And now, seeing what was sitting on the conference table, any notion of her walking away from this was dead and buried.
There, built of solid, transparent plastic, was an exact replica of the multigeared rotor encoder.
She could barely manage to bring out the words. "How . . . ?"
She looked up at Reilly in utter amazement. He had obviously planned it that way; his call, asking her to come down to Federal Plaza, had mentioned nothing other than a mundane "going over a couple of things with you."
She was suddenly aware of all the other faces in the room. Jansson, Aparo, Gaines, a few others she didn't recognize—and the monsignor. She looked again at Reilly.
He just flashed a restrained, brief smile. "I thought you might want to be here for this." He pointed at one of the men she hadn't met before. The man was distributing a stapled printout to everyone in the room. "That's Terry Kendricks. He built it."
"Well, my team and I," Kendricks quickly interjected, smiling effusively at Tess. "Good to meet you."
Tess was finding it difficult to tear her eyes away from the machine. She perused the printout in her hands, which confirmed her hopes. She looked up at Kendricks.
"It works?"
"Oh yes. It all fell into place perfectly. In Latin, of course. At least, that's what I'm told by the team of linguists who translated it."
Tess still didn't get it. She turned imploringly to Reilly. "But . . . How?"
"Everything gets X-rayed when it goes through Customs," he explained. "Even when it's on loan from the Holy See."
Tess had to sit down. Her knees felt like they were about to cave in under her. With slightly trembling hands, she studied the document he'd handed her. Eagerly, she concentrated on the neatly printed words.
It was a letter, dated in May of 1291.
"That's the time of the fall of Acre," she exclaimed. "The last city the Crusaders held."
She turned her attention back to the letter and began to read, feeling the thrill of connecting directly over the centuries with men whose exploits had become the stuff of legend.
"It is with great sadness," the letter began, "that I inform you that Acre is no longer under our protection. We departed the city as darkness fell, our hearts heavy as we watched it burn ..."
Chapter 47
Eastern Mediterranean—May 1291
They had sailed north along the coast all night and, when dawn broke, the galley turned west and headed toward Cyprus and the safety of their preceptory there.
After the devastating blow of those last hours at Acre, Martin had gone below to try to rest, but the movement of the ship made that hard, and images of the dying master and of the harried escape remained locked in his mind. When he came back on deck at first light, he was shocked by what he saw. Ahead of them, bright streaks of lightning were breaking the darkness of a fast approaching storm head, and the dim rumble of thunder could be heard over the keening of the wind in the rigging. Behind them, to the east, a strip of angry, purple clouds hid the rising sun, its rays stabbing upward in a desperate attempt to lighten the grim sky.
How is it possible? Martin thought. Two storms, one ahead of us, the other chasing us. A quick word with Hugh confirmed that the shipmaster hadn't seen anything like it before either.
They were boxed in.
The wind speed quickened and with it came sudden spurts of cold, stinging rain. The sail was being whipped violently against its yard, the
crewmen struggling to keep its braces under control,
the mast groaning in protest. The horses in the hold neighed and pawed restlessly at the planking.
Martin watched as the shipmaster feverishly consulted his chart and marked their present position before ordering the overseer to hasten the pace of the galley slaves and shouting out new headings to the steersman in a desperate effort to break away from the storms.
Martin joined Aimard at the forecastle. The older knight was also watching the approaching storms with mounting concern. "It's as if God Himself were willing the sea to swallow us," he said to Martin, his eyes laced with deep-seated unease. Before long, the storm erupted around them with a savage ferocity. The sky darkened into an impenetrable black, turning the day into night, and the wind rose to a full gale. All around the ship, the roiling surface of the water suddenly broke into massive whitecaps that raced toward them, battering their starboard stern. Lightning exploded in tandem with earsplitting thunder cracks, and heavy rain lashed down at the ship in a thick veil of water that cut off the outside world.
