The Templar Salvation (2010) Read online

  The archaeologist stared at the needle and didn’t say anything. He just nodded, his tenebrous gaze dropping down to the ancient book, silently ruing the day that he’d first heard about it and wishing he’d never mentioned the damn thing.

  Chapter 10

  Tucked away in the Palace of the Tribunal behind St Peter’s Cathedral, the Central Office of the Vatican Gendarmeria was in meltdown. Urgent footfalls were stampeding up and down the medieval building’s cavernous hallways, phones were ringing all over the place, questions and updates were being shouted out across rooms and through doorways, the whole discordant chaos drilling into Tess Chaykin’s ears and echoing painfully inside her skull.

  Reilly and some carabinieri had brought her here, away from the rigged car, and settled her on a couch in a waiting room. A couple of paramedics had been drafted in to check her over. She was dehydrated, weak from hunger—but otherwise unharmed. They’d given her some rehydrating drinks, some Gatorade, and someone was dispatched to rustle up some clean clothes and some food for her. The whole thing had gone by in a blur, except for one question that was firmly anchored in her mind:

  Rome?

  How the hell did I get to Rome?

  She glanced up at Reilly, who was talking to the paramedics. He must have sensed her look, as he turned and smiled at her. She watched him thank the paramedics, then he joined her.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better now that I’m not in that damn coffin.” She had a million questions for him, but still felt groggy and was having trouble ordering her thoughts.

  “I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can. They’re going to find you a room and a bed.”

  “Thanks.” Her voice was still weak, her throat felt scabrous, and her eyes still hadn’t lost their haunted veneer. “I need to get to a phone,” she told him. “I need to call Kim, and Mom.”

  He handed her his BlackBerry. “You know the lock code.”

  “Yeah,” she answered, a faint smile warming up her face.

  A voice from the doorway cut in. “Reilly.”

  Reilly turned.

  Doug Tilden, the FBI legal attache in Rome, was standing there. A tall man with combed-back graying hair and sleek, frameless glasses, he looked like he was having his own meltdown. “We need you in here.”

  Reilly acknowledged him with a slight nod, then turned back to Tess and cupped her cheek in one hand, softly. “I’ll be next door if you need anything.”

  “Go. I’m fine just sitting here with my stash,” she said, holding up her bottles and his phone, her face clouded but still managing a pained smile.

  He rose to his feet, but Tess caught his arm in her grip and stopped him. She pulled him back down, drawing his face right up to hers. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it would—”

  Reilly cut her off with a slight shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it. Okay?”

  She held his gaze, then pulled him closer and planted a soft kiss on his lips. “Thanks,” she whispered. “For finding me.”

  He smiled, his eyes clearly telegraphing that the relief was mutual, then headed out with Tilden.

  “THAT’S ONE HELL OF A shitstorm you’ve got us in,” Tilden told him as they made their way to the inspector general’s office. “Why didn’t you say anything beforehand? We could have helped.”

  Tilden was a career federal agent, and as the Bureau’s legal attache in Rome, he was responsible for FBI operations in Italy as well as liaising with law enforcement organizations in southern Europe, the Middle East, and non-French-speaking Africa. He was undoubtedly used to dealing with crises, but this one had clearly blown out the fuses of his shitstorm-o-meter. His being around wasn’t making things any easier for Reilly, who had met him before, years earlier, when they’d both been on a joint task force working alongside the DEA. It had been a painful assignment that had ended in tragedy, just as today had. Innocent bystanders had died on both occasions, although back then, Reilly had pulled the fatal trigger himself. The shooting had never stopped haunting him, and it was something he would have preferred not to have Tilden’s presence dredge up, especially not today, of all days.

  “You know how these things sometimes go down, Doug,” Reilly told him.

  “Plus it was Tess, right?”

  Reilly gave him a “what do you think” look.

  Tilden nodded grudgingly. “Well, I’m just glad you told them you were here on personal business. Takes a bit of the sting off my ass.”

