by C. M. Palov
Needing to quicken the pace, she snatched the grungy-looking pillow and wadded it over her right forearm and hand. She then stood on top of the cot and bashed her padded fist through the window pane, shattering the glass on contact.
She peered through the opening, taken aback by the lavish vista of verdant scenery. Lush trees. Rolling hills. Flowering shrubs. She blinked, her ocular nerve overloaded with every imaginable shade of green – hunter, forest, fern, pine and shamrock. At a glance, she could see that it wasn’t the tropical green of India.
More like the bucolic green of England.
Dumbfounded, she scanned the horizon, unable to see a house or building. Or any structure that suggested human habitation.
The warm sunshine heated her face, inciting a second wave of nausea. She waited a few seconds for the queasy roiling to abate before she began to hurriedly extract jagged pieces of glass out of the frame. She needed to remove all of the remaining pieces before she shimmied through the window. Otherwise, she’d cut herself to ribbons.
‘Sod it!’ she muttered under her breath, pricking her thumb.
About to wipe away the crimson blob, she instead kept plucking shards and flinging them on to the plush carpet of grass on the other side of the window frame.
Stay focused and finish the job!
Tossing aside the last piece of glass, she put her hands on the frame. Ready to hoist herself through the cleared opening, she suddenly heard the door open.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ a deep voice snarled in English.
Before Anala could react, she was grasped by the waist and yanked backward, the irate captor flinging her on to the mattress. She caught only a blurred glimpse of a dark-skinned, dark-eyed man before she saw the balled fist that, in the next instant, painfully connected with her jaw.
The assault happened so quickly, there was no time to scream, let alone fend off her attacker. In the span of a brief instant, Anala was hurled into an enveloping darkness.
8
‘If you must know, I had a very good reason for contacting the Vatican Secret Archives,’ Gita Patel retorted in a defensive tone of voice. ‘The only information that I could find on the Internet pertaining to Fortes de Pinós was an official prisoner list of Templar knights held at Chinon Castle in France. And that list merely indicated his name and the date that he was arrested.’
Hearing that, Caedmon asked the obvious, ‘Which was?’
‘March the eighth, 1308.’
‘Mmmm . . . interesting. Given that the Knights Templar were arrested en masse on October thirteenth, 1307, Brother Fortes obviously wasn’t caught in Philippe le Bel’s original dragnet.’
‘Perhaps he was still in India on that particular date,’ Gita conjectured. Reaching for the stainless-steel pot, she poured the remains into her tea cup, Caedmon relieved to see that the trembling in her hands had steadied considerably. ‘According to the Maharaja plate, Fortes de Pinós was in Muziris during the latter part of 1307.’
Having yet to touch his own drink, Caedmon stared morosely at the yellow bit of lemon peel that jockeyed for position with the melting nuggets of ice.
Those damned Templars.
There had been a time, many years ago while he was at Oxford, when he’d been thoroughly enamored with the white-robed warrior monks. In his dissertation he’d asserted that the Knights Templar had been exposed to ancient esoteric rites; an exposure that colored their Christian beliefs. To his horror, the head of the history department at Queen’s College denounced his hypothesis as little more than an unfounded fairy tale. Realizing that his advanced degree would not be conferred, he left Oxford, mortified by the very public put-down.
Whereupon he’d promptly been recruited by MI5, Britain’s Security Service.
As fate would have it, Five actively sought men like him, defrocked academics keen to prove their worth. Grateful to have a job, he’d spent eleven years in Her Majesty’s Service before returning to his first love, history. No longer concerned with how his peers might react to his controversial theories, he’d written Isis Revealed. And though many critics disagreed with the book’s premise – that the medieval Cathars of the Languedoc had been an Isis Mystery cult – Caedmon had seen the proof of it with his own eyes.
‘Assuming that Fortes de Pinós returned to France some time in early 1308, he would have learned that his brother knights had been arrested soon after he docked at the Templar naval harbor at New Rochelle,’ Caedmon said thoughtfully. Then, frowning, he posed the obvious: ‘So why didn’t Brother Fortes pull up anchor and elude capture while he still had a chance to save himself?’