Hugh ordered a man aloft to scan the horizon for a possible landfall. Martin watched as the reluctant man braved the torrential rain and scrambled up to the crow's nest. The ship plowed on as massive waves hammered against it, some of them rising high over the stern before smashing down onto the deck. The oars took on a life of their own, some of them snapping against the hull, others slamming brutally into the shackled slaves wrestling with them, injuring several, and prompting Hugh to call for the oars to be pulled in.
The ship had been tossed helplessly through mountainous waves for hours when, over the almost deafening uproar, Martin heard a splintering crack as the aft hatch covers split open and dark blue water poured into the holds. Almost at once, the ship was wallowing dangerously when from above came the wrenching sound of timber being ripped apart. The mast had snapped, and Martin looked up in time to see it crashing down onto three crewmen while catapulting the hapless observer in the crow's nest into the churning sea.
Without sail or oars, the galley was at the mercy of the storm and the currents, pushed and pulled aimlessly by the angry sea. For three days and three nights, the storm didn't let up, the Falcon Temple bending to its rampaging will, somehow managing to stay afloat and in one piece.
Then on the fourth day, with the winds still not letting up, a lone voice cried out, "Land!
Land!" Martin peered out and saw a man pointing dead ahead, but he couldn't see anything apart from the rising sea. Then he spotted it: a distant, dark mass on the horizon, barely discernable.
And then it happened.
Cruelly, and within sight of land, the ship started to break up. The carvel-built, even planking had taken a ferocious beating, and now it was giving up. Deafening groans were followed by what sounded like explosions as the entire hull came apart. Panic erupted among the chained oarsmen, while the horses below reared and whickered furiously.
"The slaves," Hugh roared. "Unshackle them before they drown!" His men scrambled to release them from their chains, but their freedom was short-lived as bursts of water thundered into the hull and swept them away.
Hugh could no longer forestall the inevitable. "Put the longboat to sea," he bellowed, "and abandon ship." Martin rushed to help secure their only means for survival and saw Aimard emerge, carrying a bulky leather pouch, and head in the opposite direction toward the forecastle. Martin yelled out to him just as another massive wave struck, and Aimard was hurled helplessly across the bridge and slammed against the chart table, impaling the side of his chest on its corner. He cried out in pain but then gritted his teeth and braced himself upright, one hand clasped against his ribs. Aimard pushed aside Martin's offer of help and wouldn't release the pouch, even though it was clear that its bulk and weight were adding greatly to his discomfort.
They barely managed to climb into the longboat, which was now level with die galley's deck, and the last glimpse Martin of Carmaux had of the Falcon Temple came as die battered vessel was finally consumed by the raging sea. The huge balk of timber that ended in the carved figurehead snapped like a twig before the awful might of the storm, any sound it made overwhelmed by the demonic shrieking of the wind and the hideous screams of the drowning horses. Looking at the eight other men in the longboat, Martin saw his dread mirrored in their desolate stares as, piece by piece, the ship disappeared beneath the mountainous waves.
It was the waves as much as the wind that drove diem on, tossing the longboat as if it were made of paper, but the shipmaster soon ha
d six of the nine survivors manning oars and dampening the wildest swings. As he rowed, Martin just looked ahead blankly, fatigue and despair dragging him down. They had been chased out of the Holy Land, and now the Falcon Templewas lost. He wondered how long they would survive, even if they did reach land. Wherever they were, they were far from home, deep in enemy territory, and barely equipped to defend themselves against the poorest foe.
The longboat plunged on for what seemed like hours before the height of the waves lessened and, at last, they saw the land that the lookout had spied. Soon, they were dragging the longboat through the surf and onto the safety of a sandy beach. The storm still howled and the cold rain still stung them, but at least they had land beneath their feet.
After hacking out the bottom of the longboat with their swords, they pushed it back into the sea, which was still rough despite the passing of the eye of the storm. Anyone wandering the shoreline should not be made aware of their presence. Hugh told them that they were already on a northerly heading when the storm had struck, and he believed that the Falcon Temple had been swept around the island of Cyprus and then pushed headlong northward. Acting upon the seaman's knowledge and expertise, Aimard took the decision to avoid the exposed shore and march inland before heading west in search of a port.
