The Templar throne t-3 Read online

  When she was made partner three years later the relationship came to an end, the only codicil to the affair between them being Karin's promise not to sleep with anyone else at the firm. She'd faithfully kept to the agreement and had begun an endless marathon of sleeping with someone from just about every other firm in Washington, D.C.

  The result was that she built up an enviable network of moles providing her with crucial intelligence concerning legal matters in the nation's capital, not to mention lots of gossip. Karin was a slut, but she was no fool; it was that gossip that had greased the rails of Patchin's career within the Agency and would, they both hoped, end with Patchin being nominated to replace the incumbent and ailing attorney general as soon as the pancreatic cancer forced him to step down.

  There was very little chance that the nomination wouldn't be approved; thanks to Karin he had enough dirt on enough congressmen and senators to make him a shoo-in. He smiled; it was funny how things worked out. It was a nice symbiotic marriage: she got status and a chance to erase a scholarship past at an Idaho law school and he got what he'd craved since Harvard, raw power.

  He watched one of the chefs flipping a pair of ten-ounce fois-gras-and-truffle-stuffed burgers on the grill. Fifty bucks a pop at Dean amp; Deluca, and he was serving them to a hundred or so Washington bigwigs on a Saturday afternoon. With the burgers flipped the chef turned his attention to the Kobe beef hot dogs. Buns made to order by Patisserie Poupon in Georgetown.

  Patchin caught a glimpse of Mike Harris, his deputy director. He was standing in his wife's glass conservatory-greenhouse attached to the side of the house. The lanky man was dressed in cargo shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt over a white tee. There was a Toronto Blue Jays cap crammed down onto his head. He'd taken the "casual dress" note on the invitation a little too seriously. Patchin's craggy-faced second in command was deep in conversation with an Agency "gnome," one of the faceless horde of CIA worker bees, whom Patchin vaguely recognized. He thought for a moment. Toby something or other from the Italian Desk down on Five.

  A few seconds later the conversation ended, the gnome turned and headed back into the house, and Harris stepped out of the conservatory and onto the patio. He took enough time to light a cigarette then started walking toward his boss. Patchin turned his attention from the barbeque and met him halfway.

  "I saw you with the gnome, what's up?" Patchin asked.

  "Somebody lit the fuse on that Rex Deus thing you asked me to look into."

  "How's that?"

  "Looks like the Pope's team brought in a heavy hitter, Antonin Pesek, a contract killer. Ex-Statni bezpecnost out of Prague."

  "The weird husband-and-wife team?"

  "That's the one."

  "What about him?"

  "It looks like he tried to whack Holliday and his new nun friend. Holliday whacked him first. They found him in an old cabin cruiser run up on the beach close to Marco Polo Airport. Venice."

  "I know where Marco Polo Airport is, Harris," said Patchin.

  Harris took a drag on his cigarette, knowing perfectly well that Patchin wouldn't have admitted not knowing it was Venice Airport even if you pulled out his fingernails with red-hot tongs. Patchin was the kind of man who had to know everything, whether he knew it or not.

  "Yeah, well," Harris went on. "Holliday's bad luck. Couple of kids looking for a good fishing hole found Pesek while he was still warm. One in the throat from very close range. Looks as though they were duking it out and Holliday got the upper hand. According to his file Holliday was something of a whiz at unarmed combat. We logged Holliday and the nun getting onto a flight to London an hour later. We'd already had a passport advisory posted worldwide. We knew about it right away. It also looks like there's a connection to a murder at the Venice Archives. A clerk was killed and an old book was damaged."

  "Where is Holliday now?"

  "He and the nun just stopped in a place called Marazion in Cornwall. It's on the coast, near Penzance."

  "And you know this how?" Patchin quizzed.

  "They rented a car from Hertz. All the Hertz cars have Tracker units."

  "Tracker?"

  "English version of LoJack."

  "Ah." Patchin nodded. "Any idea about where they're going? I mean, what's in this Marathon place?"

  "Marazion," corrected Harris.

  "Whatever."

