by C. M. Palov
C. M. PALOV
The Templar’s Quest
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART II
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
PART III
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
PART IV
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Acknowledgements
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE TEMPLAR’S QUEST
Born in Washington DC, C. M. Palov graduated from George Mason University with a degree in art history. The author’s résumé includes working as a museum guide, teaching English in Seoul, Korea and managing a bookshop. Twin interests in art and arcana inspired the author to write esoteric thrillers. C. M. Palov currently lives in West Virginia.
Paris, France
28 June, 1940
Death is the great equalizer, Friedrich Uhlemann silently mused.
As evidenced by the thousands of bones sandwiched between thick slabs of pitted limestone. Indeed, the catacombs of Paris morbidly flaunted the spirit of ‘ liberté, egalité, fraternité’, with no discernible difference between sinner and saint, prince and pauper, making him think that the French virtues of liberty, equality and brotherhood were only possible in the hereafter. One desiccated bone the same as the next.
Friedrich glanced at the bank of hollowed-out skulls. God alone knew the precise number of residents in the underground necropolis. And only God had known about the gold medallion hidden in these catacombs, safeguarded for centuries by an ossified Templar Knight.
Until the medallion had been uncovered by Friedrich and the six members of his academic team. ‘The Seven’ as some in the Ahnenerbe dismissively referred to them. Founded in 1935 by Heinrich Himmler, the Ahnenerbe was the academic research division for the Nazi SS.
Well aware that the Ahnenerbe did not cultivate or encourage creative vision, Friedrich and his six colleagues took the ridicule in their stride. The fact that they were the only interdisciplinary team in the Ahnenerbe was extraordinary. Even more extraordinary, they counted among their number three Germans, two Italians, a French atheist and a Sunni Muslim from Damascus. Although given the glacial expressions of the dignitaries who were now touring the dimly lit catacombs, the Seven had not yet proven their extraordinary worth.
Tempted to run a finger under his stiff neck collar, Friedrich refrained. They’d been issued new field-grey uniforms for the occasion, and the boiled wool was chafing his skin. In the background, somewhere in the shadows, he heard the steady plop plop plop of dripping water. Belatedly he realized that his heart beat in time with that incessant drip.
A stout fellow in the tour group raised steepled hands to his mouth and noisily blew a warm breath; the ambient air was at least thirty degrees cooler than the above-ground temperature.
Another member of the party, an Iron Cross medal prominently affixed to his uniform jacket, shuddered. ‘My God, this place is macabre.’ No doubt he referred to the twinkling candles inserted into disembodied skulls. This was Friedrich’s doing, though even he agreed that it created a ghoulish effect.
Just then, a lone man broke away from the group and approached the limestone niche where the medallion had been placed. Polished Prussian boots gleamed in the candlelight. As the uniformed man neared, Friedrich took a deep breath, filling his lungs with musty air.
The man stopped in front of the niche, no more than an arm’s length from where Friedrich stood. At that close range, he could see that the other man had pale blue eyes. An unexpected surprise. While his visage was famous the world over, in all honesty, the photographs did not do him justice.
Long moments passed as the blue-eyed man gazed at the gold medallion.
Did he comprehend the importance of the symbols? Their connection to the movement of the great star Sirius? Or that they revealed an ancient and powerful technology?
‘Have you translated the medallion?’
Nodding his head, Friedrich read aloud the engraved inscription. He didn’t bother to mention that the inscription contained a combination of the Occitan language and medieval Latin, suspecting the blue-eyed man didn’t care about the medallion’s linguistic provenance.
‘And you’re certain that this inscription refers to the sacred relic?’
Again, Friedrich nodded, assuming he referred to the Lapis Exillis. ‘We’ve ascertained that the inscription is encrypted and that the encoded message discloses the whereabouts of the sacred relic. Although –’ he hesitated, fearful of the other man’s reaction – ‘we have not yet decoded the message.’
Hearing that, the blue-eyed man glowered. Which, in turn, caused Friedrich’s stomach muscles to painfully cramp.
Like a hapless Christian in the Roman Colosseum, he nervously awaited his fate.
Thumbs up or thumbs down?
‘Find the relic,’ the blue-eyed man ordered brusquely. ‘Its ancient power will decide the destiny of the Reich.’
Friedrich released a pent-up breath. Yes! The blue-eyed man understood!
