The Templar's Quest

by C. M. Palov

  ‘Begging the question: how do you fuse astral and telluric energy?’

  ‘By building a ley line.’ Just warming up, Aisquith’s smile broadened. ‘Which is exactly what the ancient engineers constructed at Thebes. And, no coincidence, it’s what their French counterparts have constructed on the Axe Historique.’

  Half tempted to tell the Brit to pull the wine cork out of his ass, Finn instead said, ‘That’s a ley line?’ As he spoke, he jutted his chin at the chaotic scene below, tourists milling around as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Ley lines are man-made energy conduits. Built over the top of telluric currents, the stones used in ley lines can carry electromagnetic energy for hundreds of miles,’ Aisquith replied. ‘This particular ley line is comprised of five monuments: the Pyramid, the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the Obelisk, the Arc de Triomphe l’Étoile and the Grande Arche. Not surprisingly, during the Paris Occupation, the Ahnenerbe spent an inordinate amount of time mapping and measuring the Axe Historique.’

  Clearly on board, Kate’s head energetically bobbed up and down. ‘Let me make certain that I comprehend how the pieces fit together: there’s astral energy radiating from Sirius and telluric energy radiating from beneath the ground. But in order to fuse these two different forms of energy, a ley line must be constructed.’ She pressed her palms together to illustrate the point.

  ‘Precisely. As above, so below.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then, if all the pieces of the puzzle have been properly placed, you can now create the Vril force. Vril, chi, orgone, mana –’ as he reeled off the list, Aisquith waved his hand in the air – ‘they’re all names for the same fused energy force.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ Kate murmured. ‘Were the ancient Egyptians able to fuse astral and telluric energy and create the Vril force?’

  ‘The Germans were convinced that the megalithic structures built along the Nile delta enabled the Egyptians to do just that. Determined to resurrect this lost science, the Ahnenerbe spent a small fortune studying the texts and monuments of ancient Egypt. As I said earlier today, the Ahnenerbe were desperately trying to devise military applications for the Vril force.’

  ‘Just a pie-in-the-sky theory,’ Finn said dismissively, certain he was the only one in the group able to distinguish fact from fantasy.

  ‘All great ideas begin with a theory,’ Aisquith was quick to assert. ‘If the Vril force could be harnessed, it would create a powerful biodynamic comprised of magnetic, electromagnetic and electrical energy.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  Needing to clear his head – having reached his bullshit quota – Finn strode over to a nearby display case and peered inside. For several seconds he stared at a little bronze statue of a nude dude hefting a weird-looking beast on to his shoulders. He read the neatly typed tag: ‘Anonymous; Archaic Period; Around 530 BC.’ Guess that was before they invented pants.

  Bored, he glanced at his watch. 1203 hours. Jesus. How long was it going to take for Aisquith to get the dossiers? He still needed to buy supplies and find a hotel room so he and Kate could hunker down and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow the mission would kick into full gear and they needed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. And here I am fucking around at the Louvre.

  Just then, Kate looked over and smiled shyly at him. As though his eye muscles had a mind of their own, Finn winked at her. A split-second later, self-consciously aware of what he’d done, he lowered his head and feigned an interest in the display case.

  Not for the first time, he was surprised that he could be turned on by Kate’s winsome personality. In the past, sexual arousal had always been linked to lots of cleavage, swaying hips and pouty lips. But Kate roasted his nuts because her dainty femininity was wrapped around a steel core of quiet strength. And, yeah, he found that sexy as hell. He also found that scary as hell. If he lost his focus for one moment, the Dark Angel could blow them away. Or the French authorities could catch him in a dragnet, allowing CID to extradite his ass to the US. Who would protect Kate if that happened? Though he’d never admit it to Aisquith, that business about the photo recognition software spooked him. Just one more thing to worry about.

  Still standing next to the display case, Finn watched as Aisquith placed a hand on Kate’s shoulder. Obviously, the Brit still carried a torch. Well, fuck that shit.

  Finn strode over to where the pair stood at the window.

