The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (18 page)

With that reply, Gracián Santos was recruited into
Los Diablos de Santa Muerte.
No application required. However, as he quickly learned, there was an unwritten handbook full of rules that had to be strictly obeyed. On pain of death.

To an outsider, those rules harkened to a patriarchal Latin culture that idealized the notion of machismo. And Gracián admitted that you couldn’t get more macho than the Diablos initiation, one common to all Latino gangs – ‘jumping in’. It was a savage rite of passage, with new members forced to endure a brutal beating administered by three to six gang members. Vicious kicks. Full-face punches. A merciless barrage of flesh pounding on flesh. After which, if you survived the ordeal without crying out, the gang members would help the bloodied piñata to his feet and offer him a warm and hearty congratulation.
‘
Now you’re a homeboy! One of us. A real man.
’

At first, Gracián enjoyed the back-slapping camaraderie
and partying with his homies. Like all of the Diablos, Gracián
never
backed away from a stare or backed down from a challenge. And though he felt guilty about dealing drugs and extorting cash from hard-working Latinos, he never raised an objection for fear of crossing Felipe Torres, his crew leader. Unquestioning obedience was the Diablos’ first unwritten rule.

Which is why, when Felipe handed Gracián a serrated knife and ordered him to ‘silence’ a rival gang member – and bring back the proof – Gracián was forced to commit the most gruesome act he could have ever imagined. When he’d first joined the Diablos, he knew that the gang motto
‘Blood in, blood out’
wasn’t an empty expression. He’d always accepted that the day would come when he’d be forced to kill someone to prove his unswerving fidelity. He’d just assumed that his initiation kill would be something impersonal, like a drive-by shooting. A murderous act that happened in a speeding blur and could be easily forgotten.

Terrified that he wouldn’t be able to follow through on Felipe’s order, an act of cowardice that would lead to his own execution, Gracián smoked enough crack cocaine to desensitize him to what he was about to do.

But, as he’d discovered, nothing can desensitize a man to hearing a victim’s hideous shrieks. Or to feeling the warm blood that splattered on to his cheeks as he ‘silenced’ the rival gang member by severing his head from his neck.

The guilt that ensued in the weeks and months that followed was like a festering wound that wouldn’t heal, Gracián plagued by nightmares and night sweats. He desperately wanted to quit the gang, but couldn’t. Membership was for life.
Blood in, blood out.
The only way to leave was in a pine box.

Too late, he realized that he’d thrown in his lot with a pack of maladaptive psychopaths who collectively suffered from a dangerous sense of entitlement, the homies all bloodthirsty maniacs who would beat, maim or kill with a disturbing lack of remorse. While they proudly considered themselves ‘warriors’, the Diablos were little more than feral animals.

A few months after his grisly initiation kill, Gracián was arrested and charged with being an accessory in an armed robbery. Although he was only sixteen years of age, he was tried as an adult and sentenced to five years at Sing Sing, the maximum security prison in Ossining, New York.

It was there – behind the high concrete walls and razor-wire fences – that his life would again change dramatically in an unforeseen way.

‘She says that she doesn’t eat meat because she’s a Hindu. What do you want me to do, G-Dog?’

‘Hmm?’ Hurled out of his dark reverie, Gracián turned away from the window, surprised to see Jacko Maciel standing in the doorway of his office.

Jacko was one of the six former Diablo gang members who worked in the Fellowship’s maintenance department. Because of their criminal records, no other employer would hire them, but Gracián was unable to turn his back on the young men. Despite their protestations to the contrary, he suspected that the only reason the Diablos remained at Sanguis Christi Fellowship was because they’d been placed on some crew leader’s hit list and sought safe haven in Dutchess County.

Having taken on the role of father figure, Gracián was hopeful that, in time, the Diablos would repent their heinous sins and open their hearts to the Lord.

However, given all that had transpired in the last week, he was no longer certain that a religious conversion was on the horizon. The stain was too dark.

Biting back a joyful yelp
, Edie watched as Caedmon unlimbered his tall frame from the motorized rickshaw.

‘
Caedmon! I’m over here!’ she hollered, waving an arm in the air to get his attention. She’d been sitting at the pool for the last two hours waiting for his return.

Overcome with relief, she leapt fr
om her poolside deckchair and ran across the dimly lit hotel lawn towards the front veranda, heedless of the fact that she was attired in a red bikini, a colorful sarong wrapped around her waist. While it was perfectly proper attire for the pool, it wasn’t so proper for the rest of the hotel, Indians a modest bunch.

She met
Caedmon on the circular drive in front of the lobby entrance. About to hurl herself at his chest, she pulled up short.

‘Ohmygod
! Where have you been?’ Horrified by his battered appearance, she gently touched his face, shocked to see dried blood on his temple and smeared all over his shirt front.

‘
The correct question is “Where haven’t I been?” A trip to hell and back would have been an easier jaunt.’

‘Let’s go sit by the pool and you can tell me what happened,’ she said, taking him by the arm. As she led him across the lawn, she wondered if he had any idea how worried she’d been. Having spent the last several hours on tenterhooks, she’d been on the verge of contacting the local authorities when the rickshaw pulled up to the hotel.

Grunting softly, Caedmon eased himself into a deckchair.

In nursing mode, Edie snatched her water bottle and a clean napkin. Soaking the cloth, she used it to clean the gash on his temple. ‘
The next time that you go off the reservation, I’d appreciate a phone call or text message –’ she glanced pointedly at the mobile phone in plain view on the tabletop –‘
anything
to let me know that you’re okay.’

‘Why are you so upset? It’s not as though we’re joined at the hip. Furthermore,
I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’ As if to prove that very point, he shoved her hand aside.