The low hills soon gave them some shelter from the wind and, more important, from the eyes of any inhabitants. Not that this appeared to be a danger; they had seen no one, heard nothing but the shrieking of the storm. Even wildlife was absent, cowed no doubt by the violent weather. During the long and exhausting march, Martin could see that Aimard's condition was worsening. The blow to his ribcage was a heavy one, and the serious damage it caused was starting to take its toll.
Seemingly impervious to the pain coursing through him, Aimard pressed on bravely, always clinging to the bulky pouch while clutching his painful side.
When they first came upon a town, there was a momentary flare of fear that they might have to fight in their current state. Not only were they injured and weary, they also had few arms between them.
That fear was tempered by the hope that they could find food there. Both their fear and their hope proved unfounded. The town was deserted, its houses empty. At its center stood the remains of a church. Its walls were intact, but its roof was a charred skeleton of burned timbers held aloft on high stone columns. It was hard to tell how long ago this desecration had taken place. Certainly more than a few weeks or even months; years maybe.
Across from the church, a huge old willow drooped its leafy branches over a well.
Cautiously, the survivors dropped to the ground and rested. Of all of tiiem, Aimard of Villiers was in the worst condition. Martin was getting him some water from the well when he heard a sound, the gently melodic ringing of bells. The battered men rushed for cover and watched as a small herd of goats came through the narrow street. Soon, they were crowding around the well head, vainly scavenging for food, some dragging down the branches of the willow and gnawing at them. A goatherd appeared, a stooped and crippled old man, accompanied by a young boy.
Glancing at Aimard, who gave a brief nod of acquiescence, Martin took command. Using hand signals, he sent their small band fanning outward to keep watch, while he and Hugh approached the old man, who promptly fell to his knees, imploring diem not to kill him and to spare his grandson.
Like some of their brothers, Martin and Aimard could speak some Arabic. Even so, it took a while to pacify the old man and assure him that his life was safe. It took even longer to explain that they wanted to buy a goat and not simply take it by force. Not that they had money or valuables of any kind, but they managed to gather between them a few oddments of clothing that, while not adding up to the value of die goat, did at least make a bargain of sorts. While the goatherd and his young helper hauled water from the well for their animals, the knights slaughtered the goat and, with a flint, lit a fire and roasted the carcass. They invited the goatherd and the boy to share in the meal.
That act of kindness probably saved their lives.
The old man, from whom they learned the name of the town, Fonsalis, was grateful to be alive.
Late in the afternoon, he resumed his wanderings with his herd and helper. Well-fed and strengthened, the knights and crewmen rested once more, comfortable in the knowledge that they could resume their journey in the morning.
But their rest was short-lived.
The knight standing watch heard the sound first and alerted Martin.
Someone was running, coming their way. It was the goatherd's grandson. Out of breath and visibly scared, he informed them that a band of Mamelukes was heading their way. The old man had seen them before, had been robbed by them, and knew that they would be coming here for water.
They had no choice but to fight them.
With Aimard's support, Martin quickly formulated a plan for an ambush. Spaced well apart, the men would form a loose V formation, the open arms facing toward the approaching enemy, the point at the well.
They salvaged pieces of wrought iron from the ruined church to supplement their meager supply of weapons and unwound the rope from the wellhead. Hugh and one of the seamen pulled it to their positions at the open end of the V. They kicked dirt over the rope where it lay across the path of the approaching horsemen, and the men all took their places. Once he was certain they hadn't missed anything that could betray their plan, Martin slipped behind the well, crouched low, and waited.
