The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  Caedmon’s brows drew together, the man seeing right through her false bravado. ‘Don’t look down.’

  ‘Or up,’ she murmured, both inducing a spinning sensation. Looking straight ahead, she concentrated on her breathing. The only thing she had even a remote chance of controlling.

  Several moments passed, her heartbeat finally slowing to a more normal rate.

  Okay. I can do this. Piece of cake.

  Resolve bolstered, Edie shifted the strap on the black rucksack a bit higher on her shoulder; it contained her iPad, mobile phone, passport, wallet, a change of clothes and some basic toiletries. From St Germain-des Prés, they were going straight to Charles de Gaulle airport, having booked two seats on the first nonstop flight to New York City.

  Wordlessly, Caedmon gestured to the Romanesque spire visible in the distance – the St Germain-des-Prés bell tower – indicating that it was time to depart.

  Sidestepping the skylights, they made their way to the far side of the roof where there was a metal scaffold, approximately seven feet long and three feet wide, parked against the exterior wall of the building. Caedmon had spotted the mechanical platform earlier in the day when they’d returned from the church. The work crew that had been contracted to install new wrought-iron balconies was using the scaffold to transport men, equipment and materials up and down the six-story building.

  ‘Mind your step,’ Caedmon warned as he swung a leg over the side of the steel carriage. There was no need to add the obvious – that a misstep could have fatal consequences.

  Edie took hold of his outstretched hand, allowing him to assist her from roof to carriage. ‘Kinda daring, don’t you think?’

  ‘No more daring than scaling the tower at Ponferrada Castle.’

  ‘Yeah, and as I recall, you took quite a tumble. Scared me witless.’

  ‘An unforeseen accident,’ Caedmon muttered as he crouched in front of a locked metal box. Prying a screwdriver under the cover, he popped it open, exposing a simple control panel.

  ‘Ready to set sail?’

  Edie nodded, not bothering to point out that ships were safer when anchored in the port. But that, of course, wasn’t why they were built.

  ‘Let’s hope the bark floats,’ Caedmon said as he pressed the ‘ON’ switch.

  The platform jerked violently.

  Edie clutched the steel safety bar. ‘Or at least doesn’t sink too swiftly,’ she murmured.

  Hit with another wave of dizziness, she closed her eyes, forcing herself to think about something – anything – other than the fact that the moonlit rooftops had started to careen wildly. Instead, she thought about the Evangelium Gaspar and a teenage Yeshua bar Yosef setting out to see the world on what would prove to be an eighteen-year spiritual odyssey. To boldly go where no one had gone before.

  Although she’d been initially stunned by the gospel, now that she’d had time to reflect, the idea, somehow, seemed right. Jesus was, after all, a mortal human being, endowed with a curiosity about the world. Would such a gifted individual have been content to spend his youth in the backwaters of Galilee? Because he travelled to foreign lands during those eighteen ‘Lost Years’ to study other religions, she believed that it made him the wise and compassionate man that he came to be when, at the age of thirty, he began his ministry. Obviously, he was secure enough in his own faith to respectfully study other spiritual beliefs. Jesus, the mortal man, was a seeker of the truth who knew that God dwelled in every corner of the universe.

  Opening her eyes, Edie glanced at Caedmon who stood, legs braced wide apart, in front of the control panel, ready to hit the ‘OFF’ button before the slow-moving platform reached the ground level.

  ‘I trust the vertigo has dissipated,’ Caedmon said as the steel carriage came to a shuddering stop several inches above the pavement.

  Relieved to be on terra firma, Edie gave a thumbs-up. ‘I’m made of sterner stuff,’ she informed him with a self-deprecating chuckle.

  ‘You are at that.’ Taking her by the arm, he helped her to scramble over the safety bars.

  For several moments they stood side-by-side, two shadowy figures on the narrow cobbled lane.

  Caedmon glanced over at her, blue eyes glittering. ‘Ready?’

  Bolstered by the knowledge that the hard part was done, Edie nodded gamely. ‘All set.’

  ‘Right, then. We’re off to the crusades.’

  61

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Javier Aveles hissed, shooting Hector an accusing glare as he entered the courtyard.

