by James Becker
But that didn’t sit well with him. It was too much like shooting fish in a barrel. He would far rather just walk away, now that he had – he hoped – the last piece of information that they needed.
Bronson kept the torch switched on as he covered the last few dozen feet to the end of the passageway. There, he found himself in an underground chamber at the bottom of which he could clearly hear the sound of running water. Somewhat incongruously, a modern steel ladder had been bolted to the stone side wall of the ancient chamber.
Bronson checked that the other man wasn’t in sight up the staircase, then slid the Browning into his pocket and shimmied up the ladder through a circular opening in a concrete slab. Above was another small square chamber, clearly of fairly recent construction, formed from stone walls and a flat roof, the only opening to the outside world a slightly rusty steel door.
He gave the door a firm push, expecting it to be locked, and he wasn’t disappointed. But the pressure he applied showed him where the external lock was positioned, and that was what he really needed to know.
There’s a certain amount of science involved in forcing open a locked door, and Bronson knew that the one way that almost never worked, despite being shown on numerous television shows, was to shoulder-charge it. What was needed was a powerful, focused strike as close as possible to the lock.
Bronson stood back, balanced himself on his left leg and kicked the door with all the force he could muster.
The steel door bent, but didn’t open, so he repeated the treatment twice more. The third kick slammed the door open, all the way back against its hinges.
Moments later, Bronson climbed out of the opening and looked around. He was on the southern side of the castle, close by the almost unmade road that ran around that part of the base of the hill.
Almost the first thing he saw was the Renault hire car, Angela at the wheel, parked more or less in the middle of the road at the bottom of the valley between the castle and the visitor centre. He could also see what looked like one of the guides walking down towards it, perhaps to remonstrate with her.
Bronson didn’t wait, he just ran a few steps along the road towards the car, waving his arms.
Angela spotted him, put the car into gear, turned the wheel hard to the right and accelerated along the road towards him.
Within seconds, they’d changed positions, Bronson in the driving seat and Angela checking the map, and the Renault was travelling quickly along the poor-quality road that led away from the castle.
‘What happened in there?’ Angela asked. ‘Did you get it?’
Bronson looked across at her and smiled.
‘After all that,’ he said, ‘I bloody well hope so.’
57
Shobak Castle, Jordan
Farooq was far from happy. That was the second time he’d encountered the Englishman in an unlit underground tunnel and, once again, Bronson had somehow managed to get away. At least Farooq hadn’t been hit by any of the bullets the other man had fired, which was perhaps a surprising bonus in the circumstances, and he assumed that Bronson had also walked out unscathed.
Khaled had immediately issued orders to the men in the second car and to the motorcyclist waiting down in the village below the castle to follow the rental vehicle. But his plan had been thrown by the fact that the car had left the area on an entirely different road. By the time the second car had driven down towards the castle, the Renault had vanished from sight. The only thing they knew for certain was that it had not continued on the main road through the village of Al Muthallith and on towards Aqaba, because if it had, their man on the motorcycle would definitely have seen it.
But at that moment locating and killing Bronson and the woman was less important than identifying whatever clue the Englishman had found in the tunnel.
‘He definitely took photographs?’ Khaled asked Farooq for the second time.
‘Yes, at least half a dozen.’
‘You don’t think he was just triggering the flashgun on his camera to try to blind you?’
‘No, because he’d already destroyed most of my night vision by shining his torch straight at me,’ Farooq replied. ‘And he would have known that.’
‘So he must have found the clue he was looking for at virtually the same moment that you called out to him.’
Five minutes later, Khaled and Farooq retraced Bronson’s steps, climbing into the building above the well and walking up the long and narrow staircase towards the castle above, both men now carrying torches.
‘How far up was he when you challenged him?’ Khaled asked, panting slightly from the steepness of the climb.
‘Much closer to the castle. He was probably about a third of the way down the tunnel.’
The beams from their torches played over the solid stone walls as they looked for anything that could possibly have been the clue Bronson had been seeking. They climbed higher and higher until eventually Farooq abruptly stopped, the light from his torch illuminating the stone treads beneath their feet.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘There are two brass cartridge cases on this step. They would have been ejected from the pistol when he fired the weapon for the first time. They may have bounced down a few steps after that, but this must be more or less where he was.’
They resumed their scrutiny of the walls as they continued their slow ascent, but saw nothing at all. No carvings, no inscriptions. Then Farooq had a sudden thought.
‘I’ve just remembered,’ he said. ‘When he took those photographs, he was pointing the camera more or less straight at me, straight up the staircase. We’re looking in the wrong place. Whatever he found must been carved into the stairs themselves.’
They changed their tactics, walked back down the passageway until they reached the spot where Farooq had seen the discarded cartridge cases, then focused their torches on the steps above them and resumed their slow climb.
Two minutes later they were looking at the carving on the stone riser, and Khaled was busy taking a sequence of photographs of it.
‘It’s just a name,’ Farooq said, sounding disappointed. ‘Have you any idea what it means?’