Unable to contain his euphoria, Friedrich clicked his boot heels while he ardently raised and extended his right hand.
‘Heil, mein Führer!’
PART I
‘Better is little with the fear of the Lord, than great treasure, and trouble therewith’ – Proverbs 15:16
1
Operation Ghost Warrior, Al-Qanawat, Syria
Present Day, 0342 hours
‘What the … ?’
Stu
nned by what he’d just discovered hidden inside the thirteenth-century chapel, Master Sergeant Finn McGuire reached for the Maglite secured to the front of his battle cammies. Shining the flashlight, he examined the gold medallion nestled inside a velvet-lined box. It looked like something that might have been worn by an Arabian sultan. Or maybe an iced-out rapper. Unbelievably ornate, it was engraved with images of a sun, a moon and a big-ass star.
Finn carefully lifted the medallion out of the box. Three inches in diameter and attached to a heavy chain made of interlocking gold pieces, he estimated its weight at two pounds. Two very valuable pounds, gold trading at a thousand dollars an ounce.
Momentarily seduced, he tuned out the voice in his head urging him to put the medallion back in the box. Make like he never saw the damned thing and just continue with the mission.
Finn and his Delta Force troopers had infiltrated the Syrian village of Al-Qanawat to retrieve ten vials of contraband smallpox virus before they could be transported out of the country and weaponized. Having searched the chapel for the smallpox cache and come up empty-handed, it suddenly occurred to Finn that more than purloined bio-weapons were sold on the black market.
The thought triggered an uneasy feeling in the pit of his belly. General Robert Cavanaugh had personally classified the SpecOps as ‘sensitive’. Loosely translated, that meant the mission was off the books.
Jesus H.
What did Cavanaugh think Finn’s Delta squad was, his own private gang of tomb raiders? It didn’t take a jeweller at Tiffany’s to know the medallion was worth a small fortune. Seventeen years ago, when he first joined the US Army, he’d taken an oath to defend his country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Commandeering biological weapons fell into that category. Stealing gold trinkets to pad a fat-cat general’s bank account did not.
Angered that he’d been played for a fool, Finn glanced at the black Pathfinder watch strapped to his left wrist. 0343. Two minutes to go before the scheduled helo pick-up. Certain there weren’t any bio-weapons on the premises, he ripped open a Velcro flap and deposited the medallion in his cargo pocket.
Suddenly hearing a muffled footfall, Finn spun on his booted heel. In one smooth, practised motion, he reached for the HK Mark 23 pistol strapped to his right thigh. Ensnared in the beam of his flashlight was a robed Syrian carrying – of all things – a jewelled scimitar. While the other man’s choice of weaponry was odd, the curved blade looked like it could easily cleave Finn in two.
Knowing a gunshot would awaken the somnolent village, Finn shoved the semi-automatic into his holster. He then lowered the flashlight beam from the other man’s face, aiming it, instead, over his heart. The Syrian’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as Finn reached for the sheath secured at the back of his waist.
A second later his fifteen-inch Bowie knife was airborne.
A second after that, the Syrian went down like a felled maple on a Berkshires’ mountainside.
About to retrieve the ivory-handled Bowie knife, Finn stopped in mid-motion, hearing the familiar rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire. Instead, he whipped the Mark 23 out of his holster.
‘We’ve got unfriendlies approaching from the west,’ a disembodied voice announced in his earbud.
‘Call in the team,’ Finn ordered, speaking into the radio mouthpiece attached to the side of his helmet. ‘We need to get to the landing zone on the double-quick.’
Leaving the knife embedded in the Syrian, Finn beat a hasty retreat from the chapel. No sooner did he exit the building than he came under intense fire, the Mark 23 blown clean from his hand.
‘Crap!’ he bellowed, rage and pain coursing through him in equal measure.
The five Delta troopers who made up Finn’s squad – Deuce, Lou-Lou, Dixie, Johnny K and PJ – emerged from the shadows, automatic weapons blazing. Ghost warriors materializing out of thin air. A hundred metres away, the helo touched down in a cloud of dust. Insurgents neutralized, Finn and his men headed for the LZ at a fast trot.
A few moments later, safe onboard the bird, Finn sank to his haunches.
‘Hey, boss, some Syrian sure had it out for – Shit!’ Johnny K suddenly yelled. ‘What happened to your hand? Medic!’