  “It was my call all the way.”

  Tilden slid him a grave sideways glance. “All right,” he grumbled. “Just do me a favor and don’t make things worse in there.”

  “Do I need to get myself a lawyer?”

  “Probably,” Tilden replied tersely. “Assuming they let you walk out of here alive.”

  Judging from the looks that Delpiero and the two other men in the room shot him as he walked in, Reilly knew that wasn’t a given.

  Delpiero, the Vatican’s head cop, rushed through an introduction of the two men to Reilly—one was from the State Police’s antiterrorist unit, the other from the country’s intelligence service—then opened out his hands in an incensed “what the hell?” gesture. “Barely an hour ago, I left you with Monsignor Bescondi and your professor and told you I was there for you if you needed anything. This is how you reward our generosity?”

  Reilly didn’t have an easy answer for him. Instead, he asked, “The second bomb. Is it safe?”

  “It’s been defused.”

  Now for the harder one. “And the first bomb? How bad is it?”

  Delpiero’s expression hardened. “Three dead. Over forty wounded, two of them critical. That’s what we know so far.”

  Reilly scowled, processing the terrible news. He felt his veins petrify with anger and remorse. After a moment, he said, “There was a man in the trunk of the first car.”

  Delpiero turned to one of his colleagues and rattled off a question in Italian. They had a brief and intense exchange that told Reilly his statement was news to them.

  “How do you know this?” Delpiero asked.

  “The guy who was with me told me.”

  “The man in the trunk—do you know who he was?”

  “Behrouz Sharafi,” Reilly informed him. “The real one.”

  “So the man who was with you—”

  “He was an impostor.” The thought welled up some bile in Reilly’s throat. He saw that Delpiero and the others were lost.

  Delpiero’s tone rose with anger and confusion. “So you brought this—this terrorist here, to the Vatican, without even knowing who he really was?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Reilly fired back, trying to keep his fury—at the bomber and, even more, at himself—in check. “I was told I had to get him into the archives or that woman sitting out there would be killed,” he said, thrusting an angry finger in the direction of the door. “That bastard, whoever he is—he played his role perfectly, and you can be damn sure that given the level of resources he seems to have at his disposal, he would have had no trouble flashing me a fake ID with Sharafi’s name on it had I asked for one.” He shook his head bitterly. “Look, he tricked me, all right? I never expected anything like this. I was just trying to save a friend’s life.”

  “And in doing that, you got three people killed and dozens injured,” Delpiero countered.

  The comment pierced Reilly’s chest, and any angry words he wanted to blurt out just shriveled up in his throat. People had died, others had been hurt, and he felt responsible. He’d been played by that son of a bitch, whoever he was—played and bested. Almost. Reilly tried to console himself with the thought that he could have easily ended up dead himself. If he’d given the bomber half a chance once they were out of the Vatican, there was little doubt in Reilly’s mind that the man would have killed him. Which would have meant that Tess would have probably died too. At least he’d managed to turn that part of it around. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about any book or about wr
ecking the pope’s wheels. He’d saved Tess’s life, which was what he’d set out to do. But not like this. That wasn’t part of the bargain. People had died, innocent people whom he had no right to draw into his drama, and nothing would ever make up for that.

  Tilden read the torment on Reilly’s face and stepped in. “With all due respect, Ispettore. I think we need to hear all the facts before any of us say something we might regret.”

  “I agree,” a voice chimed in from behind them.

  Cardinal Brugnone had walked into the room. Monsignor Bescondi, the prefect of the Vatican Secret Archives, was with him, seemingly recovered from the injection Reilly had given him. They weren’t smiling.

  Reilly found it hard to look them in the eye.

  “We need to know all the facts about why this outrage was allowed to take place,” Brugnone grumbled. “Agent Reilly—why don’t you tell us what you should have told us when you first arrived here?”