‘Yes,’ Khaled replied, taking another two pictures. ‘I know exactly what it means, and where it is. Now we need to move really quickly, because it’s essential that we get there before they do.’
58
Jordan
The largely unmade road that Bronson and Angela had followed from the castle took them back to the village of Al Muthallith, but well to the east of the road that led up to the castle.
Knowing that the opposition had clearly been following them, despite Bronson’s inability to detect any surveillance, they had decided to take an entirely different route to their new destination, just in case someone was waiting near that road junction. Bronson drove as quickly as he could, trying to put some distance between themselves and any possible pursuit. Once he was sure that no car or motorcycle was following them, he reached into his jacket pocket and handed the camera to Angela.
‘I just hope the pictures came out,’ he said, ‘or it will all have been for nothing.’
Angela switched on the camera, opened up the gallery and flicked back through the recorded images until she found what looked like the start of the sequence. Then she stared at the screen as she inspected each picture in turn.
‘Well,’ she said after a few moments, ‘I can’t pretend that they’re the best photographs I’ve ever seen, but two of them are quite sharp and clear. And that’s thanks to the camera, not you, obviously.’
‘Bearing in mind the situation I was in I’m delighted any of them came out. So, what does it say?’
‘Well, not anything that I would have expected,’ Angela said, looking puzzled. ‘It’s just a name, and a name that I don’t recognize. Does “Mont Sanes” – I think it’s meant to be two words rather than one – mean anything to you?’
Bronson furrowed his brow in concentration, then shook his head.
‘Not imme
diately, no. Is that all there is?’ he asked.
‘That’s the only lettering, just those two words,’ Angela replied, ‘but there’s what looks like a Templar cross below it, and a Christian cross above it, so perhaps it could be the name of a chapel or a church. I suppose the “Mont” is French, though that doesn’t really help us work out where the place is, because Old French was the language of the early Templars and they probably gave French names to most of their important locations, irrespective of where they were located. Just like Krak de Mont Real, in fact. That’s only called Shobak Castle now because Shobak or Shaubak is the name of the biggest nearby village.’
Bronson didn’t reply for a few moments. The name Angela had read out had sparked some kind of faint recollection, and he was doing his best to remember what the link or reference was. Then it came to him.
‘The second word,’ he said. ‘Can you spell it for me?’
‘S A N E S, Sanes,’ Angela replied. ‘And that doesn’t sound very French to me.’
Bronson nodded.
‘Okay. Here’s a thought. Names change over the years in any language, but there is one place I’ve heard of which might just fit. If so, it’s one word, not two, and in modern French it’s Montsaunès.’
‘Which is where?’
‘In France, oddly enough, in the foothills of the Pyrenees. What’s there is probably the most enigmatic of all the known surviving Templar buildings, just as peculiar as Rosslyn Chapel, though of course Rosslyn was built well after the Templars were purged. The village is very small – one of those blink and you’ve missed it kind of places – but in the mediaeval period it was the site of one of the most important Templar commanderies in the whole of Europe.’
‘A what?’
‘Commandery – a fortified monastery.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘I read about it. I’ve read a lot about the Templars, because they’ve always fascinated me.’
He paused for a few moments, collecting his thoughts and dredging his memory for what he could remember about the place.
But then Angela held up her hand and stared at the screen of her mobile.
‘We have a signal here, believe it or not,’ she said, ‘and I’ve just found a website that explains a bit about the village and its history. It was built in the twelfth century,’ she continued, ‘and it was intended to be a part of a major defensive line on the northern slopes of the Pyrenees, built as a protection against incursions by the Moors who had occupied the whole of the Iberian Peninsula at the height of their powers. By that time, of course, the writing was on the wall and they were being driven slowly to the south as the Reconquista gathered pace. The first battle to drive out the Moors took place early in the eighth century, but the process of reconquest wasn’t completed until virtually the end of the fifteenth century, and there were always fears that the Moorish forces might strike back.
‘The commandery disappeared centuries ago, after the order was purged at the beginning of the fourteenth century, and the only thing that’s now left is the Templar chapel, which is called the Église Saint-Christophe des Templiers, and you’re right about that. It is a weird place. The website explains that it looks like a chapel from the outside, but the interior is nothing like any other supposedly Christian place of worship. The whole thing is painted inside, but the decoration is really unusual, with a mixture of strange symbols and designs. The author of this website claims that nobody has ever worked out what any of it is supposed to mean, and it’s one of the most enduring mysteries that the order left behind it.’
Bronson nodded at her.
‘That all strikes a chord,’ he said. ‘I think the ceiling’s painted with stars and things like that. Is there a picture on that website?’
‘There is, but on this phone it’s so tiny you can’t really make out anything clearly.’
Angela glanced down at the roadmap as they passed a signpost, just to confirm that they were still going the right way.