  ‘And another thing,’ he announced without preamble, determined to break up their little exchange. ‘You don’t have one scrap of evidence to prove any of your theories. You keep yammering about something that I can’t see, touch or smell. Just how the hell do you use the ley line that’s on the axis to create this all-powerful Vril force?’ Monkey wrench hurled, he belligerently put his hands on his hips.

  Aisquith shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Finally! An honest answer.’

  ‘Cædmon, do you by any chance know when the heliacal rising of Sirius will take place?’ Kate enquired, still riding the Vril bandwagon.

  ‘Unless I’m greatly mistaken, it will occur on the seventh of August.’

  Kate’s jaw visibly slackened. ‘Oh, my God … that’s just three days away.’

  33

  ‘Scheisse! ’

  Annoyed that the dresser drawer had jammed, Dolf Reinhardt yanked it off the runner, several pairs of rolled socks bouncing free and rolling across the bare floor.

  In a hurry, he deposited the drawer on to the nearby bed. Hearing the pulsating beat of loud music emanate from the next-door apartment, he strode over to the adjoining wall and roughly banged it with a balled fist.

  ‘Halt die fresse, drecksau! ’

  Uncertain if what he was hearing was rap or hip-hop, Dolf was absolutely convinced that the Senegalese family who had recently moved into the flat was a gang of dirty pigs. Ear to the wall, he listened as a female berated someone in a foreign language. Whatever was said, it had the desired effect, the offending music turned down. Satisfied, Dolf gathered his small bundle of clean clothes and headed into the bathroom.

  Over the last three years, his Oberkampf neighbourhood had become infested with dark-skinned foreigners and homosexuals. Dolf was repulsed by the sight of them. Willing to put up with leaky plumbing and having to climb six flights of steps, he could not tolerate living in a mixed apartment building. Unfortunately, Paris was a rich man’s city, the lower-class enclave all that he could afford.

  Squeezing his six-foot-two frame into the ridiculously small bathroom, he set the pile of clothing on the toilet lid. He then peered into the cracked mirror above the sink, ignoring the incessant plop plop plop that emanated from the tap. Examining his bald pate, he detected a slight golden shimmer. His light blond hair made him look like a gargantuan baby chick – the reason why he kept his head shaved. Striking a bad-ass pose, he flexed both arms, pleased, as always, at seeing the veined muscles. Check out these gunz! Although it’d been twenty years since he’d been crowned the European Junior Boxing Champion, Dolf still had the arms of a heavyweight contender.

  Born in East Berlin, he’d been recruited from elementary school into the world-renowned Sportvereinigung Dynamo. Only the most talented athletes were placed into the state-run sports programme. His mother predictably baulked at the idea of her eleven-year-old son living away from home but, with a bit of coaxing, soon relented. Dolf assured her that he would bring honour to the family and, more importantly, to the German Democratic Republic. Since the 1970s, the GDR had dominated the Olympic games, their athletes the best trained in the world.

  When, on a rainy October morning, Hedwig Reinhardt signed the official paperwork, she in effect legally turned her only child over to the Stasi, the secret police who were in charge of running the Sports Dynamo.

  For the next six years, Dolf’s life was strictly regimented, the sports ideology of the GDR relentlessly hammered into him. Training, teamwork, good hygiene, healthy nutrition and self-discipline were the core princip
les of the elite sports programme. Because of his size and strength, Dolf quickly came to the attention of the boxing coaches. As his training intensified, Dolf, like many of the top-tier athletes, was constantly monitored. Whenever he left the dormitory, he had to sign a register, indicating what time he would return. If, for whatever reason, he was tardy, a Stasi agent would be sent to locate him. At international boxing matches, he was instructed by these same Stasi agents not to speak to foreigners, especially members of the press.

  In 1988, at the age of seventeen, he became the European Junior Champion in his weight division. His coaches were ecstatic, certain that Dolf would be a medal contender in the 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games.

  And then, in 1989, the fucking wall came tumbling down, literally, the tide of history turning very much against him.

