The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series)

by C. M. Palov

  68

  What did he mean by ‘Read it and weep’?

  Curious as to the meaning of the Englishman’s addendum, Gracián Santos opened the first email attachment. He gave the two digital photographs of the copper plate a cursory examination. Satisfied that the plate was genuine, he closed the attachment.

  Despite the fact that he’d made contact a day early, Aisquith’s sudden arrival was an unexpected boon. At that moment, Gracián was alone at Mercy Hall, Roberto having driven to New York City to meet the transatlantic flights from Paris and Rome. Cardinal Fiorio, who had contacts within the Vatican secret service, had discovered that Aisquith had booked two seats on a nonstop flight to JFK Airport. ‘Clearly, the footloose Englishman is headed your way.’ To Gracián’s surprise, the Cardinal then announced that he intended to travel to New York to personally take possession of the third plate.

  ‘I need to get the ghastly deed over and done with,’ Gracián murmured resignedly. Since the student body and staff were gone, there would be no witnesses lurking.

  Other than God Almighty.

  But Gracián need not worry on that count, Cardinal Fiorio having assured him that everything he did to secure the ancient gospel would be forgiven, absolution always given to Defenders of the Faith. No matter how horrific their crimes. Even though it would weigh heavy on his conscience, it must be done to protect the Church and save the Sanguis Christi Fellowship. To that end, the old Parthenon folly would be the perfect location to set the trap. Afterwards, the Diablos could use a water hose to wash away any blood evidence.

  Lost in thought, Gracián drummed his fingers on the desk.

  The Cardinal had been adamant that the Evangelium Gaspar was ‘The Great Heresy’ that could destroy the Church. For that reason, there must be no witnesses left alive who knew of its existence. As for Anala Patel, because Gracián couldn’t bring himself to kill her, he intended to leave her locked in the root cellar and let nature take its course.

  Curious as to what was contained in the heretical gospel, Gracián opened the second attachment and began to read the translated text.

  ‘Ay Dios mio!’ he gasped when he reached the last line, shock squeezing the air out of his lungs. Surely, this was someone’s idea of a sick joke! The gospel – if one could call it that – was an utter abomination. A heresy of the first magnitude, the Evangelium Gaspar couldn’t possibly be a true account of –

  But what if it was true? What if our Lord actually survived the crucifixion? Would he still be the Savior of mankind?

  Gracián swallowed a gastric bubble, the acid burning the back of his throat.

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed, banging the flat of his hand against the desktop. The Evangelium Gaspar was a hoax. A despicable parody. A few shreds of truth cleverly woven into a blatantly false script. Nothing more than that. And Cardinal Fiorio was absolutely right to have gone to such lengths to retrieve the blasphemous gospel.

  The Apostles’ Creed clearly states that Jesus was ‘crucified, died and was buried . . . On the third day he rose again.’

  The beating heart of the New Testament had always been mankind’s redemption from sin. Jesus Christ, our sweet Lord and Savior, willingly sacrificed himself to atone for that hideous stain upon our souls. A stain that had prevented humankind, even the most devout of believers, from entering into Heaven. Everyone knew this! The Blood Atonement was not in contention. Even the Protestants wholeheartedly believed it.

  Gracián glared at the translation, infuriated, certain that it was a perverted hoax.

  ‘I shudder to think what sort of blasphemy was contained in the first two plates,’ he muttered.

  His blood boiling, Gracián turned on the Skype feature and returned Caedmon Aisquith’s phone call.

  ‘How dare you!’ he exclaimed when the Englishman’s face popped on to the computer screen.

  69

  ‘Is this translation some sort of sick joke?’ Father Gracián Santos demanded to know. Cheeks unnaturally flushed, eyes narrowed, the Catholic priest was in high dudgeon.

  Grasping the iPad between his hands, Caedmon bit back a satisfied smirk. The other man appeared not so much rattled as shaken to his Catholic core. ‘No joke, I can assure you. The translation that you’ve just read was made by a biblical school at Oxford University. Not only is it an accurate transcription of an authentic early-first-century gospel, unlike the four canonical gospels, I might add, but as you’ve undoubtedly realized, it’s an eye-opening text.’