‘Well and good, but I still worry about you.’ The reason why she’d called him,
repeatedly
, finally abandoning the effort when she surmised that he’d turned off his mobile.

To Edie’s surprise,
Caedmon suddenly reached for the hand he’d only just spurned. ‘I’m sorry, love. You’re right. I should have called with an update,’ he said contritely. ‘Ever since Gita showed up in Paris, my gut’s been twisted in a Gordian knot.’

Hoping to mitigate the awkward interlude, Edie slid a plate of fresh fruit in front of him. She’d ordered the mangos, melons and bananas a short while ago, but had barely touched the plate, too upset to eat. ‘
So, tell me what happened. Did you speak to the guy with the moustache?’

Caedmon
forked a cube of mango. ‘Ah! You’re referring to Hector Calzada.’

‘You found out his name.
That’s great!’ she enthused, relieved that he’d made some progress. ‘What else did you learn?’

‘I learned a great many things.’
For several long seconds, Caedmon stared at the palm fronds that rimmed the edge of the pool before saying, ‘Anala was abducted by three young Latin-American men, all of whom hail from New York City. Moreover, they’re working under the tutelage of a Catholic priest.’

‘So then the
bad guy really does dress in black.’

‘No surprise there. The
history of the Catholic Church is saturated with blood and gore. The stuff of legends.’ Scowling, he speared a piece of watermelon on to the end of his fork. ‘And though it took a bit of coaxing, I managed a Skype call with the duplicitous priest.’

‘Did you ask him for an extension on the deadline?’

‘I did. And the request was promptly denied.’

Hearing that, Edie shook her head, baffled. ‘I don’t get it. The Catholic Church has been searching for the
Evangelium Gaspar
for the last seven hundred years. Now, suddenly, they have to have it in five days’ time.’

‘A fact which makes me sick t
o the back teeth.’ Finished with the fruit plate, Caedmon shoved it aside.

‘I also have an update,’ Edie said, reaching for her iPad computer. ‘Earlier today,
Gita stopped by the hotel to share some very interesting research pertaining to Fortes de Pinós.’

Caedmon
sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Enlighten me. Please. I’m in dire need of some uplifting news.’

Happy to comply, Edie pulled up the genealogy chart that Gita had discovered online. ‘
It turns out that our fourteenth-century Knights Templar has a twenty-first-century direct descendant: a Spaniard named Luis Fidelis de Pinós who happens to be the twelfth Marqués de Bagá.’

‘How could Fortes de Pinós have a direct descendant? The Knights Templar were a celibate order.’

Sliding her chair a few inches closer to his, Edie showed Caedmon the genealogy chart. ‘As you can see, in the year 1279, when he was eighteen years old, Fortes got married. He and the missus then had four children. Ten years later, his wife died. At which point in time, he joined the Knights Templar.’

Caedmon
stared pensively at the iPad. ‘Since widowers were allowed to join the order, it does explain how a man who took a vow of celibacy could have a direct heir.’

‘Funny that you should mention the word “heir”,’ Edie replied, pulling up the next computer file, a news article from the English language edition of
El País
, a leading Spanish newspaper. ‘According to this article, the Marqués de Bagá runs an organization headquartered in Madrid called the Sovereign Order of the Temple.’

His lips twisted into a sarcastic sneer. ‘
Fancy themselves to be latter-day Knights Templar, do they?’

‘
Do they ever,’ she said with a vigorous nod, having spent several hours online researching the group. ‘Not only do the members of the Sovereign Order of the Temple claim to be the rightful heirs of the medieval Knights Templar, they recently filed documents in the Spanish court system to sue the Vatican for return of all property and valuables stolen from Spanish Templar preceptories in the wake of the fourteenth-century
auto-da-fé.
Assets which the Marqués claims are worth twenty billion euros.’

‘
Even if Jesus Christ himself adjudicated the case, the Sovereign Order of the Temple will never win their case,’ Caedmon said. ‘The Vatican has an army of canon lawyers at their disposal; legal sharks who’ll ensure the Holy See doesn’t relinquish one euro of their ill-gotten gains. While it makes for a headline-grabbing news story, I suspect the Marqués de Bagá is nothing more than a Spaniard looking to make an easy haul.’

‘
Not necessarily,’ she countered. ‘The Marqués has publicly stated that he has no desire to financially ruin the Vatican. He merely wants to bring to the public’s attention the maniacal plot instigated against the Knights Templar in 1307 which culminated in the order’s ignominious downfall. Personally, I think it’s highly significant that this man is a descendant of Fortes de Pinós.’

Staring at the iPad,
Caedmon pushed out a deep breath. ‘I agree. Even if the Marqués de Bagá has no knowledge of the
Evangelium Gaspar
, he may be able to provide us with some useful information regarding his ancestor
.
’

‘My thinking exactly.
So, let’s go to Madrid and put the screws on him. Figuratively speaking,’ she amended a split-second later, her gaze darting to Caedmon’s bloodstained shirt. ‘I already checked the airline schedule. There’s a flight that leaves for Madrid in four hours’ time.’

‘Although a Spanish aristocrat thirty generations removed is a bit of a dark horse, at the moment it’s the only nag in the race.’
Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, Caedmon wearily pushed himself to his feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going up to our hotel room to take a shower before we leave for the airport.’

‘
I think I’ll stay out here a bit longer.’

‘
Right.’

Her heart in her throat, Edie watched as
Caedmon made his way to the hotel’s front entrance. Stoic though he might be, he was going through an emotional crisis.

One that she feared would tear him asunder.

Porta Sant’Anna, The Vatican

‘Rome, sweet Rome,’ Cardinal Franco Fiorio muttered under his breath as he sidestepped the cluster of jabbering, finger-pointing tourists who blocked his path.