  ‘Who are you, my old lady? I took a pussy break. Try it some time, amigo.’ Peering up at Aisquith’s flat, Hector saw a faint golden light shining in the window. ‘Any movement?’

  Javier shook his head. ‘Not recently. They were up and moving for a while, but –’ his lips turned down at the corners as he shrugged expressively – ‘I’m thinking they hit the sack.’

  ‘So, why didn’t they turn off the light?’ Hector wondered aloud, suddenly suspicious. As he’d painfully, and humiliatingly, discovered, Caedmon Aisquith was a crafty fucker.

  The skin on the back of Hector’s neck prickled as he remembered what happened at Santiago de Compostela.

  I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  Suddenly suspicious, he strode into the apartment building. A few moments later, he exited the creaky elevator, stormed down the corridor and kicked in the door of Aisquith’s flat.

  It took only a few seconds to verify that the Englishman and his bitch had escaped the premises.

  Fuck! I leave Javier alone for two hours and this is what happens!

  Enraged, Hector fought a very strong urge to set Aisquith’s flat on fire. Light up one of the thousands of books and torch the place to the ground. Like blood, fire was a cleansing balm.

  But first I have to track down the English cabrón.

  According to Javier, earlier in the day Aisquith and his bitch had spent a lengthy amount of time at a nearby church.

  What do you wanna bet that’s where they’re at?

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have a gun on him. But he had a very sharp blade. Sharp enough to cut through the silver thread that tethered the English fucker to the earth. Hector’s homeboys back in Spanish Harlem used to always say that he was like a pit bull bred for the ring. A beast that kept fighting until it drew its last breath.

  As you, English, will soon find out.

  62

  Caedmon and Edie quickly wended their way along the cobblestone alleys and narrow lanes that were tucked behind looming seventeenth-century buildings. A hidden section of the St Germain-des-Prés neighborhood, it was a slice of old Paris, the district inundated with antique shops, art galleries and intimate bistros. All were closed, the windows shuttered, daybreak still an hour away. A few minutes ago, they’d passed a fruit vendor unloading crates of fresh produce from a truck. Other than the lone peddler, the streets were deserted.

  As they emerged from a covered alleyway, the street lamps shed a soft light that shrouded the enclave, dividing it into areas of hazy illumination and inky pools of dark shadow. He and Edie hugged the latter. Should they encounter an inquisitive passer-by, he didn’t want anyone to be able to later identify them. They were, after all, en route to pinch a 2000-year-old gospel from the oldest church in Paris. Stealing antiquities was a criminal offence, one that would unquestionably be punished to the full extent of French law should they be caught. A lengthy prison term was a given.

  On their guard, they approached the small courtyard that was adjacent to the church. The garden was illuminated by a twenty-foot-high street lamp that bathed the entire area in incriminating light – including the Gothic arches of the destroyed chapel.

  Damn.

  ‘I didn’t anticipate the street lamp,’ Caedmon muttered as he opened the courtyard gate, the hinges squealing harshly. Swiveling his head from side-to-side, he surveyed the area, checking to make sure that no vagrants lurked. Satisfied, he gave the all-clear. ‘No hay Moros
en la costa.’

  Edie shot him a quizzical glance. ‘Que?’

  ‘“There are no Moors on the coast,”’ he translated. ‘It’s the Spanish version of “the coast is clear”.’

  Peering upward, Edie gnawed on her lower lip. ‘The lamp could be a problem. Particularly if someone walks past the courtyard while we’re removing the plate,’ she whispered, glaring at the street lamp as though it were an intruding Cyclops, a circle-eyed member of that ancient race of primordial giants.

  ‘I agree.’ Annoyed by the unforeseen hitch, Caedmon bent at the waist and retrieved a good-sized stone from the ground. Jack-knifing into an upright stance, he bit back a grunt, his bruised ribs protesting the motion. Stone in hand, he took aim and sent the rock hurling through the air.

  The ornate glass shade shattered, instantly plunging the courtyard into a desolate gloom. The noise caused several birds roosting in the nearby eaves to take flight in a squawking flurry of flapping wings.

  ‘Bull’s eye!’

