The Last Templar ts-1 Read online

  "Kim, honestly." The grand hall was teeming with people. Navigating through them to escort her daughter to the ladies' room wasn't a prospect Tess relished right now.

  Tess's mother, who wasn't doing much to hide the small pleasure she was finding in this, stepped in.

  "I'll take her. You go on ahead." Then, with a knowing grin, she added, "Much as I enjoy watching you get your payback."

  Tess flashed her a grimace, then looked at her daughter and smiled, shaking her head. The little face and its glinting green eyes never failed to charm its way out of any situation.

  "I'll meet you in the main hall." She raised a stern finger at Kim. "Stay close to Nana. I don't want to lose you in this circus."

  Kim groaned and rolled her eyes. Tess watched them disappear into the melee before turning and heading in.

  ***

  The huge foyer of the museum, the Great Hall, was already crowded with gray-haired men and vertiginously glamorous women. Black ties and evening gowns were de rigueur and, as she looked around, Tess felt self-conscious. She fretted that she stood out as much for her understated elegance as for her discomfort at being perceived as part of the "in" crowd all around her, a crowd she firmly had no interest in.

  What Tess didn't realize was that what people noticed about her had nothing to do with her being understated in the precise, seamed black dress that floated a few inches above her knees, nor with her discomfort at attending platitude-intensive events like this one. People just noticed her, period.

  They always had. And who could blame them. The seductive mass of curls framing the warm green eyes that radiated intelligence usually triggered it. The healthy, thirty-six-year-old frame that moved in relaxed, fluid strides confirmed it, and the fact that she was totally oblivious to her charms sealed it. It was too bad she'd always fallen for the wrong guys. She'd even ended up marrying the last of that contemptible bunch, a mistake she had recently undone.

  She advanced into the main room, the buzz of conversation echoing off the walls around her in a dull roar that made individual words impossible to determine. Acoustics, it seemed, had not been a prime consideration of the museum's design. She could hear traces of chamber music and tracked it to an all-female string quartet tucked away in a corner, sawing away energetically but almost inaudibly at their instruments. Nodding furtively at the smiling faces in the crowd, she made her way past Lila Wallace's ever-present displays of fresh flowers and the niche where Andrea della Robbia's sublime blue-and-white glazed terra-cotta Madonna and Child stood gracefully watching over the throng. Tonight though, they had company, as this was only one of many depictions of Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary that now adorned the museum.

  Almost all of the exhibits were displayed in glass cabinets, and it was clear from even a cursory glance that many of those exhibits were enormously valuable. Even for someone with Tess's lack of religious conviction, they were impressive, even stirring, and as she glided past the grand staircase and into the exhibition hall, her heart raced ahead with the rising swell of anticipation.

  There were ornate alabaster altar pieces from Burgundy with vivid scenes from the life of Saint Martin. Crucifixes by the score, most of them solid gold and heavily encrusted with precious stones; one of them, a twelfth-century cross, consisted of more than a hundred figures carved out of a walrus tusk. There were elaborate marble statuettes and carved wooden reliquaries; even emptied of their original contents, these chests were superb examples of the meticulous work of medieval craftsmen. A glorious brass eagle lectern proudly held its own next to a superlative six-foot painted Spanish Easter candlestick, which had been prized away from the pope's own apartments.

  As Tess took in the various displays, she couldn't help but feel recurring pangs of disappointment.

  The objects before her were of a quality she would have never dared hope for during her years out in the field. True, they had been good, challenging years, rewarding to a certain extent. They had given her a chance to travel the world and immerse herself in diverse and fascinating cultures. Some of the curiosities she had unearthed were on display in a few museums scattered around the globe, but nothing she'd found was noteworthy enough to grace, say, the Sackler Wing of Egyptian Art or the Rockefeller Wing of Primitive Art. Maybe... maybe if I'd stuck with it a little bit longer. She shook the thought away. She knew that that life was over now, at least for the foreseeable future.

