The Templar Concordat (13 page)

 “What else?”

“Well, it’s dated 1189. It doesn’t say 1189. Gregorian and Julian calendars mess things up, but just trust me on that. For one thing, Gregory only reigned as Pope for two months at the end of 1187.” She twirled the magnifying glass in her fingers. “That’s just a year before the Third Crusade started. And it’s just a year after Saladin captured Jerusalem. The First Crusade started a hundred years earlier, and the second started in 1147. Forty years after that, the timing is right for the boys to get together and document an agreement.” She pointed to the bottom of the treaty. “See the dates by each of the signatures? They span the year. It looks like some flunkey, probably a high-ranking Cardinal, ran this around Europe collecting signatures. By the time he got back to Rome, Pope Gregory had died, so Clement signs it, too, you know, to show consistency and support.”

He ran his finger around the edge of the plastic case. “Eight hundred years old, and here it is in front of us.”

“You haven’t asked me what it says,” said Jean. “Aren’t you interested?”

“What it says? Why, I know what it says, and I’m sure when you type up an English translation we’ll both know what it says.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get what you’re paying for. I can give you a summary now.”

“No. Do a full translation into English. I can wait until you have finished your full analysis. And be sure to do an exact transcription of the Latin. Word for word. Exact. That’s vital.”

“Ok. Don’t forget,” she said, “no matter what I come up with here, nothing I can do is anywhere as good as the laser analysis. That’s the gold standard. And for that, a sample probably has to go to London.”

London, thought Hammid. Not Cairo, Damascus, Riyadh, or Baghdad. Not any Arab university because the Arabs didn’t have any laser dating equipment.

Jean fluffed a pillow and sat back against the headboard of the bed. “But forget this stuff for a minute. What’s going to keep them from bursting into the room at any moment? I mean… they are going to seriously come after anyone even remotely connected with this.”

“Think about it, Jean. There were a zillion people there today. They have pictures of a priest wearing a bee-keeper bonnet and a nun with a bag on her head. And that bishop? He saw me with a bushy head of hair.”

Hammid rubbed a palm over his bald head. “You wore three wigs and three outfits, and we always wore big hats and sunglasses. They can look at all the security pictures they want. And latex gloves leave no fingerprints. Don’t be so negative.”

 “I don’t know. Ok. Now, my money. When do I get it?”

“Always money, isn’t it? The Western mind and money.”

“Western mind? You guys are so full of crap. I haven’t noticed the Saudis dumping their PlayStation machines, yachts, servants, and Gulf Stream jets to rush back to their noble Bedouin roots.”

“True, true, but the money will be paid when my colleague reviews the treaty and your Latin transcription. I can’t stress enough, Jean, how important it is to translate and transcribe every word exactly as it is written. Make sure you make an exact transcription of the original Latin.”

“And where is this colleague you never mentioned before? You said I got the rest of my money when I verified the document.”

“Exactly. Verification. We’ll meet him here in Rome, he will satisfy himself you have delivered in good faith, then he’ll transmit the codes to Switzerland to move the money. You’ll be able to see it in your account immediately.”

Hammid lifted a palm. “You already have half the million Euros. We’re honorable people. You’ll have the other half as agreed.”

She looked up at him and grinned wickedly. “You know, it really was a great heist. If those idiots had only blown up a substation instead of the Pope, it would be one for the books. You looked kind of nice all dressed up as a priest.”

“You never cease to amaze, my dear.”

Zurich - Monday, March 23

“They bombed St. Peters, and we knew they were going to bomb it,” said the Templar Master. “And I suppose we could say Mancini failed because the bomber got through.” His arm dangled over the arm of the chair and he let the metal tip of his black oak cane bounce on the stone floor of the Knight’s Room in the drafty old Templar estate in the mountains.

“But we have to face it. We tied his hands. We knew St. Peters was the target, we knew it was going to get hit, we knew when it was going to get hit, and we didn’t tell him. We. Did. Not. Tell. Him. We didn’t tell the Pope. We didn’t tell the Italians. We didn’t tell Mancini. We didn’t tell Callahan. We did let Mancini and Callahan know there was an attack planned, but we just didn’t let them know what, where, and when. The target we knew. The time we knew. We made it a guessing game, and a thousand people lost that game.”

