The Last Templar ts-1

by Raymond Khoury

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Don't get me started. And the lyrics, my God ... I thought I was a hip mom, but some of those 'songs,' if you can even call them that ..."

  Reilly grinned. "What's the world coming to?"

  "Hey, you're not exactly the king of hip-hop either."

  "Does Steely Dan count?"

  "I don't think so."

  He put on a mock dejected look. "Bummer."

  Tess looked ahead. "I'm telling you, it's a New Frontier out there," she deadpanned, watching him from the corner of her eye, waiting for it, then grinning when she saw that it clicked with him, enjoying catching him off guard with the title of the Donald Fagen track. He gave her a small, impressed nod, and their eyes met. She felt her face warm slightly, when her cell phone decided to come to life.

  Annoyed by the intrusion, she fished it out of her bag and looked at it. The screen wasn't displaying the caller's number. She decided to answer it and immediately regretted it.

  "Hey. It's me. Doug."

  If she wasn't normally keen to talk to her ex-husband, right now was a particularly unwelcome moment. Avoiding Reilly's eyes, she lowered her voice.

  "What do you want?" she asked flatly.

  "I know you were at the Met that night, and I wanted to know if there was anything—"

  There it was. With Doug, there was always an angle. She cut him off. "I can't talk about it, all right," she lied, "I've been specifically asked by the FBI not to talk to the press."

  "You have? That's terrific." Terrific? Why was that terrific? "No one else has been told that," he enthused. "So why is that, huh? What do you know that they don't?"

  The lie had backfired. "Forget it, Doug."

  "Don't be like that." The smarmy charm reared its ugly head. "This is me, remember."

  As if she could forget. "No," she repeated.

  "Tess, give me a break."

  "I'm hanging up now."

  "Come on, baby—"

  She snapped the phone shut, slammed it into her purse with a whole lot more force than was necessary, then exhaled heavily and stared ahead.

  After a couple of minutes, she forced herself to relax her neck and shoulder muscles and, without looking at Reilly, said, "Sorry. My ex-husband."

  "I figured. A little something I picked up in Quantico."

  She managed a small chortle. "You don't miss a thing, do you?"

  He glanced at her. "Not usually. Unless it's about the Templars, in which case there's this really annoying archaeologist who always seems to be a couple of steps ahead of the rest of us laymen."

  She smiled. "Don't stop on my account."

  He looked at her again and saw that she was looking back. He held her eyes a moment longer than before.

  He was definitely glad she'd accepted his offer to drive her home.

  The road lights were on by the time they got to her street, and the sight of her house was enough to bring all the fears and worries of the last couple of days flooding back.

  Vance was here, she shuddered. He was in my house.

  They drove past the police cruiser parked down the road from her house. Reilly flicked a small wave to the cop sitting inside, who waved back, recognizing Tess from his briefing.

  When they reached her house, Reilly pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. She glanced at the house and felt uneasy. She wondered whether or not to ask him in for a moment before the words spilled out of her mouth. "Do you want to come in?"

  He hesitated, then said, "Sure." There was nothing flirtatious about his tone. "It'd be good to take a quick look around."

  At the front door, he held out his hand for the key and went in first.

  It was unnaturally quiet, and Tess followed him into the living room, automatically switching on all the lights, then the television, lowering the sound. The set was tuned to the WB, Kim's favorite channel. Tess didn't bother changing it.

  Reilly looked at her, somewhat surprised.

  "I do it when I'm alone," she explained. "Creates the illusion of company."

  "You'll be fine." His tone was comforting. "I'll check the rooms," he continued before hesitating, then added, "Is that okay?"

  The hesitation must be because he would be going into her bedroom, she thought. She was grateful for his concern and pleased at his sensitivity.

  "Sure."

