by C. M. Palov
Evidently coming to the same conclusion, Edie awkwardly crawled over to the other side of the van. Lips quivering, her face drained of animating color, she seated herself beside Calzada.
‘Make sure that you use the flash,’ Calzada instructed as he smoothed a hand over his hair. ‘I want a good picture.’
Caedmon watched as the bastard roughly grabbed hold of Edie’s chin and, pursing his lips with clownish exaggeration, kissed her cheek. The spectacle incited a burst of impotent rage. Powerless to intervene, he had to bide his time. Wait until he could attack from a position of strength.
A few seconds later, the flash went off.
When, in the next instant, Edie made a move to return to Caedmon’s side, Calzada cuffed a hand around her upper arm. ‘Stay where you are, Bella. Don’t you want to see our portrait?’ His lips curved in a maniacal leer as he reviewed the photo on the Nikon. ‘We make a cute couple, huh? And now I have a memento to remember you by.’
‘A m-m-memento?’ Edie stammered, a confused look on her face. ‘Wh-what are you talking about?’
Calzada licked the end of his index finger before jabbing it in middle of Edie’s forehead. ‘Just because you give me a hard-on doesn’t mean that I’m not going to put one right between your eyes.’
‘She’s done nothing to warrant your enmity,’ Caedmon was quick to point out, the conversation having suddenly veered on to very dangerous ground.
‘The bitch is dead freight. Eye candy, that’s all she is.’
‘Not true. As a researcher, Miss Miller is integral to finding the Evangelium Gaspar.’ A bead of perspiration trickled down the side of Caedmon’s face, his fury laced with a heart-pounding terror. ‘I implore you to reconsider.’
Lip curled disdainfully Calzada shook his head, the plea for clemency falling on deaf ears.
Panic-stricken, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, Edie clasped her hands together. Silently begging for her life.
Stay strong, love. Chin up.
Since it was impossible to negotiate with a savage, Calzada and Diaz no better than the beasts in the field, Caedmon cleared his throat and said, ‘I demand that you immediately call G-Dog.’
‘You don’t give me orders, English,’ Calzada snarled. Grasping the stippled grip on the Beretta, he yanked it out of his waistband. He then straightened his arm and twisted his wrist forty-five degrees, holding the gun at an angle.
A cock-eyed way to hold a firearm; one made popular by American gang-bangers.
Caedmon held his ground, staring the bastard directly in the eyes. In those telling moments, he could see that the man had no soul, Hector Calzada a human in name only. He lowered his gaze, refocusing his attention on the stainless-steel gun barrel that slightly moved with each indrawn breath.
It would take little incentive for Calzada to pull the trigger.
‘Are you afraid of me, English?’
‘I’m wary of any man who wields a gun with such jaunty exuberance,’ Caedmon replied.
‘Do you know what will happen if I pull the trigger?’ When no answer was forthcoming, the question perversely rhetorical, Calzada smirked. ‘Your brain will be blown out the back of your head, splattering bloody chunks all over the van.’
‘Leaving you to find the Evangelium Gaspar all by yourself. Are you up to that challenge?’ Caedmon deliberately waited two beats before returning the smirk. ‘I didn’t think so. Call G-Dog. Now!’
Calzada’s heavy-lidded eyes narrowed, reptilian-like, into brown slits. An instant later, proving himself a true psychopath, he chuckled. ‘I like you, English. You got steel ping-pongs.’ Shoving the Beretta back into his waistband, he snatched Edie’s iPad from the floor and proceeded to access the Skype application.
As he waited for the call to go through, Caedmon knew that he had to play to his strength as a medieval historian who, along with his research assistant, was uniquely qualified to find the Evangelium Gaspar. Whatever was contained in the ancient gospel, the Church had been very keen in 1308 to retrieve it. The fact that G-Dog was a Roman Catholic priest was proof positive that they were still intent on finding it.
Truth be told, he was incensed that the Church was involved in this murderous plot. Given that the pontiff had recently died, Caedmon could scratch him off the suspects’ list. But the fact that Anala was kidnapped soon after Gita contacted the Vatican Secret Archives in regards to Fortes de Pinós made him wonder if perhaps a cardinal or bishop had orchestrated the abduction. His gut feeling was that the priest, G-Dog, was merely a lackey. If true, it begged the question . . . who was his master?
