by C. M. Palov
While Edie efficiently went about her task, Caedmon unhooked the climbing harness from around his waist and thighs, ignoring the painful shots across the bow. Clenching his jaw, he rummaged through Edie’s bag and removed the iPad. As soon as she was finished with the rubbings, he would Skype G-Dog and email him photos of the Evangelium Gaspar.
If the two plates didn’t satisfy the ransom demand, he had a back-up plan.
Assuming that his old group leader at MI5 would be able to get a trace on G-Dog’s phone number and pinpoint the priest’s exact location, he still had three days to put a rescue mission into play. That, of course, presumed that Anala was being held at the same location as the priest. Success furthermore depended upon his being able to elude Calzada and Diaz who, like Ruti, the twinned Egyptian lions that guarded the underworld, were waiting outside the castle gate, loaded Beretta and deadly falchion at the ready.
Too fatigued to think straight, Caedmon leaned back, his elbow jutting against the Tau stone that he’d earlier tossed to the ground. Wincing, he pushed the block to one side.
Which is when he noticed the strange carving on the square chunk of limestone.
‘Would you mind passing me the flashlight?’ he asked Edie as he pulled the stone closer to him.
Bent over a paper-covered copper plate, Edie stopped what she was doing and handed him the flashlight. Caedmon aimed it at the stone, illuminating several rows of encoded ‘text’ that was comprised of lines and dots.
‘Bloody hell,’ he murmured. ‘We have our divining rod.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Relieved, and horrified to think that he’d very nearly not seen the code, Caedmon said, ‘Fortes de Pinós carved an encrypted message on the backside of the Tau stone.’
‘Ohmygosh!’ Brown eyes glimmered. ‘I’m guessing that our wily Templar knight didn’t want to put all his eggs into the one castle basket. So he stashed the third plate in a different location. And then left a cryptogram with directions.’
Faced with a new challenge, Caedmon shoved out a deep breath. ‘Of course, this means that we now have to crack the blasted code.’
‘But at least Fortes left us a road map.’
Still amazed by his chance discovery, Caedmon palmed the stone. ‘Let us hope that is indeed what this is.’
‘As soon I finish with the copper plates, I’ll make a rubbing of the stone.’
‘Thank you, love.’ He smiled wearily, grateful to have Edie at his side.
A few minutes later, rubbings finished and neatly rolled up for safekeeping, Caedmon accessed the Skype feature on the iPad. He then put on his ‘game face’ as the Americans called it.
‘I have news to report,’ he said without preamble when G-Dog answered the call. ‘I’ve managed to locate two-thirds of the Evangelium Gaspar.’
‘Two-thirds? I . . . I don’t understand,’ the other man sputtered.
Thinking the priest a dim-witted bloke indeed, Caedmon elaborated and said, ‘I’ve uncovered two of the three copper plates. Stand by for the digital images which I am now emailing to you.’
‘Where’s the third plate?’ G-Dog asked a few moments later, confusion replaced with suspicion.
Opting for the truth, Caedmon shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’
‘You must give me all three of the copper plates.’
‘One rarely hits the bull’s eye with the first arrow. It pains me to say,’ he added sarcastically, his body wracked with it. ‘However, Fortes de Pinós left an encrypted code that I am confident will reveal the location of the third plate. The Knights Templar were talented code writers, the Order having devised a number of clever encryption systems.’
‘Why would the Templar do that?’
‘You mean conceal the third plate in a different location?’ On the verge of informing the priest that he wasn’t a bloody mind reader, Caedmon, instead said, ‘Fortes de Pinós knew that the Templars who’d been arrested in France were having a jolly time of it at Chinon Castle, what with having their nuts roasted over an open fire. He had hoped to use the Evangelium Gaspar to secure their freedom. And while I can only speculate as to his rationale, it seems that he wanted to have a reserve cache in case he was betrayed by the French King.’ A prudent maneuver as one should never trust a monster, he thought, but didn’t say aloud.
‘Will you be able to decipher the code?’
