Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2)

by David S. Brody

  He bowed to her request. “It’s settled then.” He paused and smiled. “I’m sure Astarte is hungry. And my hospitality has clearly been subpar. I will order some dinner and we can spread out comfortably.” He turned to Astarte. “We have excellent French fries in Montreal, and also excellent pizza.”

  The girl bounced. “Can we have both?”

  Smiling, Father Jean took her hand and led the group back up the stairs, bypassing the Basilica interior and leading them to a large conference room attached to the function hall in the rear of the church. A light knock on the door announced the arrival of the food as Cam and Amanda carefully unpacked the scroll and IN CAMERA stone on the conference room table. Amanda held up a pair of rubber gloves. “Food or artifacts, not both.”

  Father Jean reached out. “I’ll feed my brain first. My stomach can wait.”

  Georgia also held out her hands. “Me, too.”

  Cam set Astarte up with some pizza on a side table far away from the artifacts as Amanda used her digital camera to film Father Jean examining the scroll, his lips moving as he silently read the Latin to himself. When he finished his eyes were moist and wide. He shook his head. “I had hoped the legends were incorrect. The bones of Jesus. It is a difficult thing to accept. But the words are clear, and the code authenticates the document.”

  Cam gave him a minute to compose himself before handing him a piece of paper. “This is my translation. Did I get it right?”

  The priest shifted his eyes back and forth from the paper to the scroll. Finally he nodded. “Yes, perfectly.” He took a deep breath. “May I ask where you found the scroll?”

  “In the Catskill Mountains of New York,” Amanda responded.

  The priest nodded. “As our legend proclaims. And the stone was found with it?”

  “Yes,” Cam said. “We figured out that the Roman numerals were coordinates. Once we adjusted for the Paris prime meridian, the stone brought us right here.”

  “Father, you said there is a code which authenticates the scroll?” Georgia whispered. She was almost as stunned as the priest.

  He nodded again. “The Church used to use simple codes and ciphers hidden within its messages to prevent forgeries. The Templars used more elaborate ciphers, but my guess is they resorted to something simple in this case because they anticipated they would be dealing with non-Templars.” He pointed a rubber-gloved finger at the Latin text as together they leaned over the scroll. “Let’s look at the first letter of the first line, the second letter of the second line, and so on.” Amanda pulled out a pen and pad of paper as Father Jean called out the letters. “N, O, S, T, R, A, M, A, T, E, R.” He looked up. “The next letter is an X, which usually means to stop.”

  Cam scrunched his face. “Nostramater? Sounds a bit like Nostradamus.”

  Father Jean smiled at Amanda. “Do you care to give it a try?”

  A few seconds passed as she stared at the paper, the camera still running. “I get it. Nostra Mater. Our Mother. Notre Dame.”

  “Yes. A simple authentication cipher. And perhaps an explanation for the name of this Basilica.”

  Amanda turned to Cam. “Is there any way January would know about these codes?”

  “I supposed he might. But why would he forge a document that undermined Christianity?”

  “Okay, then who else might have forged it?”

  Father Jean held up his hand. “My dear, there is no doubt in my mind as to the scroll’s authenticity. As I said, we have been awaiting its arrival for almost 350 years.”

  A steely voice cut through the room. “That’s a long time to wait. I’m sorry we’re going to have to cut your visit so short.”

  Cam spun to see Trey Buckner and his two henchmen, weapons drawn, shoulder to shoulder in front of the conference room door. Father Jean straightened himself slowly. “Put your guns away. This is a house of God.”

  Buckner lowered his revolver but motioned to his subordinates to maintain their positions. “You should know, Father, that I am here under the authority of the President of the United States, with the consent of the Prime Minister of Canada.” It was an audacious claim, but Cam didn’t doubt it.

  Father Jean nodded. “And you should know I take my orders from a higher authority.”

  Buckner showed his teeth. “In this case, I actually think we could get the Pope on the phone.”

  “I wasn’t talking about the Pope.”