  "Mount St. Michael is about half a mile offshore. Presumably that's their destination."

  "I thought Mount St. Michael was in France."

  "That's Mont Saint-Michel," explained Harris. "This is the English version, kind of like twin cities."

  Patchin took a thoughtful sip of his virgin vodka tonic. "I see," he said, not seeing at all. Neither did Harris.

  Harris took another drag off his cigarette. He could smell the hot dogs and the hamburgers grilling. He looked around at the crowd. Bureaucrats and lawyers, a lot of them from the AG's office. The rest were D.C. power players. He looked back at Patchin and wondered if Patchin knew who was screwing his wife these days, or if he cared.

  Being one of Karin's little trophies was something he'd avoided. That kind of pillow talk was currency in Washington and you didn't want to become an ear in the blond woman's network of jungle drums. It was like a sexually transmitted disease: you had no idea who was going to be the ultimate recipient of your unfortunate whispers. This city was like that, and so were Chevy Chase parties like this one. Harris wouldn't be surprised to discover that the patio lanterns and the trees themselves were wired. Suddenly, out of nowhere he remembered a stanza from a book of poetry he'd found in a Princeton bookstore a long time ago. It was a chant, maybe the first rap song. The epitome of gossip: Walk with care, walk with care, Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo, Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you, Beware, beware, walk with care, Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.

  "Pardon?" Patchin said, frowning.

  Harris blinked, abruptly aware that he'd quoted the poem out loud. "Sorry. A verse from my misspent youth."

  "What the hell does that have to do with Holliday and Rex Deus?"

  "Nothing, I suppose."

  "You're sure it was the Vatican that sicced Pesek on Holliday?"

  "I can't think who else it would be," Harris said with a shrug. He looked around for somewhere to butt his cigarette but there was nothing nearby. He had an urge to put it out in Patchin's drink but thought better of it.

  "What about the shadow we had on him?"

  "Lost him and the nun in Prague. Our man said that it looked as though Holliday made him."

  "You'd think with all these unemployed commie spies around that we could hire better help." Patchin sighed.

  "It's the recession," said Harris, managing to keep a straight face.

  "Do we have anyone in the neighborhood? Someone a little more subtle than our fat ex-Stasi friend?"

  "We used to have a couple of babysitters in that area," answered Harris. "Toby's checking into it right now." A babysitter was exactly what it sounded like, a freelance or occasional Agency asset sent into an operation to covertly protect a warm body that the Agency was interested in.

  "That's not the only problem," said Harris. "Holliday left fingerprints everywhere. The AISI goons in Rome already had a file on him."

  "What the hell is AISI?" Patchin said. "It sounds like something you get from a toilet seat."

  "Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna," replied Harris. "The Italian FBI. They'd like to talk to Holliday as a 'person of interest.' They've already called the Home Office in England. Holliday's going to have cops all over him before you know it."

  "Shit," said Patchin succinctly.

  "Exactly," said Harris. There was a hoot of laughter from the pool. The first guest of the afternoon had tripped and fallen in. It was going to be that kind of party. Patchin felt a headache growing like a time- lapse tumor.

  "Get someone on them as fast as you can," said Patchin. "I don't want the Holy Father or anyone else to have their way with our Colonel Holliday until we find out
just what the hell it is he's doing."

  15

  St. Michael's Mount lies four hundred yards off the southern end of Cornwall, connected to the mainland by a narrow granite causeway, geographically making the round, high-topped and craggy island a tombolo, or tied, landform.

  St. Michael himself was said to have liked such places for their strategic military value-their isolation and high ground made them easy to defend from the demons and dragons he specialized in smiting with the sword of the Lord. Originally, the island had been the center of the Cornish tin and copper trade and was known as the Grey Rock. St. Michael's was founded as a religious sanctuary by an Irish cult of the vengeful "Warrior Archangel" in the ninth century.

  The island stronghold was first occupied by a simple chapel, then a monastery, and was eventually fortified. A small harbor was built at the foot of the cliffs surrounding the monastery and became a favorite watering place for ships from the European continent on their way to the Irish ports of Cork, Galway and Dublin.