‘I have some experience with code breaking,’ Caedmon told him, not about to reveal that he’d gained that experience during his tenure at MI5. Then, needing to quell the other man’s doubts, he said with a full measure of confidence, ‘I will find the third plate. This is a mere hiccup. Nothing more.’
42
Sanguis Christi Fellowship, Dutchess County, New York
‘“Why do the righteous suffer?”’ Gracián Santos murmured, deeply concerned about what would happen if the Englishman failed to find the third plate.
As he entered the Sanguis Christi Chapel, he felt akin to Job, a righteous man made to suffer an unwarranted trial at the hands of Satan.
Emotionally frayed, Gracián flipped the light switch, turning on the low-wattage lamps that hung from the heavily carved walnut paneling that lined each side of the chapel. Dipping his fingers into the stoup, he blessed himself with a few drops of holy water.
‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’
Although a small chapel, it was elaborately ornate with stained-glassed windows depicting the Four Evangelists. A place of spiritual renewal, he encouraged the students to visit the chapel often so that they could ponder the meaning of the four Gospels in their lives.
But now a fifth, heretofore unknown gospel, had become the focus of Gracián’s life in recent days.
When Cardinal Fiorio first approached Gracián about finding the Evangelium Gaspar, he had expressed reservations about retrieving the ancient text. What does a simple priest know of these things? But the Cardinal had been quick to remind Gracián that throughout the Church’s 2000-year history, it had often utilized a cadre of men, like the Knights of St. John, who were willing to battle the Evildoers in the Lord’s name.
Tonight, Gracián feared that the Devil might be winning the bout.
‘Money is indeed the root of all evil,’ he whispered in a hoarse voice, knowing that he’d earlier permitted a heinous act to occur because he was desperate to repay the $2.2-million bank loan.
When he made the crucial phone call giving Hector Calzada the execution order, Gracián had become a merchant of death. A Diablo. And though his hands might not be stained with the Marqués de Bagá’s blood, his soul most assuredly was.
While Cardinal Fiorio considered the murder of the Spanish nobleman a righteous act, no different to a medieval crusader slaying an infidel, Gracián wasn’t entirely convinced. Granted, history wasn’t his strong suit, but he seemed to recall that Pope Urban II had issued a blanket indulgence to all Christian crusaders, absolving them of any sins incurred during those bloodthirsty engagements. No such indulgence had been issued to Gracián or the two Diablos who participated in the blood spree.
If the third plate isn’t found, I will lose everything. The Sanguis Christi Fellowship. My ministry. And after this deadly day, perhaps even my mortal soul.
For the first time in twenty-seven years, Gracián’s faith was on shaky ground. Over the course of those years, ever since he’d made the acquaintance of a Maryknoll nun named Sister Marita Daniel, he’d been firm in his religious convictions. Never questioning. Never doubting.
‘O most merciful Jesus, with a contrite heart and penitent spirit, I bow down in profound humility before Thy divine majesty.’
That was the prayer that Sister Marita Daniel would recite at the beginning of her gospel workshops, the attendees of which were all hardened men; men who, for the most part, had stopped going to Mass years ago; men who’d committed grave sins and heinous acts. Hard-hearted, they were all inmates at the Sing Sing maximum security prison, each man
having a different motive for attending the weekly workshop. Some, riddled with guilt, had embraced The Way of the Cross. Some were bored by the tedium of prison life and sought a diversion. And a few, like Gracián, craved the sound of a female voice. Even if that voice belonged to a stout middle-aged Catholic nun.
While he enjoyed the melodic, sweet sound of Sister Marita Daniel’s voice, he paid scant attention to her gospel lessons. What was the point? Having killed a man in cold blood, he didn’t hold out much hope, if any, that he would receive a warm welcome in heaven. Not when the Devil would be waiting for him with open arms. Gracián was, after all, a Diablo. The Devil’s own.
Then, one day, the dulcet-toned nun began to speak of something that Gracián had never heard of before: the Blood Atonement. According to Sister Marita Daniel, sin bars a man from Heaven’s gate, a precept that he readily accepted, having condemned himself to Hell the instant he plunged a serrated knife into another man’s neck. ‘But because He loves us unconditionally, the sinless Jesus willingly died upon the Cross for our sins, sacrificing Himself in our stead so that all sinners may enter the Kingdom of God.’
