaics of the drowning of Saint Clement were the ruins of a fourth-century Christian place of worship. Deeper yet were the ruins of a Temple of Mithras, a first-century male fertility cult that drifted into Rome from Persia to become popular among Rome’s military.
Lang recalled that the site had been maintained and continually excavated since the seventeenth century by an order of Irish Dominican monks. So far as he knew, they haven’t found any whisky yet.
The advantages of the site for a potentially hostile meeting were several. First, few if any tourists knew about the place. Second, the Mithran temple consisted of passages wide enough for only one person at a time. Finally, the church was at or near the bottom of a steep hill where Jacob could keep watch in secret, calling Lang on a cell phone if a trap appeared imminent. Also, Gurt and her rifle could easily cover the only entrance.
3
Rome, Laterano
1530 hours the next Tuesday
Churches in Rome close at half past noon on weekdays, reopening three and a half hours later. Jacob and Gurt had been in a second-story storage area of a shoe store across the Via di San Giovanni since ten o’clock. In the normal Italian manner of doing business, the shopkeeper had accepted a handful of bills without a single question in exchange for use of the premises. After all, it was money the hated tax man would never know about and, therefore, would not take.
With punctuality uncharacteristic of Rome, a brown- robed monk opened the doors at precisely three-thirty. The sharp edges of a hammerless .38 stuck in Lang’s belt under a jacket dug into his backside as he followed the brother inside and past the ornately carved choir enclosure to their left.
The monk disappeared and Lang was alone. Approaching the altar, he noted the detailed animals and leaves depicted in the mosaics of the apse. To the right was an open door and a staircase.
The darkness into which Lang descended was interrupted by weak lightbulbs hung every twenty or so feet from the low ceiling. Somewhere below, water was rushing, a reminder that Rome is located on a number of aquifers, so many that almost all of the hundreds of fountains spout pota
ble water. The passageway was square, wide enough for two persons to pass, and hewn through rock that the dim lights gave a reddish color. Lugubrious faces, whole and in part, stared down from pieces of frescoes, most of which had succumbed to time, neglect and moisture.
In what had been the fourth-century sanctuary, there was little other than a slightly higher ceiling that would have announced its purpose to the uninformed. Lang stood still for a moment, listening to rushing water. Anyone who says silence has no sound, he mused, has never been in a dimly lit ancient ruin, listening for the footsteps of a possible assassin.
A winding metal staircase led to the next level, some fifty feet below the streets of the modern world. What was left of the Mithran temple seemed even more poorly lit than the floor above. A narrow space separated ruined walls that barely reached Lang’s hips. Around every turn, skeletons of steel scaffolding reached to the low vaulted ceiling. Lang wasn’t sure it was there as part of the excavation or to hold up the ancient brick above his head.
This was not a place for the claustrophobic.
Through occasional grates in the outer walls, water black as oil in the dark was visible as it raced by with an roar of anger at its confinement. At every turn, piles of brick and masonry attested to the archaeology in progress, but there was no one at work. The thought of how truly alone he was down here under centuries of ruins added to the chilly dampness that was not entirely his imagination.
At last the narrow path came to a central room. Along each side, a single long bench was carved into the stone walls. In the center was a chest-high block of white marble, the carved figures of Mithras slaying a bull standing in a bold relief caused by the shadows of the few overhead bulbs.
This was it, the triclinium, the room used for ritual banquets. Lang checked the time, squinting to see the luminous numbers on his watch. Three-thirty-seven. Sitting on one of the benches to wait, his only company was the boisterous voice of the water and spirits of feasting Romans dead two thousand years.
