The smell of the sea lifted his spirit. He did not want to look back. His years were taking their toll, for he had wept without shame when he set sail from Cyprus, the last port of the East, as both he and Said had done when they at last made their farewell. Their parting was akin to one man being cut in two. In all these years it was the first time they had embraced.
For Said, the time had come to return to his own people, while he, François de Charney, was returning to his native land, a land about which he knew almost nothing nor felt to be his own. His homeland was the Temple, and his house, the East. The man who now made his way to France was but a shell. He had left his soul at the foot of the walls of Saint-Jean d’Acre.
Despite the heaviness that had settled into his heart, the presence of a few Templar knights who, like him, were returning to France made the voyage easier, although they were careful to give him his privacy. The crossing was calm, though the Mediterranean was a treacherous sea, as Ulysses himself had learned. But the ship traversed the waves without incident. Guillaume de Beaujeu’s orders were clear: De Charney was to deposit the Holy Shroud in the Temple fortress in Marseilles and await new orders there. The master had made him swear that he would never relinquish the relic to those outside the order and that he would defend it with his life.
The port of Marseilles was impressive, with its dozens of boats and countless people milling about, shouting and talking incessantly. When they disembarked, they found waiting for them an escort of knights, who conducted them to the Temple’s chapter house in the city. None knew of the relic that de Charney was carrying. De Beaujeu had given him a letter for the precept of the Temple chapter in Marseilles and for the superior. “They,” he had said, “will decide what is best.”
Jacques Vazelay, the superior, was a nobleman of curt gestures and few words. But his eyes were kind as he listened to de Charney’s story. Then he asked the old knight to show him the holy shroud.
For many years the Templars had known the true face of Christ, for Renaud de Vichiers, the first master to hold the shroud, had had its astounding image copied and sent to every Templar house and chapter. Still, Vichiers had counseled supreme discretion. Each chapter kept its copy of the image in a secret chapel to which only knights went to pray. No others were to see it or even know of its existence.
Thus had the secret of the Temple’s possession of the only true relic of Jesus Christ been kept through the years.
De Charney opened his pack and took out the linen-wrapped bundle he had carried so carefully. He unrolled it, and…the two men fell to their knees in wonder, such was the miracle that had occurred.
Still on their knees, Jacques Vazelay, superior of the chapter, and François de Charney gave thanks to God for what He had wrought.
THE GUARD ENTERED THE CELL AND BEGAN TO GO through Mendib’s locker, collecting the few clothes he found. The mute watched, unmoving.
“Time to look pretty for the outside world, my friend. Looks like they’re going to let you go, and we can’t have prisoners leaving with dirty clothes. I don’t know whether you understand me, but whether you do or not, I’m taking this stuff to wash it and I’ll bring it back clean. Oh! And those stinking sneakers of yours too—they smell like shit!”
He went to the bed, bent over, and picked up the shoes. Mendib began to stand up, alarmed, but the guard put a finger on his chest.
“Now, now, take it easy. I’m just following orders. We’ll bring everything back tomorrow.”
When Mendib was alone again, he closed his eyes. He didn’t want the security cameras to see the turmoil he felt. He couldn’t suppress his excitement at the prospect of freedom. But something was wrong. He was sure of it.
Marco had been at the prison for hours. He had interrogated the Bajerais, despite the doctor’s protests, but he’d gotten nowhere. He had started with routine questions, those they would expect him to ask. The brothers refused to say where they were going when they were attacked, or who, if anyone, they suspected of beating them. As best Marco could tell, they weren’t aware of Frasquello’s involvement.
Then he went on to probe their outside connections, the rumors circulating in the prison about all the money they’d boasted of having. He was trying to walk the tightrope between pushing them to give up the details of the plot and alerting them—and whoever was behind them—that he already knew their target.
But the Bajerais had nothing to say. All they did was moan about their pounding heads and the fact that this cop was torturing them with his questions. They weren’t going anywhere, they’d just noticed that the cell door was open, they stuck their heads out, and somebody jumped them. Not a word more. That was their story, and nobody was going to make them change it.
