The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (2 page)

Unobtrusively slipping out of formation, Franco silently observed the various cliques. Heads bent, red-clad shoulders hunched, the same topic was being discussed in each tight-knit cluster. The soon-to-be-elected new pope, as t
he leader of more than a billion Catholics worldwide, would be an important figure in the religious and political arenas. If the right man was selected, he could become a game-changing figure on the world stage.

And so it had
begun. The jockeying. The scheming. The arm-twisting.
You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

Like his brethren, Franco was also planning for the upcoming conclave.

As the Prefect of the Archivo Segreto Vaticano
– the Secret Archives of the Vatican – he’d examined the texts and codices safeguarded in the underground vaults and locked cabinets. In so doing, he’d fatefully happened upon the Templar trial records pertaining to the
Evangelium Gaspar.
An ancient gospel, it predated the four canonical gospels by several decades. Reason enough for a high-ranking Knights Templar named Fortes de Pinós to have embarked on an incredible sea voyage, searching for the
Evangelium Gaspar
in India, of all places. According to the Templar trial records, the
Evangelium Gaspar
contained ‘The Great Heresy’, a truth that was decidedly more profane than sacred. And one that, should it ever surface, would not only implode the Holy See, but change the course of human history.

During the Middle Ages, the Dominican inquisitors tried, in vain, to unearth the gospel. But Franco, unlike the Dominicans, had the advantage of the digital age with a wealth of information at his fingertips. He also had something else – a cadre of men at his disposal who were far more ruthless than the fourteenth-century inquisitors.

A learned man who knew how to seize the initiative, not unlike Machiavelli’s perfectly conceived prince, the Prefect knew that ‘no enterprise is more likely to succeed than one concealed from the enemy until it is ripe for execution’.

Four days ago the bitter fruit had suddenly ripened – in that euphoric instant when his longstanding enemy, Pope Pius XIII, had unexpectedly thrown off the mortal coil.

Fort Cochin, India

17 August, 0806h

‘It’s not too late to apply to the London School of Economics.’

Anala Patel stared at her mother, flabbergasted by the suggestion. ‘
And then what? Become an investment banker?’ Shaking her head, she defiantly folded her arms across her chest. ‘In order to change society for the better, we have to change our political thinking. That’s why I intend to do my graduate work at Oxford’s Department of Politics and International Relations.’

‘This might surprise you, but I don’t particularly relish the notion of my daughter leading the charge to change the world.’ Her mother punctuated the avowal by glancing pointedly at the black-and-white poster of Julian Assange that was taped to Anala’s bedroom wall, her gaze zeroing in on a bright-red lipstick kiss plastered on his forehead.

‘By the by, that happens to be my favorite shade, Chanel’s Dragon Red,’ Anala said cheekily. ‘And you know what they say . . . lead, fight or get out of the way. Just so you know: I will live my life as
I
see fit. I’m no longer a child. I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman.’ One who’d been coerced into spending the summer holiday, not in Europe with her mates sunbathing on the Greek Isles, but in the sweltering backwater of India. At her mother’s insistence. Yet another reason for their strained relationship.

I am tired of playing the dutiful daughter to a woman who is clearly going through some sort of mid-life crisis.

Two years ago, for some unknown reason, Gita Patel suddenly embraced her Indian heritage like it was a long-lost child. Accepting a job as head curator at the Kerala Cultural Museum, she moved from London to Fort Cochin, India. Why she did this, Anala had no idea; her mother had had an enviable job at the British Museum and the inexplicable relocation was a definite downgrade. Stranger still, though her mother was an Anglo-Indian – born, raised and educated in England – she’d gone completely native, now proudly wearing a sari and bindi dot.

Anala stared at the small red bull’s eye that had been perfectly applied between her mother’s hazel-green eyes.
This is not what I meant, Mummy, when I told you to ‘get a life’.

‘
You will always be my child, Anala.
Always
.’

‘Oh, really? And here I was thinking that I was just your
bloody retirement fund! That’s the real
reason why you want me to go into investment banking rather than politics, isn’t it? Because then, with my Midas salary, I’ll be able to take care of you in your old age.’

‘
How dare you!’ Her mother physically recoiled, clutching her chest with her right hand as though she’d just been struck by a poison-tipped arrow to the heart.

Anala rolled her eyes.
Overreacting much?

Convinced that what her mother really suffered from was a stab of conscience, Anala held her ground. ‘No, how dare
you
,
dictating what I will or will not study at university. Like every Indian mother, you probably wish that you’d given birth to a son rather than a daughter.’

Hearing that, her mother gasped . . . just before she soundly slapped Anala across the cheek.

For several stunned moments they stood motionless.

Dazed, unable to speak, Anala gaped at her mother.

A few seconds later, snapping out of her fugue state, she put a hand to her cheek.
Blimey, I didn’t see that coming.

‘
We’ll discuss this when I get home.’ Clearly flustered, her mother glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I . . . I need to get to the museum. And I’m very sorry that I slapped you.’

Anala snorted
derisively at what she considered an obligatory afterthought. ‘Sorry? I suspect you’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Nothing like exorcising one’s demons, eh Mum?’

Relieved to have her mother finally depart her bedroom, Anala strode over to her desk and flipped open her laptop,
hitting the ON switch. Although her cheek still stung, she refused to dwell on her mother’s tantrum.
Really, sometimes I think that I’m the only adult in this household
. Despite the tiresome carping, as soon as Michaelmas term began in October, she intended to throw herself headlong into her thesis topic, ‘Immigration and the Challenge of Social Justice’. At Oxford. At the Department of Politics and International Relations. Period. The end.

