The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  What Caedmon didn’t say, but Edie knew he had to be thinking, was that if he didn’t solve the mystery, his daughter, Anala Patel, would be executed. For him, solving the Chinon riddle and finding the Evangelium Gaspar was more than an academic exercise.

  Moments later, the fuselage shuddered as the Airbus jet skidded to a stop on the runway.

  ‘We can deduce from the information engraved on the Maharaja Plate that the Evangelium Gaspar was in the custody of the St. Thomas Christians when Fortes de Pinós arrived in Muziris in 1307,’ Caedmon said once the signal flashed to unbuckle their seatbelts. ‘Let us hope that their descendants can shed some light on the matter.’

  ‘Hope and pray,’ Edie amended.

  12

  Galleri delle Carte Geografiche, The Vatican

  ‘. . . and though some of you may be disappointed that the exhibition won’t include the love letters of Henry the Eighth to Anne Boleyn, I’m pleased to announce that Pope Clement’s official correspondence to the English parliament regarding the king’s marriage to Catherine of Aragon will be on display,’ the Cardinal Secretary informed the press corps.

  Sitting at the end of the dais that had been set up in the Galleri delle Carte Geografiche, the Gallery of Maps, Franco Fiorio silently fumed. The journalist’s question had been directed to the Prefect of the Secret Archives not the Cardinal Secretary of State. The Secretary of State, who was given to self-important airs and held a position that was often described as papal prime minister and foreign secretary rolled into one, had had no direct involvement in the upcoming exhibition, ‘World Treasures of the Vatican’s Secret Archives’.

  However, given the way that he was monopolizing the press conference, an outside observer would think the highly anticipated exhibit was Cardinal Thomas Moran’s brainchild when, in fact, it was Franco who’d spent two hectic years working with Vatican officials, archivists and scrittori to curate the exhibition. Highlighting rare documents from the eighth through to the twentieth century, it would be the first time that the general public would be able to examine the historically significant pontifical letters and correspondence.

  Annoyed by Cardinal Secretary Moran’s showboating, Franco couldn’t help but wonder if the hastily planned press conference wasn’t a contrived opportunity for the Cardinal Secretary to get his name and photograph into the international papers. Yet again. The announcement – that the 27th August opening for the exhibition would be temporarily delayed until after the new pontiff had been elected – could have been given in a Vatican press release. Even the choice of venue, the magnificent Gallery of Maps, was suspect. One hundred and twenty meters in length, the gallery boasted forty wall frescoes depicting topographical maps of sixteenth-century Italy. Commissioned by Pope Gregory XIII, the detailed maps were remarkably accurate given the fact that Friar Ignazio Danti, the Dominican cosmographer who’d overseen the commission, had devised his charts using a compass, gnomon and an astrolabe. The Cardinal Secretary had, rather conspicuously, positioned himself directly beneath the map of the city of Rome.

  The press corps, cordoned off from the dais behind a velvet rope, was taking turns passing a microphone to various members. Having just been handed the mike, a youthful-looking reporter wearing an ill-fitting suit jacket cleared his throat, the harsh sound reverberating throughout the gallery.

  ‘Matt McCracken from the Baltimore Sun.’ The shaggy-haired young man held his press badge aloft, as though his credentials were in dispute. ‘It’s my understanding that there are reams of information contained in the archives pertaining to the, um – I don’t know how to put this delicately.’ Again, he cleared his throat. ‘– Pertaining to the, um, perverted pontiffs that reigned during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Will any of those documents be included in the exhibit?’

  A startled hush immediately fell over the map room. It was the question that every reporter in the gallery had undoubtedly wanted to ask, but all had lacked the courage to pose. Save for the clearly nervous American.

  Not missing so much as a half-beat, Cardinal Secretary Moran waved a hand in Franco’s direction. ‘Since our esteemed Prefect hails from the fair city of Baltimore, I’ll turn the question over to him.’

  Franco bit back a tart reply, incensed that Moran had so effortlessly assigned him latrine duty. Slowly twisting his gold cardinal’s ring, he considered how best to respond.

