Uri nodded. “Sure.”
“Do you work?” Otto asked, changing the subject.
“I’ll find something.” Uri put his hands deeper into his pockets. He had no intention of getting a job. The fifty thousand pounds he had hidden at the flat would see him through just fine.
“Good,” Otto nodded. “You’ll need to be able to pay your way. This isn’t a free ride.”
“So were you here?” Uri asked Otto, looking around the deserted grey railway station.
Otto looked blank.
“In 2002—the Battle of Maze Hill. It was on this platform, wasn’t it?”
Otto allowed himself a half-smile. “So, you know your local history, Danny. Yes. I was here. So was the Skipper. Hell of a day. You would’ve loved it.”
From what Uri had seen of the press reports when researching the extremist scene in Maze Hill, he doubted very much he would have enjoyed it at all. It had been a pre-arranged pitched battle between football firms running amok on the platform with sharp and blunt weapons, while bloodied members of the public ran screaming for their lives. It was free-for-all random chaotic brutality—a far cry from the clinical operations Uri got satisfaction from.
But then he knew he was not a team player.
“We did time for that, me and the Skipper,” Uri confided. “A couple of years each—in Belmarsh, as it happens. That’s where we met some of the lads from the London National Socialist crew. So when we got out, we built up the Maze Hill Staffel. And we haven’t looked back.” He paused and glanced at his watch. “Alright then,” he got up to go, “see you tomorrow night, Danny.”
Uri nodded. He sat and watched as Otto wandered down the platform and out of the station.
So far so good.
——————— ◆ ———————
61
6–9 Carlton House Terrace
Piccadilly
London SW1Y
England
The United Kingdom
It was a short walk from Ava’s house to St James’s, then down past England’s senior royal palace onto the grandeur of Pall Mall.
It was still early in the morning, and Ava could see in through the wide windows of a succession of exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, where immaculately dressed waiters tended members with ironed newspapers and tureens of bacon, eggs, black pudding, kedgeree, and a host of other staples that make up the traditional English breakfast.
Turning right under the large gilded statue of Athena guarding Waterloo Place, she steered Ferguson past a manicured lawn enclosed by elegant iron railings, and into the white mansions of Carlton House Terrace.
“This is it,” she said, stopping outside a grand porticoed building. “The Royal Society.”
She could see Ferguson looking at the crest by the doorway. It was a plain silver shield with the three lions of England in the upper left quarter. Under it were the Latin words: ‘Nullius In Verba’.
Heading up the main front steps, she presented herself to the liveried doorman, and announced she was there to see Saxby. With Ferguson in tow, the doorman showed her into the grand and ornate nineteenth-century building, and up to the first floor, where he knocked on an imposing set of gilded white double doors.
They opened to reveal Saxby, wearing a grey flannel suit and holding a small bone china saucer and cup of coffee.
“Ah! Dr Curzon,” he smiled. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“Of course,” Ava answered warmly, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it.
Ferguson sat down on an elaborately upholstered sofa nestling in an alcove to the left of the doors. “Don’t worry about me,” he said breezily. “I’ll wait here.” He picked up a leaflet from the marble rococo coffee table and began reading.
“Nonsense, Major Ferguson,” answered Saxby, without a hint of theatricality at showing he knew who Ferguson was. “You’re a valuable part of the team.”
Ava was momentarily poleaxed.
How on earth did he know Ferguson’s name?
She quickly recovered herself. After all, how did he know about her? Or Kimbaba? Or anything else?
One of the things about Saxby, she was beginning to realize, was that he seemed to know a great deal.
“Come in,” he beckoned them. “Please. In fact, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Saxby ushered her into the large square room. It was traditionally furnished in the period style of the grand building—with delicately painted gold and sky-blue roundels of plasterwork on the crisp white walls and ceiling. There was a set of leather sofas and armchairs around a large fireplace housing a rack of ornamental fire irons in its grate. A pair of black-figure classical vases stood on tall polished dark wood tables flanking the fireplace, and over the chimney breast there was a large oil painting of a seventeenth-century nobleman.
“My Lord—Dr Curzon,” Saxby announced her to a tall man with an aquiline nose and dark goatee sitting in a high wing-backed armchair by the fireplace.
“Dr Curzon, the honour is mine,” the man answered, rising to shake her hand. He spoke with a heavy French accent. “Allow me to introduce myself—Olivier De Molay.”
Ava looked at him closely.
He was immaculately tailored. Everything was handmade, down to his shoes. The style was classic, as was his beard and hair. He could as easily have walked out of a photograph from the 1920s or 1970s as the 2010s. His dark eyes were quick and lively, and his easy movements suggested he was in better health than many men half his age.
Saxby interrupted her thoughts. “Dr Curzon, it is Lord De Molay’s Foundation that is currently employing your services.”
So this was her patron.
She looked at him again, assessing whether he appeared the kind of man who would collect artefacts like the Ark or the jasper amulet Saxby had given her.
He brushed Saxby’s comment aside with a wave of his hand. “That sounds too grand, Edmund. I’m a mere steward. I look after the Foundation, until it’s someone else’s turn.”
