The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (43 page)

The ornate glass shade shattered, instantly plunging the courtyard into a desolate gloom. The noise caused several birds roosting in the nearby eaves to take flight in a squawking flurry of flapping wings.

‘Bull’s eye!’

Caedmon
made no reply as he hurriedly shed his rucksack, keeping his movements as streamlined as possible. Efficiency the name of the game during any illicit undertaking, he removed several tools and two pieces of soft foam which he handed to Edie for safekeeping. ‘I want you to keep a close watch while I pry the plate off the exterior wall.’

‘
What do we do if someone enters the churchyard?’ She peered furtively over her shoulder at the shadows cast by stone and tree and things unseen.

‘
We snatch the plate and run like bloody hell.’

Game plan iterated
, Caedmon went down on bent knee in front of the Gothic arches, the plastered-over plate at eye level. He placed the slanted edge of a small chisel on the stucco, near to the plate, but not on it.

Very carefully, he began to tap the end of the chisel with a hammer, bits of stucco arcing through the air. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do to muffle the sound, the repetitive
taptaptap
echoing off the exterior wall of the church, breaking the somnolent silence. A laborious exercise, each tap caused a corresponding bolt of pain to radiate along his ribcage. Grimacing, he kept at it, mining for a treasure that would undoubtedly be used to further the ambitions of a ruthless Roman Catholic cleric. So be it.

I will do whatever is necessary to save Anala’s life.

Edie stood behind his left shoulder, a lone night watchman. ‘Cue the spooky music,’ he heard her mumble. ‘I’m thinking “Ave Satani” from that movie
The Omen.
’

‘
Or perhaps “Dies Irae”
from Mozart’s Requiem.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, verifying that they were on schedule, the Paris subway due to open in twenty minutes.

It took nearly
ten minutes of chipping away at the plaster before he was able to,
very slowly
, slide a four-inch flat putty knife behind the plate, taking great care not to cause any damage. With a slight tug of the wrist, he pried the plate from the exterior wall.

‘Yes!
We’ve got it!’ Edie handed him the two pieces of soft foam.

‘
We’ll clean it once we get to the airport,’ he said, sandwiching the plate between the foam to keep it safe in transit. He’d packed several solvents that they could use to remove the stucco which had mercifully protected the blasted thing from the elements. Once cleaned, they could make a copper rubbing that he would then email to Cedric Lloyd at Oxford. He also intended to contact Father Gracián Santos as soon as they boarded their early-morning flight to inform him that he had secured the plate and was en route.

In a hurry to abscond with their ill-gotten gains,
Caedmon stuffed his tools and the makeshift packing case inside his rucksack.

‘Looks like we’re in for a downpour,’ Edie remarked anxiously.

He glanced heavenward, noticing that the stars were now obscured by ragged-edged storm clouds. A savage sight that portended a rip-roaring storm. ‘We should be able to make it to the underground before the –’ He stopped in mid-sentence, detecting a worrisome sound.

‘
What is it?’ Edie asked.

Holding up a hand,
Caedmon strained his ears. In the far distance, he heard a car door slam. Much closer, perhaps half a block away, he heard the steady pound of an insistent footfall. Bearing in their direction.

Damn.

It could be nothing. An early-morning jogger taking advantage of the empty pavements. Or it could be the warden searching for his two fugitive prisoners.

Unwilling to take a chance with so much at stake,
Caedmon hastily removed the hammer from his rucksack before handing the pack to Edie. ‘Can you manage both of them?’

‘Yours and mine?
Yes, but –’

‘
Someone’s approaching. I want you to go to the far end of the churchyard and climb over the chain-link fence. Be sure to stay in the shadows,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll rendezvous in ten minutes at the agreed-upon coordinates. If I don’t arrive, you are to proceed to the airport without me.’

Edie vehemently shook her head
. ‘I’m not going to let you be a sacrificial lamb.’

