The Templar Cross (24 page)

At the embassy Holliday went through security while Rafi and Tidyman waited at a table under the awning at the Café de Paris across the street. Almost an hour later, Holliday reappeared and joined his companions at the café. Acting on the advice he’d been given at the embassy, they took another taxi through the hectic downtown area and headed northwest. Skirting the high walls of the Holy See, they were eventually dropped off in front of the Alimandi Hotel at Viale Vaticano, 99.

The five-story building, once a police station and then a police association retirement home, had been refurbished into a four-star hotel complete with a roof garden restaurant that looked directly across at the ornate main entrance through the high walls to the Vatican Museums and the Sistine Chapel.

“So how exactly is this going to work?” Rafi asked as they settled into their suite of rooms. Holliday stepped out onto the balcony and looked out onto the Vatican rooftops. Part of the church since the time of Constantine more than fifteen hundred years ago, it was exactly what it appeared to be, a fortress state guarded by high stone walls and two thousand years of tradition—as well as being the single largest corporate entity in the world. And he was about to take it on.
I must be out of my mind,
he thought.

Holliday let out a long breath and felt an itch at the back of his throat—a sense memory of a time when he’d smoked two packages of unfiltered Camel cigarettes a day. Standing there in the warm afternoon light he knew he could start again in an instant, even though it had been almost twenty years. He glanced down at the cobblestone plaza in front of the high arched entrance through the wall. Souvenir carts and ice cream vendors were parked in front of the entrance like remora cleaning the teeth of a cruising shark. He sighed again and turned back into the room.

“So how is this going to work?” Rafi asked again.

“Maybe it’s not,” answered Holliday.

“You really think Peggy is in there?” Rafi said.

“Probably not, but the way to get her back is.”

“And how are we to work this act of magic?” Tidyman asked, dropping down into a silk-covered armchair.

Holliday turned back to the view out the doors leading to the balcony.

“First we have to find the right bird, then tempt it out of its cage so it can sing.”

“So how do we find the bird?” Tidyman asked.

“Call it,” said Holliday.

In the end it turned out to be remarkably easy. An initial telephone call to the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology on the Via Napoleone III and mentioning his own name, the name of Sodalitium Pianum and Walter Rauff all in the same sentence elicited a polite callback, which in turn led to a second call from the Second Section of the Vatican Secretary of State’s office thanking Holliday for his interest and suggesting that in furtherance of his interests a visit to the Gregorian Egyptian Museum on the following day at noon might be in order. It wasn’t stated in the conversation but the implication was clear: he should come alone if he had any expectations of “furthering his interests.”

“Are you actually going alone?” Rafi asked.

“Of course not,” answered Holliday. “I want you to tail me and Emil to tail you. They’ll almost certainly have me under surveillance, but let’s see just how deep it goes.”

Rafi went down to the souvenir stands on the other side of the Viale Vaticano and purchased floor plan guides of the Vatican Museums for all of them. The Gregorian Egyptian Museum was located one floor above the main entrance and was reached by climbing the famous spiral staircase used in the final murder montage in
The Godfather: Part III
. The three men would enter the museum at five-minute intervals and stay well apart at all times. It wasn’t foolproof but it was the best they could do.

At eleven thirty the following morning Holliday left the hotel, crossed the street and went through the high arched entrance in the high stone wall. He purchased the required tickets for the museum, then climbed one flight up the broad winding stairway. Reaching the main floor, he turned to his left and went down a short hallway, following the signs to the rooms containing the Egyptian Museum. He found a bench across from a display case of funerary urns and sat down to wait.

A few minutes later a man in a dark suit sat down beside him. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed with cheek and chin grayed with five o’clock shadow. His English was flat and without accent. His shoes were black, highly polished, and looked very expensive. Why was it that he’d never seen a priest in cheap shoes?

“You’re Colonel Holliday?”

He hadn’t used his rank when he’d called on the telephone.

“You know I am.”

“What is it that you want?”

“You know exactly what I’m after,” answered Holliday.