‘I wondered the same thing,’ Gita replied as she opened a paper packet and dropped a sugar cube into her tea cup. ‘That’s the reason why I contacted the Vatican Secret Archives. Since the archives are only open to scholars and researchers, I used my museum credentials to make an official request for the Inquisition records pertaining to Fortes de Pinós.’
‘In your request, did you happen to mention the Maharaja plate or the Evangelium Gaspar?’
In the process of raising the cup to her lips, Gita instead lowered it to the table. ‘I mentioned both of them at length,’ she informed him, her brows drawing together.
‘Back up a minute,’ Edie said, inserting herself into the conversation. ‘If the archives are secret, how can someone request, let alone examine, the records?’
Shifting his hips slightly, Caedmon turned in her direction. ‘The name is misleading. Although the Archivo Segreto Vaticano is the repository for all records pertaining to the Holy See, it’s merely “secret” in the medieval sense of the word, meaning that those records are the personal property of the Pope. In fact, the archives have been opened to scholars since the late nineteenth century.’ He returned his attention to Gita. ‘Did anyone at the Vatican Secret Archives answer your request?’
‘Not exactly.’ A strange look crept into her eyes. ‘While I did receive the requested Inquisition records, it wasn’t sent by anyone at the Vatican. It was forwarded by an unaffiliated person named Irenaeus.’
Caedmon took a moment to consider the admittedly odd twist. ‘A tongue-in-cheek alias, I’ll warrant. St Irenaeus was the early Church Father who decreed which gospels would be included in the official canon. He believed, rightly or wrongly, that because there were four corners of the earth, there could only be four authentic gospels. All other gospels, of which there were scores, were condemned as “heretical”.’ His jaw tightened. In the aftermath of that sweeping ban, books were burned and whole libraries destroyed. ‘And I wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that the records weren’t sent by someone at the Vatican,’ he added, wondering if the Church was still trying to root out the Templar heresy. If so, it meant the clerics in Rome not only had a long memory, but a very long reach.
Just what the hell was contained in the Evangelium Gaspar?
‘When did you receive the Inquisition records?’
‘The records were sent to me on the same day that Anala was abducted.’ Tears welling in her eyes, Gita wrapped both hands around her tea cup, the trembling having recommenced. ‘The email stated that Anala was being held for ransom and that she wouldn’t be released until I found the Evangelium Gaspar.’ Sniffling softly, she snatched a paper napkin from the table and swiped at an errant tear.
‘Did you bring the Inquisition records with you?’ Caedmon asked in a neutral tone, hoping to put a wet flannel on Gita before she combusted.
Still sniffling, she said, ‘I have it on my laptop. Irenaeus sent both the Latin original and a translated copy.’
‘What a considerate bastard. Did you reply to his email?’
Gita nodded shakily. ‘I informed Irenaeus that I couldn’t possibly locate the Evangelium Gaspar based on the Inquisition transcript that he sent to me.’ She spun the notebook computer in her direction and pulled up a new file. ‘Although I begged him to send additional information, he sent only a five word reply: “Find it or she dies.”. Which is wh
en, out of sheer desperation, I immediately booked a flight to Paris.’
‘Right. Let’s see what we’ve got.’ Caedmon swiveled the computer so that he and Edie could read the transcript.
Chinon Castle, 15 March, 1308
In the name of the Lord and by the mercy of God, I, Raymbaud le Breton, cleric of the diocese of Soissons, declare this a truthful account of the inquiry ordered by our most Supreme Pontiff Clement into the grievous matter pertaining to violations of sacred trust committed by Brother Fortes de Pinós, grand commander of the Paris preceptory of the Order of Knights Templar.
When asked if he had been ordered by Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar, to lead an expedition by sea to the princely state of Muziris on the coast of Malabar, Brother Fortes did confess that he undertook such a voyage which was a year in duration.
