She exhaled. Her life’s quest—her legacy—was in jeopardy, slipping away. And her would-be husband, her partner, her ally, was thinking about getting laid. She swallowed her anger. She had read once that everything in life was about sex. Except sex itself. That was about power. She exercised her power now. “No, Roberto. Not now. I need you to think with your other head this time. If you come up with a plan, a good plan, I promise you there will be plenty of time for us to get naked.”
Amanda and Astarte sat in the Masonic library, nerves on edge, killing time until Cam returned. Emanuela and Roberto were nowhere to be found, which was fine with Amanda—she had no interest in making small talk with people with hatred in their hearts, no matter how justified it might be.
Together they thumbed through illustrated tomes displaying richly-drawn scenes from Masonic lore, most published in the 1800s. “These are worth, like, more than our house,” Amanda said, one eye on the door. She tried not to show her alarm, but Cam should have been back an hour ago. And Monsignor Marcotte had heard nothing from the exterminator.
Astarte’s phone dinged, signaling a text. “It’s Dad,” she said. “He’s on his way, be here in ten.”
Amanda closed her eyes in relief. “Good.”
“And he says we should pack up.”
Amanda hadn’t expected that. “Why?”
Astarte shrugged. “He says he’ll explain everything when he gets here.”
They packed quickly and, with the monsignor, met Cam at the Lodge’s front door. He smiled ruefully. “I don’t imagine Brian is here.”
Marcotte angled his head. “Isn’t he with you?”
Cam exhaled. “We need to talk.”
Seated again around the table in the library, Cam summarized his morning. “So, beside Brian throwing a temper tantrum and running off in a huff, Vatican operatives abducting me at gunpoint, and the scroll turning out to be modern, things went just as planned.”
Amanda covered his hand with hers. She was just relieved he was okay. She said, “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”
Cam smiled. “I’m impressed. An American history joke.”
Monsignor Marcotte rubbed his cheeks with his hands. “You’re certain the scroll never left your sight?” he asked humorlessly.
Cam nodded.
“And you trust this professor from Brown?”
“I Googled her in the taxi over here. She’s an expert in her field. Her bio even mentions she’s a practicing Buddhist. So I don’t think she’s in bed with Vatican hardliners. And she let me touch the scroll—it was fibrous like paper, not animal skin.”
Marcotte’s shoulders slumped. “How could the scroll be modern?”
Cam shifted. “I’ve been thinking about that. Here’s what I think happened. The Cistercians arrived in Cumberland in the 1890s. Well, what are monks famous for doing?”
Astarte raised her hand as if the question came from her teacher. “I read about them. They pray. And they copy old documents.”
“Right,” Cam replied, “especially important religious texts. So this ketubah is probably a copy of an older document. The dates work—the professor said the paper was from around 1900. And the copy would be important documentation if anything ever happened to the original.”
“But a copy isn’t going to be enough to convince people,” the monsignor said. “We’re talking about rewriting the history of Christianity. That requires an original document.”
“Well,” Amanda said, “if this is a copy, where is the original?”
“If the monks were copying, they needed to have the original,” Astarte said.
“Not necessarily,” Cam said. “This could be a copy of a copy of a copy—”
Amanda cut in. “I don’t think so. Think about all the clues, about the effort made to hide and preserve the ketubah here in America. I think the original is here. I can feel it.”
“Maybe there’s another clue,” Astarte said. “Maybe we missed something.”
Marcotte asked, “Could that be why Brian left? Does he have another clue?”
Cam shook his head. “No. The Brian that left the bank today was on his way to get drunk or kick a cat or something. He was like a three-year-old who just dropped his ice cream.”
“And he has no reason to come back here,” Amanda said. “He took the ten grand with him. When I was packing up I checked his room and found the duffel bag.” She shrugged. “I wanted my grandmother’s brooch back.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds. “Hold on,” Cam said. “Wasn’t there something else in the safe deposit box with the scroll? A gold pendant? And also a pocket watch?”