  Within days of the collapse of the Berlin Wall, the Sports Dynamo was closed; all of the athletes put out on the street. Hopes dashed. Dreams destroyed. While thousands cheered throughout the city, Dolf sat huddled in a locker room sobbing. Everything he’d known had just been robbed from him. The glory, the greatness, of being an East German athlete. How many times had he dreamed of carrying the GDR flag in the opening ceremony at Barcelona? Head held high. The pride of his country. The envy of the world.

  Grief soon mutated into confusion when, several weeks after his training abruptly ended, he began to notice unusual changes in his body, horrified that his testicles were shrinking. But, even more worrisome, he was starting to develop breasts! Too humiliated to tell his mother, he began to wear baggy shirts. Finally, afraid that he might actually be morphing into a girl, he went to a health clinic on the west side of Berlin. Where no one knew him.

  The doctor took one glance at his plump boobies and, like he was a mind reader, said, ‘You were an athlete at the Sports Dynamo, weren’t you?’

  Dolf hesitantly nodded his head, too afraid to do anything other than admit to the truth.

  ‘You have a condition known as gynaecomastia. In your case, it’s the result of having been administered androgenic steroids.’

  Vehemently shaking his head, Dolf denied the charge. ‘That is a lie! We were only given vitamins and regeneration tablets.’

  ‘Yes, so they all claim,’ the doctor replied wearily. ‘I can refer you to a specialist who’ll remove the breast tissue.’

  Although a surgical referral was made, Dolf never went to the appointment. He was terrified that, once it was revealed he’d been doped with steroids, his Junior European Championship medal would be stripped from him.

  Still standing at the bathroom sink, Dolf glanced at his breasts. They weren’t huge, thank God. But they were decidedly feminine, the skin soft, the nipples enlarged. Over the years, he’d often contemplated having the breast tissue removed. But, just when he’d be on the brink of making an appointment, thinking it was finally safe, there would be a new media story about the East German doping scandal – usually triggered by some emotionally traumatized ex-athlete who felt betrayed by the old regime.

  Why the hell can’t they keep their mouths shut?

  It’d been twenty years! Who gave a shit if those female athletes had been turned into hairy-assed infertile Amazons?

  Knowing that the details of the 1988 European Junior Championship were readily available on the Internet, Dolf feared some nosy surgeon would key his name into a search engine. Twenty years may have passed, but they could still take his medal from him. Better to live with a pair of boobies than the shame of having his one glory in life wrenched from his grasp.

  Pulling the oversized black T-shirt over his head, Dolf slightly hunched his shoulders, making the telltale bumps barely noticeable. Finished dressing, he headed back to the small bedroom and rifled through the drawer on the bed, removing a twelve-inch painted truncheon decorated with the SS Totenkampf Death Head. The impressive cudgel had belonged to his grandfather, Josef Krueger, an SS officer in the elite Reich Security Service. It was his second most prized possession after his championship medal. Dolf slid the smooth wooden truncheon into his jeans belt loop. A perfect fit.

  He then walked over to the wardrobe and retrieved an oversized black satin jacket, emblazoned on the back with Iron Maiden’s famous ‘Evil Eddie’ emblem. Jacket donned, he removed a cardboard shoebox from the top of the wardrobe. Inside was a Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol with laser device and an attached silencer; a beautiful piece that he’d bought from an unscrupulous American soldier stationed at the Bamberg military garrison. He shoved the pistol into the back of his waistband. Gangsta-style.

  Ready to depart, Dolf walked down the narrow hallway to the second bedroom. Opening the door, he peered inside. A woman with braided grey hair sat at the window, staring at the Paris rooftops.

  ‘I will be back later. We’re having pickled ham hocks for dinner. Your favourite,’ he added, hoping to elicit a response. When no reply was forthcoming, Dolf sighed wistfully. ‘Auf wiedersehen, Mutter.’

  34

  ‘La Pyramide Inversée, as you can see, is the inverted twin to the glass pyramid directly behind us,’ Cædmon said in passing, as the three of them trooped across the street.

  ‘As above, so below,’ Kate sagely remarked.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Set in the middle of the four-lane thoroughfare, the inverted glass pyramid could only be viewed underground – the reason why the architectural curiosity was often overlooked by tourists strolling in the Cour Napoléon.