When asked if the purpose of this voyage had been to find the sacrilegious text known as the Evangelium Gaspar, the prisoner confessed that he had been commissioned by the Grand Master to determine if such a text did exist. He further confessed to discovering the whereabouts of this text which he said was scribed upon three copper plates in a language unfamiliar to him.
When asked if he transported the Evangelium Gaspar to France, he replied that he did so upon the order of his Grand Master.
When asked if he knew the current whereabouts of the Evangelium Gaspar, Brother Fortes gave the following reply: To see the house where Lucas dwelled, the faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way. Setting forth from the lion’s castle, he dropped the French iron in a Spanish harbor.
When asked to explain his nonsensical reply, Brother Fortes refused to answer the question put to him.
When asked if he had attempted to secure the release of his brother knights through an unlawful act of subornment with the king of France, Brother Fortes did confess to offering the illustrious sovereign King Philippe the Evangelium Gaspar in exchange for the imprisoned Templars.
When asked why he had carved the Seal of Solomon on to the wall of his cell, Brother Fortes claimed that he had been contemplating the wisdom of that great king which he believed to be a precursor to the wisdom that our Lord Jesus Christ imparted to his twelve disciples.
When asked if he had knowledge of any relics pertaining to our Savior that had been safeguarded at Château Pèlerin, Brother Fortes replied that he had never been to that Templar commandery.
At the conclusion of the inquiry, Brother Fortes did denounce in our presence all acts of heresy and, standing on his knees with his hands clasped in prayerful pose, he did swear that he had spoken naught but the truth and he begged the Almighty Father to strike him dead if he had uttered a single falsehood. Answering the disingenuous prayer of this most blasphemous of knights, our Heavenly Father did strike him dead on the spot.
Signed:
Raymbaud le Breton, Ordo Praedicatorum
Huon Villeroi, cleric of Beziers, notary of apostolic power
Baldewyn Hainault, a pious seneschal of Chinon
‘Whoa,’ Edie murmured when she reached the end of the document. ‘I didn’t see that coming. Talk about being struck down by God’s “terrible swift sword”.’ Clearly rattled, she reached for her wine glass and took a quick swig.
‘While Fortes de Pinós may have been felled by a sword, I doubt very much that God wielded the blade,’ Caedmon grated between clenched teeth. ‘More than likely the poor bloke was tortured to death. And I now know why de Pinós didn’t escape from France; he had hoped to use the Evangelium Gaspar that he’d just uncovered in Muziris to bribe King Philippe into releasing his brother knights.’
‘A plan that tragically backfired,’ Edie remarked before downing the last of her rosé. ‘Although it appears that he covered his rear and hid the Evangelium Gaspar so that it wouldn’t be confiscated by the inquisitors.’
‘So it would seem.’ Caedmon stared at the translated riddle, having yet to decide if Fortes de Pinós had been a remarkably brave man or a knight on a fool’s errand. ‘The riddle was obviously devised for the benefit of his fellow knights rather than the inquisitor. Since the Templars’ trial had recently begun, de Pinós may have thought that the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, or some other high-ranking officer who knew about his mission to India, would be exonerated.’
‘At which point, they could then use the riddle to find the Evangelium Gaspar.’
‘Precisely,’ Caedmon verified with a nod. ‘What de Pinós didn’t know was that Jacques de Molay and the other high-ranking officers would eventually be burned at the stake in front of Notre-Dame cathedral.’
Gita leaned in his direction, her anguish plain to see. ‘Given that you’re so well-versed in the Templars and their history, I came to Paris in the hopes that you could decipher the riddle.’
On the verge of informing Gita that she was asking the impossible, Caedmon instead read aloud the pertinent passage in the transcript. ‘To see the house where Lucas dwelled, the faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way. Setting forth from the lion’s castle, he dropped the French iron in a Spanish harbor.’ As he pondered the cryptic lines of text, an apprehensive silence ensued, two sets of eyes, one brown and one hazel, anxiously glued to him.
Finally, refusing to hold out hope where none could be had, he shrugged and said, ‘Other than the obvious reference to dropping a ship’s anchor at a Spanish port, I’m at a loss to know what it means.’