They didn't have long to wait. They heard the Mamelukes long before they saw them, their laughter loud in the still air. Clearly, their acts in this region had given them an undoubted sense of invulnerability. The Mamelukes were rightly feared. Some fifty years ago, many thousands of young men from these parts had been sold into the servitude of the Sultan of Egypt. The ruler, never imagining what would be the result of his action, formed these young men into his National Guard and called them Mamelukes, the Arabic word for "owned." A few years later, the Mamelukes instigated a revolution and were soon in control of Egypt. They became even more feared than the men who had originally sold them into captivity.
Decked in leather and iron body armor and breeches, each horseman carried a scabbarded long sword and a dagger in his belt. Across the pommels of each of their horses rested a large circular metal shield, and pennants that hung colorfully from their spears fluttered in the dusty air around them.
Martin counted them. The boy's estimate was accurate. There were twenty-one warriors. He knew that either all of them had to die, or their own fate would be sealed. Should one of them escape, many more would return.
When the last of the Mamelukes had passed the position taken by Hugh and his companion, Martin heard the leader of the band reach the well and dismount.
Launching himself upward, Martin bolted out from behind the well as if discharged from a cannon and quickly cut down two men with savage sweeps of his broadsword. More men were in the process of dismounting when the rest of the survivors rushed out of their hiding places, screaming war cries and hacking away at the surprised horsemen with whatever weapons they held. The surprise was complete, its effect devastating.
The men that remained on horseback wheeled their mounts around and kicked them into a gallop, back the way that they had come. As they drew level with Hugh, the shipmaster heaved on the rope, drawing it tight. The horsemen never saw it. The first horses fell, the others colliding into them, sending the riders hurtling helplessly through the air. The knights were already racing toward the men, and before long no Mameluke remained alive at either end of the small battlefield.
But it was a small victory. In the dust of the entanglement, two seamen and two knights were dead.
Five men, including the injured Aimard, remained.
But they now had horses and weapons.
That night, after burying their dead, the survivors slept by the walls of the ruined church, taking turns at watch. Martin, though, couldn't sleep. His mind was still in turmoil, and he had gone into a stat
e of extreme awareness of sounds and movements.
He heard a rustle coming from inside the church, where Aimard had been laid to rest. He knew that the older man was in great pain and he had heard him repeatedly cough up blood. He got up and walked in through the church's charred portal. Aimard wasn't where he'd left him. Martin scanned the darkness and spotted the old knight sitting up, the flames from a small fire dipping and flickering as wisps of wind curled in through the damaged roof. Approaching him, he saw that Aimard was busy writing something. It was a letter. By his side was a strange geared device, which Martin had never seen before.
Aimard raised his head, and his eyes glinted at Martin in the firelight. "I need your help with this," he said, his voice hoarse and raspy.
Martin approached hesitantly, feeling his muscles tighten. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
"It seems my strength has deserted me." Aimard coughed. "Come."
He pulled himself off the floor and, lifting the leather pouch with great pain, led Martin deeper into the church to an area where the ground was made up of paving stones, some of them marked with names and dates. Martin realized they were grave markers.
"This one," Aimard said as he stopped over a stone that bore the word Romiti.
Martin stared at him quizzically, not sure of what was expected of him. Aimard managed a smile. "I need you to open it up."
WitJhout any more explanation, Martin retrieved his sword and used it to prize up the flagstone.
"Keep it open for me," Aimard asked as he got down on his knees and slipped the leather pouch into the dark opening. Once he was done, he nodded to the younger knight. "That will do." Martin carefully lowered die slab. Aimard examined it, making sure their intrusion wasn't noticeable, then got up and shuffled back to his small encampment and lowered himself painfully to the ground.
Martin looked into the darkness, his head a whirlwind of confused thoughts. When Aimard of Villiers had first encouraged him to join the Order, he had felt honored and excited. For die first three years, that honor was shown to be justified—the Knights Templar were indeed a noble group of extremely brave men, dedicated to God, to mankind, to the Church. But now that the Holy Land was lost, what was to become of them? He no longer had a clear vision of their objectives.
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