Despite his self-effacing words, or perhaps because of them, it was clear to Ava that behind the charm De Molay was a man used to exercising real power.
He was, in fact, exactly the sort of person she could imagine being a passionate collector of rare artefacts.
“I wanted to thank you personally for the wonderful Alexander-Abraxas amulet you so kindly donated to the museum,” she smiled. “It will be one of our prize exhibits.”
“I am delighted it’s found such a good home,” he nodded. “There are some things the public are meant to see.”
And some they’re not? Ava wondered.
“In any event, we’re extremely grateful you wish to continue assisting us,” he continued. “Do you have everything you require?”
Ava felt decidedly unprepared to answer the question. One of the things she had hoped to learn from this meeting with Saxby was exactly what was expected of her now.
“Things aren’t completely clear at present,” she admitted honestly, thinking of Drewitt and the medal. “But we have some leads.”
His nodded slowly. “Excellent.” He put down his coffee-cup on a low side-table and straightened his cufflinks as he stood tall again.
“I’m afraid I have another engagement I must attend,” he concluded in a genial tone that clearly indicated the meeting was over. “Nevertheless, I’m sure Edmund has explained to you,” he nodded towards Saxby, “that we have very considerable resources at our disposal. If you need any assistance—whether you are here or far from home, we have people who can come to your aid.” He smiled at her. “But I’m sure you know that already.”
It was news to Ava. But before she could reply, he had given a crisp nod of the head, and sailed passed her.
“If you need anything at all, Edmund is always there to help you.” He turned at the door. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Dr Curzon, and I look forward to doing so again soon.”
With that, he nodded a farewell to
Saxby, and was gone.
Saxby closed the doors behind him, and invited Ava and Ferguson to sit.
“So,” he addressed Ava when they had each taken a leather armchair around the fireplace. “This is a little awkward, as we’re in uncharted territory for the Foundation. As I mentioned previously, Lord De Molay is a man of peace, and recent events are not at all the type of scene in which we have any experience.”
“But?” Ava asked, sensing there was more.
“You see,” he continued, “the dilemma is that we are not talking about a Gutenberg Bible or a golden aureus minted by Julius Caesar. Both of those are very desirable for any serious collector, but there are a number of examples of each that could be pursued.” He paused. “However, there’s only one Ark, and it’s quite unique. Therefore we have concluded, after much thought, that the Foundation cannot hope to stay in the game unless it has someone of your skills representing its interests.”
“I’m glad that’s settled,” Ava replied, concealing her relief. “So do you know who took the Ark from Dubai, and who has it now?”
Saxby nodded. “Our sources tell us it was a man who goes by the name of Marius Malchus.”
Ava took a slightly deeper breath as she felt her heart beat faster.
So it was Malchus.
“I see you know of him?” Saxby was watching her closely.
“I’m learning more about him all the time,” Ava answered honestly.
“As are we,” Saxby was sombre. “It seems he’s a fanatic, an extremist—prone to grand visions and violence.”
“Is he working alone?” she asked, eager for even the smallest scraps of information.
“We believe so.” Saxby replied. “He does not seem to be in partnership with anyone beyond his organization. It looks like he was behind the original theft from Aksum, and now he has retaken the Ark after the thieves failed to deliver it to him.”
Ava paused, gazing up at the oil painting over the fireplace.
How did Saxby know all this? Was he in touch with Hunter? Or Prince? Or was he hearing it from somewhere else?
“Before we go any further,” she asked. “Can I ask where you get your information?”
Saxby eased himself forward in his chair a little. “I don’t think it will come as a surprise to you to learn the Foundation is extremely well connected.”
“So I understand.” Ava could see Saxby did not want to go into details. “What did De Molay mean, saying you had people everywhere?” she pressed him.
“Exactly that, really,” he smiled. “The Foundation is not without friends. We usually find there are people in most countries who can accommodate whatever requests we may have.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Ava was still in the dark. “You mean, you have people who owe favours you can call in? Services for services?”
“No, no.” Saxby looked appalled. “We are not the Mafia, Dr Curzon. Our work is directed towards making the world a better place. We are, if anything, a philanthropic organization.”
“How can I be sure of that?” Ava was feeling a mounting concern that the more she found out about the Foundation, the less she seemed actually to know about it.
Saxby’s expression was thoughtful. “Would you allow me a few days in which to address this for you?” He paused. “Meanwhile, let me reassure you—there’s nothing you will find objectionable in the aims or activities of the Foundation.”
Ava thought it over for a moment, then nodded. It was not unusual for trusts and wealthy foundations to be secretive. They rarely sought attention and publicity when carrying out their private aims and objectives. She had waited several days already. A few more would not hurt.
“So what do you want from me now?” Ava asked. “The Ark is in private hands and no longer for sale.”
“We’ve been giving this much thought,” Saxby replied. “For now, I’m afraid, we have no conclusion. We would therefore appreciate it if you could use your … ,” he paused delicately, “wider skills, in order to find out whatever you can about Malchus, and what he plans to do with the Ark.”
This was exactly what Ava had been hoping to hear.