Back in the warden’s office, Marco picked up the mute’s shoes, freshly laundered, so that the tracking chip could be installed. The warden urged Marco to press the Bajerais explicitly about why they were going after the mute and who had hired them, but Marco continued to resist taking that step. In any prison, hundreds of eyes were watching. Who knew who the link to the outside was? As Marco gathered his papers to return to the hotel, the two agreed to revisit the question in a few days.
Neither of them noticed the cleaning lady leaving the office. She’d been in the warden’s private washroom changing the towels, an innocuous part of the prison landscape.
Marco dropped off the shoes at carabinieri headquarters. When he reached the hotel, Antonino, Pietro, and Giuseppe were waiting for him in the bar. Sofia had gone up to bed, and Minerva had promised to come down after she’d called home.
“So—five days to go, and the mute will be on the street. Anything new?” Marco asked.
“Nothing definite,” Antonino replied, “but it looks like the beautiful city of Turin has special charm for immigrants from Urfa.”
Marco frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Minerva and I have been working like dogs on this. We put the Bajerai family and everything else we could think of through the computer and did some old-fashioned shoe-leather work, too, and some interesting things came up. You know the old guy in the cathedral, the porter? The one named Turgut? He’s from Urfa—I mean he’s not, but his father is. His story pretty much matches the Bajerai brothers’. His father came to Turin looking for work, found a job with Fiat, married an Italian woman, and Turgut was born here. Other than the similar backgrounds, though, there’s no apparent relationship between the families. But you remember Tariq?”
“Tariq?” Marco asked.
“One of the electricians who were working in the cathedral when the fire broke out,” Giuseppe reminded him. “He’s from Urfa too.”
Minerva came into the bar. She was tired, and looked it. Marco felt a twinge of guilt; he’d been piling the work on her and Antonino over the last few days, but she was far and away the best computer person he had, and Antonino’s data-gathering and analytical skills were superb. Marco trusted both of them to do the best work it was possible to do.
“Well, Marco!” Minerva exclaimed as she sat down. “You can’t say we don’t earn our salary.”
“So I’ve been hearing,” he replied. “This Urfa connection is definitely worth pursuing. What else have you turned up?”
“That they’re not practicing Muslims—they may not be Muslims at all. They all go to Mass,” Minerva said.
“Let’s not forget that Turkey is secular, thanks to Ataturk. The fact that these people aren’t practicing Muslims is no big deal. That they go to Mass and by all appearances are devout Christians, though, is interesting,” Antonino pointed out.
“Are there many Christians in Urfa?” Marco asked.
“Only a small minority,” replied Minerva.
Antonino jumped back in. “But in ancient times Urfa was a Christian city—its name then was Edessa, as a matter of fact. And you’ll recall that the Byzantines besieged Edessa in 944 in order to capture the Holy Shroud, which was in the hands of a small Christian community there, despite the fact t
hat at the time the city was ruled by Muslims.”
“Get Sofia,” Marco said.
“Why?” Pietro asked.
“Because we’re going to brainstorm. We’re on to something here. Sofia told me not long ago that the past might be the key to all this. Ana Jiménez thought the same thing.”
Pietro slapped his hand on the bar. “For God’s sake, Marco, let’s not go crazy here.”
“What exactly makes you think I’m going crazy?”
“I’ve seen it coming. These women are running wild with this crap. Give me a break. How many cities are standing on top of older ones? Here in Italy there’s a story under every rock, and we don’t go chasing through history every time there’s a murder or a fire. I know this case is special for you, Marco, but I’m sorry—I think you’ve gone overboard, bringing us all here, spending all this time, when we’ve got plenty to do in Rome. There are people here with Turkish backgrounds who can be traced back to a city named Urfa—so what? How many Italians from a single town went off to Frankfurt during the hard times to work in the factories there? I doubt that every time an Italian commits a crime in Germany the German police start digging into the life of Julius Caesar and his legions. All I’m saying is that we can’t get carried away by these random coincidences. There’s a lot of esoteric shit floating around about the shroud—we need to stick to good police work and not go running after bogeymen, with half-assed historians playing at being cops.”