  Buckner shrugged. “No matter.” He slid his revolver into the holster inside his jacket and turned to Georgia. “I had a feeling we shouldn’t trust you. But thanks for leading us here. We tracked your cell phone.”

  “But I powered it off,” Georgia exclaimed.

  Trey smirked. “Even with the power off the new cell phones can be tracked. Anyway, I need all of you to move away from the table. Go stand with the girl, over in the corner there.” Cam thought about resisting but the numbers and weaponry were simply too one-sided. Buckner approached the table and examined the parchment.

  “If you damage that scroll I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in a Canadian jail,” Father Jean said.

  Before Buckner could respond his cell rang. It must have been a special ring tone because he answered the call right away.

  Eliza hissed into Trey’s phone. “The scroll is a fake, a copy. The real one is at some lake house in Vermont. Get out of there, quickly. If you create an international incident over a fake scroll, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Trey gently touched the brittle parchment. “Really? I’m looking at it now. It looks pretty old.”

  “Yes, and we all know how much archeological training you have.”

  His aunt could be a real bitch. He took a deep breath. “How do you know?”

  “The girl texted me. I’ve been trying to call you for fifteen minutes.”

  They had lost reception inside the Basilica’s stone walls. He stared at Astarte, huddled against Amanda’s leg. “Could she be lying?”

  “Trey, she’s eight years old for God’s sake.” Eliza raised her voice. “Now get out of there. And bring the girl.”

  Buckner removed his gun, bounded across the room and grabbed Amanda by the arm. Cam moved to intercept him but froze as the operative put the gun barrel to Amanda’s head.

  “Here’s the deal,” Buckner said. “I’m taking the girl. If you try to stop me I’ll kill your fiancée. Very simple, choice A or choice B. There is no choice C.”

  What did the feds want with Astarte? It didn’t make any sense, but Cam didn’t have time to think about it now. His eyes swept the room, searching for a weapon or a plan or a quick escape. But Buckner was right; there was no choice C.

  Buckner motioned for one of his cohorts to grab Astarte. The girl clutched Amanda’s leg. “Don’t let them take her, Cam.” Amanda’s eyes bore into him. How could he deny her? And would she ever forgive him if he did?

  But they were checkmated. Buckner would not hesitate to kill Amanda; he had almost done so a few days ago. Amanda was of no use to him. But apparently Astarte was. Cam tried to buy some time. “I understand why the government wants to keep the Jesus bones stuff quiet. But what do you want with the girl?”

  Ignoring the question, Buckner motioned to his underling, who pried a crying Astarte away from Amanda. Amanda made a move to stop him but Buckner pressed the barrel hard against her head, holding her in place. He likewise froze Cam with his eyes. Buckner’s operative tucked the girl under his arm like a running back carrying a football, her feet kicking and arms flailing as he loped across the room.

  It happened so fast that Cam almost missed it. Astarte purposely reached into her pocket and, still kicking and screaming, gently dropped her cell phone onto a chair as she was carried past.

  Even more surprisingly, Buckner and the third operative rushed from the room without taking the scroll.

  Amanda dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. They took Astarte. The poor girl must be terrified. She knew she shouldn’t be cross
with Cam but she couldn’t help herself. She pushed his comforting hand aside. “We should have stopped them.” He body convulsed as she sobbed, the chill spreading deeper into her than it had even during her kidnapping.

  “There was no way, Amanda. He would have shot you. I saw it in his eyes. And then they would have taken Astarte anyway.”

  She nodded glumly. Father Jean had already phoned the local police; he was speaking rapidly in French, apparently trying to get them to pursue Buckner. But if what Buckner said was true, that his mission had been cleared by Canadian authorities….

  “Now we need to focus on getting her back,” Cam said. “And to do that we need to figure out what game Buckner is playing.”

  Georgia spoke. “I have no idea why he didn’t take the scroll. That was the entire basis for our mission.”

  Cam reached down and grabbed Astarte’s cell phone. “This might be a clue. Astarte dropped it here as she was being carried away. I’m pretty sure she did it on purpose.”

