by C. M. Palov
‘No easy feat given that those camps were like the wild, wild west. Except instead of six-shooters, they carried Kalashnikovs. I was with the army battalion responsible for maintaining order in the camps. Because of the Islamic prohibitions, I wasn’t supposed to look this pregnant woman in the eye, let alone peer at her, um –’ Finn cleared his throat, no further explanation needed. ‘I’d already radioed HQ that I needed a female nurse, doctor, soldier, anyone female to come to my assistance.’
‘Did anyone arrive?’
‘Just as I’m standing there holding this itty-bitty bloody baby in my hands, tears of joy streaming down my face that the kid was even breathing, the nurse finally showed up.’ He chortled, able now, years later, to see the humour in it. ‘From South Boston to Kurdistan. Of course, I’ve been all over the world since then.’
‘Which no doubt explains why you’re so jaded about Paris,’ Kate retorted, good-naturedly elbowing him in the ribs.
‘If you think I’m unaffected by all this –’ he gestured to the Arc de Triomphe L’Étoile, visible in the hazy distance – ‘think again. The difference between us is that I refuse to let the romance of the place go to my head. The Seven know that we’re in Paris. Trust me, they’re just waiting for that split-second when I go all ga-ga because I’m standing in front of some famous Parisian landmark and I drop my guard.’
A dubious expression on her face, Kate shook her head. ‘I cannot imagine you going “ga-ga” over anything.’
Oh, you’d be surprised.
Last night, sacked out on a hard floor, he kept dreaming about Kate. Talk about going ga-ga. Hot dreams full of wild, writhing sex, he was finally forced to sneak off to the bathroom to get some relief.
Removing his arm from her shoulders, Finn unzipped his Go Bag and retrieved a bottle of water. ‘Here you go.’ Unscrewing the cap, he handed it to Kate.
‘Thanks.’
He watched as she took several sips, the muscles in her throat rhythmically working with each swallow. Thinking it was a sexy sight, Finn snorted caustically. Great. Another night of getting in touch with myself.
‘Do you think the Seven Research Foundation is actually going to give you the Dark Angel in exchange for the Montségur Medallion?’ Kate asked, returning the bottle to him.
‘I won’t know until I make the offer. If they accept, the exchange will occur at the place and time of my choosing. Probably as close to the American Embassy as can be arranged. Then, when I have the Dark Angel in my custody, I’ll alert Marine Security at the embassy that we’re on our way.’ And if they didn’t accept, he had a back-up plan.
‘You do know that if the Seven Research Foundation has the Montségur Medallion, they can use it to find the Grail?’
‘Like I care.’ He glanced at his watch. 1110. Time for Phase One of the mission op to kick off. ‘The scheduled meeting started ten minutes ago.’ He unclipped his cell phone from his waist. He then removed a small digital voice recorder and earbud microphone from his Go Bag. ‘We’re wheels up in fifteen seconds. You ready?’
Kate nodded weakly. While not as gung-ho as he would have liked, the tepid response was to be expected. Scrolling through his phonebook, he selected the number he’d earlier programmed for the Seven Research Foundation.
The call was answered on the first ring by a French-speaking female.
‘Hey, how ya doin’? This is Finn McGuire calling. I’m trying to get a-hold of the Seven Dwarfs. It’s real important that I speak with Dopey. Although if he’s not available, you can patch me through to the head dwarf, Ivo Uhlemann.’
‘Un moment, Monsieur McGuire.’
‘So far, so good,’ Finn said to Kate in a lowered voice as he inserted the small earbud into his left ear and connected the cable into the jack on the digital recorder. One of his newly purchased toys, the earbud mike would enable him to record both sides of the cell-phone conversation on the digital recorder. The digital recorder would, in turn, date and time stamp the conversation. Absolutely necessary for an evidentiary recording. He knew it wasn’t enough to capture the Dark Angel and turn her over to the authorities. He needed proof that the Seven Research Foundation had ordered the hits on Dixie and Johnny K.
As they’d earlier rehearsed, Kate took charge of the digital recorder. She rolled her free hand several times to let him know that she’d started the recording.
