The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  ‘. . . et une tasse de thé, s’il vous plaît,’ Edie told the waiter, finishing the order with a strained smile.

  Rudderless, Caedmon stared at the blurred flash of motorists and pedestrians moving back and forth along Boulevard Saint-Germain. Stage props in a dream from which he could not awake.

  The fact that he had a daughter a few years older than he’d been when he dated Gita Patel at Oxford was unbelievable to him. He wasn’t the father to a gurgling baby in nappies. He was the father of a full-grown woman. How is this even possible? And why the bloody hell did Gita wait all these years to tell him?

  Navigating his way across unfamiliar terrain, Caedmon struggled for the right words to convey his utter shock at learning that her daughter – no, their daughter – had been abducted. ‘Of course, Gita, I’ll help in any way that I can, but I’m at a complete loss to understand how –’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you that I was pregnant,’ Gita interjected, having somehow intuited his train of thought.

  Hearing that, he exhaled a shaky breath, realizing that he was in the dark about a great many things. ‘Since I seem to have come into this at the denouement rather than the intro, I would appreciate hearing the story from the very beginning.’

  Gita gnawed anxiously on her lower lip before saying, ‘There’s not a great deal to tell. When I left Oxford at the end of Trinity term, I discovered that I was pregnant. My father was concerned that –’ She broke off in mid-stream, an anguished look in her hazel eyes. In that suspended instant, Caedmon could see that she was facing down her demons. ‘My father was afraid that my predicament would adversely affect his political career. Which is why he forbade me to contact you.’

  ‘He was the Labor MP from Ealing Southall as I recall.’

  She gave a terse nod. ‘Determined to keep my pregnancy under wraps, my father hastily arranged a marriage for me, paying the groom and his family a small fortune to turn a blind eye.’

  Caedmon frowned, incensed – not at Gita, but at a man he’d never met. ‘Said groom was a Hindu, I take it?’

  ‘A computer engineer newly arrived from Delhi.’ Gita punctuated the comment with a slight shudder. ‘Needless to say, it was a disastrous union, one that barely lasted four years. When I divorced Dev Malik, I took custody of Anala, retook my maiden name, and moved on with my life.’

  Anala. My daughter’s name is Anala. For some reason, it’d not occurred to him to ask.

  Lost in thought, Caedmon stared at Gita Patel, culling from his memory banks that brief interlude at Oxford when they’d been inseparable, raging hormones and a shared love of history the glue that held them together. He had tried once or twice to contact her, but assumed the returned letters meant that, unbeknownst to him, the relationship had officially ended. In the decades since, he’d not given her a single passing thought. Even now, all he could recall with any certainty was that she was the product of a mixed marriage, she had an unnatural fear of spiders, and that her academic field had been Oriental Studies. Meaning that, for all intents and purposes, the woman sitting across from him was a virtual stranger.

  ‘So that would make our daughter –’ Caedmon did a quick mental calculation ‘– twenty-two years of age. And her name is Anala, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. Just a moment . . . I brought a current picture.’ Fumbling with the leather messenger bag still slung across her chest, Gita retrieved a wallet from which she removed a color photograph. Clearly nervous, she handed it to him.

  Equally nervous, Caedmon raised the photograph to his face.

  An instant later, his jaw slackened. Un-bloody-believable.

  Barely able to breathe, let alone move, he stared at the photo, taken aback by the image of a brown-haired, blue-eyed young woman.

  ‘I never knew my mother . . . she died in childbirth. That said, the resemblance in the face and eyes is uncanny,’ he rasped. So similar, it was as though he was peering at a ghost.

  Afraid that he’d lose what little emotional control he still had, Caedmon quickly shoved the image of his long-dead mother back into the mental lockbox that held all of his sepia-toned memories. Those things best forgotten or too painful to call to mind.

  God Almighty. When I am going to wake up from this nightmare?

  Leaning towards him, Edie looked over his shoulder at the photo.

  ‘Anala is a lovely young woman,’ she said to Gita.

  His hand visibly shaking, Caedmon set the photo in the middle of the table. ‘Does she know about me?’