  Amanda lifted her head. “Really?” Cam handed it to her. She punched a few keys. “She texted someone less than an hour ago. A Connecticut number.”

  “Eliza,” Cam said.

  Amanda nodded. “Here’s the message: Scroll is fake. Real scroll is hidden in house on lake in Vermont.” What was the girl up to?

  “So that’s who Buckner was talking to,” Cam said. “Buckner is taking orders from Eliza.”

  “Wait,” Georgia said, “Eliza is the girl’s aunt?”

  “Yes. January’s sister.”

  “Then this must all have something to do with the Burrows Cave pieces,” Georgia said.

  “Astarte must have been helping Eliza help Buckner track us.” Amanda paused. “But then something changed her mind and so she double-crossed her aunt with this text.” She shook her head. “There sure is a lot going on inside that little brain of hers.”

  “Well, she bought us some time with the fake scroll lie,” Cam said. “But at some point they’re going to come back looking for it.”

  Amanda pictured the little girl being tossed into the trunk of a car. “That point needs to be now, Cam. We need to call Buckner and tell him the girl was lying, that the real scroll is here. And we need to somehow convince him to trade Astarte for the scroll. It’s the only leverage we have over him.”

  Georgia weighed in. “If you give him the scroll he’s going to bury it.”

  “Well, that’s better than burying Astarte.”

  Cam dialed Buckner’s number.

  “I’m listening, Thorne.”

  “The scroll is real. The one here with us.”

  “You really aren’t very good at this.”

  “I’m serious. Astarte lied to Eliza. We know about the text. Which means we also know who you’re working with.”

  Cam heard a catch in Buckner’s voice. “Why would a little girl lie to her aunt about something like that?”

  “It doesn’t really matter why. The fact is the scroll here is the real one. Why else do you think we were showing it to Father Jean?”

  Buckner didn’t respond.

  “You saw it. If it was a fake, it was a damn good one. And how would we have pulled that off? You think I carry a fake medieval scroll around with me? Face it. You got duped by an eight-year-old girl.”

  Cam heard Buckner giving hushed commands to his cohorts. Probably telling them to turn around. “So why are you telling me this?”

  “We want to make a trade. The scroll for Astarte. We have no idea why you even took her.”

  “Did you think maybe her aunt wants her back?”

  “What, so she can continue to brainwash the poor girl into thinking she’s some kind of messiah? I don’t think so.”

  “Sorry, no deal. We keep the girl. I’ll just come back and take the scroll by force if I have to.”

  Cam played a bluff. “I wouldn’t try that. Father Jean has some pretty close friends on the Montreal police force.”

  “Not buying it, Thorne. The police have been ordered to stay out of this.”

  “Well, before you say no to our offer, you might want to run it by Eliza. And you can tell her we’ll throw in the devil’s rock also. Somehow I don’t think she’d like it if we proved to the world that Burrows Cave is a hoax.”

  “It is not a hoax.”

  “Whatever. Call me back in five. Otherwise we go public with the scroll and the bones and the Burrows Cave fake piece. I’m not sure what you and Eliza are trying to prove but I have a feeling that kind of publicity would not help your cause.”

  Trey checked his watch. It had been only twenty minutes since they raced away from the Basilica the first time. Damn Montreal traffic. It had taken ten minutes just to go one mile. He should have trusted his instincts about the scroll and not listened to Eliza. The thing was old.

  “Pull over right in front,” he ordered. He sat in front with the long-nosed operative, whom he called Falcon. The other, whom he called Python because he had a slight lisp, sat in back with the girl. The men had performed well over the past three days—tireless, efficient and unquestioning. He hadn’t even tried to learn their names.

  As Falcon edged alongside the curb a movement near one of the Basilica’s arched doorways caught Trey’s eye. The church was supposed to be closed. “Hey, check out that person near the front door. Is that the Spencer woman?”

  As he asked the question the young woman peered at the car before scampering back into the shadows. Astarte let out a short gasp. The bells of the church sang out.

