by Joseph Nagle
At the airport’s business center, Michael typed furiously. He checked his watch—forty-seven hours, thirty minutes. But it wasn’t the countdown that had him worried. He knew that right now, Langley would have already been alerted to the dummy card’s usage. Meant to be untraceable by those on whom the CIA spied, when used, the CIA would know within minutes. It was a way to keep track of officers, as well as their illicit and licit expenses.
Michael logged into his personal e-mail account and easily found the itinerary for a flight that he had taken recently.
Sonia had been complaining about how he never stopped working, so he had agreed to take a quick weekend trip to the Florida Keys. The flight information was still in his inbox, and, after a few more keystrokes, the printer spat out three copies of the expired boarding passes.
Next to the computer monitor was a container of pens, a scissors, clear scotch tape, and some whiteout.
Michael went to work. He began cutting and taping away at the different pages. Within two of the printed pages, he found the right series of numbers and carefully cut them apart from the pages. He painstakingly laid them over the remaining printout and then taped them meticulously into place: he was covering the date of his trip to the Keys with a new date. His work would appear sloppy under severe scrutiny, but he did his best to make it passable at a glance. Soon he had created a new boarding pass, current with today’s date.
With a few strokes of the whiteout, he was able to crudely clean up any errant black marks or smudges that seemed out of place.
It was rudimentary, but it just might pass. He went to the business center’s printer and made a copy of the hastily put-together boarding pass.
With a fresh copy of the forgery now in his hand, he inspected the new page for any signs of obvious imperfections. Satisfied that there were none—at least none available at first glance—he folded it over a number of times to give it some creases and the appearance of being aged.
As he was leaving the business center, he saw a neglected cup of coffee sitting next to another man. The man wasn’t looking his way; Michael grabbed the coffee and then left.
Once outside, Michael took the forged boarding pass and set it on the ledge of a nearby phone booth. He opened the cup of still steaming-hot coffee and poured some on the paper.
The line to security wasn’t long, and it moved quickly.
The TSA agent waved him forward. She was an older, portly woman who wore entirely too much perfume and even more makeup.
TSA doesn’t check the bar code for a legitimate ticket, which was done at the gate. They only crosschecked the name and date. That was it.
He let out a slow breath and handed her the boarding pass.
Time slowed down.
The agent seemed to be scrutinizing the boarding pass a bit more closely than she had the others.
She raised her head to Michael and said, “Couldn’t handle your coffee, eh?”
Smiling, she handed it back, waved him through, and then said, “Next!”
Michael quietly let out a breath of relief as he walked through security. Once through, he found the monitors for departing planes. TAP Portugal Airlines had a flight leaving for Lisbon in ten minutes.
He hurried to the mobile lounge and was able to jump on the awkward-looking vehicle just as the doors closed. The carriage was fifty-four feet long and sixteen feet wide and looked like it was designed for transportation on the moon. Within minutes, Michael was at the C Concourse and in front of a TAP Airlines flight attendant.
As was typically the case for airport workers, the woman ignored his presence although he stood a mere two feet in front of her. She banged away at the keyboard as if the end of the world was about to happen, and it was her work alone that would stop it.
After a number of moments, Michael’s impatience grew, so he decided to speed things a bit. He dug into his bag and pulled out a set of pilot’s credentials. The placard carried his picture under the logo for United Airlines and had the title Senior Captain written in gold.
He flipped the identification on the counter and cleared his throat. Over the top of her glasses, the gate attendant peered at the pilot’s badge and immediately stopped what she was doing.
Ignoring the fact that she had been ignoring him, she asked, “What can I do for you, Captain?”
Michael smiled and said, “I just finished piloting in from San Francisco and am on holiday for a few days; I thought a trip to Lisbon would be nice. Please ask your captain if the jump seat is available.”
A little professional courtesy goes a long way, thought Michael. His fingers were crossed.
It took only a few minutes, and soon she asked for Michael’s passport, which he obligingly handed over. Soon, she gave the passport back along with a boarding pass.
Apparently, a seat was available.
“Travel safe, Captain. Glad to have you aboard. We’ve already boarded; give us a minute to let the passengers settle in. For now, just have a seat until I call you.”
Michael nodded and offered his thanks through a smile. Taking his seat, he looked at his watch again, and then scanned the terminal for signs of his people. A minute just might be too long.
At that moment his cell phone rang. Looking at its screen, he saw the number was from overseas. “What now,” he said out loud, just before answering.
“Yes?”
The voice he heard was frantic and fast. It was York.
“Slow down, kid,” Michael said as he got up and walked to a more private area. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
“Sir, they killed the captain! He’s dead, sir! He’s fucking dead, and I have no idea what to do!”
“Kid,” Michael interjected, “you are going to have to get yourself together.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” shouted York. “The captain’s dead! They got to us somehow! Who the hell are these people, Doc? Why haven’t they killed me?”
“Listen to me and listen carefully,” Michael replied, lowering his voice. “I do not have answers for you. You cannot waste your time trying to get them. Tell me, where are you now?”