‘Ah, Sergeant McGuire. Guten tag. We were hoping that you would call,’ a male voice said in heavily accented English.
‘Are you Ivo Uhlemann?’
‘I am Doctor Ivo Uhlemann. And may I offer my condolences for the loss of your two comrades?’
‘No, you may not,’ Finn tersely informed the polite bastard. ‘In case you haven’t heard, you can’t take the pee out of the pool. That said, a few days ago I spoke to one of your compradres, a dude by the name of Fabius Jutier. Unfortunately, the conversation dead-ended on me.’
‘I trust this conversation will have a more satisfactory ending,’ Uhlemann replied, refusing to comment on Jutier’s suicide. ‘In exchange for the Montségur Medallion, we’ve put together an offer that I think you will find most interesting.’
Finn decided to play along. ‘Okay. What are you putting on the table?’
‘We are offering you a place at the table. Yesterday, we were greatly impressed with your skills … We believe that you would make an excellent addition to our organization.’
49
Seven Research Foundation Headquarters, Paris
1113 hours
‘And will you issue me a Nazi uniform?’ Finnegan McGuire taunted. ‘Or better yet, can I get one of those cool Black Sun tattoos on my left pec?’
Deeply offended, Ivo Uhlemann glared at the telephone console. Sitting at the head of the brushed-metal conference table, he involuntarily placed his right hand over his heart. In 1940, the head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler, had decreed that each member of the Seven must be tattooed with the Black Sun emblem. At first, all seven men were horrified. However, as the years passed, the tattoo came to symbolize their undying dedication to finding the Lapis Exillis. To honour that commitment, their progeny bore the same tattoo.
‘The Seven Research Foundation is a consortium of enlightened scholars and scientists,’ Ivo replied, curbing his annoyance. ‘Given your background, we would like to make you our Chief Security Officer. In addition to the yearly five-million-dollar salary, you will be provided with a furnished two-bedroom flat in the sixth arrondisement and a BMW E60.’
‘A Beemer. Nice.’
Taking the truncated reply as a positive sign, Ivo continued. ‘If you join our ranks, we will ensure that all murder charges against you are dropped. Your good name and reputation will be restored. Honour will be satisfied.’
‘Then you don’t know the meaning of that word,’ the American retorted snidely. ‘I can’t think of anything more dishonourable than allowing that bitch, the Dark Angel, to get away with two brutal murders.’
As Ivo considered his reply, he glanced at the other board members seated around the table. Originally comprised of nineteen members, disease, old age and, in the case of Fabius Jutier, an unfortunate suicide, had reduced their number to ten. As the Chairman, he was their designated spokesman.
‘We are well aware, Sergeant McGuire, that you expect us to turn over the Dark Angel in exchange for the Montségur Medallion. Unfortunately, that point is non-negotiable.’
‘Then there’s nothing for us to discuss. I mean, hell, why should I throw in my lot with the group who ordered the murders of Corporal Lamar Dixon and Corporal John Kelleher?’
‘Because, in addition to the generous compensation package, we are offering you an opportunity to join an elite foundation that is engaged in history-altering research.’
The sales pitch met with a lengthy silence.
Ivo saw the uneasy glances. They needed Sergeant McGuire’s cooperation. Das Groß Versuch could not be performed without the requisite component. Which they could not locate withou
t the encoded map engraved on the Montségur Medallion. They’d just laid an enticing trap. To lure their quarry into the open, the American’s greed had to trump his distorted sense of honour.
‘Okay, Ivo, I gotta be honest … your offer is damn tempting,’ McGuire said at last. ‘I need to think on it a while.’
‘How much time do you require?’
‘You’ll have my answer no later than midnight tonight. In addition to the allotted time, a cease-fire will be in effect while I ponder my decision. If, during the cease-fire, I catch sight of Goldilocks or the bald-headed dude, I will destroy the Montségur Medallion. Unless I’m mistaken, gold melts at two thousand and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.’
‘Please give me a moment, Sergeant McGuire. I must confer with my colleagues.’ Ivo reached across the table and pushed the MUTE button on the console.
