The Last Templar

  “This is physical treasure we’re talking about now, not some kind of esoteric ‘knowledge’?” Jansson asked.

  “Well, I like to think so, but then I’ve never been blessed with a great sense of fantasy, although I do understand the appeal of all the colorful, alternative conspiracy theories. But the physical and the esoteric could be related in another way. You see, a lot of the interest in the Templars stems from the fact that no one can unequivocally explain how they got to be so rich and so powerful in such a short time. I believe it’s simply the result of the abundance of donations they received once their mission was widely publicized. But then, who knows? Perhaps they did find some buried secret that made them incredibly wealthy in record time. But what was it? Was it related to the mythical descendants of Christ, proof that our Lord fathered a child or two a thousand years earlier…” he scoffed lightly, “or was it something much less controversial, but potentially far more lucrative?”

  He waited, making sure they were all still following his line of thought.

  “I’m talking about the secrets of alchemy, about the formula to turn ordinary metals,” he calmly announced, “into gold.”

  Chapter 43

  The faces around the table were frozen in silence as De Angelis took them through a brief history of the arcane science.

  The historical evidence supported his proposition. Alchemy was indeed introduced into Europe during the Crusades. The earliest alchemical works originated in the Middle East and were written in Arabic long before they were translated into Latin.

  “The alchemists’ experiments were based on Aristotle’s theory of earth, air, fire, and water. They believed that everything was made up from a combination of these elements. They also believed that with the right dosage and method, these elements could each be transmuted into any of the others. Water could easily be turned into air by being boiled, and so on. And since everything on the planet was believed to be made up of a combination of earth, water, air, and fire, in theory at least, it was thought possible to transmute any starting material into anything one desired to create. And topping the list of desirables was, of course, gold.”

  The monsignor explained how alchemy also functioned on a physiological level. Aristotle’s four elements also manifested themselves in the four humors: phlegm, blood, bile, and black bile. In a healthy human, the humors were believed to be in balance. Illness was thought to arise from a deficiency or an excess of one of the humors. Alchemy evolved beyond the search for a recipe that would turn lead into gold. It promised to uncover the secrets to physiological transformations, from sickness to health, or from old age to youth. Furthermore, many alchemists also used the search for this formula as a metaphor for seeking moral perfection, believing that what could be accomplished in nature could also be realized in the heart and mind. In its spiritual guise, the Philosopher’s Stone they sought was believed to be capable of causing a spiritual conversion as well as a physical one. Alchemy promised everything to whoever unlocked its secrets: wealth, longevity, even immortality.

  In the twelfth century, however, alchemy was also mysterious and frightening to those who had never experienced it. Alchemists used strange instruments and mystical incantations; they employed cryptic symbolism and suggestive colors in their art. Aristotle’s works were eventually banned. At the time, any science, as it was then called, was thought to be a challenge to the authority of the Church; a science that promised spiritual purification was a direct threat to the Church. “Which,” De Angelis continued, “could be another explanation for the Vatican allowing the Templars’ persecution to proceed unchallenged.

  “The timing, the location, the origin of it all, everything fits.” The monsignor glanced around the table. “Now don’t get me wrong.” He flashed a comforting smile. “I’m not saying such a formula exists, although to me it’s certainly no more of a stretch of the imagination than the other fanciful theories of the Templars’ great secret that have been discussed around this table and elsewhere. What I’m simply saying is that a man who has lost touch with reality could easily believe that such a formula exists.”

  Tess looked briefly at Reilly and hesitated before turning to face De Angelis. “Why would Vance want to make gold?”

  “You forget, the man is not thinking with the clearest of minds. You said so yourself, Miss Chaykin. One need only look at what happened at the Met to realize that. That was not a plan drawn up by a sane man. So once you keep in mind that the man isn’t behaving rationally, anything’s possible. It could be a means to an end. Financing to allow him to achieve whatever demented objective he’s set himself.” He shrugged. “This man, Vance…he’s clearly delusional, and he’s caught in the grip of some nonsensical treasure hunt. It seems to me like you have a madman on your hands, and whatever it is he’s after, sooner or later, he’s going to realize that he’s been chasing a ghost, and I dread to think of how he’s going to react when that realization hits.”

  A disconcerting quiet descended on the table as the assembled few mulled over that sobering thought.

  Jansson leaned forward. “Whatever he thinks he’s after, he doesn’t seem to mind how many dead bodies it takes for him to get there, and we need to stop him. But it seems to me like the only thing we have to work with right now are these damn papers.” He was holding up the copy of the manuscript. “If we could read it, it might tell us what his next move is.” He turned to Reilly. “What’s the NSA saying?”

  “It’s not looking good. I spoke to Terry Kendricks before coming in, and he’s not optimistic.”

  “Why not?”