The Marshall grunted and shifted around in the armchair. “We made a decision, and we made it according to the Concordat. We’re bound by the Concordat just like all the Templars before us. That old Pope refused the Templars, refused cooperation, and we acted under the Concordat. Listen, we had no alliance with that Pope. We were bound to keep silent. And that’s what we did, just like those before us have done. And just like those who come after us will do. That’s what we live with. That’s part of what we swear to uphold when we become Templars. You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.”

The Master snatched his cane up in midair and stood. “So, where is the point when we stand up as decent men and say enough? When do we let simple human decency and a concern for preventing mass murder trump a six hundred-year-old agreement drawn up by medieval bigots? The crap we talk about? Honor, courage, selflessness, protecting the weak, civilization, Western values? It’s all crap when we let a thousand innocent people die.”

He turned and smashed the cane through a delicate porcelain vase on an end table. “You know both of us, and that means you and me, and all the Council, decided to keep a lid on the information. It was unanimous. Unanimous. Seven to zero. You and I both voted to sit on the sidelines.” He pointed the cane at the old warrior.

“Right, we did,” the Marshall shouted back. “It’s easy to blame the Concordat, the dead Pope, Crusaders, blood oaths, our Templar tradition, and medieval nonsense.” He stood and placed both hands on the thick, smoke-blackened mantle above the fireplace and looked down into the fire. “But you’re right. You’re right. We did it. The blood of all those people is on our hands. We could have acted and we didn’t. All we had to do was make a phone call and we didn’t. What we did was maintain our tradition.”

The Master limped around the room and the Marshall turned to face him. “But remember one thing. Templars and Vatican have both lived by that Concordat, and we’re both still here. Who else has survived that time? Maybe we’re just not smart enough to know what tradition does for us.”

 “Well, I’d say we screwed up big time.” The Master pointed a finger at the Marshall and his thumb at himself.  “That was a direct strike against the West. It just happened in the Vatican. If it had been planned for London, Paris, Madrid, Sydney, Rio, New York? We would have let the word out in a heartbeat. Then we would have gone in for the kill.” He looked at an ancient two-handed Templar sword hanging on the wall. “For God’s sake, we’re the ones who are supposed to keep the Hashashin in check. And what do we do? We let them blow up St. Peter’s!”

The Marshall threw up his big hands. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and we don’t have Concordats with New York, London, and Madrid. But listen, we can debate the merits of the Concordat all day long, but at the end of the day it’s still with us. What’s done is done, and now we live with it, just like previous generations of Templars have. We’re not smart enough to analyze everything and say how it works. Some things just do. And you remember, it was the Pope’s decision under the Concordat to reject an alliance with us and insist we have absolutely nothing to do with the Vatican.”

The Master paced in silence for a few moments. “What’s the story with Mancini and Callahan? Are they Ok?”

“Mancini’s Ok. His boss got hurt, so he’s running Vatican Security now. How’s that? A Templar in charge down there. Ha!”

“And Callahan?”

“Our people here located him in a hospital. Concussion, cuts, scrapes. Nothing serious.”

“Always was lucky,” snorted the Master.

They both sat in silence for a few more moments.

The Master walked over to the huge fireplace and stabbed at the logs a few times to encourage them along. “Did you know,” he continued looking over at the Marshall, “that I was the initial Templar contact after Pius was elected Pope twenty years ago? The old Master said it would be good experience.”

“You did that? Hmmph. Sounds more like you drew the short straw. Great work. Must have been your winning personality that generated so much love. Twenty years back? Let’s see. I’m dodging bullets running blood diamonds in the Congo for our cartel breakers, and you’re living high in Rome. Figures.”

“He called us apostates, heretics, worshippers of Baphomet, and blasphemers. Then he told me I was under his orders and must immediately reveal the name and location of the old Master before secluding myself for prayer, penance, and self-mortification. And all this at the risk of my immortal soul. Blah, blah, blah.”