There was no mistaking the palpable tension around the conference table as the other nine members stared expectantly at him.
‘The matter is now open for discussion,’ he announced.
Matilda Zimmerman, former Director of the Linguistics Department at the University of Heidelberg, was the first to speak. ‘Would the American actually destroy the medallion?’
‘Sergeant McGuire does not strike me as a man who makes idle threats,’ Ivo replied. His assessment caused several in the group to nod vigorously. ‘However, the offer that we tendered to him is generous to an extreme.’
‘What if he doesn’t accept our offer?’ Otto Fassbinder enquired anxiously. A retired editor-in-chief of the Journal of the German Geological Society, his field of expertise was the effect of crystal geodes on telluric energy currents.
‘The Americans are the most avaricious people on the planet. As they themselves are fond of saying, “Every man has his price.” ’ Ivo opened the manila folder that he’d brought to the meeting. ‘We are also monitoring Cædmon Aisquith’s movements as a back-up contingency.’
‘Why don’t we just capture the Englishman?’ This from Wilhelm Koch, an American who owned a successful maths-based engineering firm in California’s Silicon Valley.
‘Because there’s a slim possibility that he might actually find the Lapis Exillis.’ Ivo stared contemplatively at the dossier that he’d received yesterday from his contact at the Ministry of Defence. A recently retired MI5 intelligence officer, Aisquith had an academic background in Egyptology and medieval studies. A unique skills set, to say the least, which was the reason why he’d sent one of his best men to the Languedoc to shadow the Englishman. According to the latest update, Aisquith had left Montségur an hour ago.
‘I will give you two minutes to further discuss the matter. Then we will put it to a vote.’
Slowly rising to his feet, Ivo suffered an intense burst of pain. He required more analgesic, the time span between injections becoming of increasingly short duration.
Having already decided how he would cast his vote, Ivo walked over to the plate-glass window on the other side of the conference room. From his vantage point, he could see the Grande Arche reflected in the gaudy mirrored office building directly opposite, the open cube being at the western terminus of the Axe Historique. And just as the Grande Arche owed its existence to the Seven Research Foundation, the Axe Historique owed its existence to the mighty Knights Templar.
At the onset of the fourteenth century, the Templars were poised to become the most technologically advanced force in medieval Europe. In addition to their expansive property holdings, their large fleet of ships and their battle-ready army of warrior-monks, the Templars were a financial powerhouse. For those reasons alone, they gave many European monarchs fitful sleep. But one monarch in particular, the French king Philippe le Bel, had more reason than most to fear the Templars. In the summer of 1306, Philippe had begged asylum at the Templars’ Paris headquarters during a bout of civil unrest. An impolite guest, Philippe spent his time snooping through the Templars’ extensive library. Which is how he discovered the Templars’ secret blueprint for the city of Paris. Although he couldn’t comprehend the science behind the design, Philippe astutely realized that the Knights Templar possessed ancient knowledge that could be used to conquer the monarchy. Perhaps the whole of Europe.
It left the French king with no choice but to destroy the mighty order of warrior-monks.
To the consternation of later monarchs, Philippe le Bel was not entirely successful. While the Knights Templar were destroyed, their blueprint survived intact, passed down from one secret society to the next. The Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, Cagliostro’s Egyptian Rite – just a few of the groups that endeavoured to complete the ley line in the hopes that they might be the ones to find the Lapis Exillis.
Acutely aware that time was running out, Ivo stared at the reflected cube. In two days’ time, Sirius would rise with the sun. Because the Vril force could only be generated during the heliacal rising of Sirius, when the astral energy of that star was at its peak, das Groß Versuch could only be performed on that one specific day.
According to his doctors, he didn’t have another year to wait until the next heliacal rising.
‘We’re ready to vote,’ Professor Zimmerman announced.
Returning to the conference table, Ivo said, ‘All those in favour of granting a temporary cease-fire, please raise your hand.’
Although there was obvious reluctance etched on to two or three faces, all of the board members, including Ivo, raised their right hand.
Decision reached, Ivo pressed the SPEAKER button on the telephone console. ‘We agree to your terms, Sergeant McGuire. A cease-fire is in effect until midnight.’