All sinners?!
When he’d heard that, Gracián had suddenly became very attentive to Sister Marita Daniel’s lesson, wanting to know if it was really true, if Jesus’ crucifixion meant that even a murderous Diablo could enter into Heaven? Sister Marita Daniel assured him that’s exactly what the Blood Atonement meant, provided that he made a true and heartfelt penance. ‘You are not a Diablo. You, Gracián Santos, are a Beatus Vir, a blessed man of God. The Blood Atonement is the balm that heals all wounds.’
The waves of relief that Gracián had felt could not be described. The nightmares that he’d suffered since that blood-drenched night when he’d beheaded a rival gang-banger suddenly ceased, his dreams now filled with heavenly light and future promise.
From that moment on, Gracián was a man reborn. Not only did Sister Marita Daniel give him spiritual guidance, but she tutored him so that he could earn his GED, General Equivalency Diploma. After that, he took advantage of the higher educational opportunities provided by the prison. When he left Sing Sing at the age of twenty-one, he had a college degree in hand. More importantly, over the course of his five years of incarceration, he’d developed a deep connection to the dying Christ, devouring every religious text that the dulcet-toned nun advised him to read.
Reveling in the fact that he was a blessed man of God, Gracián, now at a crossroads, decided that he could gain no greater joy than to consecrate his life, not to Los Diablos de Santa Muerte, but to the Roman Catholic Church.
The momentous decision made, Gracián entered seminary school, his expenses paid for by Catholic charities.
When, at the age of twenty-eight, he was ordained into the priesthood, Sister Marita Daniel was the first one to give him a ‘welcome to the family’ hug.
From the onset, there had never been any question as to how Gracián could best serve the Lord. By reaching out to gang-bangers and at-risk youth, he would help tormented young people break the cycle of violence. To that end, he founded the Sanguis Christi – Blood of Christ – Fellowship. Aided by the Archbishop of New York, Franco Fiorio, Gracián was able to secure some very large foundation grants, the seed money that enabled the Fellowship to purchase the Porter Women’s College at public auction.
Without a doubt, Gracián owed Cardinal Franco Fiorio a very big debt of gratitude.
But do I owe him this much? Do I owe the Cardinal my very soul?
Deeply troubled, adrift in a sea of doubt, Gracián approached the altar.
‘O most merciful Jesus,’ he whispered fervently. ‘With a contrite heart and penitent spirit, I bow down in –’
‘G-Dog! We’ve a big problem! The girl’s escaped!’
Hearing Jacko Maciel’s unexpected exclamation, Gracián turned away from the altar and grabbed a nearby pew.
Suddenly lightheaded, the chapel spinning off-kilter, his voice came out in a hoarse whisper: ‘We must find her!’
43
The alarm had been sounded.
Hearing the roar of an engine, Anala dodged behind a tree. Breathless, she put a hand to her aching side and glanced behind her. About three hundred meters from her present position, a black pickup truck zoomed and crisscrossed the bucolic landscape, the hunters on the prowl.
She estimated that she’d been running for nearly an hour through the gloomy thickets and shadowy woodland. In her bare feet no less. It was utterly insane to think she could blaze a trail through the forest.
Worried that she may have been running in circles, she frantically surveyed the surrounding copse. Everywhere she looked there were forbidding shadows. The wind rustling through the splayed boughs spiked her dread fear.
I have no bleeding idea where I’m at.
‘Just an unforeseen glitch,’ she murmured, fighting back the tears. ‘Soon enough, I’ll find my way out of this eerie glen and –’
I still won’t have a clue as to my whereabouts.
All along she’d been laboring under the delusion that she could easily make her way to safety. That clean clothes, a warm meal and a freshly brewed cup of tea were waiting for her around the bend. Silly girl. She had no idea where ‘the bend’ was even located. Didn’t know what continent, let alone what country, she was in.
