CHAPTER FIVE

Kate was at her desk at Homicide studying Gladys Pullman’s Baltimore file when she was surprised by a phone call from Brother Simon. He was in the hospital for several hours of outpatient dialysis and asked if she would come by to see him so that they might talk. She did not want to spend time away from the case but agreed to go.

At the hospital she found Simon sitting in a chair and connected to a dialysis machine. He seemed no more concerned than if getting a haircut. She sat in a chair opposite, unsure why she was there.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “First, I must apologize for my harsh remarks to you when we first met.”

“No problem.”

“Oh, I sincerely meant what I said. But Father Abbot ordered that I confess my spiritual pride and humbly ask your forgiveness. Penance done?”

“Done.”

“Good.” He was uncertain how to begin. “I am very worried about Thomas and this kidnapping. He is not just a brother monk, but a friend and colleague. Our fields are similar: he, a historian; I a cosmologist. Both deal with time, past and present.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “However, he also deals with future time.”

“You mean all that psychic shi— stuff?”

“You are a skeptic?” He smiled. “My method is science, his method is . . . different. Neither is understood; certainly not mine. Look at string theory—multiple universes? We haven’t even begun to understand this one.” He shook his head in amazement. “Einstein wrote in a letter that ‘People like us who believe in physics know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only an illusion.’ Thomas once told me that for over two thousand years, the Druid wizards taught that past, present, and future are one. Incredible. They were two thousand years ahead of Einstein!”

“Brother Simon, your world is very different from what I expected. I thought that monks went to Mass, baked bread, and avoided women. But you are still working as a cosmologist and Thomas is an active Celtic scholar.”

“All monks had careers before they became monks, Kate. In our order, they often continue their work. For example, Brother Mathew is also Dr. Edwin Twickham, a renowned geneticist. He is doing research involving monasteries.”

“Studying monks?”

“No, rats. From the very beginning, monasteries all over the word had two things in common—manuscripts and rats that devoured manuscripts. The rats also ate monk’s food, which is mostly vegetarian. Dr. Twickham believes that these rats, by eating this unvarying diet in monasteries for nearly two thousand years, have evolved to be a different species from those living outside monasteries. His research may reveal critical data about how diet affects physical changes in evolution.”

“I see.”

“I don’t. I told Twickham his research is pointless! He should concentrate on something that will help monks be relevant in the world.”

“I thought the whole idea of a monastery was to live apart from the world.”

“Apart does not mean spiritually separated. We constantly pray for the world, even for those who don’t believe in God. I promise you, a monastery is no place to hide from the world. The life is incredibly demanding.” He changed the subject. “Have the police made any progress finding Thomas?”

She paused a nanosecond too long.

“Good Lord. You haven’t reported it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“His abductors killed the courier. They may have killed two more—a book dealer and a scientist in Baltimore. They are used to killing. In a hostage standoff with police, they would kill Thomas before giving him up. It’s standard MO. My partner and I have about seventy-two hours to find him.”

“May a scientist and meddling monk offer an observation?”

“Please do.”

“Thomas told me what the diary might contain. I don’t know how much he revealed to you.”

“Not much.”

“He believes there is much more involved than a Templar treasure. It has to do with manuscripts concerning a tremendous, disciplined power. Thomas’ abductors are very sophisticated. You won’t find them in your standard criminal database. To get them, you have to not just think outside the box; you must eliminate the box.”

She smiled; he was tremendously likable. “Thanks, I’ll remember that.”

“The brothers right now are performing a rarely used ritual: a round-the-clock prayer vigil until Thomas is safely returned. Once, when we used it, the Berlin Wall came down. We like to think we did our part. As you work in your busy world, please remember, there are also a bunch of poor monks praying and wearing out their knees.”

Thomas paced the small room thinking about Nora’s offer of the diary in exchange for the translation. He heard someone at the door, then one of the Latino men entered with a pot of coffee and a plate of beans. The aroma told him that the coffee was burnt again. How difficult was it to make coffee? If his captors didn’t kill him, their coffee would.