  The question caused Gita to blush furiously. Unable to look him in the eye, she gazed down at the table. ‘Anala thinks that my ex-husband is her biological father.’

  ‘I see.’ Now it was Caedmon’s turn to stare at the table, feeling very much like a man who’d just been stomped and kicked when he was down.

  His belly tightened painfully. I have a daughter who doesn’t even know that I exist.

  He took a deep breath, trying desperately to keep his emotions in check. ‘What can you tell me about the abduction?’ he said abruptly, his voice noticeably hoarse.

  ‘Anala was kidnapped three days ago from our home in Fort Cochin, India,’ Gita informed him. Pausing a moment, she tightly clasped her hands together. Presumably to stop the palsied tremble. ‘There was a message scrawled on her bedroom mirror in lipstick . . . “Don’t call the police or she dies.”’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Edie gasped, clearly horrified.

  Equally horrified, Caedmon sat silent. He was listing so badly, he feared he might not be able to keep afloat.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw their waiter approach, a tray expertly balanced on his fingertips. A blasé expression plastered on his Gallic features, he set down a glass of chilled rosé for Edie and a small stainless steel pot of hot water with a cup and saucer for Gita. Then, with a flourish, he placed a Dubonnet Rouge in front of Caedmon, who was very tempted to tell the aproned bastard to save the theatrics for another customer.

  Caedmon waited until the waiter had departed before he cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me for being indelicate, but do you need money for a ransom?’

  ‘The captors don’t want money.’

  ‘If not money, then what the bloody hell do they want?’

  Gita’s bottom lip began to quiver. ‘They want an ancient gospel called the Evangelium Gaspar.’

  Hearing that, Caedmon stared at her, uncomprehending. The kidnappers want an ancient gospel? It made no sense. He shook his head, wondering if he’d heard correctly.

  Edie turned to him. ‘Are you familiar with the Evangelium Gaspar?’

  Floundering, he searched his memory banks for anything pertaining to the Evangelium Gaspar. To no avail. Other than the fact that ‘Evangelium Gaspar’ was Latin for ‘Gospel of Gaspar’, he drew a blank.

  Think, man, think!

  ‘I’m afraid that I’ve never heard of it,’ he said at last, not a single bell having tolled.

  Hazel eyes welled with tears as Gita openly gaped at him. ‘But I . . . I was so certain that you’d be familiar with the Evangelium Gaspar.’

  ‘And why would you think that?’ Befuddled, he returned her stare.

  ‘Because the Knights Templar went to India in 1307 to retrieve it.’

  ‘The Knights Templars!’ Caedmon spat out the exclamation like a cherry pit. One that he was very close to gagging on. ‘In India!?’

  6

  ‘Yes, India,’ Gita Patel reiterated. ‘According to your author website, you wrote your master’s thesis on the Knights Templar.’ Which was the very reason why she’d travelled five thousand miles to see Caedmon Aisquith.

  How could he not know about the Templar’s voyage?

  ‘I also wrote my dissertation on those blasted knights, but that’s another story.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain that you have never heard of—’

  ‘If the Templars ever sought a relic known as the Evangelium Gaspar, I’m unaware of it,’ Caedmon interjected. Shrugging apologeticall
y, he said, ‘While they did have the largest standing navy in medieval Europe, as far as I know they never sailed to India.’

  Refusing to retreat, Gita hurriedly opened the flap on her leather bag and removed a compact computer notebook. ‘And I can prove to you that they did sail to India.’

  As she waited for the laptop to boot up, Gita stole a quick sideways glance at Caedmon. Although she’d recognized him immediately when she’d caught sight of him on the street, at closer range she could see that he’d changed considerably in the last twenty-three years. At Oxford he’d been a lanky, loose-knit teenager. Somewhere along the line, he’d grown into his height, his shoulders, chest, even his face, broader now than in his youth. Befitting his age, there were horizontal lines on his brow and vertical lines bracketing his mouth. Only the head of deep auburn hair was unchanged; that, and the faint smattering of freckles on the back of his hands. Or, more precisely, on the back of his right hand; his left was marred with raised criss-crossing scar tissue and a ragged surgical incision.

  Realizing that she was staring at Caedmon’s ravaged hand, Gita hastily averted her gaze.

