The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (7 page)

‘
Why do the heathen rage . . . ?
’

Whatever the reason, Anala Patel could rant and rage all she wanted.
It won’t alter the situation
, Gracián Santos thought grimly as he cast a last glance at the unconscious woman sprawled on the metal-framed bed. No one will hear the Hindu’s cries for help, her tortured laments, or her desperate pleas for mercy.

This was one instance where he could show no clemency towards a helpless individual. Despite the fact that it niggled his conscience, a desperate man rarely had the luxury of compassion. Instead, such men were often driven by circumstances beyond their control to commit heinous acts.
Steal a car. Rob a convenience store. Pull a trigger
. Or, in this case, abduct an innocent woman.

The means, cruel though they might be, were wholly justified.

The man currently on sentry duty peered up from his laptop computer. Seated on a plain wooden chair within close proximity of the bed, he’d been ordered to keep an attentive eye on the captive woman who’d shown a surprising amount of gumption.

‘Don’t worry, G-Dog. She’s not going anywhere.’ Flashing Gracián a cocky smile, the sentry then stated the obvious: ‘She’s down for the count.’

While most people would be taken aback that anyone would deign to call a Catholic priest ‘G-Dog’ – considering it a sign of disrespect – Gracián knew that the opposite was true. In gang parlance, a ‘dog’ was a loyal individual who would defend you through thick and thin. In calling him ‘G-Dog’, the young men and women in his gang ministry paid Gracián the highest compliment.

It’s for you, my children, that I have done this despicable thing.

‘Let me know when she regains consciousness,’ he instructed before departing the room.

Guilt-ridden, Gracián Santos trudged down the deserted corridor. A few moments later he exited the building. Built in the late nineteenth century, it resembled the famous Greek Parthenon, albeit on a much smaller scale.
An architectural folly
. He supposed it was called that because the outrageous structure had never served a practical purpose. A rich man’s ode to antiquity, it was once the site of lavish parties thrown during that decadent period of American history known as ‘the Gay Nineties’. Given its current derelict condition, several columns missing, others haphazardly scattered about, it had been many years since the well-heeled had frolicked in their Greek togas and laurel wreaths. He’d chosen the folly as a suitable place to stow the captive because it was remotely located, situated nearly a half mile from Mercy Hall.

Climbing into the golf cart that was parked outside the folly, Gracián turned the ignition key and headed back across the green dales.

As he crested a grassy knoll, a sprawling two-hundred-room historic mansion came into view.
Mercy Hall.
A magnificent Tudor-style estate with a cobblestone foundation, leaded-glass windows, stone terraces, numerous gables and several turrets, it was prominently sited on top of a small hillock. Several years ago, Gracián’s non-profit ministry, the Sanguis Christi Fellowship, had purchased Mercy Hall, a former women’s college, and the surrounding three hundred acres.

It was a sight that normally engendered a swell of pride.

But not this day.

As executive director of the co-ed charter high school and vocational training cent
er, Gracián’s burdens were too great to feel anything other than dread fear. One of the largest gang intervention programs on the East Coast, his ministry not only educated former gang-bangers, but gave them two years of vocational training and job placement assistance.

Over the years, the Sanguis Christi Fellowship had taken in members from
New York City’s more fearsome gangs. The Latin Kings. The Bloods. The DDP. And the most notorious of them all,
Los Diablos de Santa Muerte
. The Demons of Saint Death. For these scarred, tattooed and hard-hearted young men, in particular, the saving message of ‘God not guns’ did not come easily. Most of the Diablos had been indoctrinated into the cult of violence at a tender age and were considered beyond redemption. Not only had society-at-large written them off as expendable, but their own families had turned their backs, unwilling to waste the energy or resources to save these tormented youths from a life of mindless violence. Oftentimes a short life at that.

But Gracián could not bring himself to reject the Diablos, certain that they
could
be reformed.

I am the living proof that it can be done.