He ignored the beans, and poured a cup hoping it would give him a caffeine jolt. Returning to the diary, he found Brychan describing how the Templars interrupted their pursuit of the robbers to stop and engage in combat drills.

Three days since our last drill exercise. We are gaining on the robbers. When we overtake them, battle is certain, the odds uncertain. The two-man drill is our single advantage. It could determine victory or defeat.

From his research, Thomas knew that Templars greatly influenced battle tactics of that period. Though small in number, they were fierce and well-disciplined. They were often placed in small bands of a larger unit to lead the point of attack. Templars were special ops centuries before commandos and Special Forces.

He was fascinated by the paradox of non-violent Buddhist monks and their long involvement in martial arts. When the university offered free aikido classes, he and Father McCoy, the Catholic chaplain, took them together. Thomas lost four pounds and any illusions that he was a fighter. But he gained confidence that, in a threatening situation, he would not be helpless. In those long hours handcuffed to the bed, he decided that if he got the chance, despite being a peace-loving monk, he would fight like hell to escape.

But Nora played the diary like a chess master. Pride was his sin; his reputation as a scholar had been destroyed by false accusations. At that moment, he decided to take Nora’s offer for the diary. But he would delay telling her so she would not think that he had been too easy.

That settled, Thomas returned to the diary.

We had been following the trail overland when we came upon a main road with many confusing tracks.

Ursus dismounted and studied the ground. Tracking the robbers’ horses overland had been easy. One packhorse had a peculiar side gait, making him unfit as a charger. But now the hoof-prints on the road were muddled among countless others. Ursus motioned to the right, toward Paris, the thieves’ presumed destination.

“That way,” he said.

“No. I think not,” Brychan said.

Surprised, Ursus and Sara looked at him.

“That is the way north,” Ursus insisted.

“But here, they turned south.” Brychan urged his horse to the left with no explanation. Ursus remounted and they rode on in sullen silence. Eventually, they came upon horse manure dropped earlier that day.

Ursus dismounted and his fingers probed the sun-dried pile. Rubbing a sample between his palms, he smelled it with quick short sniffs, the Bedouin way. He looked at Brychan. “It’s our roan.”

“How far ahead?”

“Half a day.” His look was grudging respect. Brychan had been right.

Sara was amazed. “Sir Brychan, was it the sight that told you which direction to take?”

“No.” He looked at Ursus. “What thief does not steal money? One who fears breaking the eighth commandment—stealing. Possibly a priest?”

“What priest has the guts to steal from us?”

“A priest ordered to get the chest and the diary. Both the King and the Pope know of our charge from the Grand Master.”

“How could they?”

“By torturing a brother Templar.” Brychan added. “But if our robber is a priest, is he serving King or Pope?”

Ursus was instantly uneasy; to fight the King was bad enough. But the Pope? Wasn’t that fighting God?

Brychan took a gulp of water from the pig’s bladder canteen and handed it to Sara. “The King is north in Paris. Pope Clement is south at Avignon. Our robber priest is in a hurry to deliver his prize. Why would he go to Paris?”

Sara swallowed the sweet spring water, wiped her mouth, and corked the canteen. “Then,” she said, “Avignon favors us. The south road leads to the Rhône. At Cécile landing, they can hire a barge to take them the long way to Avignon. If we hurry overland, we can still reach the Rhône today ahead of them.” She looked at Brychan. “If you are right.”

“If you are right,” Ursus repeated.

Brychan said nothing, waiting.

Ursus looked fiercely at the Gypsy. He would sooner go to hell than follow a woman. “Lead us to the Rhône!” he ordered.

•••

Thomas closed the diary—it was truly cursed. It had captivated him. He thumbed the legal pad full of translation notes. Oddly, his progress was much faster than anticipated. At times a difficult passage would suddenly become clear. This was happening more frequently. He returned to the diary, where the three reached the Rhône River near the village of Cécile.

