The Templar Salvation (2010) (5 page)

The Iranian pointed down the aisle. “He looked that way when you mentioned the
fond
. Which fits. ‘T’ is the next letter.”

“We’ve got around twenty minutes before he wakes up, maybe less,” Reilly told him as he stalked down the aisle. “Let’s make them count.”

Chapter 3

T
ess Chaykin’s lungs hurt. So did her eyes. And her back. In fact, there wasn’t much of her that didn’t hurt.

How much longer are they going to keep me like this
?

She’d lost all sense of time—all sense of anything, for that matter. She knew her eyes were taped shut. As was her mouth. Her wrists too, behind her back. And her knees and ankles. A twenty-first-century mummy of shiny silver duct tape and—something else too. A soft, thick, padded cocoon, wrapped around her. Like a sleeping bag. She felt it with her fingers. Yes, that’s what it was. A sleeping bag. Which explained why she was drenched in sweat.

That was just about all she was sure of.

She didn’t know where she was. Not exactly, anyway. She felt like she was in a cramped space. A hot, cramped space. She thought she might be in the back of a van, or in the trunk of a car. She wasn’t sure of it, but she could hear the distorted, muffled sounds coming in through the tape around her ears. From outside. The sounds of a busy street. Cars, motorcycles, scooters, rumbling and buzzing past. But something about the sounds jarred her. Something felt out of place, wrong—but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

She concentrated, trying to ignore the heaviness in her head and break through the fog that was clouding her memory. Vague recollections started to take shape. She remembered being grabbed at gunpoint on the way into town from the dig in Petra, Jordan, all three of them—she, her friend Jed Simmons, and the Iranian historian who’d sought them out. What was his name? Sharafi. Behrouz Sharafi, that was it. She remembered being locked into some grotty, windowless room. Not long after that, her abductor had made her call Reilly, in New York. Then she’d been drugged, injected with something. She could still feel the prick in her arm. And that was it, the last thing she remembered—how long ago was it now? She had no idea. Hours. A whole day, maybe? More?

No idea.

She hated being in here. It was hot and cramped and dark and hard and smelled of, well, car trunk. Not like the trunk of some scuzzy old car that had all kinds of stinky residue wafting around. This car, if it was one, was clearly new—but still, unpleasant.

Her spirits sank further the more she thought about her predicament. If she was in the trunk of a car, and if she could hear noises outside … maybe she was on a public road. A sense of panic swelled up inside her.

What if I’ve just been dumped here, just left to rot?

What if no one ever realizes I’m in here?

A vein in her neck started throbbing, the duct tape around her ears turning them into echo chambers. Her mind raced wildly, spurred by the maddening internal drumbeat, wondering about how much air there was in there, how long she could survive without water or food, whether or not the tape might make her choke. She began to picture an agonizingly slow and horrific death, shriveling up from thirst and hunger and heat, just wasting away in a dark box as if she’d been buried alive.

The fear of it hit her like a bucket of ice water. She had to do something. She tried twisting around to change position, maybe get some leverage to try to kick up against the lid of the trunk or whatever the hell it was she was in—but she couldn’t move. Something was holding her down. She was pinned down, strapped into place by some kind of restraint that she could now feel was tugging against her shoulders and her knees.

She couldn’t move at all.

She stopped fighting against the ties and settled back, heaving a ragged sigh that echoed in her ears. Tears welled up in her eyes as the notion of death solidified around her. The beaming face of her thirteen-year-old daughter, Kim, broke through her despair and drifted into her consciousness, beckoning her. She imagined her back in Arizona, enjoying the summer at the ranch of Tess’s older sister, Hazel. Another face glided into the picture, that of her mother, Eileen, who was also there with them. Then their faces dissipated, and a cold and hollow feeling grew in her gut, the anger and remorse over leaving New York and coming out here, to the Jordanian desert, all those weeks ago, to research her next novel. The summer dig with Simmons, a contact of her old friend Clive Edmondson and one of the leading Templar experts around, seemed like a good idea at the time. Coming out to the desert would allow her to spend time with Clive and give her a chance to expand on all the Templar knowledge that was the backbone of her new career. Equally, if not more importantly, it would give her the space she needed to think things through on a more personal front.

And now this.

Tess’s regrets swooped across all kinds of dark territories as her mind settled on another face: Reilly’s. She felt sick with guilt, wondering what she’d led him into by making that call, wondering whether or not he was safe—and whether or not he’d ever find her. The thought triggered a spark of hope. She wanted to believe he would. But the spark died out as quickly as it had appeared. She knew she was kidding herself. He was a couple of continents away. Even if he tried—and she knew he would—he’d be out of his element, a stranger in a strange land. It wasn’t going to happen.

I can’t believe I’m going to die like this
.

A faint noise intruded—like everything else, annoyingly muffled, as if to torture her further. But she could tell that it was a siren. A police car, or an ambulance. It grew louder, raising her hopes with it—then faded away. It rattled her for another reason. It was a distinctive sound—all countries seemed to have their own signature sirens on their emergency vehicles. But something about this siren didn’t feel right. She couldn’t be sure of it, but she’d heard ambulance and police sirens during her spell in Jordan, and this one sounded different. Very different.