While she waited for the computer to boot up, Anala snatched her iPod. Popping in the earbuds, she stood in front of the mirror and struck a stylized Bollywood dance pose. A few seconds later, hearing the hip-hop strains of ‘
Single Ladies’,
she gyrated her hips à la Beyoncé, dance moves that were
way
too provocative for the Hindi crowd. She’d seen Beyoncé last summer at the Glastonbury Festival, the woman an absolute glamazon.

Sitting down at her desk, she quickly pulled up her article for the Liberal Conspiracy blog. A regular contributor, she thought the in-depth analysis of
social media in the context of citizen journalists and their effect on public policy a timely topic. Although she’d finished the article last night, she was still playing around with various titles.

‘How about “Th
e Tweet Heard Round the World”?’ she pondered aloud, giving it a test drive as she typed those six words above the body of text. She cocked her head from side to side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a –’

Suddenly hearing something that sounded like the
crisp
thrack!
of a willow cricket bat against a cork and leather ball, Anala yanked out the earbuds and glanced at the closed French doors.

Before her brain could register what was happening, the glass door flung open and a mustachioed man, dressed all in black, entered her bedroom. Spinning in her direction, he charged towards the desk. His narrowed gaze and harshly set facial features screamed malevolent intent.

Yelping with fear, Anala lurched to her feet. Too stunned to remember what she’d learned in her self-defense class, she grabbed her laptop computer and hurled it at the intruder. The man nimbly ducked to one side, completely avoiding the missile attack.

Not about to abandon the fight, Anala snatched the nearest items within reach – a lamp, a bronze elephant paperweight and a framed photograph – flinging them in quick succession. She scored two hits and one miss. None of which deterred the mustachioed interloper, the man simply raising his arm and deflecting the blows.

Quickly running out of ammo, she reached for her office chair . . . just as the intruder clasped her by the waist. Pinning her arms to her sides, he forcefully yanked her away from the desk. The chair toppled over as Anala frantically began to kick him in the shins.

‘You bitch!’

‘You bastard!’ she screeched, lifting both of her feet off the ground,
finally
recalling a self-defense tactic.

In the next instant the two of them hit the floor with a spine-jarring impact.

Managing to break free of the intruder’s violent embrace, Anala scrambled to her feet and ran towards the bedroom door. No sooner did she reach for the doorknob than she was again seized, this time the brute cinching his fingers around her neck, slamming her against the closed door. As her vision blurred, her lungs screaming for oxygen, she instinctively clawed at his hands.

To her surprise, the assailant suddenly let go of her throat. Gasping for air, Anala felt a sharp, jabbing pain in her upper arm.

Rather than clearing, her vision immediately became more blurry, the room spinning off-kilter. Woozy, she opened her mouth to scream. Only to discover that –

S
he . . . couldn’t . . . remember . . . how . . .

Paris, France

19 August

‘. . . and I still think you should rename it “The Abduction of the Divine Bride”. That’s a much catchier title than “The Sacred and the Profane”.’

‘It’s a PowerPoint presentation about the medieval Cathars,’ the tall red-headed Englishman retorted, clearly appalled at the suggestion. ‘Not a bloody romance novel.’

Getting up from the Edwardian sofa, Edie Miller wagged a finger at the man she teasingly referred to as her ‘part-time paramour’. ‘Yeah, but sex sells. Trust me, Caedmon. Change the title and you’ll pack ’em in like sardines at the Avignon symposium.’ She paused a moment before dangling a very enticing carrot. ‘And it could boost your book sales.’

‘So you think I should sex up my lecture, eh?’ Having followed her into the hallway,
Caedmon Aisquith cocked his head to one side and struck a thoughtful pose. ‘Hmm . . . perhaps I could add a few naughty bits to the section on Isis Mystery cults. Although it’ll require considerable rehearsal time with my research assistant,’ he added, rakishly raising an auburn brow.

‘I hate to douse your lurid fantasy, but rehearsal will have to wait until I get some food in me. I’m utterly famished.’ Edie pointedly looked over at her luggage still piled in the middle of the hall. Since she and
Caedmon were leaving tomorrow for Avignon – and from there, heading to the Côte d’Azur – she didn’t see the point of unpacking. ‘They served Chicken Cordon
Blah
on the flight from Guatemala City. Two bites were all I could manage.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask: h
ow did the photo shoot go?’

‘
Great pictures,’ she told him with a satisfied nod. ‘The women weavers at Santiago Atitlán are an inspiring example of girl power at its very best. On the downside, the poverty in Guatemala is heartbreaking.’

‘A repeating refrain the world over, unfortunately.’

‘All the same, it’s still a painful tune.’ As Edie was quickly discovering in her new gig with
National Geographic
magazine, having recently travelled to several third-world countries.

Five months ago an editor at the renowned monthly caught an exhibition of Edie’s photography at a Washington DC gallery that specialized in African art. To her astonishment, the editor asked if she’d be interested in working as a freelance photographer.
Interested?
Dream come true. Although it meant that Edie now spent more time on the road than at her DC abode, squeezing in side trips to Paris when time permitted.

Caedmon
glanced at his wristwatch. ‘While it’s a bit early for dinner,
l’heure de l’apéro
is fast approaching. Care to stroll down the street for an aperitif?’

Theatrically rolling her eyes, Edie said, ‘Why don’t you put on some French accordion music while you’re at it? Don’t think for one instant, Big Red, that I don’t see through your ploy. After plying me with alcohol, you intend to have your way with me,’ she accused, the rebuke eclipsed with a puckish grin.

‘If I’m that transparent, I’ve been out of the game far too long.’ Chortling softly to himself, Caedmon retrieved his jacket from the library ladder that did double duty as a coat rack.