  Taking a deep breath, Cædmon filled his lungs with muggy air. Despite the sun beating down on his head, neck and face, he’d had his fill of the Louvre. During the summer months, jam-packed with tourists, the museum often felt like a lavish sardine can, which was why he had suggested that they adjourn to the outdoors and view the Axe Historique in situ.

  He cast a sideways glance at the grim-faced Finnegan McGuire. Since leaving the museum, the commando had gone on high alert. Although outwardly calm, the man’s gaze constantly shifted from person to person. The roving eye of a fugitive at large. Should the police try to apprehend him, he suspected McGuire would retaliate rather than run, the man a natural-born fighter. Not to mention a cocky son of a bitch.

  Whatever does Kate see in him?

  Leaving the Pyramide Inversée in their wake, they approached the blush-hued Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the second monument on the Axe Historique. ‘War and peace have never been so powerfully articulated,’ he commented, having always been drawn to the magnificent landmark. ‘Derived from the triumphal arches of the Roman Empire, the memorial was commissioned by Napoleon to commemorate his stunning victory at Austerlitz. Composed of not one, but three arches, it’s surmounted by a quadriga that depicts Peace holding the reins of a horse-drawn chariot. Flanked by the gilded Victories, the group perpetually gleams. Rain or shine.’

  ‘I’ve always thought that the rose marble on the columns and front panels softens the lines, adding a surprisingly feminine aura to a monument designed to celebrate the unabashed pursuit of war,’ Kate remarked as the three of them strolled through the centre arch of the monument.

  ‘Our thoughts run a similar course.’

  ‘This arch looks a lot like the big one down the road.’ McGuire’s aside was made in his typical blunt fashion.

  ‘You refer, of course, to the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, the Triumphal Arch of the Star,’ Cædmon said in response. ‘Seen from the sky, the twelve evenly spaced avenues that radiate from the larger arch create a star pattern. I would posit that the star in question is none other than Sirius.’

  ‘An interesting premise.’ Kate raised her right hand, shielding her eyes from the afternoon glare. ‘But why do you think that?’

  ‘Because here –’ raising his arm, Cædmon gestured to the monument before them – ‘at the smaller Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, the thick lines of hedgerow that you see radiating from the arch and extending into the adjacent garden have been carefully manicured to resemble the rays of the sun.’

  Eyes opened wide,
Kate’s head slowly swivelled from side to side. ‘Ohmygosh. You’re right. The summer I spent in Paris, I walked along this path quite a few times and never noticed that.’ Using her finger as a pointer, she counted the number of ‘rays’. ‘What do you know? There’re twelve of them.’

  ‘Every day, hordes of tourists rush past these monuments, digital cameras madly clicking, and not one of them truly sees what has been depicted in the landscape, the sun and the star harkening to the heliacal rising of Sirius. Indeed, the cloak of invisibility was part of the original blueprint,’ he said with added emphasis, Kate having ably made the point for him.

  ‘Were there any arches on the Egyptian axis at Thebes?’ Kate asked thoughtfully,

  ‘Instead of arches, the ancients built a series of pylons that were set along the Sacred Axis. The rectangular gateways served the same purpose as the arches in Paris; they created an enormous horizontal telescope through which astral and telluric energies were funnelled.’ Cædmon turned towards the Egyptian obelisk, clearly visible just beyond the garden. ‘What’s so utterly fascinating about the Axe Historique is that, from this position, as you head west along the axis, the distance between each monument precisely doubles. Even more astounding than that, the size of each of the three arches doubles as well.’

  ‘I’m wondering just how long it took to build this damned thing?’ McGuire enquired gruffly.

  ‘The Axe Historique was a project several hundred years in the making,’ Cædmon replied, surprised that the commando had even asked the question. ‘Officially it was begun in 1564 when Catherine de Medici ordered the planting of the Tuileries Gardens. It then took another four hundred years for the axis to finally be completed, the last monument, the Grande Arche, erected in 1989. All in all, the Axe Historique is a sophisticated piece of ancient technology.’