  He nodded and, as he went out of the room, Tess dropped onto the couch, pulled the phone over, and dialed her aunt's house in Prescott, Arizona. Hazel picked up after three rings. She had just arrived home, having collected Kim and Eileen from the airport at Phoenix and taken them out for dinner. Both of them, Hazel told her, were fine. Tess talked briefly with her mother while Hazel went to fetch Kim, who was in the stables checking out the horses. Eileen sounded a whole lot less worried than she had been. Tess guessed that it must be due to a combination of being calmed by her affable and easygoing sister and the distance the day's traveling had put between her and New York. When Kim came on, she was all lit up over the prospect of going riding tomorrow and appeared not to be missing her mother at all.

  As she said good night and hung up the phone, Reilly came back into the room.

  He looked as tired as she felt. "It's all clear, as expected. I really don't think you have anything to worry about anymore."

  "I'm sure you're right. Thanks for taking a look anyway."

  "Not a problem." He took one last look and nodded to her, seeming to hover for the briefest of moments. Tess picked up on it.

  "I'm sure we could both use a drink," she said as she got up and led him into the kitchen. "How about a beer or a glass of wine, maybe?"

  "No," he said, smiling. "Thanks anyway."

  "Oh, I forgot, you're on duly, right? Coffee then?"

  "No, it's not that. It's just . . ." He seemed reticent to go on.

  "What?"

  He paused before adding, "It's Lent."

  "Lent? Really?"

  "Yeah."

  "And I'm guessing you're not doing it as an excuse to lose weight, are you?"

  He just shook his head.

  "Forty days without booze. Wow." She blushed. "Okay, that didn't come out right, did it? I don't want you to get the wrong idea, it's not like I'm ripe for AA or anything."

  "Too late. The image is burned in."

  "Great." She walked over to the fridge and poured herself a glass of white wine. "It's funny, it's just that I didn't think anyone did that anymore. Especially not in this town."

  "Actually, it's an obvious place to live a ... a spiritual life."

  "You're kidding, right? New York City?"

  "No. It's the perfect place for it. Think about it. It's not like there aren't enough moral or ethical challenges to deal with here. The differences between right and wrong, between good and bad, they're pretty clear in this town. You have to make a choice."

  Tess was still processing his revelation. "So how religious are you? If you don't mind my asking."

  "No, that's fine."

  She grinned. "Just tell me you don't hike out to some cowfield in the middle of nowhere because someone there thinks he saw the Virgin appear up in the clouds or something?"

  "No, not recently anyway. I'm guessing you're not a particularly religious person."

  "Well . . . let's just say I'd need to see something a bit more conclusive before you'd get me shlepping halfway across the country for something like that."

  "Something a bit more conclusive . . . You're saying you'd need a sign. An irrefutable, substantiated miracle?"

  "Something like that."

  He didn't say anything. He just smiled.

  "What?"

  "See, the thing about miracles is . . . if you have faith, you don't need them, and if you're a doubter, well then no miracle is ever enough."

  "Oh, I can think of a few things that would convince me just fine."

  "Maybe they're there. Maybe you're just not aware of them."

  Which really threw her. "Okay, stop. You're a badge-carry
ing FBI agent and you're telling me you really believe in miracles?"

  He shrugged, then said, "Let's say you're walking down the street and you're about to cross the road and suddenly, for no particular reason, right there as you're about to step off the curb, you stop. And just then, in that split second you stop, a bus or a truck zooms right past you, inches from your face, right where you would've been if you hadn't paused. You don't know why, but something made you stop. Something saved your life. And you know what? You would have probably told someone, 'It's a miracle I'm still alive.' To me, that's just what it is. A miracle."

  "You call it a miracle. I call it chance."

  "Faith is easy when you're standing in front of a miracle. The real test of any faith is when there aren't any signs."

  She was still thrown, not expecting this side to him. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, although she was predisposed not to be a huge fan of his line of thinking. "You're serious."

  "Absolutely."