“Yes,” Amanda hissed. She stood. “And they’re still in that duffel bag.”
Amanda leading, they raced down a back staircase to the lodging rooms in the basement. She pulled the duffel bag from underneath Brian’s bed, reached in, and retrieved the oversized pendant and pocket watch. She ignored the cubic zirconium ring Cam had purchased from the bank teller.
“Do you think they’re clues?” Astarte asked.
“Maybe,” Amanda replied. She opened the bronze cover of the watch. The watch face was decorated with a simple Christian cross. The hands had stopped at exactly noon or midnight.
“The hands look like an arrow,” Astarte said.
Amanda nodded. “Good point. What are the odds it stopped precisely at twelve o’clock on its own?”
“But pointing at what?” Cam asked.
“Remember the moss-covered cross in the woods behind the monastery?” Astarte asked. “Does that match the cross on the watch?” They both had the shape of a modern cross, resembling a lower-case ‘t’ rather than a plus sign. “Assuming so, the arrow is pointing in the direction of the head of the cross.”
“That’s where we dug and found the safe deposit box,” Cam said. “Due east.”
“Perhaps there’s something else,” Amanda said. She fingered the plum-sized pendant and examined it closely. “I think it’s a locket.” Finding the latch, she flipped it open. Inside sat a small, almond-sized stone nestled atop a folded piece of yellowing paper. She handed the stone to Astarte and began to unfold the paper.
“That paper looks like the scroll,” Cam said. “Same discoloration.”
Even unfolded, the paper was no larger than a notecard. Black lines of script, written in a flowing, cursive hand, filled the space. Amanda read aloud:
“Nine brave men did meet their fate,
Their sacrifice monks did commemorate.
They joined Jesus their Lord in heavenly rest,
Yet still guard the scroll of your earthly quest.”
“Not exactly Shakespeare,” Amanda said, “but it works.” She took a breath, the excitement rising inside her. “The nine brave men meeting their fate refers to the Nine Men’s Misery memorial. That’s where we need to look. They guard the scroll.”
“That’s it,” Cam said. “It has to be.” He help up an image on his phone of the trail map of the land behind the Cumberland library. “And look. The Nine Men’s Misery memorial is due east, precisely, from the moss-covered cross.” He glanced at Astarte. “You were right, the hands on the pocket watch point right to the hiding spot, to the memorial.”
Monsignor Marcotte, who had been silent until now, spoke. “So there was one more clue, after the safe deposit box? But why?”
“It’s a cairn, a pile of stones,” Amanda said, her voice raised. “The Nine Men’s Misery memorial is a cairn. An ancient sacred site, just like at Newgrange.” She moved around the small room excitedly, quickly pulling up and displaying a picture of the rectangular rock pile on her phone. “Here it is, the cairn.”
Amanda continued. “The Cistercians wouldn’t want to leave a religious treasure in some sterile bank vault. The marriage contract of Jesus and Mary Magdalene deserved some kind of sacred shrine, someplace peaceful and out in nature.”
Marcotte nodded. “I agree. The Cistercians worshiped the old Irish pagan
sites like Newgrange. Cairns were sacred to them.”
“And,” Cam said, “they added concrete to the stone pile to secure it, to make sure nobody moved the stones or disturbed the scroll.”
Astarte held up the small rock Amanda had handed her. “That’s probably why the stone was inside the pendant also, to drive the point home that we need to look at a stone pile.”
Amanda grinned. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s go find that ketubah.”
“What about Emanuela and Roberto?” Marcotte asked. “Shouldn’t we tell them?”
Amanda’s patience had worn thin with the sanctimonious priest. For some reason it was okay to lie to Cam, but Marcotte continued to remain loyal to Emanuela and Roberto? “Not a chance, Monsignor. You’re lucky we’re even letting you come.”
Emanuela crouched in the hallway outside the room Brian was using as a bedroom. Roberto had heard people running down the back stairs and had followed, texting her to join him ASAP. He pointed toward the room. “They’re all inside,” he whispered. “The ketubah at the bank was only a copy. They think the real ketubah is still on the monastery grounds. All we have to do is follow them, then grab it.” He smiled. “You promised that if I came up with a good plan, we could get naked for a long time.”