  Reilly felt the onset of a massive headache. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t even know all the facts myself. We need to hear from Tess—Miss Chaykin, out there—to get the whole picture.”

  “Why don’t we invite her in?” the cardinal suggested.

  “I’m not sure she’s up to that just yet,” Reilly said.

  The cardinal fixed him with a grave stare. “Why don’t we ask her about that?”

  Chapter 11

  It all started in Jordan,” Tess told the group in the room. Right now, it was the last thing she wanted to do. She still felt drained, and dredging up the memory of what happened was making her shiver. Still, she realized it was important. The men in the room—Reilly, Cardinal Brugnone, Inspector Delpiero, the archivist Bescondi, and the two detectives from the antiterrorist squad—they all needed to know what she’d been through. She had to do everything she could to help them catch the guy who was behind all this, and rescue Simmons, who, she hoped, had to still be alive. For how long, though, was something she didn’t really want to think about.

  “I was out there with another archaeologist, his name’s Jed Simmons. He’s got this dig going near Petra, he’s got Brown backing him, and—” She stopped, reminding herself to stick to what was relevant and not go off-piste. “Anyway, this Iranian historian showed up, someone who knew someone who knew Jed.”

  “Behrouz Sharafi,” Reilly noted.

  Tess nodded. “Yes. A sweet, quiet man. Thoughtful, and extremely well read too.” Reilly had told her what had happened to him, and the idea that he was dead made her shivers worse. She steeled herself and pressed on. “Sharafi needed help figuring something out. A contact of his had suggested he talk to Jed about it because—well, although Jed’s work in Petra was all about Nabataean cultural history, he’s also one of the most knowledgeable people on the planet when it comes to the Templars. That’s actually why I was there myself.”

  She noticed Brugnone stir and slide a glance at Reilly, as if things were starting to fall into place for him.

  “Tess—Miss Chaykin—she’s an archaeologist,” Reilly explained to the room. “A lapsed one, really. She’s now a novelist. And her first book was about the Templars.”

  “It’s historical fiction,” Tess specified, suddenly feeling the walls tightening in around her.

  She glanced around the room and noted Brugnone’s reaction. He seemed familiar with what she and Reilly had just mentioned.

  “Your book,” the cardinal mused, his eyes scrutinizing her. “It was rather well received, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It was.” Tess nodded, graciously but also somewhat uncomfortably. She knew what he meant. Although her novel, a thriller set during the Crusades, was perceived as nothing more than a work of historical fiction, she knew that Brugnone was well aware that the story within its pages wasn’t entirely borne from her imagination. She felt a pang of unease and tried to remind herself that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d stuck to what she and Reilly had agreed to—keeping it private, not talking about it, not telling anyone, particularly Brugnone and Reilly’s boss at the FBI, about what really happened in that storm and on that Greek island. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t use what she’d lived through and what she’d discovered about the Templars along the way as the basis of a novel—a pretty successful one, as it turned out, but one that only the most radically conspiracy-minded would ever think was based on real history. It had launched her into a new career and a new life, and it had also proven pleasantly cathartic for her.

  Until now.

  The cardinal held her gaze for an uncomfortable moment, then said, “Continue, please.”

  Tess took a sip from her bottle and shifted in her chair. “Sharafi had found something, in Istanbul, in the National Library. It was in the old Ottoman archives. He came across it by chance. He lived there, in Istanbul. He’d moved there from Tehran and he was teaching at a university, and being an expert on Sufism, he was digging into Sufi history in his spare time. He was a Sufi himself, you know.” Her lips still ached from the duct tape, and she was having trouble focusing. “Anyway, it was the perfect place for that line of research since that’s where it all started, in thirteenth-century Turkey, with Rumi and his poems.”

  “And he found something there that was Templar?” Brugnone asked, a gentle prod for her to get to it.