  In retrospect, she supposed that she should have apologized for not telling him about his daughter. Yes, she had regrets, too many to enumerate, but after so many years an apology seemed like a paltry atonement. Although if he required an apology, she’d go down on bended knee. Grovel, if that’s what it took to secure his cooperation, her pride be damned. Over the last two decades, she’d given up everything for her daughter: family, friends, her youth. Humbling herself to the man seated across from her seemed inconsequential compared to all of that.

  Self-consciously aware of two sets of eyes quizzically peering at her laptop, Gita hurriedly opened the computer file labeled ‘Maharaja Plate’. The file contained two digital photos, front and back, of an engraved copper plate that measured six by nine inches; approximately the size of a reporter’s notebook. She spun the computer around so that Caedmon and Edie could see the two side-by-side images.

  Squinting, Caedmon leaned forward slightly. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Three months ago, this 700-year-old copper plate was uncovered during an excavation at the ancient port of Muziris, which is located on the Malabar Coast of India. It’s a Royal Grant issued by the Maharaja in the year 1307,’ Gita informed him, watching closely for his reaction. ‘As you can plainly see, it’s scribed in the Tamil language.’

  ‘What exactly is the, um, Maharaja granting?’ Edie Miller inquired, cutting to the chase.

  ‘The Maharaja is granting a Knights Templar named Fortes de Pinós, who’s listed as the designated emissary of the Grand Master Jacques de Molay, official permission to seek out the St. Thomas Christians in Malabar regarding a gospel written by someone named Gaspar in the year 52 AD.’ Gita underscored the statement by pointing to several lines of highly decorative script.

  Caedmon glanced up from the computer screen. ‘How did this Maharaja plate come to be in your possession?’

  ‘Forgive me . . . I th-thought I told you already,’ she stammered. ‘I’m the curator at the Kerala Cultural Museum.’

  ‘I see.’ A long silence followed as Caedmon continued to examine the digital photos. Finally, frowning at the screen, he said, ‘The oldest known gospel manuscript dates to 125 AD. Not only is it a fragment, it’s a copy of a copy. That said, if the Evangelium Gaspar actually exists, it would be the oldest original gospel ever written. Bloody hell . . . those damned Templars.’

  Nerves frayed, uncertain whether she could count on Caedmon to lend his expertise, Gita picked up the wrapped tea bag that the waiter had earlier set down in front of her. Fumbling with the small paper packet, she tried, unsuccessfully, to open it.

  Without uttering a word, Edie Miller reached across the table and eased the packet from her trembling hands. Extricating the tea bag from the packet, she dunked it in the pot of hot water. ‘Slow, deep breaths,’ she said with a sympathetic smile.

  Grateful, Gita shyly nodded her thanks. ‘Afraid that I’m all thumbs.’

  ‘Perfectly understandable given the circumstance.’

  Taller than average, with long curly brown hair, Edie had a decidedly Bohemian air about her. However, her deep-set umber-brown eyes and straight brows gave her a serious mien at odds with the colorful attire and corkscrew curls.

  Earlier, when Gita had followed Caedmon and Edie down rue Saint-Benoît, it’d been abundantly clear to her that they were quite enamored. In fact, they’d seemed so enthralled – touching, laughing, sharing glances – that for one hideous, gut-wrenching moment, she feared Caedmon would spurn her overture. After all, he had a flourishing career, a happy relationship –why should he care about a daughter he didn’t even know existed? Had the situation not been so dire, Gita would never have approached him.

  ‘Do you mind if we backtrack a moment?’ Edie said, tapping her index finger on the computer screen. ‘There’re two things that I’m curious about. First of all, who are the St. Thomas Christians? And, secondly, who’s Gaspar?’

  ‘St. Thomas was one of the original twelve apostles,’ Gita replied as she attempted to raise her tea cup to her lips without sloshing the contents.

  ‘Better known as “Doubting Thomas”,’ Caedmon clarified in a quick aside. ‘I believe it was in the Gospel of John that he famously poked his finger into the risen Lord’s side.’

  ‘Oh, that Thomas.’ Connection made, Edie slowly nodded her head.