But the road to salvation was never an easy one, many of the Diablos having packed their bags and returned to New York City. To the old familiar life of drive-by shootings and gang slayings. A handful, however, had remained at the Fellowship, having shifted their loyalties from the Diablos to Gracián. It was a first step. The next would be to shift their allegiance from Gracián to God.

‘
And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God.
’

Unfortunately, it wasn’t working fast enough, the Sanguis Christi Fellowship teetering on the precipice.

Several years ago Gracián had taken out a $3-million-dollar short-term commercial loan to completely renovate Mercy Hall with separate boys and girls dormitories and updated classrooms, and to construct from the ground up – his pride and joy – the Vocational Training Center.

No sooner had the Sanguis Christi Fellowship opened its newly painted doors than the worldwide financial markets imploded in 2008.

In the ensuing meltdown, the stock market crashed, the housing market tanked, and several of Gracián’s big-money donors suddenly went belly-up, more than a few of them losing their shirts in a now infamous Ponzi scheme that had rocked New York’s wealthy elites. The years that followed weren’t any kinder, foundation money, which had always been a dependable source of funding, quickly drying up. And in a particularly bitter setback, his ministry had recently lost their annual donation from the Catholic Charities network.

He was now two years behind on the
loan payments, the First New York Loan and Trust Bank having initiated legal proceedings to seize the entire compound. In what turned out to have been a foolish financial move, Gracián had used Mercy Hall and the surrounding three hundred acres as collateral to secure the loan. With the big-money donations having plummeted, he had just enough cash trickling in to cover minimum operating expenses. If he didn’t come up with the $2.2-million-dollar loan payment by 31st August, they’d all be thrown out on the street.

Bleary-eyed, Gracián parked the golf cart in front of the school chapel where, in recent weeks, he’d
spent many sleepless nights praying,
begging
, for a miracle.

Just when he’d abandoned all hope, the ‘miracle’ happened: the former Archbishop of New York, Cardinal Franco Fiorio, having learned of the Fellowship’s dire financial predicament, contacted Gracián, generously offering to pay off the entire $2.2-million-dollar bank loan.

Provided that Gracián first secure a heretical gospel known as the
Evangelium Gaspar.

According to the Cardinal, the ancient text would destroy the Roman Catholic Church if it was ever leaked to the public. ‘
As Defenders of the Faith, it is our sacred duty to ensure that never happens
,’ the Cardinal had emphasized.

Desperate for the money, Gracián reluctantly entered into a pact with Cardinal Fiorio, even complying with his request to use former members of
Los Diablos de Santa Muerte
to carry out the plan.

‘
No harm will come to your little savages
,’
the Cardinal had assured Gracián when he’d expressed concern about the young men’s safety. ‘
And they will gain rewards in heaven for answering the Lord’s call to safeguard His Church.
’

But Gracián
did
worry, having done little else since Hector, Javier and Roberto – the three Diablos – had departed for Fort Cochin. Even though Anala Patel had been successfully smuggled out of India on a medical transport plane, he’d had second and even third thoughts about the whole scheme.

As he entered the chapel sanctuary, Father Gracián Santos dipped his fingers into the marble
stoup. Cool water dripped from his fingers as he reverentially blessed himself. He then stepped over to a wooden pew and sank to his knees. As he gazed at the crucifix mounted behind the altar, he tightly clasped his hands together, his emotions in a tumult. Anxious. Nervous.

Scared to death
.

‘These are the picked troops of God . . . each man sword in hand, and superbly trained to war’
– St Bernard of Clairvaux

Over the Arabian Sea

Wednesday 22 August

Removing the black satin sleep mask, Edie peered out of the window of the Airbus passenger jet. ‘Wow. The jewel in the crown,’ she
marveled, awestruck.