After updating the priest about the events at Casa de Pinós – ‘We took care of the old dude’; an outrageous understatement if ever there was – Calzada passed the iPad to Caedmon.
‘You consulted with the enemy,’ the priest promptly accused.
‘How was I to know that the Marqués de Bagá was your enemy?’ Caedmon shot back. Then, going on the offensive, he said, ‘I will consult with anyone who can help me find your damned gospel. I told you that I’ll find it and I shall.’
‘Who’s the woman sitting beside Hector?’ the priest demanded to know.
‘Miss Miller is my research assistant.’
‘I can pop her, G-Dog, no problem,’ Calzada said in a loud voice from the other side of the van. ‘Take care of her like we did the old patrón.’
The remark made the priest visibly nervous, his demeanor putting Caedmon in mind of a terrified rodent. It was clear that playing the warlord did not come naturally to the man. Unlike his two underlings who were rabid with bloodlust.
‘Based on the information obtained from the Marqués de Bagá, I now know where the Evangelium Gaspar is hidden,’ Caedmon announced, dropping his bombshell in a clipped, expressionless tone of voice. ‘But I won’t be able to find it without Miss Miller’s assistance.’
‘I’m . . . I’m not sure . . . I will call you back in a few minutes with my decision,’ the priest stammered before abruptly disconnecting the call.
Caedmon stared silently at the iPad screen. G-Dog obviously had to consult a higher authority. And he’d wager that it wasn’t God Almighty.
Someone at the Vatican, more than likely.
36
‘That was too close a call,’ Edie said with a shuddering sigh. ‘Now I know how death-row prisoners feel when the warden issues a stay of execution.’ Readjusting her seatbelt, she glanced in the rental car’s rear-view mirror. As though it was a billowing white sail cresting the horizon, the service van tucked in directly behind them, Hector Calzada at the wheel. ‘I don’t understand how anyone can revel in bloodshed.’
Caedmon also peered into the rear-view mirror as he navigated the Volkswagen Passat in and out of the heavy northbound A-6 traffic. ‘Be grateful that you can’t comprehend the heart of darkness,’ he said quietly. ‘Therein is the quick path to madness.’
Distressed by that thought, Edie opened the glove compartment and removed a packet of chocolate cookies s that she’d purchased at the airport.
The flight from Mumbai to Madrid had been grueling. Because the only available seats had been in economy, her tailbone had yet to recover from the thinly padded seat cushion. And with three infants onboard, sleep had been out of the question. Added to that was the emotional duress of knowing what would transpire if they didn’t find the Evangelium Gaspar. They now had less the four full days to meet the ransom deadline, the clock ticking with a funerary persistence.
In all honesty, she didn’t know how Caedmon was holding it together. Her thread was seriously frayed.
As they left the city behind, the scenery changed dramatically, roadside billboards giving way to the rolling foothills of the Sierra de Guadarrama. Nestled in the bucolic landscape were picture-perfect villages bordered by undulating swaths of green grassland, herds of grazing cattle and fields filled with red poppies. It was here, sequestered from the Vatican’s watchful eye, that eight hundred years ago the Knights Templar enjoyed the privileges
that came with being the favored sons of the Iberian kings. Showered with land grants, castles, farms and fortresses, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Although they never reckoned on the unrestrained malice of a French king whose long arm extended to even this remote part of the world.
Package opened, Edie offered Caedmon a chocolate cookie. When he refused with a wordless shake of the head, she plucked one free and chomped down on it, in dire need of a sugar fix.
‘Are you absolutely certain that you know where the Evangelium Gaspar is hidden?’ she inquired anxiously.
Caedmon spared her a quick glance. ‘The clue couldn’t have been clearer had it been sung by a choir of heavenly angels. It’s right there on the Marqués’s map of Castile-Léon.’
Picking up the photocopied sheet of paper, Edie studied the beautifully executed map, medieval cartography a lost art form. ‘“To see the house where Lucas dwelled, the faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way. Setting forth from the lion’s castle, he put the French iron in a Spanish harbor,”’ she recited from memory. Shaking her head, admittedly befuddled, she said, ‘Okay, which harbor am I supposed to be looking at?’
