Even though the plane had ditched in international waters, there was a whole bunch of questions that Reilly needed to answer regarding who was on it, what had happened and why it has happened. The British were asking. Before long, officials from the Cypriot Directorate of Civil Aviation and the National Guard showed up, and they were asking too.
For a while, Reilly was on his own. He fielded the questions with as much restraint as he could muster, but he was tired and he was hurting and his patience was running thin. He put a call in to New York, got through to Aparo and asked him to help get him out of there, but he knew it would take time. The American Embassy was an hour’s drive away, in Nicosia, and the FBI didn’t keep a legat there. Still, calls were made, and at around midday, the embassy’s defense attache showed up, took control and whisked Reilly out of there. More importantly, he was able to help Reilly with the question he had been desperate to have answered from the very moment he’d been winched aboard the Sea King.
It wasn’t an easy question to answer. With all that had happened and with Ertugrul dead, there was rampant confusion at the Consulate in Istanbul and it was hard to pin down the person who was best suited to find her. It took many phone calls and several frustrating waits, but they were finally able to track her down to a police station in Konya.
Hearing her voice did more to soothe his aches and pains than all the painkillers they’d given him. She was safe and well. But she also needed help.
She was also caught up in a similar bureaucractic web. A whole different bunch of questions needed to be answered, and they weren’t about to let her go until they got their answers.
“Hang tight,” he told Tess. “I’m coming to get you.”
THE JET ARRIVED LATE IN THE NIGHT, a spotless white knight bearing the discreet emblem of the Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation. Reilly watched with mounting impatience as it taxied to the private hangar and its engines whined down. Then its cabin door snapped open and the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Cardinal Mauro Brugnone, stepped out.
His furrowed face cringed with surprise and sympathy as he took notice of the bruising and cuts littering Reilly’s face and hands. He spread his arms wide and embraced the agent before pulling away and saying, “So … it’s gone? It’s definitely gone?”
He already knew it was. Reilly had told him so when he’d called him, but he hadn’t told him the whole story.
“I’m afraid so,” Reilly replied.
“Tell me,” the cardinal said, inviting Reilly on board.
While the pilot hurried to complete the requisite paperwork that would allow them to take off again, Reilly filled in his host on what had happened. By the end of it, the cardinal’s back was hunched forward, the skin under his eyes and skin weighed down by the distressing revelations.
They sat in silence for a moment, then the pilot re-appeared and confirmed they’d have wheels up within minutes. Brugnone didn’t say anything. He just nodded, still stewing over what Reilly had told him.
“Maybe we can recover them,” Reilly offered. “It can’t be that deep out there. I’m sure it’s within reach. And if we did, maybe we can still read what was on them. Forensics labs can do amazing things these days.”
Brugnone looked at him with a shrug and raised eyebrows. Evidently, he didn’t put any more stock in Reilly’s words than Reilly did himself.
“This suits you, doesn’t it?” Reilly asked. “I mean, if they’re gone for good. No questions asked. No damaging revelations … no headaches?”
Brugnone frowned, then said, “Of course, I prefer that whatever was in them should never come out. I wouldn’t want everyone to know what they said. But I would have liked to know. Very much so.”
He held Reilly’s gaze for a long beat, then turned and stared out into the darkness, looking like a man in deep mourning.
Chapter 67
They were met at the small, mostly military airport by Rich Burston, the legat from the FBI’s office in Ankara. Burston had flown down from the Turkish capital in a military helicopter. He had been Ertugrul’s boss, and as they drove through the deserted, dark flatlands on their way into the city, Reilly was able to tell him firsthand about how his agent had been killed.
The legat was anxious. “We need to be in and out as quickly as we can,” he told Reilly. “I don’t want these guys figuring out who you really are. Unless you want to spend the next few days answering their questions.”
Reilly understood what the legat was talking about. The plane had gone down in international waters. It had taken off from a Greek island. There was only so much the Cypriot authorities could demand to know.