She nodded her assent. “But my involvement is based on two conditions. First. I’m doing this because I believe Malchus is the wrong sort of person to be holding the Ark.”
“We couldn’t agree with you more.” Saxby looked sombre.
“And second,” she continued, “if I recover the Ark for the Foundation, you will enter into an open dialogue with me on scientific access to it.”
Saxby looked pensive. “I give you my word.” He paused. “Now, you mentioned to Lord De Molay that you have some leads?”
“Actually,” Ava replied, “on that topic, there’s something I wanted to ask you.” She glanced across at Ferguson, who was looking around the room, taking in all the details. “Do you know anything about the Third Crusade?”
Saxby leaned back in his chair. “How interesting you should ask. The answer is yes. I do. The Foundation has a considerable interest in the topic.”
“This is a bit of a long shot,” Ava began, “but have you heard of any surviving copies of the papal bull that launched the Third Crusade?”
“Audita tremendi?” he prompted.
A frown passed over Ferguson’s face.
Noticing it, Saxby turned to him. “All papal bulls are known by their opening words, Major Ferguson. For example, the bull De sepulturis of 1299 prohibited crusaders from boiling dead bodies in order to be able to take the bones home for burial in Europe. The bull Dudum siquidem of 1493 by the Spanish Borgia pope Alexander VI gave the Americas to Spain. And Pope Gregory XIII’s Inter gravissimas of 1582 dropped ten days from October that year to correct the drift of one day every hundred and twenty-eight years, thereby establishing the modern calendar we all use today. And so on.”
Ferguson nodded.
“The bull that launched the Third Crusade was called Audita tremendi.” He paused. “Surviving copies? Off the top of my head?” He was thinking aloud. “No. I don’t think so. You see, Pope Gregory VIII wasn’t pope for long. But I’ll look into it for you. We have excellent records of such things—”
“No. Not Pope Gregory VIII,” Ava interrupted, correcting him. “Clement III. He was pope when the Third Crusade started.”
“Ah! A common mistake,” Saxby shook his head. “The crusade was actually called by his predecessor, Gregory VIII—the fifty-seven-day pope.”
Ava was not sure she had heard right. “Clement was pope at the time of the Third Crusade. Didn’t he issue the bull that launched it?”
Saxby shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was all rather dramatic. Gregory became pope in October 1187, and issued the bull four days after donning the Triple Crown. The crusade was a subject very dear to his heart. But he was dead by mid-December that year. So Clement took over the task of preparing the crusade, but the bull was already in circulation.”
Ava’s heart sank.
Her theory was wrong—there was no ‘bloody bull’ from Clement.
She felt a crashing wave of disappointment.
So what did the medal mean?
She was back at square one.
Maybe Ferguson was right? Perhaps it was linked to the Inquisition or the body and blood of the mass?
She turned to Saxby, deciding that she had little to lose by sharing her discovery with him. It was a long shot, but worth trying. “Do you know anything about a medieval Vatican medal with a picture of the Menorah on it?” she ventured. “Probably from the 1100s, but I could be out by a century either way.”
To her surprise, Saxby’s eyes lit up. “My God. You’ve seen it?”
She could feel her pulse quickening.
“Someone brought it to my attention,” she admitted, trying to keep her excitement concealed. It was clear from Saxby’s reaction that the medal was something special. “What can you tell me about it?”
He sat back in his chair, his tone earnest. “You’ve heard of
the Knights Templar?”
“Of course,” she answered. “The pope’s crack troops of the crusades, later abolished in a blaze of scandal, and now the subject of many theories of hidden treasure and secret knowledge.”
“Exactly.” Saxby nodded. “Legends abound. But there’s one specific story about the Knights Templar and the Menorah. It’s alleged the knights undertook excavations deep into the Temple Mount, down to the ancient Temple of Solomon itself. Supposedly one of the objects they recovered was the great Temple Menorah—thought for centuries to have been lost. The legend says they shipped it back to Rome, and presented it to the pope.”
Saxby paused. “But the pope was afraid of it, and increasingly feared revenge from God for having taken a sacred Hebrew object. Unable to look upon it, he hid it away where it would not be found. But, at the request of the Templars, he cast three identical medals with clues where to find it, in case one of his successors took a different view. One medal was given for safekeeping to each of the Orders of crusading knights—the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller, and the Teutonic Knights.”
Ava was listening breathlessly. “And?” she asked.
“That’s it. No one knows if it’s a true story or a fairy-tale.”
“What do these medals look like?” Ava asked, quietly.
“Interestingly,” Saxby continued, “although the pope did not want the Menorah on his conscience, he knew it was now an official possession of the Vatican. So he cast the clues onto lead medals, forged in his chancery, each carrying the official papal stamp of Peter and Paul. And, perhaps most unusually, in honour of their importance, he ordered them to be twice the size of his ordinary bulls.”
Ava gripped the sides of her chair tightly. “In which century was this supposed to have happened?”
“Oh. Very definitely twelfth century. When the Templars still occupied the Temple. You see, they lost Jerusalem in 1187 to Saladin. So the medals are indisputably from the late 1100s.”
The Sword of Moses Page 37