  With the Norman Conquest of 1066 by King William of Normandy, the Benedictines from Mont Saint-Michel built a monastery there, eventually turned into a fortress by Henry VIII. In 1659 the entire island was purchased by Colonel Sir John St. Aubyn, the eldest son of the High Sheriff of Cornwall and a staunch supporter of Charles II against the wily republican Oliver Cromwell. St. Aubyn then began the process of transforming the old church, the abbey and the castle into a single enormous family house on the summit of the island. The island has been in the family ever since and is still occupied by them, although vested ownership of St. Michael's Mount is in the hands of the National Trust.

  By five in the afternoon Holliday and Sister Meg had parked the car on King's Road in Marazion, and with the causeway covered by high tide they'd taken a sightseeing launch over to the island.

  It was still raining fitfully and a gusting wind had put up a healthy chop on the tarnished silver of the ocean. Only four old diehards had come with them, huddled in the bows of the old lifeboat in rented oilskins. It took them less than ten minutes to cross the little cove to the twin-armed harbor, but it was enough for the elderly couples to scuttle into the Sail Loft pub as soon as they arrived.

  Holliday and Meg climbed the steep narrowing pathway up the hill alone, the forested crags and the castle looming over them like Dracula's fortress in the Carpathians. The brooding sky and the harsh, distant crash of the waves didn't make things any more attractive. Halfway up, Holliday was seriously thinking of beating a retreat to the pub himself, but the tough uphill march seemed to energize his red-haired companion. Meg's expression was set in a grim, determined smile.

  The trees on either side of the rough cobbled path were a combination of familiar pines and cedars as well as an assortment of odd- looking succulents, semitropical palms and even something Holliday swore was a magnolia straight out of Truman Capote's South.

  At long last they reached a mottled stone wall and an arched gate that led to a paved courtyard within. They crossed to another arched doorway leading to a short corridor. A bored- looking man with white hair wearing a military-style Corps of Commissionaire's uniform sat on a stool in front of a high lectern at the end of the little hallway, reading a copy of the Cornishman, the local paper from Penzance.

  The old soldier seemed a little surprised and more than a little annoyed to see them. He took Holliday's Visa card, swiped six euros off for each of them and waited for confirmation before he handed them their tickets. He gestured toward a table full of colored brochures and went back to his newspaper. They edged past the lectern and continued down the corridor and then down a short set of stone stairs to a vestibule of sorts, short corridors going to the left and right with another set of stairs and a longer hallway straight ahead.

  "Do you really think we're going to find anything after all this time?" Meg asked, looking through the brochure she'd picked up. Somewhere in the distance, muffled by the thick stone of the castle, Holliday could hear the thumping chatter of a helicopter. He was surprised; it was hardly flying weather. Probably some Sunday sailor in need of rescuing.

  "You never know," said Holliday. "They came here on the return trip; maybe they also stopped on the way to wherever they were going. The church was here at the time. The old records might tell us something if they still exist."

  "According to the brochure the entrance to the church is down the stairs, straight ahead. The St. Aubyn Library is to the right past something called Sir John's Room and the Armoury."

  "Church first," said Holliday.

  The Priory Church formed the core of the sprawling castle, cloisters, kitchens and other chambers and halls leading off from it. The church itself was quite plain, quarried stone, two aisles of arches and a Rose window at either end, which was uncommon. There was a carved wooden altarpiece in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings and rows of light wood chairs, spindly beside the heavy stone pillars of the arches stretching back from the choir.

  The stonework was very old and undecorated in the old Benedictine way. Not so the triptych east window, all three panels showing an immense winged figure of the archangel Michael, massive sword in his right hand and a long narrow shield clenched in his left, the famous motto clearly visible: Quis Ut Deus.

  "I am like God," translated Meg, staring up at the enormous figure outlined in lead. St. Michael's robes and armor had been done in glass squares and diamonds of deep yellow and blood red. The blue eyes were so dark they looked almost black.

  "I could never understand if that meant he was God, or just the representative of God," said Holliday, vaguely recalling a few bits and pieces from his parochial school past.