  She would have to make do with enjoying these marvelous glimpses into the past from the remote, passive viewpoint of a grateful observer.

  And a marvelous glimpse it was. Hosting the show had been a truly remarkable feat for the Met, because almost none of the items sent over from Rome had ever been previously exhibited.

  Not that it was all gleaming gold and glittering jewels.

  In a cabinet facing her now was a seemingly mundane object. It was a mechanical device of some sort, about the size of an old typewriter, boxlike and made of copper. It had numerous buttons on its top face as well as interlocking gears and levers protruding from its sides. It seemed out of place amid all this opulence.

  Tess brushed aside her hair as she leaned forward to take a closer look. She was reaching for her catalog when, above her own blurred reflection in the glass of the cabinet, another loomed into view as someone came up behind her.

  "If you're still looking for the Holy Grail, I'm going to have to disappoint you. It ain't here," a gravelly voice said to her. And although it had been years since she'd heard it, she recognized it even before she turned.

  "Clive." She turned, taking in the sight of her former colleague. "How the hell are you? You look great." Which wasn't exactly true; even though he was barely into his fifties, Clive Edmondson looked positively ancient.

  "Thanks. How about you?"

  "I'm good," she nodded. "So how's the grave-robbing business these days?"

  Edmondson showed her the backs of his hands. "The manicure bills are killing me. Other than that, same old same old. Literally," he chuckled. "I hear you joined the Manoukian."

  "Yeah."

  "And?"

  "Oh, it's great," Tess told him. That wasn't true either. Joining the prestigious Manoukian Institute had been a bold stroke for her, but as far as the actual experience of working there went, things weren't all that good. But those things you kept to yourself, especially in the surprisingly gossipy and backstabbing world that archaeology could be. Seeking an impersonal remark, she said, "You know, I really miss being out there with you guys."

  His faint smile told her he wasn't buying that. "You're not missing much. We haven't hit the headlines yet."

  "It's not that, it's just..." She turned, glancing at the sea of displays around them. "Any one of these would have been great. Any one." She looked at him, suddenly melancholic. "How come we never found anything this good?"

  "Hey, I'm still hoping. You're the one who traded in the camels for a desk," he quipped. "Not to mention the flies, the sand, the heat, the food, if you can call it that ..."

  "Oh my God, the food." Tess laughed. "Come to think of it, I'm not so sure I really miss it anymore."

  "You can always come back, you know."

  She winced. It was something she often thought about. "I don't think so. Not for a while, anyway."

  Edmondson found a grin that seemed more than a little strained. "We'll always have a shovel with your name on it, you know that," he said, sounding anything but hopeful. An awkward silence settled between them. "Listen," he added, "they've set up a bar over in the Egyptian Room, and, from the looks of it, they've got someone who knows how to mix a decent cocktail. Let me buy you a drink."

  "You go ahead, I'll catch up with you later," she said. "I'm waiting for Kim and my mom."

  "They're here?"

  "Yeah."

  He held up his palms. "Whoa. Three generations of Chaykins—that should be interesting."

  "You've been warned."

  "Duly noted." Edmondson nodded as he ventured into the crowd. "I'll ca
tch you later. Don't disappear on me."

  ***

  Outside, the air around the piazza was electric. The cameraman josded to get into a clean shot as the claps and whoops of delight from the elated crowd drowned out his reporter's efforts at commentating. It got even noisier when the crowd spotted a short, heavy-set man in a brown security guard uniform leave his position and hurry over to the advancing horsemen.

  From the corner of his eye, the cameraman could tell something wasn't exacdy going according to plan. The guard's purposeful stride and his body language clearly indicated a difference of opinion.

  The guard raised his hands in a stopping motion as he reached the horses, blocking their procession.

  The knights reined in their horses, which snorted and stamped, obviously uncomfortable at being kept stationary on the steps.