Minerva and Antonino both began to bluster outraged replies. Marco held up his hand to forestall further debate. He weighed his words carefully. Putting aside the cheap shot at Sofia—for she was the target of that, he had no doubt—there was logic in what Pietro said, a lot of logic, so much that Marco realized he might be right. But the Art Crimes chief was an old dog; he’d spent his life sniffing out obscure trails, and his instinct told him that he should stay on this one, however “esoteric” it might appear to be.
“All right, Pietro. You’ve said what you have to say. And you may be right. But since we’ve got nothing to lose, we’re going to explore every possibility. Minerva, call Sofia, please. I expect she’s still awake. What else do we know about Urfa?”
Antonino gave him a complete file on Urfa, or Edessa. He’d figured his boss would ask for it.
“Pietro, I want you and Giuseppe to go talk to this porter tomorrow. Tell him that the investigation is still open and that you want to talk to him in case he might have remembered some detail since you last talked.” Marco stared hard at the still-simmering cop.
“He’ll get nervous. He was practically in tears when we questioned him the first time,” Giuseppe recalled.
“Right. He’s a weak link. That’s good. We’ll also ask for warrants to tap the phones of any of these nice people from Urfa who have any relation at all to the Bajerais. Those are the only warrants we have a chance of getting. And let’s start looking into any churches we can find in Urfa itself.”
Minerva returned with Sofia. The two women glared at Pietro and sat down. When the bar closed at around three, Marco and his team were still talking. Sofia had ranged widely through the history of the shroud, stopping at a number of intriguing intersections. She, Antonino, and Minerva agreed that they had to follow the trail to Urfa, and Giuseppe kept his skepticism in check. Pietro, for his part, made it clear that he thought they were all wasting their time.
But by whatever means they got there, they all went up to bed convinced they were close to a solution.
The old man’s eyes fluttered open. His private phone was ringing, rousing him from a deep sleep; he’d gone to bed barely two hours earlier. The duke had been in excellent humor and hadn’t let them leave until past midnight. The dinner was splendid and the conversation amusing, as befit gentlemen of their age and position when they found themselves without the company of women.
He got up and, pulling on a soft cashmere robe, went into his study. He locked the door and sat down at his desk, where he pushed a hidden button, activating the scrambler.
The information he received disturbed him: The Art Crimes Department was getting close to the community, to Addaio.
Addaio had failed in his plan to eliminate Mendib, who would soon be free to lead Valoni straight to the pastor and his secrets—and too many of their own secrets.
But it wasn’t just that. Now Valoni’s team had given free rein to their imaginations, and Dr. Galloni was constructing a hypothesis that was very close to the truth, though she herself couldn’t yet suspect that. As for the Spanish reporter, she had a speculative sort of mind and the imagination of a novelist, which in this case were dangerous weapons. Dangerous for them.
The sun was coming up by the time he left his study. He returned to his bedroom and began to prepare to leave for the meeting he had just called together in Paris. It was going to be a long day. Everyone would be there, although he was concerned about the suddenness with which they would all be moving. It could draw attention.
A.D. 1314
Dusk was fast becoming night as Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the Order of Knights Templar, sat and read by candlelight the report sent from Vienne by Pierre Berard, informing him of the details of the council meeting.
De Molay’s eyes were bloodshot, his noble face creased with lines and shadowed by fatigue. Long sleepless nights had left their mark.
These were evil times for the Temple.
Before Villeneuve du Temple, the immense fortified site of the Templar city, rose the majestic royal palace from which King Philippe IV of France was preparing his great coup against the order. The kingdom’s treasury was depleted, and Philippe le Beau owed the Temple a great deal of money—so much money that people said he would have to live ten lives to repay it all.