  Caedmon made no reply as he hurriedly shed his rucksack, keeping his movements as streamlined as possible. Efficiency the name of the game during any illicit undertaking, he removed several tools and two pieces of soft foam which he handed to Edie for safekeeping. ‘I want you to keep a close watch while I pry the plate off the exterior wall.’

  ‘What do we do if someone enters the churchyard?’ She peered furtively over her shoulder at the shadows cast by stone and tree and things unseen.

  ‘We snatch the plate and run like bloody hell.’

  Game plan iterated, Caedmon went down on bent knee in front of the Gothic arches, the plastered-over plate at eye level. He placed the slanted edge of a small chisel on the stucco, near to the plate, but not on it.

  Very carefully, he began to tap the end of the chisel with a hammer, bits of stucco arcing through the air. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do to muffle the sound, the repetitive taptaptap echoing off the exterior wall of the church, breaking the somnolent silence. A laborious exercise, each tap caused a corresponding bolt of pain to radiate along his ribcage. Grimacing, he kept at it, mining for a treasure that would undoubtedly be used to further the ambitions of a ruthless Roman Catholic cleric. So be it.

  I will do whatever is necessary to save Anala’s life.

  Edie stood behind his left shoulder, a lone night watchman. ‘Cue the spooky music,’ he heard her mumble. ‘I’m thinking “Ave Satani” from that movie The Omen.’

  ‘Or perhaps “Dies Irae” from Mozart’s Requiem.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, verifying that they were on schedule, the Paris subway due to open in twenty minutes.

  It took nearly ten minutes of chipping away at the plaster before he was able to, very slowly, slide a four-inch flat putty knife behind the plate, taking great care not to cause any damage. With a slight tug of the wrist, he pried the plate from the exterior wall.

  ‘Yes! We’ve got it!’ Edie handed him the two pieces of soft foam.

  ‘We’ll clean it once we get to the airport,’ he said, sandwiching the plate between the foam to keep it safe in transit. He’d packed several solvents that they could use to remove the stucco which had mercifully protected the blasted thing from the elements. Once cleaned, they could make a copper rubbing that he would then email to Cedric Lloyd at Oxford. He also intended to contact Father Gracián Santos as soon as they boarded their early-morning flight to inform him that he had secured the plate and was en route.

  In a hurry to abscond with their ill-gotten gains, Caedmon stuffed his tools and the makeshift packing case inside his rucksack.

  ‘Looks like we’re in for a downpour,’ Edie remarked anxiously.

  He glanced heavenward, noticing that the stars were now obscured by ragged-edged storm clouds. A savage sight that portended a rip-roaring storm. ‘We should be able to make it to the underground before the –’ He stopped in mid-sentence, detecting a worrisome sound.

  ‘What is it?’ Edie asked.

  Holding up a hand, Caedmon strained his ears. In the far distance, he heard a car door slam. Much closer, perhaps half a block away, he heard the steady pound of an insistent footfall. Bearing in their direction.

  Damn.

  It could be nothing. An early-morning jogger taking advantage of the empty pavements. Or it could be the warden searching for his two fugitive prisoners.

  Unwilling to take a chance with so much at stake, Caedmon hastily removed the hammer from his rucksack before handing the pack to Edie. ‘Can you manage both of them?’

  ‘Yours and mine? Yes, but –’

  ‘Someone’s approaching. I want you to go to the far end of the churchyard and climb over the chain-link fence. Be sure to stay in the shadows,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll rendezvous in ten minutes at the agreed-upon coordinates. If I don’t arrive, you are to proceed to the airport without me.’

  Edie vehemently shook her head. ‘I’m not going to let you be a sacrificial lamb.’

  ‘I prefer the charging bull metaphor.’ Grasping the hammer in his right hand, Caedmon held it aloft. ‘As you can see, I’m well armed. Now, hurry.’

  ‘Caedmon, please, be careful.’

  I may not have a choice in the matter, he owned, mentally battening the hatches as he watched Edie run to the other end of the courtyard. Should calamity strike, he had complete faith that she would take the third plate to New York and arrange for Anala’s release. They’d already discussed how that could be accomplished in a way that would ensure no one got killed.