The Master sat back down and sighted at the fire through his glass of wine. “The guy really didn’t know anything about us. That Agretti guy?  Been Secretary of State forever, and was too much of a coward to show Pius the old Concordat and explain how the real world worked. The guy turns purple at the mention of the word ‘Templar.’ Not sure where that comes from.

“Anyway, when I showed up, he had no choice. We got through all the history and explanations, and he still demanded we bend our knee to him. So, I told him we would honor the old Concordat and keep out of Church business while he was Pope, and we expected him to also honor it, and stay out of our business. The Templars would leave the Vatican alone, and the Vatican would leave the Templars alone. Mutual hands-off. He didn’t like that, even though that’s what the Concordat said. Off he goes, ranting on about being God’s sole representative on Earth, like he had an exclusive McDonald’s franchise, and how we had to bow to him. We couldn’t be allowed to continue to pollute both the world and Holy Mother Church.”

“Ha, you should have punched the old fool out then and there,” said the Marshall. “Might have saved a lot of lives if we could have lent a hand over the last twenty years.”

“Well, that sure sounded like a threat against the Templars to me. The old Master had given me three lists of names to use if I needed them. The old conniver didn’t tell me what they were, just said to show the first list to the Pope if he gave me a hard time, and hold back the other two.”

“What were they?” asked the Marshall.

“I didn’t know.” He raised a hand and dropped it onto the arm of the chair. “Still don’t know. What I do know is when he saw the list he turned about five shades of green. Then he turns all purple, starts shaking so hard he could barely talk, pulls the list right in two, crumbles up both pieces, and pounds on the desk with both little fists. He points at the other two pages I held, and yells ‘Give me that.’ I didn’t give them to him, just read him the first name on the list. A woman. Italian name. Now his eyes get as big as pie plates and he shuts up. He just sits there for about a minute with his face all twisted up like some little gargoyle. Then he points to the door, clenches his jaw, bares his teeth, and says, ‘Get out.’”

The Marshall laughed and slapped his knee. “Now that would be a sight to see.”

“Well, on behalf of the Templars, I wished him the best for his pontificate, and headed for the door. I got about halfway when he charges around the desk after me. He’s wearing those silly little cloth slippers. Looked like an elf. He starts screaming, ‘Anathema! Anathema! Out! Out! Out! Be gone!’”

“Oh, God!” laughed the Marshall. “I have a vision of you standing there with your long, skinny arm out and your hand on his head while he windmills his little fists at you. Who else was there?”

“Just Agretti. Don’t worry. I escaped unscathed.”

“Probably a list of bank managers or little boys,” said the Marshall.

“Don’t know. Could have been. I never asked the old Master, and he never told me. I suspect the Pope ate the list when I left. The Archivist probably knows, but God only knows what I’d have to trade to get him to tell.”

“Yeah,” the Marshall said, “so we kept a very low profile with the Church for twenty years. But I bet ‘times will be a-changin.’ Bombs do that. So do dead Popes.”

The Master cocked an eyebrow when the Marshall clasped both hands together. Time to get back to work.

“Back to business.” The Marshall was the general again. “Until someone new gets elected Pope, the Concordat is in a gray area. That’s our opportunity for revenge. I think we can manage to do a pretty good job on the Hashashin.  Our Watchers have been reporting on them in Rome for some time, and we have enough information on them to make a move on them all at once. They’ve had it pretty easy. We’re not exactly sure who is Hashashin and who is just a run of the mill Al Qaeda terrorist flunky, but…”

“How many?” asked the Master.

“It looks like there are three hard-core Hashashin, and about ten others who seem very close to them. I doubt they are members, but… Well, you know how it goes with these folks. We don’t know exactly who did what, or what else they have planned.  Remember, there’s a Conclave to elect a new Pope coming up pretty soon. All those cardinals will be there, and the Piazza will be filled with people waiting. Great opportunity for them. They all have to go. Even if we don’t know their plans, they can’t do much dead.”