‘There is no harbor. At least, not a literal one,’ Caedmon clarified. ‘Although harbor is an essential piece of the word puzzle. And it doesn’t matter whether one deciphers the riddle in the original Latin or in modern English, the clues lead to the same place.’ As he spoke, Caedmon reached for his water bottle and, holding the steering wheel with his wrists, twisted the cap. ‘Like you, I originally thought that Fortes had hid the Evangelium Gaspar at a Templar naval port.’
‘A logical conclusion since the Templars once had the largest standing navy in Europe,’ Edie noted.
‘But to solve the riddle, you have to dig all the way down to the root.’ Caedmon took a quick swig of water before he elaborated and said, ‘By that, I mean Fortes de Pinós was a Spaniard who served as grand commander at the Templar preceptory in Paris. In addition to Latin, he would have been fluent in both French and Spanish. To decipher the last fragment of the riddle, both of those languages must be employed.’
Needing a more potent pick-me-up, Edie snatched the Starbucks coffee cup out of the plastic holder. The cappuccino was hours old, having been purchased at the airport. ‘You’re referring to the “he put the French iron in a Spanish harbor” piece of the puzzle, right?’
Caedmon nodded as he flipped the indicator and maneuvered the sedan into the left lane. ‘The Spanish word for “put” is pon and the French word for “iron” is fer. Lastly, the Spanish word rada refers to a protected area for ships.’
‘Aka, a harbor.’ Grimacing, Edie took a sip of the tepid cappuccino.
‘String it all together and you end up with Ponferrada.’
Her eyes opened wide, the name ringing a bell. ‘Wasn’t that one of the four Templar fortresses that the provincial Grand Master tried to safeguard from the Church?’
Caedmon confirmed with a nod. ‘Moreover, if you examine the map, you’ll notice that Ponferrada is the only one of the four fortresses that’s situated on the Camino de Santiago.’
Locating Ponferrada Castle on the map, Edie looked over at him. ‘That’s the famous pilgrim route that leads to the cathedral of St James at Compostela, right?’
‘It is. And, as you know, the Templars were sworn to protect Christian pilgrims, both in Iberia and the Holy Land.’
‘“The faithful pilgrim sought the brother’s way.”’ Suddenly, Fortes’s riddle made perfect sense. ‘While I’m not as fluent in Spanish as you are, I do know that camino is the Spanish word for “way”. So, clearly, Fortes is referring to the Camino de Santiago. The way of St James.’
‘A bit of clever legerdemain on Fortes’s part, I might add, given that Fortes was a brother monk and James was the brother of Jesus.’
In a celebratory mood, Edie reached for another cookie. ‘You’re right, very clever. But what about the first part of the riddle, “To see the house where Lucas dwelled”? What the heck does that mean?’
‘I have no bloody idea,’ Caedmon confessed with a shrug. ‘While I haven’t completely deciphered the riddle, as soon as I realized that Fortes de Pinós hid the Evangelium Gaspar at Ponferrada Castle, I couldn’t have jumped higher.’
‘Or driven the Volkswagen faster.’ Edie pointedly glanced at the speedometer. ‘Maybe you should slow down a bit. This is, after all, an unfamiliar road.’
‘We have another two hundred kilometers to traverse,’ Caedmon informed her. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, the deadline looms. I have no choice but to sail close to the wind.’
Properly chastened, Edie looked away from the speedometer. She knew that the haunting image of Anala Patel, bound and gagged, was never far from Caedmon’s mind.
‘We have no choice,’ she stressed, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. They were a team. Like Isabella and Ferdinand. Or Holmes and Watson. ‘Luckily, the castle stays open late during the summer months.’ Before leaving Madrid, they had done a quick Google search. Not only was Ponferrada Castle open to the public, but the castle was remarkably well-preserved. ‘According to the website, they don’t pull up the drawbridge until eight thirty.’
Dropping his hand to the clutch, Caedmon changed down a gear, revving the engine as he took a tight curve. ‘I estimate that we’ll arrive at six o’clock or thereabouts. That’ll give us at least two hours to scour the premises.’
Edie peered over her shoulder; the van was keeping pace with them.