  For whatever reason, the lurid history of the papacy still fascinated long centuries after the fact. And because it was so lurid, Franco wasn’t going to quibble with the reporter over semantics. Those pontiffs had been perverted. Disgustingly so. Having read some of the more ‘steamy’ entries, he’d often wondered why the papal Curia hadn’t consigned the files to the flames long centuries ago. Did historians really need to know that Benedict IX engaged in bestiality and threw bisexual orgies; that John XII, who became pope at the tender age of eighteen, turned the papal residence into a brothel; or that Julius II had sexual relations with cardinals, pages and any comely male that caught his fancy? Although to the man’s credit, the degenerate Julius did manage to coerce a very reluctant Michelangelo into painting his greatest masterpiece on the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.

  The American journalist was also correct in that records existed, carefully archived for posterity. Would they be included in the exhibit? Absolutely not. While sex sold, under no circumstance would the Vatican expose its dark history for the price of admission.

  For a Bishop must be blameless, as the steward of God.

  Gathering his dignity as best he could, Franco replied, ‘As you know, the Archives contain more than thirty miles of shelving –’ he forced a smile on to his face ‘– all tied with the legendary red tape. Not only is the history of the Church contained in those files, but that of Western civilization as well. This pivotal aspect, the role the Church has played in world history, will be the focus of the upcoming exhibition.’ Answer given, Franco reached for his water bottle, silently signaling that he wouldn’t entertain a follow-up question.

  The microphone was next handed to a leggy blonde who was dressed in head-to-toe Armani.

  ‘Sylvia Marsden with the Sun. This question is directed to the Cardinal Secretary,’ the stunning reporter announced, speaking with a plummy English accent. ‘Your Eminence, as you know, the election of the next pontiff is a matter of grave importance. Are you aware of the fact that the William Hill international gambling service currently has you listed as the hands-on favorite for becoming the new pontiff at nine-to-four odds?’

  The question elicited more than a few shocked gasps, Franco aghast that anyone had the effrontery to pose such a crass inquiry. The upcoming papal election was not a game of chance, of wagers being placed with a backroom bookie.

  ‘I am a man of God, Ms Marsden, not a betting man,’ the Cardinal Secretary answered smoothly, not the least bit ruffled by the rude query. ‘The election of the Vicar of Christ has always been conducted in secrecy and I think it best that we continue that solemn tradition. Besides, we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise, would we?’ As he spoke, Cardinal Thomas Moran grasped his gold pectoral cross in his right hand. A particularly annoying affectation; as though he was channeling the crucified Christ. ‘This concludes our question and answer session. The Prefect and I look forward to seeing each and every one of you when the exhibition opens.’

  Rising to his feet, the Cardinal Secretary walked around the dais and strode towards the cordoned press area.

  Franco, utterly disgusted that he’d been hoodwinked into participating in Moran’s little publicity stunt, collected his press folder. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Cardinal Thomas Moran knew full well that his name was being bandied about as ‘the heir apparent’ to Peter’s throne. Franco, whose name was never mentioned, suspected that his own odds were somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty-to-one. A very dark horse, indeed.

  Getting up from the table, Franco glanced over to where the Cardinal Secretary was now holding court wi
th the group of eager reporters. Attired in formal house dress – a black cassock piped in scarlet worn with a short pellegrina shoulder cape – the Chicago native cut a striking figure. For good reason, Thomas Moran was known as the ‘camera-ready Cardinal’, with Vatican observers, particularly those of the fairer sex, often remarking that he possessed movie-star looks. ‘Charisma’ and ‘charm’ were also inevitably used whenever Moran’s name came up in conversation.

  To the best of Franco’s knowledge, no one had ever used such flattering terms in regards to him. Because of the two years he’d spent as the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the Curia office responsible for maintaining Catholic dogmata, he was usually described in more pejorative terms. Cunning. Secretive. Ruthless. To name just a few. He took no offence, assuming the dark dye had to do with the fact that the CDF was more popularly referred to as the Office of the Inquisition.

