The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (19 page)

Wrinkling his nose at the noxious fumes belched by a passing motorbike, he
crossed Via di Porta Angelica and headed towards the Borgo. Not only did all roads lead to the Eternal City, but they were often congested with a jostling mix of the faithful, bibles and rosaries in hand; wide-eyed tourists; and the increasingly rude rabble. The thundering herd, as Franco secretly referred to them.

Despite the fact that Roman Catholics around the world were in the midst of the
novemdiales
,
the official nine days of mourning that began after Pope Pius XIII’s Requiem Mass, the lively crowds appeared far from bereaved. Last week’s grief had clearly dissipated, replaced with a flurry of anticipation over the upcoming conclave.

That air of expectancy had invaded the
papal city as well, turning it into a viper’s nest of jockeying cardinals working their ‘constituency’. All very subtle, of course, no one wanting to be accused of campaigning for the papacy. Nonetheless, Vatican City was abuzz with whispers. Rumors. Spies everywhere. Plotting and scheming how best to position their candidate.

A lone wolf, Franco didn’t trust anyone within the Leonine Walls.

Slipping a hand into his breast pocket, he removed a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses. To the casual observer, he was a short, stocky, balding priest, dressed in a black clerical suit with a Roman collar. But to those with a more attentive eye, the pectoral cross that hung from the chain around his neck was the telltale clue that Franco Fiorio was, in fact, a Prince of the Church. One who’d left the castle grounds for an early-evening stroll down Borgo Pio, a narrow cobblestone lane teeming with cafés and family-owned businesses. Like several other prelates, he chose to reside in the Borgo rather than the papal city.

Feeling his
mobile phone vibrate, Franco unclipped it from his waist and checked the display screen. Annoyed that the Vice-Prefect had sent a text message regarding a misplaced engineering memo, Franco deleted it. He’d hoped that it was another status report from Father Gracián Santos. Earlier, he’d received a most enlightening update – the medieval scholar Caedmon Aisquith was the abducted girl’s father. A thrilling turn of events that convinced Franco that the Hand of Providence was orchestrating events. He’d promptly ordered Father Santos to question the girl and ascertain if she knew anything about the Knights Templar or the
Evangelium Gaspar.

As he made his way to his favorite café, Franco passed two young Roman women
garbed in what, fifty years ago, would have been considered suitable attire for a pair of streetwalkers. While more than a few clerics slyly enjoyed the bouncing, jiggling displays, Franco was disgusted with the short skirts and cleavage-bearing tops worn by so many women. Ever since the sweeping mandates of Vatican II went into effect in the 1960s, untold numbers of Catholics had succumbed to a moral depravity. And because the Church had, for all intents and purposes, turned a blind eye, Catholics in ever-increasing numbers were using birth control, getting divorced and eschewing the sacraments with apathetic regularity.

Too many Catholics lack the ardent faith of the Church Fathers
.

Shoulders slumped
with fatigue, Franco seated himself at a vacant table shaded by a white canvas umbrella, setting his attaché case on an empty chair. No sooner had he removed his sunglasses than a waiter garbed in a vermillion gold waistcoat placed a glass of sparkling prosecco on the table. The management knew his daily routine and always took care to have his preferred table and his favorite aperitif ready for him.

‘
Will there be anything else,
Excellenza
?’

‘
No, that will be all. Thank you, Giovanni.’

Sitting at the café and
savoring a glass of prosecco was the only part of his day when, for a few brief moments, Franco could be, not a man of God, but a man of the people. Able to enjoy the fabled
dolce vita.

Raising the
glass to his lips, Franco took an appreciative sniff. By no stretch of the imagination was this the life that he’d dreamed about as a boy growing up in Baltimore, Maryland. His father, Sal, a second-generation Italian-American, had proudly fought in the ‘Big One’, as he called it, with the US Fifth Army. While stationed in southern Italy, he fell in love with sixteen-year-old Rosella de Luca, convincing the young beauty to marry him. Even though Rosella ran off with the spindly-legged corporal, she never made a secret of the fact that she had big dreams. Big American dreams. But as the years passed and those dreams remained unfulfilled, Rosella was forced into taking matters into her own hands.

A
devout Catholic, his mother belatedly realized that the Church could provide their working-class family with the social status she so fervently desired. Soon it wasn’t enough to attend early-morning Mass
every
morning. Her two sons had to become altar boys at Fourteen Holy Martyrs Church, her husband had to take on a leadership role within the Knights of Columbus, and Rosella, who overcame the acute self-consciousness that she suffered because of her broken English, became heavily involved in local Catholic charities.

To Rosella’s unmitigated delight, ‘Campaign Piety’
, as Sal had dubbed it, was entirely successful. In no time at all, Father McCarty was coming round for dinner on a regular basis and, even more significant, Monsignor Hellerman would occasionally stop by for coffee. And, joy of joys, his mother was invited to join Our Lady of Perpetual Help Rosary Club, a small group of Catholic ladies who gathered once a week to pray, drink coffee, eat sugary pastries and make rosaries for Catholics in third-world countries.

Between daily Mass and entertaining parish priests, the Fiorios lived a
typical Roman Catholic existence. Until the
miraculous
event occurred. One that would forever change their lives and have a far-reaching influence.

The unexpected event happened on a Saturday morning in mid-May
while Rosella was outside planting a bed of petunias in their postage-stamp of a backyard. It was there that she was blinded by a flash of bright light. Although the day had started out clear and sunny, she was suddenly shrouded by a vaporous mist infused with the scent of roses. A beautiful woman, garbed in an immaculate white robe, her head modestly covered with a long blue veil, appeared in the mist. Rosella, awestruck, was rendered speechless. Several seconds later, the diaphanous lady abruptly vanished, smoke and all.