Thirty thousand feet below, the golden shoreline of
India’s Malabar Coast was bracketed on one side by the iridescent blue Arabian Sea and, on the other side, by fecund green rice paddies. In the far distance, the Western Ghats rose in striated bands of russet and ochre. Even from that elevated distance, it was a blatantly exotic locale.

Still slightly groggy, she yanked off the courtesy blanket and slid her leather recliner into the upright position. ‘Now, that’s a stunning sight to wake up to, wouldn’t you agree?’

Caedmon, seated across from her, made no reply other than an inattentive ‘Humph’. Intently studying the research notes on his laptop computer, Edie wondered if he’d got any sleep at all. Other than the basics – ‘Are you hungry?’, ‘Excuse me; I’m going to the loo,’ and ‘The flight’s on time, thank God’ – he’d been uncharacteristically reticent. Every thought turned inward, he was clearly determined to unlock Fortes de Pinós’s cryptic riddle regarding the whereabouts of the
Evangelium Gaspar.

Because he’d
had no luck finding historical data pertaining to the long-lost gospel or de Pinós’s 1307 voyage to Muziris, Caedmon had decided to travel to the source – India – to glean what he could from the St. Thomas Christians. ‘
It may well be that the bloody gospel is still in India.
’

Over the course of the last forty-eight hours, the proverbial clock ticking far too quickly, they’d gone from t
he love nest to the cuckoo’s nest, scurrying to get the proper tourist visas, book air flights, cancel the Avignon lecture and indefinitely postpone their French Riviera holiday. Although Caedmon had suggested that Edie remain behind in Paris, she’d been adamant about accompanying him. Since it’d taken two days just to get the necessary travel visas, he now had only five days to find the
Evangelium Gaspar.

‘We’ll be landing in a few minutes,’ a pleasant-faced steward informed them. ‘I’m afraid, sir, that you’ll have to stow the laptop computer.’

‘Right,’ Caedmon muttered, clearly peeved by the intrusion. Frowning, he reached for his computer bag.

Edie once again pondered her secret worry that the
Evangelium Gaspar
might be a phantom relic, like Veronica’s Veil or the True Cross, that existed only in the medieval imagination. Even the oh-so-knowledgeable Caedmon acknowledged that he’d never heard of the gospel.

Keeping her doubts to herself, Edie said, ‘Given that the Knights Templar had been accused of heresy, don’t you think it’s odd that Fortes de Pinós would undertake an epic sea journey to find a lost gospel?’

Caedmon made no immediate reply. Instead, he slid open the plastic window cover and gazed pensively at the patchwork landscape below. A few moments later, sighing deeply, he shut the cover. ‘I suspect that the heresy charges stemmed from the fact that it’s rare to find a depiction of the Crucifixion in a Templar church. The few extant renderings of Jesus at Templar sites usually depict him as a teacher rather than god-like Savior. And, speaking of Templar sites, I’m perplexed by the reference in the Chinon transcript to Château Pèlerin.’

Shifting her hips slightly, Edie smoothed a fold of bunched fabric. Attired for comfort, she wore a lightweight summer dress.
Caedmon, also casually attired, was outfitted in khaki trousers and a blue short-sleeved polo shirt. ‘As I recall, the inquisitor asked Fortes de Pinós if he knew about any relics that had been warehoused at Château Pèlerin and he replied “no”.’

‘That’s not precisely the answer he gave,’
Caedmon pointed out. ‘De Pinós prevaricated, stating that he’d never been to that particular Templar commandery. I keep wondering
why
,
of all the hundreds of Templar castles and commanderies, did the inquisitor want to know about Château Pèlerin?’

‘Excuse me for being late to the party, but where exactly is Château Pèlerin located?’

‘It was
situated in the Holy Land, just a few miles southeast of Mount Carmel. A massive fortress, the Knights Templar constructed it to withstand a long-term siege.’ Bracketing his chin on his thumb, Caedmon lightly tapped a finger against his upper lip. ‘Curiously enough, Château Pèlerin is French for “Pilgrim Castle”.’