  “They know it’s a basic polyalphabetic substitution cipher. Nothing too sophisticated. The military used it for decades, but code-breaking is all about frequency of occurrence, about patterns; you spot repeated words, deduce what they are, and that gives you something to work off until you ultimately manage to figure out the mnemonic key and work your way back from there. In this case, they simply don’t have enough material to work with. If the document were longer, or if they had other documents written in the same code, they’d be able to deduce the key pretty easily. But six pages is just too little to go on.”

  Jansson’s face bent inward. “I don’t believe this. Several billion dollars of funding and they still can’t crack something a bunch of monks came up with seven hundred years ago?” He shrugged, breathing out through pursed lips for a long moment. “All right. Then we forget about the damn manuscript and concentrate elsewhere. We need to go over everything we have and find a new tack.”

  DE ANGELIS WAS WATCHING TESS. She said nothing. She glanced over at him, and something in her eyes told De Angelis that he hadn’t convinced her, and that she sensed this was about something more than just funding a personal vendetta.

  Yes indeed, De Angelis mused. This woman is decidedly dangerous. But for the time being, her potential usefulness outweighed the danger she posed.

  For just how long, though, remained to be seen.

  Chapter 44

  “What station is that?”

  Tess had agreed to an offer of a lift from Reilly, and sitting in the car with him now, listening to the uplifting music, the setting sun peeping out from behind a cluster of graphite clouds and painting the horizon a dark pink, she was glad she accepted his offer.

  She felt relaxed and safe. More than that, she was finding that she liked being around him. There was something about his toughness, his incisive determination, his…honesty. It was plain to see. She knew she could trust him, which was more than could be said for most men she’d come across, her ex-husband a particularly stellar example of that subhuman breed. With her house empty now that Kim and her mom had flown to Arizona, she was looking forward to a warm bath and a glass of red wine; a pill would also be drafted in to guarantee a good night’s sleep.

  “It’s a CD. The last track was from Willie and Lobo’s Caliente. This one’s Pat Metheny. It’s one of my comps.” He shook his head slightly. “Now there’s something a guy shoul
d never confess to.”

  “Why not?”

  He grinned. “You kidding me? Burning compilation CDs? Come on. A sure sign of way too much free time.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. It could also be the sign of someone who’s quite particular and knows exactly what he likes.”

  He nodded. “I like that interpretation.”

  “I had a feeling you would.” She smiled and looked ahead for a moment, soaking in the subtle combination of the electric guitar and the complex orchestrations that were the group’s trademark. “It’s good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Really soothing and…inspirational. Plus we’re ten minutes into it and my ears haven’t gone numb, which is a nice change from the carnage Kim normally subjects them to.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Don’t get me started. And the lyrics, my God…I thought I was a hip mom, but some of those ‘songs,’ if you can even call them that…”

  Reilly grinned. “What’s the world coming to?”

  “Hey, you’re not exactly the king of hip-hop either.”

  “Does Steely Dan count?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He put on a mock dejected look. “Bummer.”

  Tess looked ahead. “I’m telling you, it’s a New Frontier out there,” she deadpanned, watching him from the corner of her eye, waiting for it, then grinning when she saw that it clicked with him, enjoying catching him off guard with the title of the Donald Fagen track. He gave her a small, impressed nod, and their eyes met. She felt her face warm slightly, when her cell phone decided to come to life.

  Annoyed by the intrusion, she fished it out of her bag and looked at it. The screen wasn’t displaying the caller’s number. She decided to answer it and immediately regretted it.

  “Hey. It’s me. Doug.”

  If she wasn’t normally keen to talk to her ex-husband, right now was a particularly unwelcome moment. Avoiding Reilly’s eyes, she lowered her voice.

  “What do you want?” she asked flatly.

  “I know you were at the Met that night, and I wanted to know if there was anything—”

  There it was. With Doug, there was always an angle. She cut him off. “I can’t talk about it, all right,” she lied, “I’ve been specifically asked by the FBI not to talk to the press.”

  “You have? That’s terrific.” Terrific? Why was that terrific? “No one else has been told that,” he enthused. “So why is that, huh? What do you know that they don’t?”

  The lie had backfired. “Forget it, Doug.”

  “Don’t be like that.” The smarmy charm reared its ugly head. “This is me, remember.”

  As if she could forget. “No,” she repeated.

  “Tess, give me a break.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Come on, baby—”

  She snapped the phone shut, slammed it into her purse with a whole lot more force than was necessary, then exhaled heavily and stared ahead.

  After a couple of minutes, she forced herself to relax her neck and shoulder muscles and, without looking at Reilly, said, “Sorry. My ex-husband.”

  “I figured. A little something I picked up in Quantico.”

  She managed a small chortle. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  He glanced at her. “Not usually. Unless it’s about the Templars, in which case there’s this really annoying archaeologist who always seems to be a couple of steps ahead of the rest of us laymen.”

  She smiled. “Don’t stop on my account.”

  He looked at her again and saw that she was looking back. He held her eyes a moment longer than before.