  Despite the fact that Franco had made great strides in reorganizing the CDF, turning it into a ‘lean, mean fighting machine’, the late pontiff had summarily given him the boot. No sooner did Pius take the papal seat than he’d cleaned house, removing conservative cardinals from prestigious positions within the Curia and replacing them with his liberal-leaning allies. It was during the shake-up that Thomas Moran, one of the pontiff’s favorites, and an unapologetic liberal, was given his very high-profile position.

  And the Church has been floundering ever since.

  The Church’s Neo-Modernist wing, as the liberals were sometimes called, believed that dogma could evolve over time, shape-shifting and morphing with the tides of history. Even more outrageous than that, the liberals wanted to circumvent those Church teachings that they found burdensome and replace them with new strictures that were easier to bear. Weaklings! Their dangerous views had already undermined Church authority to such an extent that it was on the verge of becoming irrelevant.

  Franco was well aware that the Cardinal Secretary and his liberal cronies secretly referred to the conservative standard bearers within the Church as ‘Taliban Catholics’. A profoundly disgusting insult that denigrated those who maintained the supremacy of orthodoxy. In another day and age, one in which dogmata was strictly adhered to, Thomas Moran would have been condemned as a heretic, excommunicated and burned at the stake in front of St Peter’s. His blackened bones would have then served as a vivid aide memoire to the faithful as to what happens when one strayed from Church doctrine.

  There could be no evolution of dogma!

  No updating of Catholic morality. No repackaging of the Faith.

  A casualty of Pius’s liberal reshuffle, Franco unexpectedly found himself in charge of the papal archives. Publicly, Pius had stated that it was a suitable post given Franco’s impressive academic credentials and interest in ancient church history. However, privately, the late pontiff had delighted in the fact that he’d effectively neutered the cardinal once known as ‘the Church’s attack dog’, turning the ex-head of the CDF into a topo de biblioteca – a library mouse who scurried, out of sight, in the Vatican’s dark recesses.

  ‘Let Cardinal Fiorio apply that towering intellect to the pressing problem of how best to safeguard the archives from mold and mildew,’ Pius had liked to quip.

  Although he never mentioned the humiliating ‘demotion’ that he’d suffered three years ago at the hands of the late pontiff, Franco had yet to recover the loss of face, his rage still burning bright.

  As he moved away from the crush of reporters gathered around the Cardinal Secretary, a young seminary student who worked in the archives offices approached.

  ‘This just arrived for you. I was instructed to hand-deliver it,’ the seminarian said as he gave Franco an unmarked manila envelope.

  ‘Thank you.’ Taking the envelope, Franco tucked it under his arm. ‘It’s the budgetary report for the next fiscal quarter,’ he added, not wishing to arouse the young man’s curiosity. Although he no longer had the resources of the CDF at his disposal, Franco still maintained a close relationship with several operatives in the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the Vatican’s secret service.

  Needing to find a private place, Franco took his leave of the seminarian and headed for a locked door at the far end of the gallery.

  Little did the late pontiff know when he’d condemned Franco to the dark recesses of the archives that the library mouse would uncover an explosive secret.

  One that could change the odds considerably.

  13

  Fort Cochin, Kerala, India

  ‘Could you please turn the radio down,’ Caedmon requested, raising his voice to be heard over the tinny Indian music blaring from the taxi’s audio system.

  The driver, a shaggy-haired bloke who spoke a minimum of English, bobbed his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes, nice town.’

  ‘Down not – Oh, bloody hell.’

  Swearing softly under his breath, Caedmon turned his head and peered out of the grimy window. Once an English stronghold – the prized harbor town wrested away from the Dutch, who, in turn, pried it from the Portuguese – Fort Cochin had an old-world patina. Nestled amidst the lush foliage and tropical flower gardens were Portuguese arches, Dutch verandas and English bungalows. Normally, he would have been charmed by the bygone beauty of the dilapidated colonial architecture. But not today.