The only thing that remained was the lingering scent of
damask rose.

Awestruck
, certain that she’d been the recipient of a divine visitation by the Blessed Virgin Mary, Rosella excitedly regaled everyone at Fourteen Holy Martyrs Church.

Much to the parishioners acute discomfort.

A few of the women in the Rosary Club even went so far as to intimate that the ‘vision’ may have been a figment of Rosella Fiorio’s vivid Italian imagination.

Fearing suddenly that the divine visitation would invite disdain
ful gossip, Franco’s mother immediately made a large withdrawal from the family savings account and used the money to purchase a four-foot-high painted plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The statue was prominently installed on a pedestal in the front hallway. Rosella then nagged Sal into building a small altar in front of the statue so that she could illuminate Our Lady with devotional candles set into little red glass holders. It was all part of his mother’s heartfelt attempt to lure the Blessed Virgin into making another appearance. Which she obligingly did, eight months later.

The second visitation happened late one night
as Rosella was praying the rosary in front of the statue. His mother claimed later that she’d involuntarily fallen asleep and was suddenly awakened when she fell off the velvet kneeler. In the next instant, the beautiful lady, cloaked in radiant beams of light, appeared near the stair landing.

Several moments passed in enraptured silence. Then, extending her right hand in Rosella’s direction, the beautiful lady said, in a soft melodic voice,
‘My Son and your son.’

Message delivered, the lady dematerialized in a quick flash of light, leaving behind thirteen
red rose petals scattered on the stair landing. The fact that it was the middle of January convinced their parish priest, Father McCarty, that a blessed event had indeed occurred. ‘
The white roses in Paradise all blushed red when kissed by the Virgin Mary
,’
he had informed everyone in a hushed, reverential tone of voice.

Vindicated, his mother became something of a local celebrity. At least in Roman Catholic circles.

Not exactly certain what to make of his mother’s visitation, Franco, along with his father and brother Angelo, were baffled by the message given to Rosella – ‘My Son and your son.’

What did it mean?

Rosella Fiorio wasn’t the least bit confused by the divine communication. She knew
exactly
what it meant. And as Franco was soon to discover, those five fateful words would have momentous consequences for the entire Fiorio family.

Finished with his
prosecco,
the Prefect of the Secret Archives set his glass on the table, signaling to the waiter that he was ready to take his leave.

Even now, fifty-
four years after the fact, those five words still reverberated.

Continually reminding Franco that he was the chosen one. A Defender of the Faith. Commissioned by God to save His holy Church here on earth.

‘
The Knights Templar!
’ Anala Patel exclaimed. ‘Are you daft?’

Squinting her eyes, she
peered at the dark silhouette barely visibly behind the bright lamp. A few moments ago, the strange man, whom the guard called ‘G-Dog’, had entered the paneled room and begun to question her.

‘
What would make you think that my mother knows
anything
about the Knights Templar? Her field of expertise is Indian culture. Obviously, you kidnapped the wrong daughter,’ Anala added, beginning to suspect that she was the victim of a horrible blunder.

But as horrible as her predicament was, she couldn’t even imagine the emotional tumult that her mother was suffering.
All because some idiot abducted the wrong person.

How could this have happened?

As her mother’s image took shape in her mind’s eyes, Anala unwillingly recalled their last heated argument, her eyes quickly filling with remorseful tears. Drawing her knees to her chin, she bent her head and sniffled, embarrassed that the quiz master was witnessing her teary-eyed moment of weakness.

‘
It would seem that your mother is keeping secrets from you.’

Hearing that, Anala raised her head and stared into the gleaming light, the man’s meaning so opaque as to be incomprehensible. The fact that she couldn’t see
G-Dog’s face only added to her confusion.

Step out where I can see you, you bloody coward! I’m a
defenseless woman. What are you afraid of?

‘Earlier I spoke to your father and he informed me that he’s a Templar scholar.’

‘
What!?
’ Anala practically screeched, the interrogation having just taken a very bizarre turn.

Does my
abduction actually have something to do with Dev Malik?

Even as she thought it, Anala instantly ruled out the possibility. She hadn’t seen her father in nearly twenty years, the man
having turned his back on her and her mother.

Certain now that the abduction was a case of mistaken identity,
Anala said, ‘Dev Malik is a computer engineer. As I said, you’ve abducted the wrong person.’

‘No mistake has been made,’ G-Dog retorted in his slightly accented voice. ‘The resemblance between you and
Caedmon Aisquith, particularly in the eyes, is too strong to be a mere coincidence.’

‘First of all, I don’t know anyone named
Caedmon Aisquith. Secondly, lots of people have blue eyes, none of whom I am related to. And, thirdly, I would be flabbergasted to discover that Dev Malik knows
anything
about the Knights Templar.’

‘Stop lying to me,’ the disembodied voice snapped. ‘According to your father’s web page, he has a graduate degree in medieval studies from
Oxford University where, I presume, he met your mother.’

‘How could my parents have met at
Oxford? Dev Malik attended the Indian Institute of Technology in New Delhi and –’ . . .
and he has dark brown eyes.

Anala’s mouth gaped, sails slackened.

Granted, she’d always wondered how she’d ended up with baby blues since neither of her parents had blue eyes. She’d just assumed that it was a freak accident of nature. Even though, according to a biology course she once took, it was genetically impossible for a woman with hazel-green eyes and a man with brown eyes to produce a blue-eyed offspring. While her maternal grandmother, an Englishwoman, was blue-eyed, her father would still have had to contribute a dominant gene for blue eyes.