“The obvious question is why write it at all?” he said, his interest overcoming his strong desire to stay out of any conversation between Tilly and Maryam. “I mean, from the perspective of crisis management, that sort of document would only exist if it was in response to a sudden calamity. The way you and I understand it, it sounds like a response to a disaster that has already happened. The fact that it was written in durable metal makes it look like a back-up copy to be used when normal means of storing the information it contained were no longer available. But you need to understand,” he said, glancing at Tilly, “I’m no expert.”
“Don’t be so modest,” said Maryam. “I know you’ve done as much as possible to stay out of the limelight, but your discovery of the Templar Vault is well known. In fact, a little bird tells me that you have finally stepped in front of the camera.”
Tilly and Sparke both stared at her. The program that Tilly was making was being produced by BBC Scotland and had received no advanced publicity.
“I’m sorry, was that a secret?” said Maryam. “The media is such a small world and word does get around. I hear it is looking good.”
Tilly’s foot started to tap.
“Maryam, I really want to thank you for coming all this way to meet me,” she said. “But I can’t see that I am the right person to work with you on your idea. Don’t you think it makes more sense to have a television presenter rather than an academic do it?”
“Tilly, I think we both know that you are not just another professor,” said Maryam. “And anyway, I never said that I just wanted you to present the program. Our idea,” she raised her hand and her assistant, who had been sitting silently at the back of the room until now, swept towards her holding a file. Maryam took it without turning her head. “Our idea is that you are the executive producer with full editorial control. You can read the details in this,” she said passing the file to Tilly. “Obviously, we will have our production team to support you. You can see the budget we have in mind on page fifteen, you can see the proposed fee for you there too.”
Tilly flicked through the pages and looked at a spreadsheet showing a fee that was three times her annual salary.
Maryam kept silent to allow Tilly to absorb the information.
“Just think it over, that’s all we ask,” said Maryam. “One other thing. We would see a lot of value in having you, Peter, as part of the research team.”
Paranoia
“How long do we have?” said Salvatore.
“If they move this year they need to start before Ramadan,” said the Mason. “That would give us two months. If they leave it any later they run the risk of laying siege here over winter, and he is too clever for that.”
“Who?”
“Qalawun,” said the Mason. “He does not win every time, but when he loses it’s because we are stronger or luckier than him. He tends not to give himself any disadvantages.”
The two men had returned to the small room which the Mason used as his study. Salvatore had come straight here from the harbor and his baggage lay on the floor where the porters had dropped it.
He looked at the Mason’s face. In the months since he had last seen him, his face had aged and his beard showed flecks of grey. Apart from the small physical changes, he had a different air about him. He was a man in a hurry. The Mason had never wasted time, but this time he had started briefing Salvatore as soon as the door was closed.
“You seem distracted,” said Salvatore.
“Distracted? No, worried. When Qalawun comes it will be more than the end of the Crusader presence in the Holy Land, it will be the beginning of a new struggle for the survival of the Order. We exist to protect pilgrims to Jerusalem, and if the door is closed to the Holy Land there will be those who ask why we need to exist at all.”
The Mason stopped and looked at Salvatore. “Your brother, Massimo, flourishes in his role as an Inquisitor. His voice is amongst the loudest around the Pope demanding that we are brought under the control of the church. If… when, we lose Acre, people will listen more closely to voices like his. What have you heard from him?”
“Massimo? The last time we spoke was near Lausanne, in the northern mountains,” said Salvatore. “He was not a happy man and I doubt that we have given him any reason to love us more since then.”
Salvatore rarely thought of his brother and the memory of his last conversations with him brought a cloud over his happiness at being back in the company of the Mason. Easier to talk of war.
“What makes you so sure that Qalawun will come?” said Salvatore. “And even if he did, why are you so sure that he can take Acre? It must be the best fortified city I’ve seen outside Constantinople.”
“He’ll come, because he wants to. To him the Crusaders are like a barking dog, something he can ignore for a while, but not for ever. Our presence here is an insult to him that the money from trade does not cancel out. The time when we could live with the Arabs has passed. They have seen their own strength when they took Tripoli. Their navy is strong and their Mamluk heavy cavalry can tackle our mounted knights man to man. They have a hundred Byzantine tradesmen who can make siege engines better than ours.
“They’ll come because Qalawun knows he needs to move while he has the strength and money to do it. Look out the window and tell me what you see.”
Salvatore crossed the room and looked out over the city. At first it looked little different from the other fortified coastal cities he had seen. Bigger than Tyre or Tripoli with a well-defended harbor and strong landward walls supported by a dozen high towers. Merchants and tradesmen crammed the streets, pushing their way through the traffic.
The one difference here was that every street, every corner seemed to hold soldiers, more armed men than Salvatore had ever seen in a city at peace.
The Templars’ castle looked out across the city roofs to a smaller, but equally imposing fortified building a few hundred paces to their east. The banners flying from the roof showed it be a Hospitaler post. Further into the city he saw the flamboyant emblems of the armed forces of Venice and Genoa.