It was a sound she’d definitely heard before, but not in Jordan.

A ripple of fear swept across her.

Where the hell am I?

Chapter 4

ARCHIVE OF THE INQUISITION,VATICAN CITY

H
ow much longer do we have?” the Iranian historian asked as he discarded yet another thick leather-bound codex into the pile by his feet.

Reilly glanced at his watch and frowned. “It’s not a perfect science. He could wake up any second now.”

The man nodded nervously, droplets of sweat blooming all over his forehead. “Just one more shelf to go.” He adjusted his glasses and pulled out another bound set of folios, then, moving fast, untied the leather strap that held it shut.

“It’s got to be here, right?” Reilly was craning his head back for another look in the direction of the fallen priest and the air lock into the archive. Apart from the constant hum of the climate control system, all was quiet—for now.

“That’s what Simmons said. He was sure of it. It’s here somewhere.” He put down the ream of bound folios and picked up another volume.

The Templar
fond
occupied three entire shelves at the far end of the archive, eclipsing the
fondi
around it. Which wasn’t surprising. The affair had been the biggest political and religious scandal of its time. Various papal commissions and a small army of inquisitors had been assigned to look into the Order, from before the arrest warrants were issued in the fall of 1307 to the ultimate dissolution of the Order in 1312 and the burning of the last Grand Master in 1314. Although the Templars’ own archive had been lost—it was last known to have been in Cyprus, where it had been moved from Acre following the fall of the city in 1291—the Vatican had, over the course of its investigation, built up an extensive record of its own. Reports from roving inquisitors, transcripts of interrogations and confessions, witness statements, minutes of papal deliberations, lists of holdings and confiscated paperwork from Templar houses across Europe—it was all here, an exhaustive forensic account of the warrior-monks’ infamous end.

And, it seemed, it still had secrets lurking within its fading pages.

As if to confirm it, the historian turned, his face alight with excitement. “This is it.”

Reilly stepped in for a closer look. The Iranian was cradling a thick, leather-bound volume. It was heavy and cumbersome, the size of a large photo album. Its covers were tattered and brittle, the hardwood boards inside the tooled leather bindings peeking out from the corners. He had it open, exposing its first page. It was bare, except for a large, brown-and-purple stain in its bottom right corner—the result of a bacterial attack—and a title in its center:
Registrum Pauperes Commilitones Christi Templique Salomonis.

The Registry of the Templars.

“This is the one,” the professor insisted, turning the pages with careful strokes. Most of its linen-based paper leaves seemed to be covered with blocks of prose, written in a cursive Blackletter script. A few had crude maps on them, while on others were lists of names, places, dates, and other information Reilly couldn’t decipher.

“You’re sure?” Reilly asked. “We won’t get a second crack at this.”

“I think so. Simmons never actually saw it, but it’s just as he described it, I’m sure of it.”

Reilly took one last glance at the remaining volumes on the shelf and knew he had to trust Sharafi’s judgment. Precious seconds were flitting away. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”

Just then, a low groan echoed down the aisle from them. Reilly froze. The Vatican archivist was coming to. Keeping a vigilant eye out for any CCTV cameras he hadn’t spotted on his way in, Reilly sprinted down the narrow passageway and reached him just as he was straightening himself up. Bescondi leaned back against a shelf, mopping his face with his hands. Reilly bent down, closer to his face.

The archivist looked at him through confused, jittery eyes. “What … what happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Reilly put a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “You just blacked out there for a second. We were about to call for help.” He wasn’t enjoying the lie.

Bescondi looked lost, visibly trying to make sense of the situation. Reilly knew he wouldn’t remember anything—not yet, anyway. But he would. And soon.

“Stay there,” Reilly told him. “We’ll go get help.”

The archivist nodded.

Reilly shot Sharafi a “let’s-go” flick of the head, his eyes darting discreetly to the codex he was carrying.

The Iranian got the message. He tucked the bulky book under his arm, away from the archivist, as he sidestepped around him and followed Reilly.

They reached the air lock. The two sets of sliding doors seemed to mock them as they plodded through their slow, synchronized two-step—then the outer doors finally parted and Reilly and the Iranian professor were in the reception area. The guard was already on his feet and alert, his brow furrowed, clearly reading the urgent tension in their movement and wondering why the archivist wasn’t with them.

“Monsignor Bescondi—something happened to him, he just fainted,” Reilly blurted, pointing at the archive while doing his best to shield Sharafi from the guard’s sight line. “He needs a doctor.”

The guard reached for his radio with one hand while holding his arm out, the heel of his palm in Reilly and the Iranian’s faces, signaling them to stay put. “One moment,” he ordered.

Reilly didn’t let up. “He needs a doctor, do you understand? He needs one now,” he insisted, his finger still jabbing the air, trying to spur the guard into going through the air lock.

The guard hesitated, mindful about leaving the two visitors unattended but needing to check on the archivist, while—