  "He had been invested with the power of God so that he could smite the Devil in the desert," answered Meg.

  "That obviously didn't work out for him," said Holliday. "Because the Devil's still in business."

  Meg ignored the observation.

  "He was also the first knight and the one who invented the concept of chivalry," she said as though it was an answer.

  Holliday didn't argue. "More to the point, he was the archangel most often associated with the Masons and the Templars," he responded.

  Meg stared around the room, scanning everywhere in the gloomy wood-beamed hall for anything that would provide a clue to Jean de Saint-Clair and his voyage with the Blessed Juliana.

  "There's nothing for us here," she said finally.

  Holliday nodded in agreement. "Let's try the library," he suggested.

  They went back through the church, leaving through the south exit this time, directly across from where they'd entered. They went up a short flight of steps and into a complex of rooms that had originally been the residence of the prior of the church. All the rooms were arch-roofed within, the oak black with age. As they went down the short connecting passageway the small glass panes in the leaded windows began to rattle.

  The helicopter Holliday had heard before now sounded as though it was directly overhead. It was a big one, and Holliday thought he could detect the telltale signature slow thump of a multi-rotored Sikorsky S-61, or its British counterpart, the Sea King. Maybe the capsized day sailor had gotten lucky after all, pulled out of the drink in the nick of time; the weather outside wasn't getting better as the day wore on, that was certain. Holliday could hear the rain pelting the window like hail. The walk back down to the harbor wasn't going to be any picnic, either. He was surprised the helicopter was flying at all. Holliday and Sister Meg continued down the hall as the chopper thundered overhead, the sound of the rotors fading.

  The library was immense, lit by leaded clerestory windows that would have illuminated the rows and rows of leather-bound volumes in the bookcases that lined the room if there had been any sun. As it was, the gloomy weather outside turned the room into a dusty cavern. Riding above the bookcases on the interior side of the room was a huge medieval embroidery, unrolled, cased in wood and glass like the rare books below.

  According to a discreet National T
rust plaque beside the open doorway, the embroidery predated the Norman Conquest and was thought to have been created by the original Benedictines who had occupied the island.

  Purportedly the two-hundred-and-seventy-foot banner had been stitched by a young monk, Morgan of Clare, who swore he'd seen a vision of St. Michael in the ovens of the abbey while he was baking bread in the early morning hours one day. He dedicated the rest of his life to creating the long linen work of art. The embroidery, like the much more famous Bayeux Tapestry in France, was actually an illustrative timeline of the abbey and of St. Michael's Mount.

  Dismayed, Meg stared at the cases of books. She tried the handle on one of the multipaned glass doors. Not surprisingly it was locked. She turned to Holliday and shrugged.

  "Now what?" Meg asked. "We can't look for clues in books we can't get at."

  "Maybe we won't have to," said Holliday, squinting up at the long embroidered banner above the bookcases.

  16

  "The tapestry?" Meg asked. "What about it?"

  "I think our friend Brother Morgan of Clare was something of a historian," explained Holliday, squinting up into the gloom. "He certainly had access to whatever constituted a library or scriptorium in the old abbey."

  Meg followed his glance.

  "What exactly are you looking at?"

  "There, just to the left of where the middle window starts."

  "A knight in armor being attacked by another knight. A man being burned at the stake. Two men on a single horse. A battle?"

  "It's a date. Friday, October 13, 1307. The Templars are being attacked, their leaders burned at the stake. The two knights on a single horse is the symbol of the Templars. The whole embroidery's been done that way. Not only was Brother Morgan a historian, he was also a canter."

  "A singer?" Meg asked.

  "Canter with an e," said Holliday. "It's a term in heraldry where the designer of a coat of arms makes visual puns from a person's name. Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the old Queen Mother and the wife of George VI. The family crest is bows and arrows and lions, Bowes, Lyons. Princess Beatrice of York has three bees-bees thrice, over the royal arms of York. A canter invents the crests. Morgan was doing the same thing here. It's a rebus, an old-fashioned word puzzle."