  He paused a moment, letting the specifics sink in. Convinced now that Father Santos had heretofore been unaware of the gospel’s explosive contents, Caedmon intended to shove the biblical blade as deep as possible. He wanted to weaken the other man’s resolve before he delivered the ransom. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the priest had been purposefully kept in the dark by his master in Rome. If he shed enough light, it might be possible to turn Santos against the maniacal cardinal. Which would lessen the danger immeasurably.

  Forcefully plunging the blade, Caedmon said, ‘I have good reason to believe that Cardinal Franco Fiorio intends to use the Evangelium Gaspar to affect the outcome of the upcoming Vatican conclave.’

  ‘No!’ Santos clutched his heart with his right hand. ‘First the Resurrection . . . now this! It’s . . . it’s more than I can bear,’ the priest rasped, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

  ‘Surely, as a priest, you know that the crucifixion story in the canonical gospels was crafted by the early Church Fathers in an editorial process similar to Jewish Midrash.’

  Santos shook his head, uncomprehending. ‘Wh-what are you talking about?’

  ‘Midrash is a method of pasting and editing bible verses together in order to elucidate certain theological tenets,’ Caedmon explained, taking a savage pleasure in the other man’s emotional turmoil. ‘Which means that the end result bears no relation to the truth. As is the case with the crucifixion and the subsequent, albeit erroneous, resurrection.’

  The priest’s bottom lip began to quiver. ‘B-but if there’s n-no Resurrection, h-how can Jesus be the Son of G-God?’

  Caedmon’s own lip turned down at the corner as he shrugged and said, ‘Afraid that you’re asking the wrong chap. I’m an historian not a theologian.’ Noticing the beads of perspiration that began to form at Santos’s hairline, he intuited that the other man was teetering on the edge. Backpedalling a bit, he softened his voice. ‘Grácion, all will be forgiven if you make restitution and release my daughter.’

  A glossy tear rolled down Santos’s cheek. ‘The things that I have done will never be forgiven. Not on earth nor in heaven.’

  Needing to extract a commitment from the other man, Caedmon tried a different tack. ‘Turn my daughter over to me and you have my solemn word that I’ll not go to the authorities.’ In other words, everything that has transpired this past week shall forever remain our deadly little secret.

  Hearing that, the priest readily nodded his assent. ‘Yes . . . your daughter . . . she must be released. Come to my office at Mercy Hall and I’ll –’

  The iPad screen suddenly blipped before going blank.

  ‘Granted, I’m no shrink, but Father Santos seemed to be in the throes of an emotional meltdown,’ Edie remarked, brows drawn anxiously. ‘I mean, he didn’t say a word about taking custody of the copper plate.’

  Caedmon stared contemplatively at the iPad. ‘I, too, found that odd. While I’d hoped to unhinge Father Santos so that he would reconsider his loyalty to Cardinal Fiorio, I never expected him to forego the prize.’

  ‘So, do we accept his invitation or do we stick to the original plan?’

  ‘We need to lure Santos away from his stronghold. In my experience, it’s always best to meet the devil on neutral ground.’ That’s why he’d purposefully selected an abandoned farmhouse where he could safely deliver the ransom and collect his daughter.

  Annoyed by the unexpected twist, Caedmon quickly redialed.

  ‘Damn! We lost the connection,’ he
muttered a few seconds later.

  Clearly unnerved, Edie peered at the tree-lined driveway. ‘Guess that means that we’re accepting the invite, huh?’

  Left with no other option, Caedmon turned the key in the ignition. ‘Put on your happy face. It’s time to properly introduce ourselves to the devil.’

  70

  ‘I was wrong . . . the Evangelium Gaspar is no hoax,’ Gracián Santos murmured as he stared at the damning translation.

  Did the Englishman know that he’d just delivered the death blow?

  Unable to breathe evenly or to think clearly, all he could do was feel.

  ‘“O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer.”’

  Hands shaking, Gracián was seized with a hideous fear. His Catholic faith, which had always been so carefully proscribed, now had a gaping hole.

  ‘I became a priest because I believed in the Blood Atonement.’