Before dawn we pressed on, arriving ahead of our quarry. The day had dawned gray and chill but, as if a favorable omen, the sun suddenly appeared, warming the valley and the green ring of surrounding hills. A lone bird stopped in mid-song; there was an instant hush as if every creature awaited what was coming.

Brychan and Ursus were mounted at opposite sides of the trail that cut through a wooded glade. This was their chosen ambush site. Both studied the terrain—its grade and footing, where the thickest foliage and especially the direction of the wind that would carry their sound and spoor. Unseen beyond the trees they could hear the whispering rush of the Rhône.

To their front, the narrow pathway came down a shallow hill. They would be able to see anyone approaching for the full measure of a plainsong.

They had dressed for battle but without their white Templar mantles. Both wore hauberks—their long coats of mail—and a barrel helmet with flat top and face guard with its eye slits. Each was armed with sword and a long-bladed dagger—the misericord—which in skilled hands could pierce a mail coat.

Hanging from each saddle was a mace, the Turk weapon adopted by the Templars. The mace was so revered that, if lost, punishment was a year’s hard penance. It was chosen specifically to fight Christians, for the Order had a rule against shedding Christian blood. The mace shattered more than cut, so bleeding was less than with a blade. Thereby the Rule of the Order was followed, and a favored weapon created.

Ursus made a final scan of the terrain. They had decided the best advantage would be to let them pass, then attack down-slope at their rear.

“Blessed Jesu!” Sara pointed to the distant hill.

Riders had just broken the far crest. Instead of the expected three, there were seven. Four cavalry had joined them.

“The Pope’s cavalry, by their colors,” Brychan said.

Ursus spat. “Two against seven; on foot, possible. Mounted, two against seven; bad odds.”

“It’s two against six,” Brychan corrected. “One is a priest.”

“You are both wrong,” Sara said. “It’s three against six.”

Father Pierre Du’Bray rode point, in the front rank with the senior sergeant. He felt safer since the rendezvous with the Pope’s men earlier that day. The troopers rode in column with packhorses at the rear. Father Pierre repeatedly looked back. He knew the Templars were somehow following, despite his taking their horses. Even just two Templars would attack the very gates of hell to recover the chest. Fear was alien to them.

The Dominican had carefully examined the diary. The ciphers were incomprehensible, but the writing in Latin and French was a clear indictment of Templar heresy. Only Satan knew what evil was written in the other language—maybe the Devil’s own. Father Pierre, as an agent of the Holy Office of Inquisition, would turn the diary over to the papal prosecutors. The heretic Templar would be burned alive with his blasphemous diary feeding the flames.

On entering the glade, the sergeant signaled the troop to halt. “S’blood!”

The troop stared at a sight none of them had ever seen. A young woman riding bareback was galloping toward them, her dark hair flying. She was naked. A gift from heaven or hell: the soldiers began cheering. The rear ranks strained for a better look for the pathway was too narrow to go around either side.

Because of the yelling no one heard the clash at their rear. The last trooper in line only knew when a blade tore through his belly from the back. He was falling when Ursus jerked the sword free.

The next man turned, taking Ursus’ mace full between the eyes, splitting his skull. He rolled backward over his horse.

Brychan, never having struck from behind, hesitated. Rules of chivalry dictated the first clash must be face to face; but this was different. As the cavalryman was turning, Brychan’s swift blade cleanly severed head from neck. The knees locked and the headless body eerily held in the saddle a few seconds before falling.

In three quick blows the odds were changed.

As the next two troopers turned, both Templars yelled, “Beauseant!” and charged.

The one nearest Brychan cleared his sword as Brychan’s blade caught his upper arm. A cross-slash severed his jaw and he twisted, falling to the ground.

Ursus’ mace slammed the next man’s helmet knocking him from his horse. Somehow, he landed on his feet; a second blow dropped him.

The last trooper wheeled horse and fled.

Father Pierre stiffened in terror as the two Templars rode slowly toward him. He jumped from his horse and fell prostrate, his eyes clinched shut, hands trembling upward in supplication.