“I’m in India, just like you told me. I got us to Mumbai and found the doctor. He patched up the captain, but then his assistant killed him while we were sleeping. He killed the doctor, too!”
Damn it! Doctor Hora was a damn good man.
“Okay, kid.” Michael’s voice deepened, and he continued, “I am only going to say this once. I am off the grid. So are you. Contact no one. When I end this call, you will forget this number. Now listen carefully: I want you to get to the Solar Do Castelo in Lisbon, Portugal.”
Before Michael could finish, York screamed, “Portugal! You want me to go to fucking Portugal! How in the hell am I supposed to do that? I’ve got no passport, no clothes, and only a handful of rupees!”
Michael was calm in demeanor and flatly responded, “You will have to improvise. When you get there, ask for Richard Kreistoff’s room. And, kid?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful; trust no one. I mean it.”
Michael ended the call. All that he could do now for the young Green Beret was to hope.
Michael heard the voice of the gate attendant calling for him. Captain Richard Kreistoff stood, walked to the attendant, handed her his boarding pass, and then walked down the Jetway.
Two very attractive Portuguese flight attendants, one of whom showed him to a seat in first class, greeted him.
“I thought I would be sitting in the jump seat?” asked Michael.
“Our flight is not full, Captain, so you may sit here. Once we are in the air, our captain will come out of the cockpit to introduce himself to you.”
I was afraid of that. “Of course,” replied Michael. “I would love to thank him for his courtesy.”
Crap, thought Michael, I hope he only wants to say hello; what the hell do I know about planes?
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
DISTANT RELATIVES
PARIS, FRANCE
Gerald, the scientist, and the Primitus were in the lab once more. The air was cold, and the environment staler than he had remembered.
This time Gerald said nothing.
He waited with patience.
The Primitus did too.
Together, they watched the scientist work. A small piece of the shroud had been cut from the length of the cloth. The steps were repeated in the same manner as had been with the Crown of Thorns; all three men waited as the liquid scintillation counter calculated the shroud’s precise age.
The thermal counter was at work, too, mapping any DNA in the cloth’s fibers.
The shroud was laid flat on the long aluminum table; the image that all thought to be Christ’s couldn’t be seen under normal light, but he knew it was there.
Gerald felt himself shiver at being so close to the shroud, after having touched it. His anticipation of what was to come kept his focus resolute.
And then the machines were done; the results were calculated.
Gerald felt himself holding his breath.
“The DNA is a near match,” proclaimed the scientist.
“And the age?” asked the Primitus.
The scientist adjusted his glasses, pushing the rims closer to his face, and replied with a smile, “Early fourteenth century.”
The Primitus held his hand out; without hesitation, the scientist rushed over and helped him to his feet. They both turned toward the door and gestured for Gerald to follow.
Gerald was confused. “Fourteenth century? How can it match the DNA on the Crown of Thorns if the DNA on the shroud dates to thirteen hundred years later?”
The Primitus asked his underling, “These were not the results that you expected, no?”
Gerald wasn’t sure that it was his place to answer, but said, “I am confused; were we not trying to prove that the crown and shroud both had Christ’s DNA?”
The Primitus smiled and canted his head sideways as if to say not really.
“Then what, sir, what are we doing?”
“Monsieur!” snapped the scientist. “You dare to be so presumptuous; it is not your place to know!”
Gerald felt his face go hot with anger, but he dared to say nothing. Instead, he gripped the sides of the stool until his knuckles went white. Then he stood and glared at the scientist. A thick, pulsating vein ran down his forehead, making his anger obvious.
The Primitus held up his hand; the effect was immediate. “I think his work has earned him the right, Claude. Like him, we were both impetuous once; forgive him—his youth betrays his lack of patience, but that is to be expected of every man.”
It was the first Gerald had heard the scientist called by his name.
Turning to Gerald, the Primitus’s words echoed with his age as he slowly explained, “Gerald, it is the sons of Christ whose existence shall be proved.”
Gerald was stunned and stammered back, “Sons?”
The Primitus nodded once in the affirmative, turned, and placed a frail hand on the shoulder of the Scientist before saying, “It is his time, Claude.” Removing his hand as slowly as he placed it, the Primitus shuffled away.
Christ’s sons? Gerald repeated in his thoughts, unsure that he had heard correctly.
After the old man had left, the scientist—Claude—moved in front of Gerald, between him and the door. “I was as confused as you the first time I heard those words.”
Claude motioned to a chair. “Take a seat, monsieur. I will explain this to you as our Primitus has directed. It seems that he has decided to promote you to the next level; congratulations are in order, I suppose. You are to be commended for your hard work. Few have heard what you are about to.”
Gerald took a few steps backward and, without looking, reached for the stool that had brought him so much discomfort. Finding it, he sat.
The scientist clasped his hands behind his back, lowered his head, and began to speak. As he did, he paced slowly back and forth.
“What I am about to tell you speaks to the very core of who we are; why we are. I do not need to explain to you that this stays with you; should you choose to dishonor this requirement, it will mean the end of you and anyone you are close to, am I clear, monsieur?”