‘Smart chess move,’ McGuire said brusquely before disconnecting the call.
‘Now what?’
Ivo glanced at Professor Zimmerman. ‘As Finnegan McGuire adroitly remarked, it is a chess match. Our trap has been laid and I am confident that it will end in checkmate.’
At which point, Sergeant McGuire will lose the game, the Montségur Medallion and his life.
50
The Languedoc
1130 hours
Grunting, Cædmon finagled his way between the two rough-hewn embankments that formed a narrow V, the gneiss stone brightly glittering with embedded crystals.
The undiscovered country …
‘From whose bourn I intend to bloody well return. Grail in hand,’ he puckishly added, still riding euphoria’s high crest.
A few moments later he emerged from the rocky slit and entered a boulder-strewn ravine. Coming to a standstill, he beheld the wildflowers that bloomed in haphazard profusion, the vegetation a welcome sight in the otherwise barren landscape. Winded by his two-hour mountain trek, he gracelessly plunked down on a flat-topped boulder. Studying a topographical map, he could see that Mont de la Lune was located at the other end of the ravine. The next port of call, Moon Mountain, was where the hunt would begin in earnest.
Returning the map to his rucksack, he retrieved a water bottle. The tepid liquid did little to satisfy his true thirst, Cædmon entertaining a fantasy that involved big chunks of ice floating in gin with a splash of tonic and a squirt of lemon.
Of late, he frequently viewed the world through green-tinted glasses, green being the colour of a Tanqueray gin bottle.
Muscles tight, he slowly rolled his neck. First one direction. Then the other. Groaning from the ensuing pain, he found his decrepitude both lamentable and laughable.
Must remember to pull the dumb-bells out of the closet. Or take up jogging. Cycling, perhaps.
Unenthused by the thought of an exercise regime, Cædmon glanced around the ravine. For some inexplicable reason, the abundant stores of rock put him in mind of a cemetery laden with marble headstones.
That, in turn, conjured memories of the annual pilgrimage to his mother’s grave site. Where, white lilies in hand, he and his father would stand, heads respectfully bowed, Cædmon afraid to be caught looking anywhere but at that speckled grey stone.
• Helena May Aisquith •
• ‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.’ •
The fact that his mother died in childbirth meant that his birthday was always a glum affair. Rather than cake and presents, he was made to suffer his father’s piteous glare, wet February winds and thinly veiled accusations of matricide.
‘Did you know, boy, that she was named for Helen of Troy? Flamered hair and eyes of blue. Stole my heart, she did … and then she was stolen from me.’ As if Cædmon had plotted her murder from the womb. Mercifully, his deportation to Eton put an end to the yearly visit.
Disgusted that he’d let himself fall prey to those grim memories, he took another swig from the water bottle. You, Sir Prancelot, are a sorry excuse for a Grail knight.
But was any man truly up to the challenge?
Wolfram von Eschenbach, the author of the definitive Grail romance Parzival, set the bar for would-be knights exceedingly high. In von Eschenbach’s perfect medieval world, only those of chaste body and pure heart could seek the Grail. Inebriates and ne’er-do-wells need not apply.
Unwilling to dwell on his appalling lack of knightly credentials, Cædmon instead wondered how much validity there was to the epic tale. According to von Eschenbach, the Knights Templar had become the Grail Guardians. If that was true, it meant that the Templars had deciphered the Montségur Medallion and collected the prize. And, presumably, like the Cathars before them, they straightaway hid the damned thing to keep it from falling into the Inquisitors’ covetous hands.
Hopefully, that part of von Eschenbach’s account was pure fiction.
Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, Cædmon rose to his feet and continued on his way. Since the ‘twelfth hour’ was significant, he didn’t want to be late to the tea party.
Twenty minutes into his trek, he caught his first glimpse of Mont de la Lune, a gleaming spire of granite punctuated with green scrub brush. Seen from below, the rugged peak soared heavenward, the pointed summit disappearing into the hazy clutches of a passing cloud. A starkly beautiful and remote juggernaut.