“I see a lot of people expecting trouble,” said Salvatore. “For a city with a peace treaty there are a lot of armed men.”
“All these men cost money,” said the Mason. “The Italian merchant cities spend money when they have to and keep it to themselves when they don’t. They talk peace, but they are getting ready for war, or at least they want to look as though they are.”
Salvatore held his arms up and let them drop to his side. “But why bring me here? What am I to defend?”
“Be patient,” said the Mason. “For the moment I can’t tell you, but I can tell you what to prepare for. Imagine a situation where the walls are breached and we are overwhelmed, where even this castle falls. Imagine the harbor is crammed with people seeking the last boat out and the sea beyond is full of Saracen ships. In all that chaos, at the final moment, think of how you will get out without being seen.”
“Can you tell me why I would have to wait until then before getting out?”
“No.”
“I assume that you want me to carry something out, something of value,” said Salvatore. “Can you tell me how big it is, how heavy?”
“No. All I can tell you is that you cannot leave until the last possible hope is extinguished.”
“But I must leave? I cannot create a hiding place for this thing and retrieve it later?”
“If it was as easy as that, do you think I would bring you all the way here?” smiled the Mason. “No, I’m afraid that your successes in the past make us believe that this is a task fitted perfectly for you, and no one else.”
“All I can do, and all I ever do, is trust you.”
“Good, keep doing that,” said the Mason laughing. “Did you find the thing I asked you for?”
“Would I dare show face here if I had failed in such a vital task?” Salvatore reached down and untied the rope that bound a bulky bundle that had arrived with his kit.
Lobby
“What?” said Sparke.
“Team talk,” said Tilly. “You know, like when a team has to, like talk. You and I are the team and we need to talk.” They were standing in the foyer of the hotel where they had just met Maryam.
“Do we? I’m maybe not keeping up. Maryam just offered you a bucketload of cash and complete editorial control over a television documentary series and you said that you weren’t interested. I took it that the topic was closed. My only question is whether we walk back to your flat or take a bus. I think it’s going to rain.”
“What do you think I should do?” said Tilly
“I think we should walk. That rain doesn’t look serious.”
“No, stupid, about the Maryam thing.”
Sparke reached out and took Tilly’s hand. “Look, here’s what I think. Maryam Drysdale-Behier is a zillionaire media monster. She eats people like us for breakfast. If you don’t want any part of her plans, then I’m right behind you. One thing I do know is that you should never make a decision under pressure unless you have to. So let’s sleep on it, or leave it for a month, or just forget this conversation ever happened. I’m really not sure that a team talk in the lobby of the Caledonian Hotel is the best way to decide something like this.”
Tilly squeezed Sparke’s hand. “You’re right,” she said. “This is far too big a decision to make in a hurry. I’m going to keep an open mind like you.”
“Me? What do you mean? I don’t have an open mind,” said Sparke. “If I was you I would do the program.”
Tilly snatched her hand away from Sparke and punched him on the shoulder, hard.
“What about taking time and sleeping on big decisions?” she said.
“Absolutely,” said Sparke. “But some decisions are so simple that they are not decisions at all. Something we used to say when I had a real job was to save your decision making for important ones. Anyway, let’s go have a cocktail or something. This is a posh hotel, I bet they have a nice bar here.”
The Caledonian Hotel has several bars. They found a quiet spot in one called the Caley Bar. The hotel was now called The Waldorf Astoria, but it still retained the glamor that it had been built for during the high point of Victorian railway splendor. Two competing railway companies had fought each other, tooth and nail, for the highest prestige railway route in the world at that time, London to Edinburgh, by the east coast or west coast routes.
Whole locomotives had been designed and built to shave minutes off the four hundred mile route and this hotel had been the terminus of one of them. Deals that had launched global enterprises had been made within its walls, and now Peter Sparke and Tilly Pink sat under the high ceilings deciding on the next phase of their lives.
“You think I should do it?” said Tilly.
“I didn’t say that. I said that if I was you I would do it,” said Sparke. “Look, we both know that you like doing the television stuff. You’ve nothing to prove as far as your academic career goes, and if you want to move ahead and do something new then why not do the Maryam thing? I mean, it looks as though you’ll be the one deciding what the thing looks like.”
“But it means working with the evil Maryam,” she said, looking at the cocktail menu.
“I spent years avoiding the media, so I’m no expert, but from what I see the people who run media companies are no different from other business people. Maryam obviously knows all there is to know about making successful television and it looks like she is willing to bet on you.”
“That’s how you see it?” asked Tilly.
“Here’s an idea. If you don’t like her proposal for a program, why not go back to her with one of your own?” said Sparke.
Tilly smiled as a waiter approached. “I’ll have a French Martini, please.”
“And I’ll take a tonic water, no ice, thanks,” said Sparke.
Tilly stretched out her legs and crossed her arms.
“Actually, there’s nothing wrong with the idea,” she said. “The Copper Scroll is a very controversial artifact and there hasn’t been much work done on it for the…” she thought for a moment, looking for the right phrase, “the popular audience. And the Silver Scroll idea is worth exploring.”
