Gold of the Knights Templar

by Preston W Child

  “Yes,” wide-eyed, she said, “what are you suggesting we do?”

  “Let the cops keep it, it will be safe with them.”

  Tami looked at the painting, “it is very precious to his family.”

  “But your life is more precious, Tami, and your grandma needs you to stay alive. We need you to stay alive.”

  “It meant very much to Gabby, I’d like to hold on to it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think she’d be safe,” Olivia asked the men as they drove away.

  “We’ve drawn all the fire, let’s see what our boy would do,” said Beatty.

  “I’m gonna put two guys out there, Olivia, don’t worry.”

  She thanked Tom in her heart. She felt pity for Tami Capaldi. A grieving woman didn’t have to bear such a huge responsibility. The painting was a curse.

  Olivia had taken Tami’s telephone number, and she gave hers. She asked her to call anytime if she needed anything. But Olivia knew that woman would hardly call for help. She had the eyes and attitude of an Italian girl raised in the ghetto to fend for herself.

  Yet, even Olivia felt that now, she had been drawn into a battle with forces that will not hesitate to kill a grieving woman.

  —

  2

  Boulevard de la Petrusse, Luxembourg

  The driver that came to pick billionaire Frank Miller from the Hotel Le Châtelet was German, blonde, and he spoke French.

  Frank Miller could not abide by the German language. In contrast, French was closer to English, and therefore music to his ears.

  “Good morning, Herr Miller,” the man greeted in fluent French.

  Miller thanked him in pidgin French. They whisked him away in a yellow Ferrari. Fit for Kings, the driver had said as he opened the door for him. He asked if Miller didn’t have any escorts.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A maiden for the raid,” the man smiled with perfect teeth.

  “Yeah, that…”

  Miller looked out the window reflectively. He hadn’t had a woman in days, he mourned. Miller had a friend, an escort. A regular girl for every country. And in Luxembourg, he had Esther, a queer name for a French girl. She was pretty, lively, and very funny. Miller flew in from Canada the day before and hadn’t had the time to call her.

  He dialed her number.

  “Hello, you have reached Esther, but I’m not home now, you can leave—”

  “Esther, it’s me, Frank.”

  “Oh, Frank, good Lord! I’m sorry, I thought it was one of my debtors calling. Do you want to meet me?”

  “Why would I be calling, Esther?”

  “Oh, my bad, I’m distraught, Frank, I owe a lot of people, dangerous people for that matter.”

  “We’ll clear it when we meet at 3 pm today?”

  “Okay, you’re the best.”

  Miller looked at the Aryan face of the driver in the rearview mirror. The man was smiling at him.

  “I have an escort now,” Miller said.

  “Good, a man may live without his wants, but not without his needs.”

  “Well said, what’s your name?”

  “Ethan.”

  Miller nodded and enjoyed the view in the streets of Luxembourg.

  —

  Every private auction exists by its own rules because the one who organizes it seems to achieve a goal. The objective is always as unknown as most of the merchandise on sale.

  Sometimes, one or two of the organizers are looking to dispose of vendibles illegally on the market. Hence some have referred to private auctions as irregular black markets because quite naturally, even black markets have their rules. Forcefully broken, yes, but they are there for anyone strong enough to enforce them.

  Frank Miller was ushered in by a charming hostess, into a hall that used to be a church. It went from holding masses to holding cars for a rich mechanic. Now, it was owned by a German industrialist with enough dark background to invite the rich and powerful to buy stuff they don’t need.

  High backed chairs were arranged in rows, important men were in them. A hostess took him to a chair with a number on it: 19. It also had his name on a plastic card. Miller searched his pocket and got another card, a gold plated card. He compared it, it was the same.

  He sat and took a glass of champagne off a moving tray.

  He checked his watch, it said the time was a quarter after 8. It was still morning. He had a lot of time to waste here before breaking it with Esther.

  He smiled when he recalled the fragrance of her hair, the shape of her mouth when they pout.

  Today it was a single seller auction.

  Presently, the auctioneer climbed the stage. He was French. Oiled hair streaked with white and parted on the left. His black coat had a tail, the lapel glittery. A thin mustache was on his thin straight lips. It was built like a stick.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he declared.

  Miller looked around, there was not a single woman. Except the ladies serving the alcohol.

  Thirty minutes later, it was the turn of a painting that Miller had seen in the brochure of the auction and liked. It would do for the décor of his living room.

  Miller watched while bids flew.

  “Going! Going!” the auctioneer chanted.

  “Nine hundred thousand dollars,” Miller yelled his bid.

  Heads turned in his direction; that wasn’t something new. He was used to it.

  “Sold!” the auctioneer slammed his mallet.

  —

  “Who’s the seller?”

  “That gentleman,” the auctioneer pointed at a man in impeccably cut dark suits. He appeared to be having an animated discussion with a group of pudgy money men. He was lecturing them.

  Miller walked over to the man. He said his name was Milo Aznar.

  “Alright, Milo, I’m going to need verification.”