  Believed in its purity. And virtue. And sanctity. Jesus, as the Son of God, was without blemish. Incorruptible. Therefore, His blood was incorruptible. That was the reason why His blood, and not anyone else’s, could save mankind. And when He rose from the dead on the third day, the sacrifice was spiritually complete. The Blood Atonement was the central message of the Gospels. The rest was mere window dressing.

  If Jesus didn’t die on the Cross to save mankind from sin, how was anyone supposed to get into heaven?

  Nothing else could save man’s blighted soul. Holy water, rosaries, the altar rituals: they were only accoutrements to faith, but had no power to redeem mankind. Without the Blood Atonement, without the Resurrection . . . there was nothing.

  I am nothing.

  No, he was a Judas. A man willing to forsake what few shreds of morality he still possessed for thirty pieces of silver. Cardinal Fiorio never intended to destroy the Evangelium Gaspar as he’d repeatedly maintained. All along, he’d planned to use it to manipulate the conclave. Which now explained why he’d been so adamant that the ransom had to be delivered no later than Sunday at twelve noon, the conclave scheduled to convene the following Monday morning.

  Gracián had given his life to the Church, sacrificing his very manhood for what might well be a carefully crafted lie. A Midrash.

  Was it really possible that the Christ he’d been taught to worship never existed? That, instead, a different Jesus walked the earth in the first century?

  And if that was the case, what happens to the last two thousand years of the Christian faith?

  Buddhism could easily survive without Siddhartha. Islam could even survive without Mohammed. But Christianity could not make it to the next sunrise without Jesus and the crucifixion.

  Yes, admittedly, he’d always thought it odd that after the Resurrection a divine being would require food like any mortal man. But like so many strange anomalies in the gospels, it was one of those things that a Catholic must never question.

  Clutching his head between his hands, Gracián stared out of the window, unable to stop the stream of horrific flashbacks. Beating a defenseless man because he stole money from the Diablos. Extorting protection ‘taxes’ from frightened old shopkeepers. Dealing drugs to innocent children. And, of course, the worst crime of them all, beheading a rival gang member.

  ‘Don’t worry, homie. It’s no different than cutting the head off a dead chicken.’

  A more illicit statement had never been uttered. Beheading a man was nothing like butchering a chicken. A plucked, lifeless bird didn’t splatter your face with warm blood. Or make a horrible squishy crunch! as you hacked through bone and sinew.

  Without the Blood Atonement, his sinner’s slate could never be wiped clean.

  And Cardinal Fiorio had known that all along. Moreover, the ruthless cardinal had felt no compunction in recruiting Gracián to do his bidding.

  He actually wants me to kill an innocent young woman. After which, he will reward the heinous deed by wiring $2.2 million into the Sanguis Christi bank account.

  Which made Gracián little more than a gun for hire. A paid Vatican assassin.

  Fearing the dark night of the soul, he hastily opened his desk drawer and grabbed a yellow sticky pad. Mind made up, he scrawled a message and slapped it on to his computer monitor where it would be readily seen.

  ‘I am damned,’ Gracián murmured as he rushed from the office.

  For all eternity.

  71

  Seeing the colossal stone mansion perched atop the knoll, Edie’s mouth gaped.

  ‘It looks like something straight out of a spooky Gothic novel,’ she remarked, shivering slightly. ‘Not only do the photos on the Internet not do this place justice, I now understand why they brought Anala here.’ Given its vast size, she could be imprisoned in any one of a hundred different rooms.

  Caedmon made no comment as he pulled the Ford sedan into an open-ended porte cochère.

  Nerves stretched taut, Edie peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Perhaps you should wait in the car with the doors locked and hold down the proverbial fort,’ Caedmon suggested.

  ‘And let you face the dragon all alone? Nothing doing,’ she retorted in what she hoped was a strident tone of voice. A far cry from how she was actually feeling. ‘Besides, I’ve already donned my chain mail. That said, let’s hurry up and find Father Santos before the God Squad shows up.’

  ‘Right.’ Getting out of the car, Caedmon opened the back passenger door and reached for his newly purchased waist pack. It was specifically designed for hunters, with special compartments to hold shotgun shells, knives, etcetera. Given that it was a mossy shade of camouflage, it wasn’t something that you’d ever take on a holiday. Not unless you were into hunter chic.