A younger man walked in front of them, another priest, this one carrying an attaché case, which was a bit strange since any kind of backpack or parcel had to be left at the coat check downstairs on the admissions floor. As the younger man passed he shook his head briefly and continued on. The older man on the bench beside Holliday seemed to relax. He nodded his head toward the display of funerary jars in a glass display case across from where they sat.

“An odd people, don’t you think, Colonel? Dividing up the body into its separate parts before burial.”

“Like the Nazis separating Jews into their separate parts to get the gold from their teeth,” said Holliday.

“A cumbersome analogy, but I presume you’re referring to Colonel Rauff,” replied the man beside him on the bench.

“Standartenführer Rauff, you mean,” said Holliday. “He wasn’t regular army—he was S.S.”

“I suppose you would be able to make such distinctions,” murmured the other man.

“Just who are you?” Holliday asked.

“You can call me Thomas,” said the man.

“Doubting Thomas?” Holliday said.

“If you like,” answered the man, smiling lightly. “Now, how can the Church be of help?”

“The church can give me back my cousin.”

“Your cousin?”

“Peggy Blackstock. The photographer who accompanied your expedition into Libya led by a man named Charles- Étienne Brasseur. They were supposed to be looking for the tomb of Imhotep. They were actually looking for a shipment of bullion flown out of Germany in 1944 on a captured American bomber named
Your Heart’s Desire
.”

“Your information seems very detailed,” answered Father Thomas, still smiling blandly.

“The answers are always in the details,” said Holliday.

“As I understand it from the newspaper reports Father Brasseur and the rest of the expedition are being held hostage by a terrorist group known as the Brotherhood of Isis.”

“The Brotherhood is a crock and neither Peggy nor Brasseur is being held hostage by them. Two days ago they were seen getting into a helicopter on Santo Stefano Island about fifty miles south of here.”

“Seen by whom?” Father Thomas said.

“Me,” Holliday answered bluntly.

“Really?” Father Thomas said. “You are a resourceful man, Colonel Holliday, to know such things.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” said Holliday. “Peggy and your man Brasseur were in the company of a thug named Massimo Conti. He works for a criminal organization known as La Santa. The same people who were apparently transporting the Rauff bullion out of Libya and into Marseille. Your hirelings, in fact, just like Pesek and Kay, the husband-and-wife team who took out Valador.

“It took us a while but my friends and I finally figured it out. Alhazred found the gold that the Vatican ratlines lost in 1944. He got in touch and you did a deal, but you betrayed him. The only trouble is Alhazred had already hidden the gold again. Now Alhazred’s disappeared and so has the bullion.”

“A fanciful tale, Colonel.”

“But pretty close to the truth, I’ll bet.”

Father Thomas let out a long-suffering sigh. “So, you have a proposition?”

“Give us Peggy, we give you the gold. About three tons of it, by my calculations. That would finance a lot of your nasty little group’s operations for a while.”

“And what nasty little group are you referring to?” Father Thomas asked mildly.

“You’ve had a lot of names over the years,” said Holliday. “During the time of the Templars you were known as Organum Sanctum, the Instrument of God. During the twenties and thirties you were called Sodalitium Pianum, the Brotherhood of Pius. During the Cold War it was Propaganda Due. The Church has always needed plausible denial, like Nixon’s Watergate plumbers. You’re it, whatever you call yourself, the Vatican’s version of an arm’s-length CIA. Bullyboys answerable to no one. In the twelfth century Henry the Second said, ‘Who will rid me of this troublesome priest,’ and four guys just like you went out and murdered Thomas à Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury. Ax men. Every big corporation needs them. You’re up to your ears in it. Holy crap, as Peggy would say.”

“Why would an extraordinary organization such as the one you suggest have any interest in kidnapping a news photographer like Miss Blackstock?” Father Thomas replied.

“Ask the bald guy who was on the helicopter, the one who almost beat my friend Rafi to death a year ago. Ask the dead guy in that back alley in Jerusalem, the one who tried to kill me and Peggy because of the Templar sword. You knew what the real secret of the Templars was even then: the secret was their continued existence, the secret contained in that little book Helder Rodrigues gave me as he lay dying. Ten thousand connections to a trillion dollars in assets. A great deal of power for anyone who could wield it.
That’s
why you kidnapped Peggy when the opportunity fell right into your laps. Bait. You knew I’d come looking for her and you were right.” Holliday stood up. “Well, here I am,” he said. “Make your play.”