  He was definitely glad she’d accepted his offer to drive her home.

  THE ROAD LIGHTS WERE on by the time they got to her street, and the sight of her house was enough to bring all the fears and worries of the last couple of days flooding back.

  Vance was here, she shuddered. He was in my house.

  They drove past the police cruiser parked down the road from her house. Reilly flicked a small wave to the cop sitting inside, who waved back, recognizing Tess from his briefing.

  When they reached her house, Reilly pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. She glanced at the house and felt uneasy. She wondered whether or not to ask him in for a moment before the words spilled out of her mouth. “Do you want to come in?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Sure.” There was nothing flirtatious about his tone. “It’d be good to take a quick look around.”

  At the front door, he held out his hand for the key and went in first.

  It was unnaturally quiet, and Tess followed him into the living room, automatically switching on all the lights, then the television, lowering the sound. The set was tuned to the WB, Kim’s favorite channel. Tess didn’t bother changing it.

  Reilly looked at her, somewhat surprised.

  “I do it when I’m alone,” she explained. “Creates the illusion of company.”

  “You’ll be fine.” His tone was comforting. “I’ll check the rooms,” he continued before hesitating, then added, “Is that okay?”

  The hesitation must be because he would be going into her bedroom, she thought. She was grateful for his concern and pleased at his sensitivity.

  “Sure.”

  He nodded and, as he went out of the room, Tess dropped onto the couch, pulled the phone over, and dialed her aunt’s house in Prescott, Arizona. Hazel picked up after three rings. She had just arrived home, having collected Kim and Eileen from the airport in Phoenix and taken them out for dinner. Both of them, Hazel told her, were fine. Tess talked briefly with her mother while Hazel went to fetch Kim, who was in the stables checking out the horses. Eileen sounded a whole lot less worried than she had been. Tess guessed that it must be due to a combination of being calmed by her affable and easygoing sister and the distance the day’s traveling had put between her and New York. When Kim came on, she was all lit up over the prospect of going riding tomorrow and appeared not to be missing her mother at all.

  As she said good night and hung up the phone, Reilly came back into the room.

  He looked as tired as she felt. “It’s all clear, as expected. I really don’t think you have anything to worry about anymore.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Thanks for taking a look anyway.”

  “Not a problem.” He took one last look and nodded to her, seeming to hover for the briefest of moments. Tess picked up on it.

  “I’m sure we could both use a drink,” she said as she got up and led him into the kitchen. “How about a beer or a glass of wine, maybe?”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Oh, I forgot, you’re on duty, right? Coffee then?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just…” He seemed reticent to go on.

  “What?”

  He paused before adding, “It’s Lent.”

  “Lent? Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I’m guessing you’re not doing it as an excuse to lose weight, are you?”

  He just shook his head.

  “Forty days without booze. Wow.” She blushed. “Okay, that didn’t come out right, did it? I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, it’s not like I’m ripe for AA or anything.”

  “Too late. The image is burned in.”

  “Great.” She walked over to the fridge and poured herself a glass of white wine. “It’s funny, it’s just that I didn’t think anyone did that anymore. Especially not in this town.”

  “Actually, it’s an obvious place to live a…a spiritual life.”

  “You’re kidding, right? New York City?”

  “No. It’s the perfect place for it. Think about it. It’s not like there aren’t enough moral or ethical challenges to deal with here. The differences between right and wrong, between good and bad, they’re pretty clear in this town. You have to make a choice.”

  Tess was still processing his revelation. “So how religious are you?
If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  She grinned. “Just tell me you don’t hike out to some cowfield in the middle of nowhere because someone there thinks he saw the Virgin appear up in the clouds or something?”

  “No, not recently anyway. I’m guessing you’re not a particularly religious person.”

  “Well…let’s just say I’d need to see something a bit more conclusive before you’d get me shlepping halfway across the country for something like that.”

  “Something a bit more conclusive…You’re saying you’d need a sign. An irrefutable, substantiated miracle?”

  “Something like that.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just smiled.

  “What?”

  “See, the thing about miracles is…if you have faith, you don’t need them, and if you’re a doubter, well then no miracle is ever enough.”

  “Oh, I can think of a few things that would convince me just fine.”

  “Maybe they’re there. Maybe you’re just not aware of them.”

  Which really threw her. “Okay, stop. You’re a badge-carrying FBI agent and you’re telling me you really believe in miracles?”

  He shrugged, then said, “Let’s say you’re walking down the street and you’re about to cross the road and suddenly, for no particular reason, right there as you’re about to step off the curb, you stop. And just then, in that split second you stop, a bus or a truck zooms right past you, inches from your face, right where you would’ve been if you hadn’t paused. You don’t know why, but something made you stop. Something saved your life. And you know what? You would have probably told someone, ‘It’s a miracle I’m still alive.’ To me, that’s just what it is. A miracle.”