  Python had his binoculars out in a flash. “I think that is her. And she’s carrying some kind of canister.”

  “The scroll,” Trey said. “And she’s trying to get away. Python, go!”

  As Python opened the door the woman bolted, sprinting across the church plaza before cutting down a side street toward the waterfront, the operative less than half a block behind.

  “Do you want me to go with him?” Falcon asked.

  “No, stay with me. Python should have no trouble catching her.” While they were here Trey wanted to get whatever other artifacts they might have. And he wouldn’t mind getting the bones out of the church crypt also. Might as well end this nightmare once and for all.

  Trey stepped out of the car. “We’ll leave the girl here.” They had tied Astarte’s hands together and tightened her seat belt in the middle of the back seat—she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Don’t you need her to trade for the scroll?” Falcon asked.

  Buckner rolled his eyes. “I’m not trading anything.”

  Amanda ran down the narrow street, the Basilica looming on her right. The thwack-thwack-thwack of her pursuer’s footsteps mixed with an occasional burst of anger from a pedestrian as he plowed after her. As she turned left down a brick-lined pedestrian walkway she tossed the funeral urn into a garbage can. Now unburdened, the urn having fooled the operatives into believing she carried the canister and scroll, she pumped her arms and shifted into a sprint. Let’s see how long this guy can go full speed.

  Two blocks later she risked a glance back. Khakis and a dark blue windbreaker. He had kept pace but was not gaining. Obviously she did not want to get caught. But nor did she want to totally lose him—her job was to keep him away from the Basilica. Despite her fear she smiled at the street sign ahead: Rue Saint Jean Baptiste. Perhaps a good omen. She cut right onto Jean Baptiste in front of a Marriott hotel tucked amid the old stone buildings, the road more alley than street, angling again toward the riverfront.

  Her fear propelled her—her shoes flew across the pavement; her lungs sucked in the cool night air; her blood rushed oxygen to her muscles; even her ribs didn’t throb. There was no way he could catch her. Not tonight.

  And then a scream echoed off the stone buildings. Through the shouts in French one English voice stood out: “Watch out! That guy has a gun!” Amanda hunched and swerved reflexively. The blood pounded in her ears, muffling the sound of the shouts and her pursuer’s footsteps.

  Ba
ck at the Basilica, when Buckner had put a gun against her forehead, her fear had made her lightheaded and woozy. But she had understood, at least on an intellectual level, that even the CIA couldn’t just waltz into a Canadian church and gun down five innocent people, including a priest. But here, on the street, where the assassin could take her out and disappear into the alleys of the city, she was incredibly vulnerable. Woozy could get her killed.

  She needed to get to a more major thoroughfare. Sprinting, she leapt off the curb and cut left onto a cobblestone-paved road. She recognized historic Rue Saint Paul from their earlier walk from Bon-Secours Chapel. Now the street teemed with pedestrian and vehicular traffic. Good. Maybe there would even be a cop around.

  Accelerating once more, she weaved her way along, her ears tuned to the sound of shoes clopping on pavement. If he slowed, or stopped, that might mean he was positioning himself for a shot. But she couldn’t hear anything over the street noise so she risked another glance back. Still there. His face pink with exertion, he kept pace less than a half-block behind.

  She glanced at her watch. She had been running for just over five minutes. So almost a mile. Too soon to stop. Cam needed more time. But he also might need help.

  She kept her pace, her lungs beginning to burn. But fear was a wonderful motivator. Ahead, on the next block, a crowd massed outside a nightclub. She broke into a full sprint, hoping to buy a few extra seconds, slowing only to push her way through the pack. Shielded from view by the wall of people, she cut left into a restaurant, ducked behind a hostess station and peered out onto the street. “Angry boyfriend,” she whispered to the startled hostess.

  Five seconds later the operative sprinted past. Shivering despite her exertion, Amanda counted to ten. She stood, planning to step through the entryway and peer around the corner of the building. The hostess placed a protective arm on her shoulder. “Allow me,” she said in a French accent as she trotted outside. “He is gone,” she called through the door.