  She studied him as she mulled it over. "Okay, tell me something," she then said. "How does faith—I mean real, sincere faith like yours—how does that sit with being an investigator?"

  "What do you mean?"

  She had a suspicion that he already knew what she meant; that he'd confronted it before. "An investigator can't take anything or anyone on trust. You can't take anything for granted. You deal in facts, in proof. Beyond a reasonable doubt and all that."

  "Yes." He didn't seem at all thrown by her question.

  "So how do you reconcile that with your faith?"

  "My faith is in God, not man."

  "Come on. It can't be that simple."

  "Actually," he said with disconcerting calm, "it is."

  She shook her head, a faint, self-deprecating smile lighting up her face. "You know, I like to think I can scope people out pretty well, but I

  had you all wrong. I didn't think you would be . . . you

  know, a believer. Is that how you were brought up?"

  "No, my parents weren't particularly religious. It kinda happened later."

  She waited for him to elaborate. He didn't. She suddenly felt embarrassed. "Look, I'm sorry, this is obviously something highly personal and here I am tactlessly bombarding you with all these questions."

  "It's not a problem, really. It's just . . . well, my dad died when I was pretty young and I went through a tough time, and the one person who was there for me was my parish priest. He helped me find my way through it, and, after that, I guess it kinda stuck. That's all."

  Regardless of what he said, she sensed he didn't want to go into too much more detail, which she understood. "Okay."

  "What about you? I take it you didn't have a particularly religious upbringing?"

  "Not really. I don't know, I guess the atmosphere in the house was academic, archaeological, scientific, and it all made it hard for me to equate what I saw around me with the concept of divinity. And then I found out that Einstein didn't believe in any of it either and I thought, well, if it wasn't good enough for the smartest guy on the planet . . ."

  "That's okay," he deadpanned. "Some of my best friends are atheists."

  She snapped a quick glance at him, saw that he was laughing, and said, "Good to know," even if he wasn't exactly right. She thought she was more agnostic than atheist. "Most of the people I know seem to equate it with being somehow morally hollow . . . if not bankrupt."

  She led him back into the living room and, as they did, his eyes caught a glimpse of the TV. It was showing an episode of Smallvilk, the series about Superman's travails as a teenager. Staring through the screen, he went off on a completely different tack, asking, "I need to ask you something. About Vance."

  "Sure. What about him?"

  "You know, the whole time you were talking about what happened with him, in the cemetery, the cellar, all that ... I just wasn't sure how you felt about him."

  Her face clouded. "When I knew him years ago, he was a really nice guy, normal, you know. And then, what happened with his wife and unborn child, I mean, it's pretty awful."

  Reilly looked a bit uneasy. "You feel for him."

  She remembered feeling that confusing empathy for him before. "In a way . . . yes."

  "Even after the raid, the beheading, the shootings . . . threatening Kim and your mom?"

  Tess felt uncomfortably exposed. He was making her aware of troubling, conflicting emotions she didn't fully understand. "I know it sounds crazy, but, it's strange—it's like, at some level, I do. The way he talked, the way his mood swings made him act differently. He needs treatment, not hunting down. He needs help."

  "We have to catch him first. Look, Tess, I just need you to remember that regardless of what he's going through, the guy's dangerous."

  Tess remembered the calm look on Vance's face when he was sitting there, chatting with her mother. Something about him, about her perception of him, was changing. "It's weird, but . . . I'm not sure they weren't hollow threats."

  "Trust me on this. There's stuff you don't know."

  She cocked her head quizzically. She thought she was ahead of the curve. "What stuff?"

  "Other deaths. The man's dangerous, period. All right?"

  His emphatic tone didn't leave much room for doubt, which confused her now. "What do you mean, other deaths? Who?"

  For a moment, he didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to. Something was distracting him. He seemed to be in a slight daze, as if he was looking beyond her. Tess was suddenly aware that he was no longer paying any attention to her. She turned, following his gaze. He seemed to be mesmerized by the TV. On the screen, the teenage Clark Kent was about to save the day yet again.