  Milo excused himself from his audience. He looked at Miller with rapidly blinking eyes and a nose like Santa Claus.

  “The seller expects you to do the verification yourself, sir.”

  “What, are you kidding me?”

  “You are American?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Miller cut him, annoyed, “alright, tell your principal, I’m going to need a couple of days to verify, okay.”

  “A couple of days?” more blinking, “no, sir, the standard is 48 hours, then you pay, sir.”

  Miller said it was okay with him. He walked out of the venue with a bondsman. He was employed by the houses and paid for by Miller to carry the painting. The bondsman would come to his hotel, or wherever he lived with the vendibles, so he could verify his residence.

  At the hotel, the bondsman asked Miller if he was living at the hotel.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That poses a challenge, sir.”

  “How?”

  “If you, by any chance, do abscond, then the principal would have lost his sale altogether.”

  Miller shook his head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Perhaps you can show good faith by paying a fraction of the fee forward?”

  Miller signed a check. He was tired, and he would like to see Esther after catching some sleep.

  “Happy?”

  “Peachy,” the bondsman grinned.

  And of course, there would be bounty men in the street from that minute in, watching the hotel to make sure the billionaire does not run away without balancing the principal.

  Miller laid the wrapped painting against the wall in his penthouse suit and went to the bathroom. Minutes later, he was fast asleep.

  —

  At 3 pm Frank Miller was sitting in the Mandarin restaurant, Fu Lu Shou Inn, on Rue de Strasbourg. He ordered a lager beer and waited for Esther.

  She came in at almost ten minutes before four. She wore a red gown that complimented well, the restaurants red and gold color. She was instantly all over Miller with pleas.

  Harsh times were on her, she said. And debtors su
rrounded her like sharks at the scent of blood.

  “You’re lucky I like you, Esther,” Miller finished his beer.

  “I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Miller ordered for them both. Satay chicken and prawns, then red wine.

  “How’s your wife and children, hm, how many do you have now?” she asked as she ate.

  “My wife’s divorced me, and now our children are five.”

  It was a joke they shared. It started back when Esther still believed he was a man on the run from his wife. They are, talked, Miller took her up to his suite, they discussed some more. Be made love to her and then signed a check to pay her debts.

  —

  The streets outside had settled in for the night when Frank Miller woke. There was a note on the pillow beside his head. If said: It is always fun having you around, thanks for the money. Call me, please.

  Miller felt charged. He reread the note, the flowing handwriting was always a delight to read. He would not call her again until the next time.

  He showered, room service brought more beer.

  He opened his MacBook and asked Google about his painting. He put the photo of the art in his query and waited. He would have loved his friend Lawrence Diggs to do this, but Lord knows where the man was at this time, and Lord helps whoever he was dealing with.

  Miller frowned at the first search result.

  It was an article, but it was the name of the author that caught his attention.

  “Olivia Newton…” he smiled.

  It was the only article he read that night. And he was extremely disturbed by it. He reread it.

  Gabriel Capaldi.

  The photo of the painting in the article was the same as the one he just bade for. Miller rushed over to the painting, he pulled the wrapping off.

  “What the…”

  He had bought many things which were stolen. He could ignore his finding, but he could not ignore the fact that his friend Olivia Newton wrote it. And the time of the article suggested some form of intimacy.

  And Olivia had also mentioned that the painting was a fake. Could he trust Olivia’s article to be true?

  —

  “Hey, Olivia.”

  “Frank? Is that you?” her groggy voice said.

  “Yeah, did I wake you, should I call again later?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “What’s up, Frank, what caves are you exploring now?”

  Miller smiled at the memory the joked called up. Miller told her he was in Luxembourg buying antiques. And he’d just purchased a fascinating one. It was the painting she wrote about in her article.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Your article about the artist, Gabriel Capaldi?” Miller repeated, “I just read it, excellent piece—”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, I think I just bought the painting, Olivia.”

  “My God,” she whispered.

  He heard ruffling, Olivia getting out of bed. She asked him to give her a few seconds. She booted her laptop up.

  “Are you there, Frank?”

  “Right here.”

  More ruffling and then a bump, a grunt.

  She came back on, “I have been researching that painting too, there are at least six fakes in the past hundred years. The one you bought is the last of the fakes. It was here in Miami, in Gabriel Capaldi’s gallery. Three days ago, he was killed in his home, the painting stolen.”

  “Awful.”

  “You have to give it back, you can’t buy it, Miller. You are buying a fake. And Miller, the painting is just one part of the clues to the Templars Gold.”

  “Templars Gold?”

  “Yes, the Templars. Turns out, they have a cache of treasure stashed away somewhere. But nobody knows where it is, except any who can read the clues. I think whoever stole it now knows it is fake, they are gonna come for the original painting—”

  “You speak like you know where it is—”

  “Is this line secure, Frank?”

  He looked around his suit, through the window at the darkness outside. The thought that he could be watched only crossed his mind that afternoon when he left the hotel. He had seen a red pinto that he thought looked familiar.