But Philippe had no intention of paying his debts. His plan, in fact, was quite different: He wished to inherit the order’s assets, even if he had to share part of the treasure with the Church. He had approached the Order of Hospitallers for aid, promising them lands and villas if they would support him in his sordid campaign against the Templars. And around Pope Clement were influential clerics whom Philippe paid to conspire against the Temple.
Since he had bought the false testimony of Esquieu de Floryan, Philippe had been inexorably tightening the noose about the Templars’ necks, and each day that passed, the moment approached when he would be able to deliver the coup de grâce.
The king secretly envied Jacques de Molay for his courage and integrity, for possessing in full measure the nobility and virtues that he himself lacked. His discomfort in the Grand Master’s presence was evident, and he could not bear to stand before the unwavering mirror of the Templar’s eyes. He would not stop until he saw him burned at the stake.
Earlier that evening, as on so many others, Jacques de Molay had gone into the chapel to pray for the knights already immolated by order of the king. More were dying each day, denounced as heretics by their sovereign and by their Church. He prayed, too, to be delivered from the tyranny of King Philippe.
For a long while, since Clement had appointed Philippe custodian of the Templars’ assets, in Poitiers, he had maintained a tight rein on the order. Now the Grand Master tensely awaited the decision of the Council of Vienne. Philippe had gone in person in order to exert pressure on Clement and the ecclesiastical tribunal. He was not content to administer a treasure that did not belong to him; he wanted it for himself, and the Council of Vienne presented itself as the perfect vehicle by which to deliver the mortal blow to the Temple.
When he had finished reading the report, Jacques de Molay rubbed his eyes and then reached for a sheet of parchment. For the better part of an hour his pen scratched across the paper. The moment he finished he sent for two of his most loyal knights, Beltrán de Santillana and Geoffroy de Charney.
Beltrán de Santillana, born in a sunny house in the mountains of Cantabria in Spain, was a man of silence and meditation. He had entered the order not long after turning eighteen, but even before being initi
ated as a brother he had already fought in the Holy Land. There he met de Molay and saved his life, covering the Templar with his body as the blade of a Saracen warrior was about to find de Molay’s throat. A long scar on Santillana’s chest, near his heart, bore witness to that long-ago act of bravery and self-sacrifice.
Geoffroy de Charney, precept of the order in Normandy, was an austere, stern knight whose family had given other sons to the order, renowned knights such as his uncle François de Charney, may he rest in peace, who had died of melancholy years ago on a visit to the family estate.
Jacques de Molay trusted Geoffroy de Charney as he would trust himself. They had fought together in Egypt and before the fortress of Tortosa, and he knew de Charney’s courage and piety, as he knew that of Beltrán de Santillana. It was for that reason he had chosen these two knights to carry out the most delicate of missions.
In his report, the Templar knight Pierre Berard had confirmed the worst. Clement was about to accede to Philippe’s demands. The order’s days were numbered—the death sentence abolishing it was soon to be issued from Vienne. Swift arrangements had to be made for saving the last, most fiercely protected treasures of the Temple.
Distant sounds of revelry from the streets of Paris broke the silence of the night.
De Charney and de Santillana quietly entered the Grand Master’s study. Jacques de Molay serenely bade his knights take seats. There were many details to be discussed, and there was no need for preamble as the Grand Master began to outline his instructions. They all knew what they faced.
“Beltrán, you must leave for Portugal at once. Our brother Pierre Berard has informed me that within days the pope will condemn the Temple. It is too soon to know what will happen to our brothers in other countries, but in France our cause is lost. I had thought of sending you to Scotland, for Robert Bruce, the Scottish king, has been excommunicated and is thus beyond Clement’s reach. But I trust in good King Dinis of Portugal, from whom I have received assurances of protection for the order. Philippe has taken much from us. But neither gold nor land concern me, only one great treasure, the Temple’s crowning jewel—the shroud of Christ. For years, the Christian kings have suspected that it lies in our possession, and they have longed to recover it. The rumors of its magical power to make the man who owns it indestructible have only grown with time. Still, I believe that good King Louis was sincere in his pleas to be allowed to pray before the true image of Christ.