He could tell that Claude was more than serious; Gerald nodded his agreement and said, “My loyalty will always be to the Order; I have pledged my life to it.”
“Good, monsieur, do not take this lightly. Now, to begin: in the early fourteenth century, and as you certainly know, the predecessor to our organization was brutally and cowardly murdered. It was by order of King Philip IV of France, by way of papal bull.”
“Pope Clement V,” muttered Gerald. He knew the history of the Order quite well.
Claude nodded in the affirmative and continued, “The last master, Master Jacques de Molay, was burned at the stake in 1314 on the Isle des Juifs—”
“Which is now the Île de la Cité!” added Gerald.
Claude stopped in his tracks at the interruption but allowed it.
Although Gerald had heard of the location of Molay’s death, it hadn’t dawned on him until now: the island upon which Jacques de Molay had been burned at the stake was the same island where Notre Dame had stood, where the Crown of Thorns had been housed and guarded by the Catholic Church.
Claude nodded subtly at Gerald’s correct assertion. Continuing, he outlined, “After that atrocious day, by order of that lugubrious band of faux clergy in Rome, our Order ceased to exist, but only for a short while. Master Molay was slowly burned until his death. His body, before being completely consumed and turned to ash, was retrieved from the pyre and upon it a heavy shroud was laid.”
Gerald nearly jumped to his feet. “A shroud?! Do you mean our shroud, the Shroud of Turin?”
Confirming Gerald’s question, Claude replied, “Oui, monsieur. This shroud, our shroud, had been used to cover the bodies of our masters since the murder of Master Molay in 1314. It was made specifically for him. Carbon dating has proved the date of the shroud’s origin. My amusement never ceases when I think about how from one generation to the next, each new swarm of locusts refuses to acknowledge the truth that science has given them! The evidence shouts loudly to the shroud’s true origin, but, yet, they still deny it! Their credulity is both humorous and disgusting!”
Gerald was beginning to understand and asked, “Are we trying to prove that the image seen on the shroud belongs to Master Molay?”
“Not quite,” responded the scientist. “Many of our former masters have been covered by the shroud—in fact, all of them since Master Molay were covered by this shroud until the last one, which was in the sixteenth century. Monsieur, there is no need to prove the date of the shroud’s creation—that has been done many times over. It has been proven that the shroud dates from around 1300. As you know, the image on the shroud bears the likeness of a man who has sustained a number of wounds; many have supposed that those wounds resemble those of a man crucified.”
“They do not?” asked Gerald.
“The wounds are, of course, of a man tortured, monsieur, but certainly not crucified, and certainly not those of Christ.”
“But Molay was burned. It would be doubtful that his image would show any wounds of that sort. How is it, then, that the shroud shows a man who has been wounded many times over?” Gerald sat back wanting for more; waiting for an answer.
Claude was pleased to acquiesce.
“The shroud was given to the House of Savoy in 1453, where it remained until 1578. During this time, every master was cloaked in it upon his death, but in 1578, the shroud was handed over to the Church.”
Gerald was shocked to hear this. “But why…why would anyone belonging to the Order give our Shroud to the Church?”
“We had no choice, monsieur. The shroud was always used to cover the dead body of the current master at his death. It had to be; we had no choice in the matter. Master Molay was not the only master of the Order covered by the shroud. As I have said, all have been; i
t is our way.”
The scientist’s reply confused Gerald. “I’m not following. If the image on the shroud is not Master Molay, than whose image is it?”
The scientist smiled; his smile was broad and nearly warmed the room. “Ah, the true question has finally been asked! What you want to know speaks specifically to what we are trying to accomplish now.”
Claude moved closer; too close. He was nearly nose-to-nose with Gerald. He lowered himself and opened his eyes wider. Gerald felt the intensity from the man through the heavy breath the fell upon his face; he leaned backward and away from Claude. There was a fire in Claude’s widened eyes that spoke of a hidden ferocity, a capability that Gerald had not seen prior.
For the first time, the old man sent a stab of fear in Gerald.
The scientist’s voice deepened as he slowly said, “Monsieur, the shroud has been in the possession of the Church for over four centuries, but it belongs to us, to our last master, to our missing king. It is his return that we await, and when he does, the Vatican will have no choice but to bow to us!”
Gerald held his breath.
The scientist—Claude—stood upright.
The face of an old man returned as he stated matter-of-factly, “Now, come, Gerald. We have decided to give the thief his asking price, and there is still much to do.”
The only thing that ran through Gerald’s mind was a question: the return of the missing king?
CHAPTER FORTY
HOW TO SATIATE A
SOCIOPATH
TORINO, ITALY
Charney stared at his naked body in the mirror. The vascular definition of his pulsing, blue veins ran the length of his frame and spoke to his conditioning. He admired the striations of the lean muscle that rippled across his broad chest. He ran his eyes down to his abdominals and to where they met with his defined intercostal muscles. He watched as they moved slightly—contracting and releasing—with every breath he inhaled and exhaled.
His legs were well defined and when his quadriceps flexed, the individual lengths of muscles easily demarcated from one another.