This was different.
Reilly had been directly involved in events that had led to the deaths of several Turkish soldiers, including, Reilly knew, a senior and well-respected officer. The Turkish authorities would want to know exactly how and why that happened.
“I’d rather talk them through it over the phone from Federal Plaza,” Reilly told him.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you. Just leave the talking to me and follow my lead.”
Reilly said he would, then turned to the cardinal. Brugnone just nodded his agreement.
IN THE END, it all went down reasonably smoothly. They were able to get Tess and the old woman out of custody without too much aggravation. The late hour helped, as did the fact that the brass of the Jandarma weren’t based in Konya.
A local police detail was assigned to keep an eye on the old woman and her family business for a few days, although Reilly didn’t think she was in any more danger, not with Zahed dead and the stash of codices gone. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry, and he was happy to know that she’d be protected until things died down.
The pale glimmer of dawn welcomed them as they walked out of the police station. The street was deserted. The city was still well settled into its habitual nightly slumber, with only the hum of scattered air-conditioning condensors detracting from its serenity.
Tess held Reilly’s hand in hers as they walked to the waiting cars. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. She was also deeply disappointed. In a few words, whispered in a snatched, private moment, Reilly had told her and the old woman that the texts had been lost, swallowed up by the sea.
The news had gutted her. The codices had survived close to two thousand years of intrigue. They’d made it through the Crusades, the fall of an expansionist empire, and a couple of World Wars, but they hadn’t survived the savagery of the twenty-first century.
They stopped outside the police car, the one that was taking the old woman back to her son’s apartment above the shop. Tess let go of Reilly’s hand and gave the old woman a hug.
The old woman held on to her for a long moment, then pulled back. “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked. She had Tess’s hand tightly cupped in both of hers.
Tess hesitated, and turned to Reilly. He was still dosed up on painkillers and looked a mess. She knew he was keen to get out of there as soon as possible. Brugnone’s jet was waiting to fly them out of the country and back to Rome, and they’d take a commercial flight back to New York from there. She also wanted to get home to try to put the madness behind her. But standing there, looking into the old woman’s delicate eyes, she realized she couldn’t leave here like that. She wanted to spend more time with her. In little more than twenty-four hours, they’d been through a lot together, and she felt it would be rude to just disappear from her life like that, even if it wasn’t forever. But she didn’t think she had a choice.
Reilly’s grim expression confirmed it. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “We can’t stay. There’s a plane waiting for us.”
The woman’s expression sagged. “Not even for a few hours in the morning? I was hoping you would come over for breakfast at my son’s place. Over the shop.” She tried to give him a smile, but it barely made it past the melancholy that was weighing her down.
Reilly glanced across at the legat. The man shook his head softly, his expression telegraphing
a genuine sense of regret.
“I’m sorry,” Reilly told the woman.
She nodded slowly with resignation. One of the cops opened the car door for her. She stood still for a moment, then turned to Tess and said, “Can you follow me to the shop? On your way to the airport?”
Her words surprised Tess. “What, now?”
She tightened her hold around Tess’s hand. “Yes. I’d like to give you something. A souvenir. Give me the chance to leave you with a nicer memory of Konya than what you’ve seen so far.”
Tess held the woman’s gaze. There was something more there, something unsaid. Something the woman really needed Tess to respond to.
Trying not to telegraph her suspicions and suddenly wary of the cardinal’s presence, she looked a question at Reilly and the legat.
The legat shrugged. “I suppose we could. As long as it’s just a quick stop. And I do mean a quick stop. I don’t want either of you here a minute longer than you need to be.”
THE LEGAT AND THE CARDINAL WAITED in the comfort of the air-conditioned car while Tess and Reilly joined the old woman outside the storefront.
She woke her son up and got him to come down and unlock its entrance for them, then shooed him away and sent him back up to bed before inviting them in.
Tess hadn’t really noticed how gorgeous some of their ceramics were. There were vases, bowls, and plates of all sizes, elegantly shaped and exquisitely painted.