  He snapped it around his waist, blue eyes glittering, hard as colored glass. He then snatched the Mossberg shotgun and his rucksack from off the backseat.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ he instructed, meeting her gaze across the top of the sedan. ‘Step softly. Speak softly.’

  Edie nodded wordlessly. Even if she’d wanted to raise her voice, she doubted that it would be possible, her vocal cords constricted with fear.

  As they made their way towards the entrance of Mercy Hall, loose scree crunched underfoot. Again, she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Sorry. Bad case of the jitters,’ she whispered when Caedmon shot her a questioning glance.

  ‘Perfectly understandable. We’re treading on dangerous ground.’

  ‘No kidding. It’s like everyone vaporized into thin air,’ she remarked, the thought inciting yet another visceral surge.

  While she should have been relieved that no one was present, that they’d not been greeted by armed guards, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone terribly awry at Mercy Hall. The eerie silence was so unnerving that it was like a palpable, disembodied presence following in their wake.

  As they ascended a wide stone staircase that led to a grand Victorian porch, an ozone-laden breeze rustled the nearby trees. To Edie’s surprise, Caedmon walked over to one of the oversized concrete urns that anchored the stair railing and, slipping his rucksack off his shoulder, stuffed it into the opening. She had no idea why he did it – particularly since the third copper plate was inside the rucksack – but knew better than to question his actions. Not when they were standing, quite literally, at the castle gate.

  With the shotgun braced against his torso, Caedmon opened the front door. Edie winced at the loud squeal made by the rusty hinges. Unsure what to expect, she followed him into an expansive hallway visually weighed down with a vast amount of dark-stained woodwork. The walls. The staircase. The ceiling. In a word, the hall took dreary to new decorative heights, the heavily carved wood everywhere. Overhead a crystal chandelier tinkled softly from the breeze that wafted in through the open front door.

  Nudging Caedmon in the ribs, Edie drew his attention to a truly odd bit of Victorian whimsy: a built-in organ under the stair landing. ‘If that thing starts playing Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor”, I’m outta
here.’

  ‘If that happens, I think I’ll join you,’ Caedmon whispered, the first indication that he, too, was unnerved that there wasn’t a soul in sight.

  Come out, come out wherever you are.

  On high alert, they cautiously traipsed down the corridor, following the posted signs for the ‘Office’. The carpeted passage was illuminated by a row of Victorian-style wall sconces. She was no expert, but they looked like original fixtures; although 120 years ago the soft glow would probably have come from flickering gaslights rather than electric bulbs.

  Caedmon stopped abruptly, Edie accidentally plowing into his backside.

  ‘I believe this is the office,’ he said, jutting his chin at an opened doorway.

  Peering around his shoulder, she saw what appeared to be an old-fashioned study with an ornate fireplace, again, more dark-stained paneling, and an entire wall of built-in bookcases.

  ‘Where’s Father Santos?’ she asked. The office, like every other room they’d passed en route, was completely deserted.

  ‘Haven’t the vaguest.’ Raising the Mossberg shotgun into shooting position, Caedmon tucked the butt against his shoulder. ‘Stay put,’ he silently mouthed to her.

  The fear factor spiking off the charts, Edie anxiously watched as he slowly made his way into the room, his head swiveling from side-to-side. Stepping over to a large desk strewn with folders and messy piles of paper, he examined a yellow slip of paper that was stuck on to the computer monitor.

  ‘Just what kind of game is this bloody bastard playing?’

  72

  ‘“Your daughter is in the root cellar at the caretaker’s cottage that’s located due west of Mercy Hall,”’ Edie read aloud from the piece of yellow note paper. Like him, she was clearly perplexed by the scrawled message left on the monitor by the absentee priest. ‘Do you think this is some kind of ruse to ambush us?’

  ‘I’m uncertain what to make of it,’ Caedmon confessed. Something was gravely amiss at the Sanguis Christi Fellowship, of that he was certain. ‘Before we head to the caretaker’s cottage, I need to see the satellite maps that we earlier downloaded on to the iPad.’