Smiling lewdly at her, Hector Calzada made a very crude hand gesture.
Disgusted, she quickly looked away.
‘I really, really, hope that time wounds all heels,’ she muttered. ‘Were you aware of the fact that the teardrop Calzada has tattooed in the corner of his eye is a Latino gang symbol?’
Caedmon glanced over at her, clearly surprised. ‘I did think it rather odd.’
‘It signifies that the tattooed individual had a friend or family member who was killed while serving time in prison.’
‘A twist on wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve.’ Caedmon accelerated, passing a slow-moving truck. ‘The Bête Noire also has the Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on his back.’
‘Believe it or not, that’s another popular gang tattoo.’
‘Bloody hell! Is there nothing that these animals hold sacred?’
‘That’s the weird irony; the Virgin Mary is revered to Latino gang-bangers.’ Living in a Latino neighborhood in Washington, Edie had more than a passing familiarity with the culture. ‘When someone has the Virgin of Guadalupe tattooed on his person, it symbolizes that the man is both sinner and saint. Kinda like a medieval warrior monk.’
‘How so?’
‘Think about it: the Knights Templar professed their love of God by slaughtering infidels in the Holy Land. Making them sinner and saint. And just like the medieval warrior monks, Latino gangs live by a very strict code that emphasizes God, honor and brotherhood.’
‘Honor as gangsters define it,’ Caedmon was quick to point out. ‘The Knights Templar did not force their members to commit murder as an initiation rite. What I witnessed earlier today undoubtedly made the angels weep and Jesus Christ prostrate with grief.’
‘I’m not defending these murderous fiends. I just think that you should know who you’re dealing with. “Knowledge is power”, and all that. If they’re not active members of a Latino gang, Calzada and Diaz were affiliated with gang-bangers at some point in time.’ Ravenous, Edie finagled another cookie out of the cellophane package. ‘What I can’t figure out is how they became involved with a Catholic priest.’
‘Twice now I’ve spoken to this G-Dog via Skype and my sense of it is that he’s merely the expediter.’
‘In other words, someone else is conducting the orchestra.’
‘Precisely. And I suspect that it’s someone within the Vatican. As you’ll recall, the initial ransom email was sent by an individual called Irenaeus. An alias, obviously. Whoever
he is, Irenaeus has positioned himself far enough away from the bloodshed that he can’t be held accountable.’
‘Unlike the priest. Which certainly explains his Nervous Nellie demeanor.’ Edie sighed, exasperated by the fact that they were being manipulated by an unseen puppet master.
‘There’s one other thing.’
‘What’s that?’
Caedmon reached up and adjusted the rear-view mirror. Staring at the trailing van, he said, ‘I have reason to believe that as soon as Calzada and Diaz get their hands on the Evangelium Gaspar, they’ll take us to a remote location where, to use the vernacular, they will then “pop” us.’
37
Standing in the middle of the castle bailey, Edie turned full circle. ‘By my calculation, if we “leave no stone unturned”, it shouldn’t take more than a year to conduct a thorough search of the castle.’
Caedmon peered at the looming stone edifice.
They’d arrived at Ponferrada Castle forty minutes ago. After rushing through the quotidian preliminaries – parking and purchasing tickets – they’d piggybacked on to the last tour of the day. Their guide had studiously, and with no small amount of pride, pointed out all of the standard features that one expects to see in an 800-year-old castle: curtain walls, barracks, armory, chapel, kitchen, barbicans, great hall and posterns. And though he’d carefully scrutinized everything that they’d been shown, Caedmon had not spotted anything that could be construed as a signpost.
Only an interminable store of mortared stone.
‘At least a year,’ he muttered.
Damn Euripides and his infernal proverb.
Bleary-eyed, Edie put a hand to her mouth, unsuccessfully masking a yawn. She then shook her head brusquely, the way people do when they’re trying to ‘clear the cobwebs’. Revived somewhat, she gazed at the nearest watchtower and said, ‘With all of these crenellated walls, the Templars’ castle has a decidedly gloomy aspect. In a no-frills, bare-bones sort of way.’
The observation was bang on. All that remained of Ponferrada Castle were the stones. And they, in turn, lent the gravitas of the grave. Silent and lifeless.