  An argument seemed to be under way. A one-sided one, the cameraman observed, as the horsemen weren't reacting to the guard's ranting in any discernible way.

  And then one of them finally did something.

  Slowly, milking the moment for all its theatricality, the knight closest to the guard, a bear of a man, unsheathed his broadsword and raised it high above his head, provoking another barrage of popping flashbulbs and yet more applause.

  He held it there, with both hands, still staring straight ahead. Unflinching.

  Although he had one eye glued to his viewfinder, die cameraman's other eye was picking up peripheral images and he was suddenly aware of something else happening. Hurriedly, he zoomed in on the guard's face. What was that look? Embarrassment? Consternation?

  Then he realized what it was.

  Fear.

  The crowd was now in a frenzy, clapping and cheering wildly. Instinctively, the cameraman zoomed out a touch, broadening his view to take in the horseman.

  Just then, the knight suddenly brought down his broadsword in a quick, sweeping arc, its blade glittering terrifyingly in the flashing artificial light before striking the guard just below the ear, the power and velocity of the blow great enough for it to shear straight through flesh, grisde, and bone.

  From the onlookers came a huge collective gasp, which turned into penetrating screams of horror that rang through the night. Loudest of all was the shriek of the reporter who clutched at the cameraman's arm, causing his picture to judder before he elbowed her away and kept on shooting.

  The guard's head fell forward and began to bounce hideously down the museum's steps, unspooling a splattered, red trail all die way down behind it. And after what seemed like an eternity, his decapitated body slumped sideways, collapsing onto itself while spouting a small geyser of blood.

  Screaming teenagers were stumbling and falling in their panic to escape the scene, while others, further back and unaware of exactly what was happening but knowing that something big was taking place, pushed forward. In seconds, there was a terrified tangle of bodies, the air ringing with screams and cries of pain and fear.

  The other three horses were now stamping their hooves, jinking sideways on the steps. Then one of the knights yelled, "Go, go, go!"

  The executioner spurred his mount forward, charging at die wide-open doorways to die museum.

  The otiiers bolted and followed close behind.

  Chapter 3

  In the Great Hall, Tess heard the screams from outside and quickly realized something was very, very wrong. She turned in time to see the first horse burst through the door, shattering glass and splintering timber inward as the Great Hall erupted into chaos. The smooth, polished, immaculate gathering disintegrated into a snarling atavistic pack as men and women shoved and screamed their way out of the path of the charging horses.

  Three of the horsemen rampaged through the crowd, swords crashing through display cabinets, trampling on broken glass and shattered timber, and damaged and destroyed exhibits.

  Tess was thrown aside as scores of guests tried desperately to escape through the doors and into the street. Her eyes darted around the hall. Kim—Mom—Where are they'? She looked around, but couldn't see them anywhere. To her far right, the horses wheeled and turned, obliterating more displays in their path. Guests were sent flying into cabinets and against walls, their pained grunts and shrieks echoing in the vast room. Tess glimpsed Clive Edmondson among them as he was knocked violently sideways when one of the horses suddenly reared backward.

  The horses were snorting, nostrils flared, foam spilling from around the bits in their mouths. Their riders were reaching down and snatching up glittering objects from the broken cabinets before stuffing them into sacks hooked onto their saddles. At the doors, the crowd trying to get out made it impossible for the police to get in, helpless against the weight of the terrified mob.

  One of the horses swung around, its flank sending a statue of the Virgin Mary reeling over to smash onto the floor. The horse's hooves pounded down onto it, crushing the Madonna's praying hands.

  Ripped from its mounting by the fleeing guests, a beautiful tapestry was trampled underfoot by both people and animals. Thousands of painstaking stitches, shredded in seconds. A display case toppled, a white and gold miter bursting through the breaking glass to be kicked aside in the mad scramble.

  A matching robe drifted, magic carpet-like, until it, too, was stamped upon.