‘
I prefer the charging bull metaphor.’ Grasping the hammer in his right hand, Caedmon held it aloft. ‘As you can see, I’m well armed. Now, hurry.’

‘
Caedmon,
please
, be careful.’

I may not have a choice in the matter
, he owned, mentally battening the hatches as he watched Edie run to the other end of the courtyard. Should calamity strike, he had complete faith that she would take the third plate to New York and arrange for Anala’s release. They’d already discussed how that could be accomplished in a way that would ensure no one got killed.

Scanning the courtyard,
Caedmon decided to take a position behind a five-foot-high stone pedestal. On top of the plinth there was a massive bronze bust of a woman’s head. The unexpected piece of artwork – a Picasso unless he was mistaken – was large enough to conceal him.

He
gave the bust a passing glance, noticing that it was dedicated to Guillaume Apollinaire. It seemed an odd inclusion in a churchyard, but there was no time to ponder the incongruity of a Picasso sculpture dedicated to a Surrealist poet whose best-known work involved a woman who undergoes a sex change, her breasts floating into the stratosphere like a pair of helium-filled balloons. He could only assume that the priests at St Germain-des-Prés had never read
The Breasts of Tiresias.

A few moments into the wait, a lone man appeared on the other side of the chain-link fence.
Caedmon immediately recognized the stocky fellow with the swaggering saunter.

Sensing that the real storm was about to break, he watched a
s Hector Calzada warily traipsed through the open garden gate that led to the courtyard, the graveled pavement crunching with each deliberate footstep. There was a ferocious look etched on the man’s face.

Caedmon
slowed his breath.
Waiting. Watching
. Monitoring Calzada’s every move.

His right hand tightened on the hammer, ready to swing with
all the strength that he could muster. Crack the bastard’s head wide open. As long as the Bête Noire was conscious, he was a threat.

Calzada
ambled past the stone plinth.

Ready to channel his adrenalin rush into a violent onslaught,
Caedmon launched from his position . . . just as a car turned on to Rue de l’Abbaye.

Startled by the flash of halogen headlamps,
Calzada whipped his head round. Catching sight of Caedmon, briefly limned in the passing glow of light, he dodged reflexively to the right.

In the next instant
Caedmon heard an ominous
click.

Damn! He has a
switchblade!

Growling,
Calzada came at him. Caedmon swerved, managing to parry the deadly swipe with the raised hammer. Before he could cock his arm to retaliate, Calzada rushed him again. Chest heaving, Caedmon again recoiled, the knife coming within a hairbreadth of his throat.

I
ncapacitated by his bruised ribs, his reflexes were sluggish. So sluggish, he feared that it might prove a deadly rout.

Calzada
toggled the knife from hand to hand, taunting him. ‘Death frees the soul from the prison of the body,’ he said, smiling ghoulishly.

‘
What are you saying? That I should
thank
you for slashing my throat?’

‘
Give me the third plate, English, and I won’t lay a hand on you.’

‘
Very well. I surrender. The plate is located in the church tower,’ he said, tossing the hammer aside.

‘
Lead the way, English. But one false move and I’ll skewer you on the end of my blade.’ Calzada touched the serrated knife with his index finger. ‘
Sí
,
it’s
very
sharp.’

Biting back a sarcastic retort,
Caedmon resignedly nodded his head, hoping that he appeared sufficiently defeated. As they headed towards the chain-link fence, he knew that he had one chance – and only the one – to take down the beast.

As ordered, he led the way through the
open gate, his adversary a few feet behind him.

Suddenly, without warning,
Caedmon dived to one side. Snatching hold of the wrought-iron gate, he slammed it into the Bête Noire’s belly.

Windmilling backwards,
Calzada howled in animal rage as he was knocked on to his arse in an ungainly heap.

Caedmon
seized his chance and ran down Rue de l’Abbaye. At the corner, he veered into an alley jam-packed with parked cars, motorcycles and scooters. He raced to the end of the passageway, which dead-ended in a seven-foot-high stone wall.