“Do you have proof of any of these peculiar allegations?” Father Thomas asked calmly, staring up at him.

“I don’t need proof,” said Holliday. “I’ve got the gold.”

Father Thomas stood. “You’re at the Alimandi Hotel?”

“Just across the street.”

“We’ll be in touch shortly,” said Father Thomas. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel Holliday.” The priest turned on one expensive heel and walked away.

“Did they buy it?” Rafi asked when they met back at the hotel.

“Some of it,” said Holliday. “I think they were worried that I was wired.”

“The man with the attaché case?” Tidyman asked.

“I think so,” Holliday said and nodded. “Carrying a bug detector in the briefcase.”

“They’re being careful,” said Rafi.

“They could stonewall till the cows came home,” said Holliday. “That’s what worries me. They know we’ve got more to lose than they do. They don’t have to play along at all.”

“I’m not sure of that,” mused Tidyman, sipping a cup of excellent room service coffee. “These people are greedy, just like others of their kind. Like Alhazred. Like the unfortunate Mr. Valador of Marseille, the one smuggling the gold.”

“Which makes them very dangerous,” reminded Holliday. “Our Czech assassins Pesek and Kay put a hatpin through Valador’s brain, remember? They tried to kill me and Peggy once—they’ll try again, I guarantee it.”

“Certainly,” agreed Tidyman. “Greed makes people dangerous. It also makes them vulnerable. And that is how we win this game, my friend; we play to their vulnerabilities.”

Father Thomas called the following morning to arrange another meeting.

“We were on your turf before,” said Holliday. “How about somewhere else this time?”

“Where do you suggest?” Father Thomas asked. Holliday could hear the muffled sound of traffic in the background. Thomas was on a cell phone, probably sitting in a car.

“You could come here,” said Holliday.

“I think not, Colonel,” the priest replied with a laugh.

“You’re welcome to bring along your techno-geek with the attaché case. We’ve got nothing to hide,” said Holliday.

“As the Beatles were so fond of saying, Colonel Holliday, everyone’s got something to hide except me and my monkey.”

“All right then,” said Holliday. “How about a restaurant? They’ve got a nice roof garden here.”

“Again too close for comfort,” said the priest. “And too well known. Somewhere a little more discreet, perhaps.”

“There’s a pizzeria around the corner,” suggested Holliday. “On the Via Candia. It’s called Piacere Molise, a little family place.”

“You know Rome, Colonel?” For the first time the priest seemed surprised.

“We ate dinner there last night,” explained Holliday. “The concierge at the hotel suggested it.”

There was a moment’s silence. Holliday could hear the up-and-down wail of a siren coming over the phone. He could also hear it coming through the open balcony doors. The priest was close by. They were being watched.

“All right,” said Father Thomas. “When?”

“Early,” replied Holliday. “It gets crowded quickly. Five okay?”

“Of course,” answered Father Thomas.

“How many do I make reservations for?”

“I shall be bringing a colleague,” said Father Thomas.

“The techno-geek?” Holliday smiled.

“Yes, but only briefly. The other man will be a principal in our discussions.”

“You mind if I bring a friend along?” Holliday said.

“The more the merrier,” answered the priest. There was a smile in his voice again. “It’s always wise to know one’s enemies.”

Via Candia was a nondescript street of old apartment blocks with shops and restaurants carved out of their ground floors over the years. Piacere Molise was located in a salmon-colored building at number 60, across from a knockoff perfume store and a knockoff sportswear store. It was late summer, and by five o’clock, with the exception of the restaurants and coffee shops, most of the stores had drawn their gates and rolling shutters. The cars parked at the curb were uniformly small and relatively cheap; Via Candia appeared to cater to the middle class; the men and women on the streets were all dressed like secretaries and clerks. There didn’t seem to be many children.