  Annoyed by the heavy traffic, he glanced at his watch. 1:32 p.m. Christ. The day was fast escaping him. Short on time, he’d left Edie at the hotel to see to their reservations while he quickly checked in with Gita. He and Edie had a 3:30 p.m. appointment with a historian at the St. Thomas Seminary in Kottayam and he didn’t want to be late. With only five days until the ransom deadline, every hour counted.

  Winding down his window, Caedmon let the sea air ruffle the hair on his forehead, the heat stifling. As he sat roasting, he rubbed his clammy palms against his trouser legs. His great-grandfather, who served in the Royal Scots Greys, used to say that there was no hell worse than being stationed in India during the summer swelter. The old man obviously never had to listen to what sounded like a Bollywood soundtrack whilst languishing in the Bengal heat. An even more fiendish circle of hell.

  ‘Right house for you?’ the driver inquired as the taxi came to an abrupt stop on a tree-lined residential street.

  Because the house in question was obscured by an eight-foot-high stucco wall and there wasn’t an address plate in sight, Caedmon couldn’t rightly say.

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ he muttered, hitching a hip and removing his wallet from his trouser pocket.

  Getting out of the cab, he handed the driver a twenty-rupee note and nodded obligingly, unable to comprehend the man’s pidgin English. As he walked towards the mahogany gate, an older woman attired in a plain cotton sari and holding aloft a dusty black umbrella strolled past. Wiping the back of his hand across his beaded brow, Caedmon thought the makeshift parasol a damned good idea.

  Dismayed to find the gate unlocked, he pushed open the heavy double-doors, disturbing a scrawny three-legged cat that had been napping on the other side of the entry. The cat arched its back and hissed its displeasure before scampering off, the motley beast astonishingly nimble.

  In a hurry, Caedmon strode down a pathway that wound through a manicured garden. A two-story colonial bungalow painted a decidedly feminine shade of coral pink with white trim was situated at the end of the cobbled path. A massive banyan tree provided welcome shade. Frowning, he could see that its tangled branches also provided an easy means for an intruder to climb on to the upper balcony and trespass undetected.

  Taking a deep breath, he approached the front door. In lieu of a knocker, there was a domed bell attached to one side of the door frame. He reached up and yanked on the leather strap that dangled jauntily, the resounding clamor causing him to grit his teeth. While he waited for the summons to be answered, he spotted a pair of women’s sandals on a mat near the door.

  ‘When in Rome,’ he murmured, toeing off his leather monk shoes, not bothering with und
oing the buckle. Bending at the waist, he snatched off a sock and stuffed it into a shoe. Just as he was about to remove the second sock, the front door swung wide open.

  ‘Afraid that you’ve caught me in a state of déshabillé,’ he deadpanned. Still bent over, he glanced up, taken aback to see that Gita was garbed in a traditional sari. He was even more surprised to see the small red bindi dot between her eyes. He’d never seen her in anything but Western-style clothing.

  ‘How was your flight?’ she asked, stepping back and motioning him inside the house.

  ‘Er, fine.’ Not altogether certain how one should greet the estranged mother of one’s child, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave her the obligatory French faire la bise.

  Clearly taken aback by the cheek kiss, Gita smiled nervously. ‘Would you like something to drink? I could put on the kettle and make some –’

  ‘Nothing for me,’ he interjected with a wave of the hand. ‘I grabbed a cup of coffee at the airport.’ As he spoke, Caedmon glanced around the dimly lit foyer, his gaze drawn to a corner of the reception area where there was a bronze statue of Shiva set into a large niche. A trio of votary candles cast flickering shadows on to a framed photograph of Anala that was set in front of the cosmic dancer.

  Tearing his gaze away from that distinctly morbid display, he said, ‘Have Anala’s abductors made contact with you since we last spoke?’

  ‘A man who refused to identify himself rang me yesterday and inquired if I’d made any progress in finding the Evangelium Gaspar. I assured him that I was doing everything in my power to locate the lost gospel. Then, as you instructed in Paris, I asked for proof of life.’ Stepping over to an ornately carved side table, Gita picked up a mobile phone. ‘This is what he sent me,’ she said in a barely audible voice as she handed the mobile to Caedmon.