  Hurriedly getting out of the way of the horses, Tess looked down the corridor where, partway along, she could see the fourth horseman and beyond him, way back at the far end of the corridor, yet more people were scattering into other parts of the museum. She searched for her mom and her daughter again. Where the hell are they'? Are they all right'? She strained to pick out their faces from the blur of the crowd, but there was still no sign of them.

  Hearing a commanding shout, Tess spun around to see that the police officers had finally made it through the fleeing mob. Weapons drawn and shouting above the mayhem, they were closing in on one of the three horsemen who, from beneath his robe, pulled out a small, vicious-looking gun.

  Instinctively, Tess dropped to the floor and covered her head, but not before witnessing the man loose a burst of bullets, moving the gun from side to side, spraying the hall. A dozen people went down, including all of the policemen, the broken glass and smashed cases around them now splattered with blood.

  Still crouched on the floor, her heart pounding its way out of her chest, and trying to keep as still as she could even though something inside was screaming at her to run, Tess saw that two of the other horsemen were now also brandishing automatic weapons like the one their murderous consort was carrying. Bullets ricocheted off the museum walls, adding to the noise and to the panic. One of the horses reared suddenly and its rider's hands flailed, the gun in one of them sending a fusillade of bullets up one wall and onto the ceiling, shattering ornate plaster moldings that came showering down onto the heads of the crouching, screaming guests.

  Risking a glance from behind her cabinet, Tess's mind raced as she evaluated routes of escape.

  Seeing a doorway to another gallery three rows of exhibits beyond to her right, Tess willed her legs forward and scurried toward it.

  She had just reached the second row when she spotted the fourth knight headed straight toward her.

  She ducked, darting quick glances as she watched him weave his mount among the rows of still undamaged cabinets, apparently uninvolved and unconcerned with the mayhem his three companions were wreaking.

  She could almost feel die breath venting from his snorting horse as the knight suddenly reined to a stop, barely six feet away from her. Tess crouched low, hugging the display for dear life, urging her beating heart to quieten. Her eyes drifted up and she spotted the knight, reflected in the glass displays around her, imperious in his chain mail and his white mantle, staring down at one cabinet in particular.

  It was the one Tess had been looking at when Clive Edmondson had approached her.

  Tess watched in quiet terror as the knight drew his sword, swung it up, and brought it thundering down onto the cabinet, smashing it
to bits and sending shards of glass spewing onto the floor around her. Then, sliding his sword back into its scabbard, he reached down from the saddle and lifted out the strange box, the contraption of buttons, gears, and levers, and held it up for a moment.

  Tess could barely breathe and yet, against all rational survival instincts she believed she possessed, she desperately needed to see what was happening. Unable to resist, she leaned out from behind the display case, one eye barely clearing the edge of the cabinet.

  The man stared at the device, reverently it seemed, for a moment before mouthing a few words, almost to himself.

  "Veritas vos libera—"

  Tess stared, entranced by this seemingly most private of rituals, when another burst of gunfire snapped both her and the knight out of their reverie.

  He wheeled his horse around and for an instant, his eyes, though shadowed beneath the visor of his helmet, met Tess's. Her heart stopped as she crouched there, utterly and helplessly frozen. Then the horse was coming her way, straight at her—before brushing past and, as it did so, she heard the man yelling to the other three horsemen, "Let's go!"

  Tess rose to see that the big horseman who had started the shooting was herding a small group into a corner by the main staircase. She recognized the archbishop of New York, as well as the mayor and his wife. The leader of the knights nodded his head and the big man forced his mount through the knot of distraught guests, grabbed the struggling woman, and lifted her up onto his horse. He jammed his gun into the side of her head and she went still, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  Helpless, angry, and afraid, Tess watched as the four horsemen moved toward the doorway. The lead knight, the only one without a gun, she noticed, was also the only one without a bulging sack tied to his pommel. And as the horsemen charged away through the galleries of the museum, Tess stood up and rushed through the debris to find her mother and her young daughter.