Panic clawed at her as she ambled forward. She’d gone no more than a few feet when she tripped on a gnarled root and stumbled.
‘Mind the step,’ she muttered under her breath as she fell to her knees.
Panting softly, she remained on all fours. Incapable of getting up. Incapable of coherent thought. Hit with a dizzy onslaught, she swayed slightly.
I need to keep moving. I need to get a weapon. I need to find a knight in shining armor. I need . . . some sleep.
Yes, sleep.
Thinking that the best alternative of the lot, Anala crawled towards a big leafy bush. She’d not slept in the last twenty-four hours, too revved up about her escape plan. But the wax had melted from her wings and she’d just crashed to earth.
Convinced her fortunes would improve once she could think more clearly, she tucked herself under the sheltering brier bush. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of pine needles and decayed vegetation. Fecund smells that made her think dreamily that she was nestled in the Earth’s womb.
As she drifted into a deep slumber, Anala heard the rustling of a small animal burrowing in the underbrush. Surprisingly, the sound comforted her.
I’m not alone.
44
Pontifical North American College, Rome, Italy
In a celebratory mood, Cardinal Franco Fiorio raised his glass and took a measured sip of the Sciacchetrà dessert wine.
Today, he’d rid the Church of a dangerous enemy.
But others still lurked, he conceded, his gaze falling upon Thomas Moran, the Cardinal Secretary of State. A pro tempore title, the Cardinal’s term of office had officially ended upon the death of Pope Pius XIII. After the upcoming conclave, the newly elected pontiff would appoint the cardinal of his choice to fill the vacant position.
And somehow I don’t think that it’s going to be Thomas Moran.
Seated at a circular banquet table with eleven other dinner guests, Franco surveyed the refectory where the fundraising gala for the Pontifical College was being held. Nearly four hundred well-heeled attendees were packed inside the hall, the black-tie event boasting a stellar guest list that included prominent members of the Roman Curia, the American ambassador to the Holy See, a famous television news anchor, the US Senator from New York, and a retired four-star Army general. The American contingent of the Roman Catholic family had come together to raise money for the college located atop Janiculum Hill, the seminary where bishops from the United States shipped their most promising candidates for the priesthood. A number of whom were serving as waiters for the event. A second group, who were waiting in the wings, would soon be presenting the evening’s entertainment. A med
ley of Broadway show tunes.
One of the ‘waiters’, attired in a black clerical suit and Roman collar, offered Franco a second slice of the torta di ricotta. Smiling politely, he waved off the very tempting piece of cheesecake. He was getting flabby around the middle, the years of Italian cuisine combined with the sedentary lifestyle having added thirty pounds to his once wiry frame.
Not a big Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, Franco excused himself from the table and made a hasty beeline for the exit, hoping to escape before the seminarians who’d already gathered in front of the microphones broke into a rousing rendition of ‘Oklahoma’. En route, he, again, caught sight of the Cardinal Secretary, seated at one of the front tables. Smiling broadly, the ‘camera-ready Cardinal’ was engaged in a convivial conversation with the ambassador’s helmet-haired wife.
A Prince of the Church holding court.
And a man who, at nine-to-four odds, the bookies at least were certain would be the next Vicar of Christ. So, too, a majority of the Catholic glitterati attending this evening’s festivities, the Cardinal Secretary designated as papabile. An Italian term used by Vatican insiders, it literally meant ‘popeable’ or ‘one who could become pope’.
Someone’s going to be in for a very rude surprise once the conclave begins.
Those same insiders had another expression, one that was entirely apropos: ‘He who enters the conclave as Pope, leaves it as a cardinal.’ Meaning that all the expectations in the world couldn’t get a man elected pontiff if he was unable to secure a two-thirds majority of the College of Cardinals.
For the time being, however, the Cardinal Secretary had caught the attention of the media and sycophants alike, the man basking in the adoration. But the papacy wasn’t a beauty contest where the most telegenic cardinal won the prize. The very soul of the faithful was at stake, Franco convinced that liberals constituted the most dangerous threat the Church had faced in its 2000-year history.