She slapped him playfully on the shoulder. He had done well. Very well. They were back in the game, and Roberto would have his unclothed reward. More importantly, once the ketubah was released to the press, the Church would have no choice but to back off its ridiculous ban on priest marriage. Then she and Roberto could finally live as a normal married couple. And she could even reveal her true parentage, claim her true legacy as the daughter of Archbishop Paul Casimir Marcinkus.
But most of all, she would have the satisfaction of watching the misogynists in the Vatican squirm and writhe as their precious, sacred dogma was exposed as being nothing more than self-serving and hypocritical constraints designed to perpetuate the rule of a corrupt clergy. She smiled. Maybe she’d even return to Rome and take an apartment inside Vatican City, parading around, hand in hand with Roberto, lifting a middle finger to senior Vatican officials as they crossed paths in the park.
Monsignor Marcotte threw his belongings in his overnight bag and hurried down the wide stairs of the Masonic Lodge. He had some important decisions to make, and almost no time to make them. In his younger days he would have prayed for guidance. But there was no time now, and in any event he no longer believed God responded to the pleas of man. The Persians had a proverb he particularly appreciated: Pray to God, but tie your camels tight.
In his case, he had tied his camels tight for the past couple of weeks. But now he had no choice but to let some of them wander. Thorne and Amanda, especially—they had picked up the scent of the ketubah again, and the best thing he could do would be to release the reins and let them track it as they saw fit. Brian had become unleashed and, to continue to torture the metaphor, was probably lost in the desert. As for Emanuela and Roberto, he had no choice but to leave them tethered, in reserve for future use, since Amanda had made it clear they were not welcome to join this particular excursion.
This excursion. Marcotte shook his head—that made it sound too leisurely, like a field trip. He needed a better word, something more epic. Quest? No, that was too much like something from a fairy tale. Perhaps mission? He pictured Tom Cruise jumping from a helicopter, dodging gunfire as he plunged. Thorne had proven himself to be resourceful, but he was not that good. Still, mission seemed to fit…
Marcotte blinked his train of thought away. Focus. He knew what his mind was doing. Thinking about camels and Tom Cruise was a defense mechanism, a way to avoid confronting the real demon that haunted him: Would his fate be to come within inches of recovering the ancient ketubah, to almost hold in his hands a document that would change the history of Christianity, only to have it slip away?
So much was at stake, so many lives potentially affected. He picked up the pace, an old man taking the stairs two at a time. Time was running out. He was so close, after so many years. But close was not enough. History cared not a whit for ancient secrets almost revealed.
Emanuela and Roberto slipped out of a side door of the Grand Lodge. She was fairly certain they had not been seen. “You have the car keys, right?” she asked.
“Yes. And my wallet and our passports.” He zipped his jacket. “But that’s all I had time to grab.”
She nodded. “Nothing else is important.”
Their rental car was parked half a block away, on the street. A light snow continued to fall. A handsome man, his dark suit and maroon tie visible under his overcoat, sat on a bench near the entrance to the Lodge, feeding a few pigeons at his feet. He glanced up and smiled, blue eyes twinkling. “Good day,” he said, his accent German.
Roberto smiled back. “Morning.”
Emanuela frowned. Why was a man wearing a business suit on the weekend? And, even assuming he had some business to attend to over the holiday, why then was he sitting outside feeding pigeons in the snow? She took Roberto’s arm, pulling him along, and shook the thought away. They needed to get to their car and be ready to follow Thorne and family when they left the Lodge.
Franz Pfyffer let out a long breath and slid his hand though his dress shirt to finger the plain gold cross hanging there. He sank back into the park bench, ignoring the pigeons fluttering at his feet. There was no doubt the woman he had just greeted was Emanuela Orlandi, just as his latest missive from Rome had indicated. The eyes, of course, gave it away. And the computer projections of what the abducted girl would look like as a middle-aged woman matched almost perfectly. But he never gave the kill order, no matter how justified, without reflection and prayer. He closed his eyes, seeking guidance.