  Gita set her tea cup on the saucer; to her dismay, the two pieces of porcelain rattled noisily. ‘According to the Indian legends, the Apostle Thomas arrived at the port city of Muziris in the year 52. Whereupon he immediately began to convert the locals to Christianity. The descendents of those early converts are still known to this day as the St. Thomas Christians; although they refer to themselves as the Nazrani. As for Gaspar . . .’ Gita gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Being a Hindu, I’m afraid that my knowledge of Indian Christianity only goes so far. Perhaps Gaspar was one of Jesus’ disciples who accompanied Thomas to India.’

  ‘Makes perfect sense,’ Caedmon concurred with a nod. ‘I can’t imagine Thomas setting off on the Silk Road without an entourage. Safety in numbers and all that.’ To Gita’s surprise, he suddenly reached over and placed a hand on her wrist. ‘In case we can’t find the Evangelium Gaspar, I have contacts within Her Majesty’s government who can –’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed vehemently. Putting the kibosh on Caedmon’s suggestion, Gita slid her hand free. ‘I was expressly warned not to mention the abduction to the authorities. I shouldn’t even be here, but . . . I’m desperate, Caedmon. These people won’t return my daughter until I find the Evangelium Gaspar.’

  ‘Our daughter.’ Correction made, Caedmon continued to examine the digital photos of the Maharaja plate.

  Although she should have been pleased that Caedmon so readily acknowledged paternity, for some inexplicable reason the fact that he did made her acutely uncomfortable.

  Ill-at-ease, Gita turned her head and stared listlessly at the nearby streetscape. She’d always wanted to travel to Paris, but had never got beyond the initial dreaming stage. Paris was a city for lovers. Not a lone woman, map in hand, trying to find the Louvre.

  ‘I’ll need a list of everyone who has knowledge of the Maharaja plate.’

  Hearing that, Gita glanced back at Caedmon. The late-day sun slanted across the pavement, throwing his face into shadow.

  ‘It’s not a very long list,’ she told him. ‘Although I should mention that soon after the plate was brought to the museum, I contacted the Vatican Secret Archives.’

  ‘You did what?!’

  7

  Anala ripped the strap of duct tape binding her wrists, having used the metal screw head to cut through the restraint.

  Hands freed, she yanked the piece of tape from her mouth and gulped in a mouthful of musty air. Not that she minded the poor air quality. It was better than no air. Which is what she’d be breathing in the grave. Bendin
g forward, she removed the straps of tape from her ankles. Unshackled, she was ready to make a prison break. While she had no idea where she was or how long she’d been unconscious, she only knew that she had to escape before the mustachioed kidnapper returned to the room.

  She glanced at the slanted beam of dust-laden light that shone through the dirty panes of glass; the window set approximately six feet above the floor.

  Good. She preferred to escape in broad daylight rather than dead of night.

  Ready to leave, Anala surged to her feet. Only to sway unsteadily, hit simultaneously with a dizzy undertow and an excruciating burst of pain radiating from her skull. Grasping the bed frame, she refused to give in to the siren’s call to lie back down on the lumpy mattress.

  She waited a few seconds for the lightheaded hubbub to diminish. Hobbled by aching joints and a walloping headache, she put a hand to the paneled wall. Holding on to it for support, she moved gingerly around the perimeter of the room towards the exit.

  A few seconds later, she reached for the door knob.

  Damn! It was locked from the outside.

  Frustrated, she leaned her head against the door. Of course it was locked from the outside. She’d been a fool to think that it would actually have been unlocked. Why would anyone have gone to so much trouble to abduct a woman from her home, only to deposit her in an unlocked room?

  Angry that she’d wasted valuable time – worried that the warden would return at any moment – Anala shuffled back to the metal-framed cot. Gritting her teeth, she dragged it several feet, flinching at the harsh grating sound that ensued. It took several determined tugs for her to maneuver the bed under the window. But the effort cost her. Panting from exertion, she bent at the waist and promptly vomited a stream of watery stomach bile on to the linoleum floor.

  Straightening, Anala spat out a mouthful of acidic residue before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. At that moment, she’d gladly have given her back teeth for a gulp of fresh water.