“OK, so think about it,” said Sparke. “Write down all your concerns and send them in an email to Maryam. If she can’t answer them don’t work with her, if she can then go for it.”
“It is a lot of money,” she said, her eyes locked on the table top in front of them.
“It is a lot of money,” agreed Sparke, nodding.
“But, what about you?” said Tilly. “I get the feeling that she wants you in the deal too.”
“That bothers me less than it used to,” said Sparke. “In fact, I need something to get my brain re-engaged. Being your assistant is just fine with me. I suppose I would have to run around and fetch your coffee, make sure there wasn’t too much mayonnaise on your sandwiches, that sort of thing.”
“I am very particular about how much mayonnaise I have on a sandwich. In fact, I never put mayonnaise on sandwiches. You could be my mayonnaise bodyguard, just in case anyone tried to sneak some in.”
“As far as mayonnaise goes, Tilly Pink, I’ve got your back,” said Sparke.
They sat talking over their drinks, then walked through the hotel onto Princes Street. The rain had passed and gave the city a clean, almost over-bright light. Above them, to their right, sat the dark mass of Edinburgh Castle, still looking every inch a fortress, still garrisoned by the British Army, but now surrounded by a thriving modern city. The hard, military architecture was evidence of its bloody past and a small reminder that peace and security were guaranteed in the last resort by a willingness to use deadly force.
Neither Sparke nor Tilly were from the city, but it was an easy place to adopt as a home. They skipped the tourist crowds by walking north into the quieter streets of the New Town, happy in the small pointless conversations that couples have. It was Tilly who brought the discussion back round to reality.
“Would you really be all right doing research?” she said. “I mean, Maryam doesn’t want you as a researcher, does she? She wants you as a consultant and that will end up being part of her story when she sells the program. The man who found the Templar Vault. If you do this, she’ll be using you, you know that don’t you?”
“She’s on her own turf when it comes to making television programs and getting people to do what she wants, but sometimes her wishes might just coincide with other people’s. If you do this… if we do this, we’ll be working together. Also, for me, this could be a good thing. I mean, I’m a former crisis manager. I never have to work again thanks to my finder’s fee from the Vault. I have a fantastic apartment overlooking Lake Geneva and a beautiful, clever, funny woman in my life. The only problem,” he said, “is that I have no idea how to be rich and happy.”
Meetings and greetings
The city stank. Salvatore had been in a hurry from the harbor and had paid little attention to his surroundings. But now, in the early evening, he could see Acre as it was.
There were no sewers and the filth from thousands of people and animals covered the streets. The inns echoed to the shouts of the traders, laborers and soldiers. Camels filled the air with their bellowing.
Behind the Mason and Salvatore, a servant struggled to keep up as he pushed a handcart over the rough road surface.
As they walked, Salvatore noticed that many street corners had carved stone emblems, brightly painted in a niche above head height. The ones in this quarter were the lion of Venice, a few streets on they changed to the shield and red cross of Genoa. They crossed a long, broad thoroughfare and the emblems changed again, this time to a simple golden crescent on a blue background. In this quarter, the inns disappeared and there were no Western soldiers on the streets now.
“We’re in the Saracen quarter now,” said the Mason. “No one will bother us.”
They walked on, deeper into the maze of small stree
ts. Buildings were smaller and walls higher. They stopped at a large, well timbered gate in a faceless wall. The Mason rattled an iron ring on the gate and a few moments later the door swung back.
Beyond the gate, Salvatore saw that they were in a large, cool courtyard. Water splashed in a fountain, and strips of material hung from the floors above and moved softly in the slight breeze.
The servant who had opened the gate bowed and walked into the dark interior of the building. A second servant appeared and spoke to the man pushing the hand cart, ushering him to the side. The Mason and Salvatore were led into a dark room, the floor covered in a mosaic of colored stones.
Three men sat on cushions around a low covered brazier that let a flickering light out through ornate iron screens.
“My honored guest,” said one of the men standing and bowing towards the Mason. The Mason returned the bow. The man was dressed in long robes and, like his companions, wore a turban. Their dress contrasted sharply with the plain, coarse garments of the Templars. “And who is your companion?”
“This is Salvatore di Radda, Knight of our Order,” said the Mason. “More importantly, he is the man who brings you a very special gift.”
The Arab looked at Salvatore. “Salvatore di Radda? I have heard that family name before. You are a Tuscan?”
“My home is with the Order now,” said Salvatore.
“Templars, so diligent,” smiled the man. “I am Yusuf, and my home is wherever I sleep. I wonder if the gift your comrade tells me about could be something from your homeland?”
“Indeed,” said Salvatore. “I was surprised by my orders, but I have brought what my brother wanted.”
“Excellent,” smiled Yusuf. “We should waste no more time.” He clapped his hand. “Fetch the gift our good friend has brought,” he said to a servant. A moment later a servant appeared with a tall silver drinking jug and cups. He poured the liquid into the cups and presented one to each of the men.
The Templar Scroll: Book six in the series Page 3