‘We’re just passing Tamiya,’ she said, ‘and there’s a junction coming up in about half a mile or so. You need to stay on this road and head for a place called Ma’an, where we can pick up the Desert Highway. I presume you still want to head for Aqaba?’
‘Yes, because it probably won’t take them long to work out what that clue in the tunnel means either. When they do, I’ve no doubt they’ll do exactly what we’re doing, and head for France. This has been a race between them and us ever since your archaeological colleagues found that inscription, but this really is the final furlong. Whoever gets there first will find whatever secret is hidden in that chapel, and I’ve no intention of coming second to those bastards.’
Angela nodded.
‘That works for me as well,’ she said. ‘So where exactly are we heading?’
‘For the King Hussein International Airport,’ Bronson replied, ‘where we’re going to buy tickets on the first available flight that will get us to a southern French airport, ideally Toulouse or Carcassonne.’
‘But,’ he added, ‘I definitely want to be standing in the northern foothills of the French Pyrenees before midnight.’
59
Montsaunès, France
Getting out of Jordan and into France proved both easier and faster than Bronson had expected – the flight was on schedule and uneventful – but even so it was still well after ten that evening before he pulled his new hire car, rented at Toulouse’s Blagnac Airport, to a stop on the west side of the D117, the Route de Saint-Girons, and stared across the road at the ancient Templar chapel.
‘It looks pretty much like any other church,’ Angela said.
‘I agree,’ Bronson replied. ‘As you found out from the Internet, it’s only the interior that’s exceptional. But at least we know we’re in the right place,’ he added, pointing in the opposite direction.
Screwed to the white stone wall a few feet from where he’d stopped the car was a maroon metal sign with white lettering, the words easily visible in the moonlight.
‘“Place des Templiers”,’ Angela read, and nodded. ‘Yes, that seems clear enough.’
Bronson looked around, and up and down the road, but apart from a solitary car heading north, possibly intending to join the autoroute just outside the village, the place appeared to be deserted.
He reached up, altered the interior light switch so that the lamp wouldn’t come on when he opened the door, then reached for the handle.
‘As they say, there’s no time like the present. The keys are in the ignition. As soon as I’m outside, get in the driving seat and then just keep your eyes open. I think we’re ahead of the game, at least at the moment, but if you see anything you don’t like the look of, just start the car and get the hell out of here.’
Angela put her hand on his arm.
‘For God’s sake be careful, Chris,’ she said.
‘I will. I’m just going to try the door. If it’s locked then we’ll have to think of something else.’
Bronson opened the door of the car and stepped out. In seconds, he was invisible, his dark clothes blending seamlessly into the solid black shadow that cloaked the front of the chapel.
The door was set into a fairly ornate arched entrance, flanked by four stone pillars, the whole surmounted by a kind of frieze of carvings that formed a semicircle around the top of the arch. Bronson flicked on his torch and examined the stonework. It was a line of human faces, each different from its neighbour and some apparently in agony, judging by the expressions they were displaying.
He moved the thin beam of the torch around the semicircle, then stopped when he reached the apex to examine another carved image set into the ancient stone directly above the arch. It looked somehow familiar to him. He reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone, made sure the street was still deserted and then snapped a picture of the carved stone, the explosion of light from the built-in flash bouncing off the old stones.
Then he turned his attention to the door itself. T
his wasn’t, as he had been expecting, a single door, but rather two separate doors hinged at either side of the archway. A printed notice on the left-hand door advised anybody interested that the key was available from the village Mairie on four days of the week – including Sunday, predictably enough – but only between the hours of three and five in the afternoon.
He tried the handle anyway, and it was of course locked. He bent to examine the lock, but realized immediately that it was the kind of ancient mechanism that would require a heavy and complex key some six or seven inches long. Bronson’s expertise in lock picking was confined to the more modern kinds of devices, and he certainly didn’t have the heavy-duty picks and torsion wrenches he would need to try to open it.
And he wasn’t even sure that opening it would be a good idea. In order to do any meaningful exploration inside the building, they would need to use torches, and although, like most French villages late in the evening, all the houses in Montsaunès appeared to be shuttered and completely silent, the occupants apparently having retired for the night, he had no doubt that somebody would notice intermittent torchlight inside the old chapel.
Before he returned to the car, Bronson checked both sides of the church. Access to the sides and rear of the building was prevented by a substantial steel fence supported by stone pillars and pierced by locked gates. There were, he noted, at least two other doors into the building, one on each side, and at the right-hand rear of the chapel was what appeared to be a later addition, a single-storey stone structure attached to the church and accessed by a narrow doorway. Bronson guessed it might function as a storeroom or even as a robing room for the local priest. Because the main door of the church was locked, he had no doubt that all the other doors would also be secured.
Even the lowest windows were mounted so high in the walls that a ladder would be needed to reach them, and as far as he could tell by the light of his torch they were all closed. For a few moments he toyed with the idea of clambering over the metal fence and examining the back of the building, but knew he’d be unlikely to achieve anything if he did. And, in fact, he also knew he didn’t need to.