Brychan looked at Ursus. “A priest?”

“Smells like a Dominican.”

At the sound, Father Pierre opened his eyes to see the Gypsy woman on a horse. She was now wearing a long leather cape, her naked legs lusciously dangling. Sara looked down at him with a taunting smile.

Pierre crossed himself and cursed: “Witch.”

Not a witch, Brychan wrote, but an enchantress from whose spell it seemed not even heaven could protect.

In his private conference room, Fallon was meeting with the Bulldogs, Burns and Sawyer. They were licensed private investigators but kept separate from the Med-Tek corporation. Loyal to the last dollar, they were devoid of scruple.

Burns, a former bounty hunter, was front man and negotiator. Sawyer was the techie: electronics, photography, and ordnance. Fallon was amused by his contrasts—a nerdy thug.

They worked with a group of computer databases accessing personal information. Credit cards and banking, travel, telephone, medical, and pharmaceutical records. Personal text messages, too. The Bulldogs were a formidable corporate tool; they specialized in everything from blackmail to wet work. Also, both were dedicated sadists.

Fallon had first hired them during a tricky corporate merger. They acquired dirty background on two executives from the target firm. As a result, Fallon made more millions, and the Bulldogs had a contract for life.

Fallon held up a file. “I’m changing your assignment. Forget finding Denise Hollander’s killer, for now.” He handed it to Burns. “His name is Thomas Bardsey.”

Burns opened the folder. “What’s he done?”

“Disappeared. Find him. He’s a monk.” Fallon explained about the diary. “Which means somebody either kidnapped Bardsey or made him a better offer.”

Sawyer spoke for the first time. “You want both the diary and the monk?”

“One is no good without the other.”

Burns forced a smile. “Any restrictions on how we bring him back?”

“None. Have your fun. Just keep him alive.”

Thomas’ translating was interrupted by the sound of a car, then voices in the next room, speaking Spanish. Nora entered and the door closed behind her with the sound of the lock being bolted from the other side. She pointed to the diary.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Fascinating.”

“How much longer will you be?”

“First problem, it’s pointless to read just the Gaelic. Now I have to read the other languages for context. The Middle English I can hack. But the Latin is medieval church and mine is first-century classic and rusty. The next time you kidnap a translator, I suggest you also steal their reference books.”

“Stalling? I told you—’’

“I’m not finished,” Thomas cut in. “Brychan was deliberately ambiguous in case the Inquisition got hold of the diary to use as evidence against him or the Templars. It would be impossible for them to translate. Hell, the CIA should add it to their codes. All of which makes getting into Brychan’s head very tricky.”

“And if you take too long, you’re dead and I’m in deep shit. How do we lick this?”

Her use of “we” was a subtle manipulation and he played along. “It would help if you told me more.”

“Like what?”

“What’s in the chest? You said that you want to destroy it. Why?”

“To keep Fallon from getting it.”

“Why is Fallon so important?”

“He and his team have created a supercomputer called GOLEM. He is also working on a top-secret government program, JANUS. Its mission is to completely interface a human brain with GOLEM. Do you realize what that means?”

“Mind control?”

“Much more. The interface subject is some poor bastard named Longrieve.”

“Herbert Longrieve?”

She smiled at his surprise. “The Bobby Fischer of psychics. I also know that as an adolescent you were studied by the Rhine Institute. When Longrieve was there before you, he scored off the charts. He still holds the record in most categories.”

“I thought ol’ Herbie-the-nerdy disappeared.”

“Fallon found him. He appealed to Longrieve’s giant ego and buried him in money to become the GOLEM-JANUS interface.”

“Why would Fallon need a psychic for GOLEM?”

Nora shrugged. “Maybe to analyze how a psychic’s brain operates?”

“Already done. The Soviets in the sixties, with proven psychics. Psychokinesis works at the back of the brain. Precognition, the frontal lobes. There are also tons of studies by universities and classified projects by the CIA and Department of Intelligence going back decades, which of course, they deny. But what has that to do with a seven-hundred-year-old Templar chest?”