Feeling faint, Finn leaned his head against the hull. As the medic hovered over him, he belatedly realized there was blood everywhere. His hand. His pant legs. The floor of the helo. All of it spurting from the bloody mess that used to be his right index finger. ‘Used to be’ because Finn could see that half of his finger had been blown off, the severed digit gushing blood like a wildcat oil rig.
Jesus H! His trigger finger.
Angrily, he banged his head against the side of the helo.
While they’d let him stay in the army, Finn McGuire knew that he could kiss his Delta Force career goodbye.
And all because of some damned gold medallion.
2
The Pentagon
4 months later
‘Master Sergeant Finnegan J. McGuire?’
Hand curled around a styrofoam cup, Finn peered over his shoulder. Seeing two strangers with ‘Pentagon Visitor’ badges pinned to the front of their jackets, he reached for the coffee jug. A few seconds later, steaming cup in hand, he turned to face the pair. ‘Yeah, I’m McGuire. Who’s asking?’
In tandem, the pair snapped open matching black leather wallets as they each thrust an arm in his direction. ‘CID. I’m Warrant Officer Dennis Stackhouse and this is my partner, Special Agent Elizabeth Tonelli.’
The Criminal Investigation Division of the US Army … what did they want with him?
It was well known in the army ranks that CID investigators were a law unto themselves. In that way, they were a lot like the Delta Force. They didn’t have to wear a military uniform, maintain a regulation haircut or follow the normal chain of command. They were cop and soldier rolled into one.
‘Late yesterday evening, sometime between ten and eleven p.m., two murders were committed at Fort Bragg,’ the Warrant Officer announced in a brusque, businesslike tone. ‘We need to know your whereabouts during the time in question.’
Knowing the unspoken implication was that he had been somewhere yesterday that he wasn’t supposed to be, Finn said, ‘I spent last night at home. Alone, I might add. While sitting at home all by my lonesome, I ate leftover Kung Pao Chicken, caught the last half of The Dirty Dozen on a cable station, then turned in for the night.’
Even as he spoke, Finn had the uneasy feeling that this was one of those ‘damned if he did/damned if he didn’t’ scenarios.
Special Agent Tonelli opened her mouth to speak.
‘And before you ask, no, I do not have an alibi,’ Finn volunteered. ‘I also don’t know anything about any murders. I haven’t been to Fort Bragg in a couple of months.’ Fort Bragg was home base to the Delta Force. Three months ago he’d cleared out of the Fayetteville apartment that he’d rented off base. He hadn’t been back since.
Barely repressing a snicker, Finn gestured to the office bay adjacent to the break room. ‘As you can see, I’m now working a desk job at the Pentagon.’
A mind-numbing desk job that was somehow connected to ‘intelligence gathering’ but had everything to do with spending eight hours a day staring at satellite photos. It was as far removed from combat duty as a soldier could get. Not a day passed that Finn didn’t wish someone would take aim and put him out of his misery.
‘I hope that answers all your questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.’ He headed towards his cubbyhole of an office.
‘Actually, we have a few more questions for you,’ the Warrant Officer said to his backside, the twosome trailing behind him.
Finn snatched a chair from an unoccupied desk and rolled it into his office. With his free hand he motioned Agent Tonelli to seat herself on the chair. Finn sat himself behind his metal desk. As though it were a game of musical chairs, the Warrant Officer was left standing.
Agent Tonelli pointedly glanced at his right
hand. ‘How’s your, um, finger doing?’
‘Beats me … I left it somewhere in the Middle East.’
‘I apologize. That didn’t come out the way I intended. What I meant to ask is how is your recovery coming along?’
Pegging her for the ‘good cop’, Finn shrugged. ‘I can’t complain.’
What was the point? The army surgeon at Ramstein Airbase had had to amputate the mangled flesh of his right index finger, cutting it just below the second knuckle. Finn didn’t know if it was on account of the original injury or the subsequent surgery, but he’d suffered nerve damage to the digitorum tendon, the connective tissue that flexed and extended the finger. Even though the digit healed faster than expected, the amputation ended his days as a Delta Force ‘shooter’. While he could still fire a weapon, able to pull the trigger with his middle finger, he no longer had the speed and proficiency required of a Special Forces combat soldier.