Hearing
a pounding footfall – Calzada having quickly recovered – Caedmon leaped on to the trunk of a parked sedan. The action triggered a screeching blare, the car alarm activated. He scrambled on to the roof and hoisted himself over the stone wall. Bracing for what he knew would be a jarring impact, he dropped anchor, landing on all fours.

Grunting, he righted himself and kept running.

A few moments later, winded, each breath an agony, he saw two green LED headlamps just before the outline of two sturdy bicycles – Vélib’ rentals – materializing in the charcoal gloom. The rental bikes and their green headlamps were a familiar sight on the city streets. Edie, dependable as always, had secured the rentals for their use. Worried that Calzada and Aveles might canvas the area and discover that they’d boarded a subway train bound for the airport, he intended to outwit the bastards by biking to a station in the next
arrondissement
.

‘Thank God!’ Edie exclaimed as he came to a shuddering stop.

Bent over, gasping for air, he grabbed the handlebars and swung a leg over the seat. ‘We have to leave! Now! Calzada is right behind –’

That was all Edie needed to hear. ‘I’ll meet you at the Metro station!’ Handing him the second rucksack, she pushed off,
pedaling madly.

Hearing a resounding
clop!clop!clop!
echoing behind him, Caedmon quickly shoved his arms through the pack’s nylon straps and, like Edie, made haste to depart.

Adiós, Hector. Hasta la vista. And, lest I forget, sod you!

Piazza San Pietro, Rome, Italy

0602h

Rosy-hued dawn
was still thirty minutes beyond the horizon, St Peter’s Square shrouded in dark shadows.

Making his way on foot,
Cardinal Franco Fiorio entered the keyhole opening in the magnificent colonnade. Seeing a brace of wobbly pigeons foraging for crumbs, he frowned, instantly put in mind of the pigeon-hearted cardinals and bishops who’d been too afraid to stand up to the liberal apostates in their midst.

Franco
had never been afraid.

But
he was now desperate, his despair so great that he couldn’t help but wonder if the particulars of his life had been part of a cosmic scheme designed to taunt him.
The Blessed Virgin Mary. The red rose petals
.

‘
The saint has yet been born who, in their darkest hour, did not hate God,’ he murmured, trying to hold on to his love of the Heavenly Host even though he feared that he’d been cruelly abandoned.

Uncertain
what the new day would bring, Franco scurried across the deserted piazza. A short while ago he’d received a phone call from Gracián Santos, the hysterical priest informing him that the Englishman not only had the third plate, but he’d managed to elude the two sentries.

Why did Aisquith escape with the plate? Did he intend to sell it on the black market?
If he did, the ancient gospel would undoubtedly command a
very
high price. One that would cost Franco dearly. Without the third plate in his possession, he would be unable to affect the outcome of the conclave.

Cardinal Thomas Moran, the first papabile, will be elected the next pontiff.

When that happened, Moran and his liberal allies within the Curia would lead Christ’s sheep right over the cliffs of heresy. Assuming that the Church didn’t first implode. Which would undoubtedly occur should Aisquith, instead of selling the third plate, go public with it.

God help us all if he does.

The ensuing chaos would destroy the Christian Faith. Leaving nothing but rubble and ash.

In the early centuries of the Church, the bishops had gone to extreme lengths to suppress the dark secret surrounding the life and death of Jesus the Nazorean. Every heretical gospel that contained the secret had been destroyed, whole libraries burned to the ground. Because the record of that great purge was safeguarded in the Vatican Secret Archives, Franco wasn’t the only prelate in the Holy See who knew the particulars of the dark secret. Many cardinals knew that the Jesus of the canonical gospels was a fiction. But since there was no longer any documentary proof, all of them slept soundly at night secure in the knowledge that the Faithful would never be privy to what had come to be known as ‘The Great Heresy’.