“Fallon is convinced that whatever it contains is critical to the GOLEM-JANUS project.”

“That’s crazy.”

“That’s Fallon. Maybe he thinks by interfacing with Longrieve, GOLEM will detect psychic energy.”

“What energy?” Thomas argued. “It may simply be a brain abnormality. My own brain scans show an irregularity which has yet to be explained.”

“Whatever breakthrough Fallon controls would be disastrous. I will stop him.”

Thomas flared. “What in hell gives you the right to stop scientific research?”

“I’m a zealous fanatic,” she gleamed proudly. “Had I been around during the Manhattan Project, believe me, there would have been no atomic bomb. What is the life of a few scientists compared with all who will die in nuclear wars and centuries of radioactive contamination?”

Thomas suddenly understood. Nora was like the Unabomber—kill real people to save imaginary thousands from a threat that may never happen. She was dangerously disturbed.

Nora continued. “I can’t do anything about scientists toying with mass destruction, but I can do something about Fallon.”

“How did you become so obsessed with Fallon?”

“Really? A monk, secluded in a monastery, who attends five masses daily and can never touch a woman, is calling me obsessed?” Her laugh was a rasping file. “I began by monitoring Fallon’s experiments on animals.”

“You didn’t get data on GOLEM that way.”

“No. That cost someone’s life. But by God, I got it.” She knocked at the door and pointedly looked at him. “Believe me Thomas, to get what I want, I’ll do it again.” The door opened. She slammed it behind her as she left.

Thomas was mystified. Nora had revealed Fallon in a new light. How did Herbert Longrieve, a psychic, fit in with Fallon’s plan? What was the medieval Templar connection to a modern-day intel operation? He knew they had discovered something important under Solomon’s temple. They also brought the Shroud of Turin to Europe. In Spain they collected rare manuscripts from the Sufis who were famous for their studies in prophecy and precognition.

Now Fallon, Templar-obsessed, had recruited Herbert Longrieve, the highest-scoring psychic to work on his GOLEM-JANUS project. How did Fallon plan to use Longrieve? An earlier observation was reinforced; Fallon was far more dangerous than just his involvement in a homicide.

Otis Hardegree put down the paint sprayer and removed his mask. The boss wanted to see him at Bay 4. He swore, removed his gloves, and walked down the row of cars.

Jake, the foreman, looked up from his clipboard. “Otis, what in hell have you done now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some cop is looking for you.”

“Oh, that. Last night was our poker game. We was shooting the shit and talking pussy. This dude from a Camarillo shop said he was visited by a woman cop, a Latina with totally awesome tits. She was checking paint jobs, looking for a green four-door with a blue scrape. We got one, so I called the Santa Barbara police and left my name.”

Jake gestured awkwardly. “Uh, this is a police detective.”

Otis turned to see a woman standing behind him.

“The one without awesome tits.” Kate smiled.

“Sorry, Officer. I was just kidding . . .” He flushed pink.

“No problem. You should hear how we girls talk about you guys.” She pointedly stared at Otis’ crotch. “What have you got . . . car-wise?”

Flustered by her comment, Otis led her to a dark green Ford two-door with banged bumper, deep fender ding, and a long blue scrape. The Ford looked brand-new. He showed her the work order. It was dated the day after Thomas’ abduction.

“What’s the delay?” Kate asked.

“Waiting on a paint color. When I told the guy it might take a few days, I thought he was gonna . . . he got upset.”

Kate looked again at the order: a J. Ramirez with a Santa Barbara address. “Santa Barbara?”

“Yeah. You know how many body shops there are between here and there? Why come all the way to Ventura?”

On the drive back, traffic moved at a glacial crawl. Kate called Vicky on her cell. It was dark when, within minutes of each other, they pulled up at the address of J. Ramirez. No lights were showing but inside they could hear salsa music. It stopped when they knocked on the door. Then silence.