Edie, kicking him under the table, shot him a chastising glance. ‘What Caedmon means to say is that he needs some time to hit the research books before he can decipher the clue,’ she told Gita, cementing the assurance with a consoling pat to the hand.
‘So, you will try to find the gospel?’
Deflecting Gita’s query, Caedmon feinted in a different direction. ‘Have the kidnappers set a deadline for the delivery of the Evangelium Gaspar?’ he asked, returning his gaze to the computer screen.
‘Irenaeus gave me exactly ten days to find it. Since three days have already lapsed, there are seven days remaining. The ransom deadline is set for next Sunday at twelve noon.’
Hearing this, Caedmon’s head instantly whipped in Gita’s direction.
Surely, she wasn’t serious! If the Roman Catholic Church had been unable to locate the gospel in the last seven centuries, how could he possibly find it in a mere seven days?
His anxiety soaring to new heights, Caedmon reached for his untouched aperitif. As he gulped a mouthful of the now tepid Dubonnet, he wondered how best to inform Gita that weeks, perhaps months, of research would be required to decipher the cryptic riddle. And that was assuming the Evangelium Gaspar was still where Fortes de Pinós left it in the year 1308.
In other words, finding the long-lost gospel would be nothing short of a titanic feat.
On the verge of delivering the bad news, Caedmon glanced at Gita, who stared at him beseechingly. He next peered over at Edie, who smiled encouragingly, silently conveying a confidence in him that wasn’t in the least merited.
And then there was the woman who wasn’t present, Anala Patel. He could only imagine the expression on her face. Undoubtedly, it would be one of stark terror because in one week’s time, if he hadn’t found the blasted gospel, she would be summarily killed. A defenseless young woman, Anala was at the mercy of a ruthless bastard who had resorted to drastic and brutal means to glean the Templars’ dark secret.
Christ. They’re going to kill my daughter.
No sooner did the thought cross his mind than Caedmon’s heart painfully thumped against his breastbone. The first throes of heartache.
Thrown off-kilter by the sudden burst of pain, he dejectedly stared at the Chinon transcript.
I have to find that damned gospel.
No, he silently amended a split second later. I WILL find that damned gospel.
Mind made up, Caedmon pushed out a deep breath. ‘Rest assured, I will move heaven and earth to find the Evangelium Gaspar,’ he told Gita.
If need be, even make
a pact with the devil.
9
The lone man sitting a few tables away slowly lowered the Le Monde newspaper from his face.
Getting up from the table, Hector Calzada stretched the kink out of his back before slapping some euros on the table to pay for his espresso. His arms ached from holding the newspaper in place. But his balls ached more from watching all the French asses in tight skirts stroll past.
No doubt about it. Paris is for fuckers.
As he approached the vacated table, his mouth gaped open, Hector letting loose with a head-shaking, killer yawn. The jet lag was most definitely catching up with him.
Three days ago he’d made the round trip from India to New York, he and his homie Roberto Diaz having successfully smuggled the Patel girl out of the country on a medical transport flight. A stupidly simple operation. The bitch had been unconscious the entire flight, oblivious to the fact that she was in the care of her ‘brother’ Hector and her ‘male nurse’ Roberto. Because India was a hub for medical tourism, people getting facelifts and heart transplants on the cheap, medical transport flights were readily available. And since he’d nabbed the girl’s passport from her bedroom when he’d abducted her, no one batted an eye or gave them a second glance. The personnel on medical transport airlines were used to seeing unconscious passengers with IVs stuck in their arms, strapped on to gurneys. That’s why they were in business.
Hector didn’t know why the Indian girl or her mother was so important. He didn’t need to know. He’d taken a vow to never question the authority of the man whose orders he was following. And a homie never broke a blood vow. If he did, he paid for it with his blood.
Strolling over to the table where the trio had been sitting, Hector nonchalantly slid the credit card receipt out from under a saucer so he could read the scrawled signature. It took several seconds of studied squinting before he could make out the name ‘Caedmon Aisquith’.