  “Sort of. He was rooting around in the old archives—you know they have literally tens of thousands of documents that are just stored there, waiting to be sorted out. All kinds of stuff. The Ottomans were maniacal archivists. Anyway, Sharafi came across a book. A substantial volume, nice tooled leather-bound covers, early fourteenth-century. It held the writings of a Sufi traveler that he hadn’t come across before. But it also had something else. Some loose vellum sheets had been tucked in under its bindings. Hidden from view for centuries. Sharafi spotted them, and naturally, he got curious. So without telling anyone or seeking permission, he pried them out. His first surprise was that they weren’t written in Arabic, like the book itself. They were in Greek. Medieval Greek. He copied down a few sentences and asked a colleague to translate them for him. The pages turned out to be a letter. Not just a letter … a confession. The confession of a monk who lived in a Byzantine Orthodox monastery.” She concentrated to recall its name. “The Monastery of Mount Argaeus.”

  She paused and glanced around, looking for any signs of recognition. No one seemed familiar with it.

  Bescondi, the prefect of the archives, leaned in. He seemed confused. “You’re saying this man Sharafi found the confession of a monk from a Byzantine monastery. What does that have to do with the Templars?”

  Only one word came to Tess’s lips.

  “Everything.”

  Chapter 12

  CONSTANTINOPLE

  MAY 1310

  Five hundred hyperpyra? That’s … that’s just outrageous,” the French bishop blurted.

  Conrad of Tripoli wasn’t moved. He held the old man’s gaze with the serenity of someone who had done this many times before, and shrugged. Not a cold, demeaning shrug. He made sure he maintained an air of con-geniality and, above all, respect. “We really shouldn’t be haggling over a few pieces of gold, Father. Not when it involves something this sacred.”

  They were seated at a discreet table, tucked away in a dark corner of a tavern in the district of Galata, a Genoese colony on the north shore of the Golden Horn. Conrad knew the owner of the tavern well and often conducted his business there. He could count on him to give him the privacy he needed and lend a hand if things got messy. Not that Conrad needed much help. He had seen more fighting and spilled more blood than most men could even imagine, but that was part of a long-gone past that he kept to himself.

  The gilded box sat squarely on the table. It was a small masterpiece with an embossed, floriated design on its side and a large cross on its lid. Inside, it was lined with frayed velvet cushioning that looked like it was centuries old. When Conrad had first presented the priest with the reliquary, the bones it housed had been
wrapped inside a sheet of vellum that bore the markings and seal of the Patriarch of Alexandria. They were now laid out on the padded base of the container, their ancient yellow-gray pallor contrasting vividly against the burgundy padding.

  The bishop’s thin, long-nailed fingers trembled as he reached out to touch the bones again. From the talus to the metatarsals, they were all there.

  “Sacred, indeed. The foot of Saint Philip,” he muttered, his eyes brimming with reverence. “The fifth apostle.” His fingers cut the air gently as he crossed himself yet again.

  “The man who kept preaching right to the bitter end, even while he was crucified upside down,” Conrad said. “A true martyr.”

  “How did you get hold of them?” the priest asked.

  “Please, Father. We are not in confession here, are we?” Conrad smiled, teasing him for a moment before leaning in and lowering his tone. “There are many crypts in this city. Under the Chapel of the Holy Virgin of Pharos, inside the walls of the Great Palace, at the church in Pammakaristos … if you know where to look, they’re there. The holiest of treasures, tucked out of harm’s way just before the great sack and now waiting to be unearthed and returned to their rightful glory. And as anyone will tell you, I know these dungeons like the back of my hand,” he smiled, raising his right hand. “But I need to know if you want these or not, Father. There are other buyers waiting … and I need the funding to continue my work if I’m ever going to lay my hands on the greatest treasure of them all.”

  The bishop’s eyes bulged wide. “What treasure it that?”

  Conrad leaned in closer. “The Mandylion,” he whispered.

  The bishop sucked in a sharp intake of breath and his face lit up. “The Mandylion of Edessa?”

  “The very same. And I think I’m close.”