  Tess grinned. "What, did you miss that episode or something?"

  But he was already heading for the door. "I've got to go."

  "Go? Go where?"

  "I've just got to go." And in seconds, he was gone, the outer door banging shut behind him, leaving her to stare incredulously at the teenager who could see through solid walls and leap over tall buildings with a single bound.

  Which really didn't explain anything at all.

  Chapter 45

  T he evening traffic was still heavy as Reilly's Pontiac made its way south on the Van Wyck Expressway. Gleaming wide-bodied jets screamed overhead in a seemingly endless procession of landing runs. The airport was now less than a mile away.

  Aparo, riding shotgun, rubbed his eyes as he glanced out, the crisp spring air rushing at him through the car's open window. "What was that name again?"

  Reilly was busy scanning the barrage of signs bearing down on them from every possible angle. His eyes finally settled on the one he was looking for. He pointed at it.

  "That's it."

  His partner saw it too. The green sign to their right would lead the way to Airport Cargo Building 7.

  Underneath the main signage, and lost among the smaller logos of airlines, was the one Reilly was particularly interested in.

  Alitalia Cargo Services.

  * * *

  Shortly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, Congress had enacted the Aviation and Transportation Security Act. Under this act, the responsibility for inspecting persons and property carried by airlines was transferred to a newly formed agency, the Transportation Security Administration.

  Anyone, and anything, coming into the United States would now be undergoing far more rigorous checks. Computerized tomography machines that detected explosive materials in passenger and checked luggage were deployed across the country. Travelers were even briefly X-rayed themselves, until the practice was suspended following an uproar caused not by fears of unhealthy radiation exposure, but rather by the simple fact that nothing, however private, escaped the Rapiscan machines' scanners: they showed everything.

  An area of particular concern to the TSA was that of global cargo; it was potentially an even bigger threat to domestic security, albeit a less publicized one. Tens of thousands of containers, pallets, and crates poured into the United Sta
tes every day, coming from all corners of the world. And thus, in this new age of heightened security measures, the new scanning directives weren't limited to the luggage of travelers. They would also cover cargo shipments entering the country by air, land, or sea with large-scale cargo X-raying systems now deployed at virtually all ports of entry.

  And at this very moment, as he sat down in the operations room of the Italian national airline's cargo terminal at JFK, Reilly was feeling particularly grateful for it.

  A data technician was efficiently calling up the images on his monitor. "Better make yourselves comfortable, guys. It's a pretty big shipment."

  Reilly settled into the worn chair. "The box we're interested in should be pretty distinctive. You can just zoom through them, I'll let you know when we get a hit."

  "You got it." The man nodded as he started scrolling through his databank.

  Images unfurled on his screen, side- and top-view X-rays of crates of various sizes. In them, one could clearly make out the skeletal images of the objects the curators at the Vatican had shipped over for the Met exhibit. Reilly, still annoyed with himself at not having thought of this before, fixed his concentration on the monitor, as did Aparo. His heartbeat raced as blue-and-gray ghosts of ornate frames, crucifixes, and statuettes cascaded before them. The resolution was surprisingly good, much better than he'd anticipated: he could even make out small details like encrusted jewels or moldings.

  And then, out of the deluge of dizzying images, it appeared.

  "Hold it." A rush of excitement surged through Reilly.

  There, in high-resolution clarity, stripped of its cloaking carcass and displaying its glorious innards, was the encoder.

  Chapter 46

  Tess stopped in her tracks the second she stepped into the meeting room. She'd been happy enough to hear from Reilly after three days of frustrating silence, three days during which she was finding it increasingly difficult to dodge her mother's insistent calls for her to join them in Arizona.

  She had also started to feel antsy; she realized that the investigation had taken over her life, and 102

  that, regardless of what Reilly advised, this wasn't something she could walk away from.