  Scanning the courtyard, Caedmon decided to take a position behind a five-foot-high stone pedestal. On top of the plinth there was a massive bronze bust of a woman’s head. The unexpected piece of artwork – a Picasso unless he was mistaken – was large enough to conceal him.

  He gave the bust a passing glance, noticing that it was dedicated to Guillaume Apollinaire. It seemed an odd inclusion in a churchyard, but there was no time to ponder the incongruity of a Picasso sculpture dedicated to a Surrealist poet whose best-known work involved a woman who undergoes a sex change, her breasts floating into the stratosphere like a pair of helium-filled balloons. He could only assume that the priests at St Germain-des-Prés had never read The Breasts of Tiresias.

  A few moments into the wait, a lone man appeared on the other side of the chain-link fence. Caedmon immediately recognized the stocky fellow with the swaggering saunter.

  Sensing that the real storm was about to break, he watched as Hector Calzada warily traipsed through the open garden gate that led to the courtyard, the graveled pavement crunching with each deliberate footstep. There was a ferocious look etched on the man’s face.

  Caedmon slowed his breath. Waiting. Watching. Monitoring Calzada’s every move.

  His right hand tightened on the hammer, ready to swing with all the strength that he could muster. Crack the bastard’s head wide open. As long as the Bête Noire was conscious, he was a threat.

  Calzada ambled past the stone plinth.

  Ready to channel his adrenalin rush into a violent onslaught, Caedmon launched from his position . . . just as a car turned on to Rue de l’Abbaye.

  Startled by the flash of halogen headlamps, Calzada whipped his head round. Catching sight of Caedmon, briefly limned in the passing glow of light, he dodged reflexively to the right.

  In the next instant Caedmon heard an ominous click.

  Damn! He has a switchblade!

  Growling, Calzada came at him. Caedmon swerved, managing to parry the deadly swipe with the raised hammer. Before he could cock his arm to retaliate, Calzada rushed him again. Chest heaving, Caedmon again recoiled, the knife coming within a hairbreadth of his throat.

  Incapacitated by his bruised ribs, his reflexes were sluggish. So sluggish, he feared that it might prove a deadly rout.

  Calzada toggled the knife from hand to hand, taunting him. ‘Death frees the soul from the prison of the body,’ he said, smiling ghoulishly.

  ‘What are you saying? That I should thank you for sl
ashing my throat?’

  ‘Give me the third plate, English, and I won’t lay a hand on you.’

  ‘Very well. I surrender. The plate is located in the church tower,’ he said, tossing the hammer aside.

  ‘Lead the way, English. But one false move and I’ll skewer you on the end of my blade.’ Calzada touched the serrated knife with his index finger. ‘Sí, it’s very sharp.’

  Biting back a sarcastic retort, Caedmon resignedly nodded his head, hoping that he appeared sufficiently defeated. As they headed towards the chain-link fence, he knew that he had one chance – and only the one – to take down the beast.

  As ordered, he led the way through the open gate, his adversary a few feet behind him.

  Suddenly, without warning, Caedmon dived to one side. Snatching hold of the wrought-iron gate, he slammed it into the Bête Noire’s belly.

  Windmilling backwards, Calzada howled in animal rage as he was knocked on to his arse in an ungainly heap.

  Caedmon seized his chance and ran down Rue de l’Abbaye. At the corner, he veered into an alley jam-packed with parked cars, motorcycles and scooters. He raced to the end of the passageway, which dead-ended in a seven-foot-high stone wall.

  Hearing a pounding footfall – Calzada having quickly recovered – Caedmon leaped on to the trunk of a parked sedan. The action triggered a screeching blare, the car alarm activated. He scrambled on to the roof and hoisted himself over the stone wall. Bracing for what he knew would be a jarring impact, he dropped anchor, landing on all fours.

  Grunting, he righted himself and kept running.

  A few moments later, winded, each breath an agony, he saw two green LED headlamps just before the outline of two sturdy bicycles – Vélib’ rentals – materializing in the charcoal gloom. The rental bikes and their green headlamps were a familiar sight on the city streets. Edie, dependable as always, had secured the rentals for their use. Worried that Calzada and Aveles might canvas the area and discover that they’d boarded a subway train bound for the airport, he intended to outwit the bastards by biking to a station in the next arrondissement.