  If the seller of the painting was the same as the killer —which was unlikely— it was not inconceivable that he could be watching. Someone definitely must want their money.

  “No,” he said finally.

  “You are gonna have to call me with a cleaner line. Hotels eavesdrop too.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Miller didn’t go back to sleep. He aw the face of Gabriel Capaldi every time he shut his eyes.

  —

  He called Olivia again from a payphone.

  “There are three clues, by my calculations, that lead to the treasures of the Templars. All three were stolen, two wee successful, the last one is the painting. They failed there. The first clue is some key, and the second one is also a painting, but I don’t know what’s on it. All keepers have been killed.”

  “The first one in England. M16 is in a quandary over that one. They think it was suicide. But some think there is more to it than meets the eyes. In Morocco, the sûreté Nationale, that’s Moroccan police, thinks Nicolas Ramos, the second keeper, is Italian mafia.”

  “That’s all I know now,” she finished.

  “And where’s the original Capaldi painting?”

  “It's with Miami police,” Olivia said.

  “Good, sheriff Tom Garcia?”

  “Yep.”

  “Alright, stay safe. I’m going to find out what I can about the seller.”

  —

  Miller made two more calls while in the booth.

  One to Lawrence Diggs.

  “What’s up?” came the papery voice.

  Miller heard scuffling in the background, something broke. “Is that bones?” Miller asked.

  “I’m working, frank, what the hell you want?”

  Miller smiled.

  “I need you to pack, catch the next flight to Luxembourg.”

  The wrangling in the background stopped.

  “What’s happening in Luxembourg?”

  “Something that’s your kind of thing, Diggs.”

  “Give me two hours.”

  Next, he called the auctioneer.

  “I wanna meet the seller tomorrow.”

  “I’ll set you up for 8 pm?”

  “Fine by me.”

  —

  Diggs showed up that night. Miller had him stay in a different hotel. In between the time, he did more research on the Templars Gold. He found exactly what Olivia had told him.

  He was piqued.

  It had been a while since he went on an adventure. But this had all the traces of danger. The sort he’d not want to put any of his friends through. Except for Diggs, of course. Diggs peddled in danger.

  The day seemed to creep slowly to its end. He contemplated calling Esther. But his phone cut the desire for sex; it started ringing.

  “Mr. Frank Miller?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are expected to meet the principal at the Sofitex Lounge basement, on Rue Baudoin,” the cultured voice said, “do you know this place?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Good.” It came out as 'goot.'

  —

  Lawrence Diggs was waiting in front of the Frida Contina restaurant. He was dressed conservatively, just as Miller said he should; a black pinstriped suit, white shirts, and matching shoes. His bow tie dangled from his collar.

  The German Ethan sped towards Rue Baudoin.

  Diggs had gotten bigger since the last time they saw in Rome, more muscular and fewer beards. He wore dark shades.

  “What’s it with the shades?”

  “The lights,” Diggs said in a deep voice, “they hurt my eyes.”

  Miller smiled, “Vin Diesel, Chronicles of Riddick.”

  “Yeah, I never get tired of it.”


  The rest of the ride they enjoyed in silence.

  The Sofitex Lounge was an old restaurant in a building that used to be a pharmaceutical company. The hulk of the superstructure prodded the dark blue starless skies. A few cars were parked down in the basement. The place was lit by two flickering fluorescent lamps, and it was draughty down there.

  The Ferrari parked, and Miller told the German driver to take the car around the area and be back in ten minutes.

  Miller and his companion went down into the basement. Two Chevrolet jeeps were parked side by side.

  The doors opened, and two men stepped out, three more joined them, they looked armed under their trench coats.

  It was dark, so Miller could not make out the faces correctly.

  “Why don’t you come out into the lights.”

  “Come on, what are you afraid of, Frank Miller?” someone called from the shadows.

  Diggs asked Miller if they were in the right basement. The figure that just hollered at them came out into the light. The man was tall. He wore a black shirt, black trousers, and shoes.

  “Paul Talbot.”

  “The Paul Talbot, from Rome?” asked Diggs.

  “Yes, that one.”

  Talbot came closer. He looked at Diggs and shook his head.

  “You know, if I wasn’t in a more lucrative business these days, I’d have taken your head off for what you did to me in Rome,” Talbot pointed at Diggs, “you were one hell of a pain in my ass.”

  “Can we speak with the seller now?”

  “And you, Frank Miller, billionaire, and playboy, you have are rich and you ha e an eye for the real antique, how’d you like the painting?”

  “It’s fake.”

  Talbot spread his hands, he turned around and looked at his goons, in mock surprise. He opened his mouth and close it again.

  “What’d you mean it’s fake, that’s Templar art, 13th-century shit, how can you say my shit is fake? Are you broke or what?”

  “The man who owns that painting is dead in Miami, Talbot, how did you get it, who sold it to you?”

  Talbot dropped his airs. He looked at the men behind him again. Then he walked closer to Miller so that their faces were just about a foot apart. His breath smelled of some spice. The guy hasn’t aged a day from the last time Miller saw him.