“Choose anything you like, please,” the old woman told them. “I’ll be right back.”
Tess watched her step away to the back of the store and disappear down some stairs that must have led to a basement.
She glanced at Reilly. He looked rough and weary, like being there was the last thing in the world he needed. Which, in fairness, it probably was.
She was hoping it would prove different.
She was about to confide her suspicions to him when the woman reappeared. Two things immediately signaled to her that she was right, and she felt a flutter in the pit of her belly. One was the way the old woman glanced furtively beyond her and Reilly and out the shop window, as if she were checking to see if anyone was watching. The other was what she was carrying.
It was an old shoebox.
The old woman cast another look out front, then presented the box to Tess. “These are for you.”
Tess’s heart jumped a couple of gears as she looked at her quizzically. She wanted to ask the obvious question, but the words died out in her throat. She just took the box and opened it.
It was filled with dozens of plastic sleeves.
Tess took one out and opened it up. It was about six inches wide and was all folded up on itself, like an accordion-style wallet sleeve that people used to hold family photos in the pre-iPhone era.
She opened it up.
It was made up of a couple dozen pockets, each one about an inch and a half tall. Inside each pocket was a six-inch strip. On each strip were four 35mm negatives.
Tess knew what they were before she held the sleeve up to the light. Although the image was dark and reversed, she could see the distinct silhouette of a rectangular object against a neutral background. Some of them showed the backflaps and the leather ties clearly. The image on each negative was reversed, so the object in the photographs looked dark, its background light. Inside the dark rectangles were rows of tiny, light characters, as if written in white ink on a black page.
The writings on the codices.
They were there. Lots and lots of them.
“You took these?” she asked the woman.
“My husband did. Many years ago, long before he died. We thought we had to keep some kind of record of them, in case they were ever destroyed in a fire or something. They were so fragile, we had to be very careful, but we managed it. I have prints of all the pictures in storage, but they’re too heavy for you to carry without anyone noticing.”
Tess’s fingers skipped deeper into the box. “Are they all in here?”
The old woman nodded. “Every page of every book.” She shrugged, a pall of resignation darkening her face. “I know they won’t convince anyone. People will easily say these pictures are fakes. But it’s the best I can do.”
Tess considered her words for a beat, then shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” She gave the woman a warm, comforting smile. “This isn’t about convincing anyone of anything. It never was. It’s about knowledge. It’s about history, and truth. Those who believe every word in the Bible was dictated by God himself—they were never going to be swayed anyway. We know that. Even seeing and examining the codices with their own eyes wouldn’t have made a difference to them. But for those of us who are looking to understand the roots of faith better, for those of us who are curious about our history and about how we got to be the way we are … these are plenty. Believe me. Plenty.”
The old woman seemed pleased with Tess’s words and nodded her agreement. “Be careful with them.”
“Oh, trust me, I’ll make sure they’re safe.” She looked at Reilly, her face all luminous and giddy and brimming with an almost childlike glee. “We’ll make sure of that, right?”
Reilly studied her for a beat, amusement playing across his bruised face, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you have your ending now?”
“You bet,” she smiled. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to all the friends and colleagues—Bashar, Nic, Carlos, Ben, Jon, Brian, Claire, Susan, Eugenie, Jay, Raffaella, and everyone at Dutton, NAL, and Orion—without whom my efforts would be nothing more than pixels on the screen of my laptop. Thanks also to the Burstons, Joorises, and Chalabis for lending me their secluded homes (and sailboat), where said efforts could flourish without too many distractions.
Bigger thanks, though, this time around, are due to all the friends and family who helped us through this less-than-memorable time. There are far too many of you to mention, but you all know who you are and we’re very fortunate to have you in our lives. Your friendship, help, and support has been phenomenal, and if anyone deserves to be thanked for making this book possible, it’s you.
Raymond Khoury, The Templar Salvation (2010)
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