First he pushed aside his anger. She had, along with the priest, Roberto, not only played the Vatican, but embarrassed it. Her disappearance—and the Vatican’s failure to find her—had become a scandal in Rome at a time when the Church was already weakened. On a personal level, many blamed lax training among the Swiss Guard—commanded by his grandfather—for the abduction. It had taken a full generation to rehabilitate the family name. But none of his personal desire for revenge mattered. What mattered was what God wanted. Here Franz found clarity. It was one thing to oppose the Vatican, to disagree with its policies as Monsignor Marcotte was doing. Or even to find those policies abhorrent, as Thorne and his wife did. But it was another to try to embarrass and damage the Holy See, to actually do it harm, as, according to what his team had learned, Emanuela and her priest lover seemed intent on doing. Those in opposition needed to be dealt with. Those intent on doing harm needed to be eliminated.
Standing, Franz watched as Emanuela and Roberto stepped into a blue sedan half a block away. There was an expression he heard once from a lawyer that applied here: Emanuela Orlandi was, as the daughter of Marcinkus, the fruit of a poisonous tree. The archbishop had been a Godless man, whoring and gangstering and profiteering while claiming to be doing God’s work. Franz’s grandfather had abhorred him, cursed him for the shame he brought upon the Holy See. It was no surprise that the product of Marcinkus’ seed had turned rancid as well.
A member of Franz’s team sat at a table by the window of a coffee shop across the street. Franz sent a quick text. “Proceed with elimination.” He was certain his man would know what to do, would know to make sure no bystanders were walking by when he pushed the detonator. Just as he was certain God would do nothing to interfere with the elimination of fruit from a poisonous tree.
Franz stood and began walking in the other direction, the pigeons following. He had barely cleared the park when the explosion thundered. His body, trained in combat, did not even flinch, even as the pigeons cawed and took flight. Franz crossed himself. God save their souls.
Cam glanced over at Amanda as he drove the Pathfinder north out of Providence through a light snow, this time taking a direct route to Cumberland. He had noticed that she made a point of grabbing the front seat ahead
of Monsignor Marcotte, a subtle but telling message to him that, while they were allowing him to join them, he was no longer in charge. The clergyman sat quietly in the back seat behind Cam, staring out the window while Astarte texted friends on her phone. Cam glanced back as his wipers squeaked—he had always thought of the monsignor as dapper and in control. Today he just looked tired and even a bit confused, like he had just awoken from a nap. Not that Cam felt sorry for him. He had taken advantage of their friendship, lying to Cam, foisting Brian on him, even putting his family in danger. And for what? For a priceless scroll that could shake the foundation of modern society? Cam chuckled to himself. Given the stakes, he couldn’t really blame the monsignor for telling a few lies and betraying a few friendships…
Amanda interrupted his thoughts. “Assuming we interpreted the poem correctly, the scroll is buried in the cairn. How are we supposed to get it out?”
“Maybe there’s a loose rock with a void behind it.”
She scowled. “Sounds too obvious. One thing we’ve learned is there’s always a twist with the Templars.”
Cam smiled. “Well, good thing we brought Astarte along. She has that devious kind of mind.”
“You know, you just can’t take a document like this and drop it into the lap of the world,” Marcotte said abruptly from the back seat.
“Why not?” Amanda retorted. “First you have it tested and authenticated, then hold a bloody press conference and announce what you’ve found.”
The monsignor shifted in his seat. “Because it’s too … sudden. Like, out of the blue, being told you were adopted. People need time to get used to things like this.”
“What you mean,” Amanda replied, “is that the Church needs time to somehow spin the message. Or to undermine the find.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or even steal it back.”
Marcotte shook his head. “You forget, I’m not on their side. But the Church does a lot of good in the world. I don’t want to see Catholicism destroyed. I want to see it reformed.”
The Swagger Sword Page 26