The Templar Concordat (22 page)

The Marshall shifted a foot forward and lowered his voice. “Besides, we want to keep this quiet. The Master approved letting you and Marie Curtis in on everything, so you, me, Marie, the Archivist, and the Master are the only ones who know all of it. Hmmph… and we don’t know enough.”

“You realize, I hope,” said Callahan, “that this woman in London doesn’t have it. She probably passed it to that unknown Arab who light-footed out of the cafe and is now sitting pretty in Saudi or Egypt or Syria.”

“Of course I know that,” the Marshall exploded. “Any jackass can figure that out.” He lowered his voice again. “But she knows what it said because she read the damn thing, and if you want to find something it’s best to know what you’re looking for, and why. She’s what we have, so she’s where we start. You’re the hunter. You can pass what you learn to all these bookworms back here. Marie Curtis is available for whatever support you need, and the Chief Archivist here says she’s a match for any scholar in the business. He and I have gotten together and this is the best way.”

“That we have, Mr. Callahan, that we have.” The Chief Archivist spoke for the first time. “Now, the Marshall here is mostly right, but he’s wrong on one thing. You’re not the best to go after this. No, no, not at all. I am. No question about that. There’s only one…”

The Marshall spun all the way around. “Enough, Patrick! We’ve been through this a hundred times. It’s Callahan. That’s it. Callahan is going! Now, are you folks going to brief him so he at least knows the Twelfth century was after the Eleventh? Don’t forget he went to school in America.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the Archivist. “So, listen up, lad. The biggest problem the Hashashin and Al Qaeda have is motivating their own people. Most Muslims are just ordinary people living ordinary lives, and all they want to do is get on with their ordinary lives. You know? Read the newspaper, go to work, raise the kids, play with the grandkids. Try as they might, the Al Qaeda folks just can’t get them riled up. But if they have something like that silly treaty, something where crazy Popes and inbred kings promise to kill ‘em all, eliminate them, wipe them off the face of the Earth?  Then that might just be enough to piss them off a little bit, maybe enough to piss them off a lot.”

“You have your orders, Callahan. The Templars need that treaty, and you’re our best resource to get it, so you’re the one to do it. Case closed. Again.” The Marshall headed for the door. “Let Patrick and his people brief you, then go do it. I’m done here.”

They did brief him, and now Callahan shared a night train compartment with a nineteen-year-old couple who desperately wished he wasn’t there.

“I think I’ll take a walk to the dining car,” Callahan said to the couple. “And I expect to have a bite and read there for about an hour.” 

He munched on a sandwich and reviewed the material Marie had compiled on Jean Randolph. University professors left long paper trails behind them, and she was no exception. After she left Rome, the Watchers had followed her on the train across Europe, then located her flat in the King’s Cross area of London, so that’s where he would start.

“Good luck,” Marie grinned when he left the Kruger Institute. “If you have any questions, just call. I mean it. Put me on speed dial. We’re open late.”

Dhahran - Sunday, March 29

While Callahan took the train, Professor Hosni Zahid watched the lights of London as his plane circled, waiting for landing clearance into Heathrow.  Why not, he thought, why not accept one of the faculty positions offered by the British universities? Would he rather have his daughters grow up in London or Cairo? He knew the answer. London. And it troubled him. Was his duty to his people or his daughters? Perhaps when he finished with this Treaty of Tuscany business?

When Professor Hosni Zahid had first been approached by the Egyptian Brotherhood at the University of Cairo, he had dismissed them and their view of history. They were very pleasant people, but Zahid had little patience for the people who tried to bend history to support current political agendas. They were persistent, but polite, each time courteously accepting his equally courteous but firm refusals.

The last time they visited, they brought a Saudi, judging by his Arabic, and he asked to speak to the professor alone. He told him a fantastic story about a treaty the Popes and European kings had signed promising to wipe out all the Muslims in the world. The professor tried to explain to him that such a treaty never existed, since there was absolutely no record of it, and no record of such sentiment. While it might be an interesting bit of fiction, it had no basis in historical record.

What, the man asked, if he could prove it existed? And suppose this treaty invoked the Christian doctrine of infallibility? And what if the Popes, two Popes in fact, attested to the fact that it was God’s will as revealed to them, and therefore all Christians were bound by it for all time?

That would be troubling, the professor conceded, because the power of religion has such a strong hold on the minds of people that it might be irreversible. It would be very damaging, and probably extremely damaging to the Muslims of the world. Wrapping evil in religious dogma could enlist the support of millions who would otherwise remain uninterested. Everyone yearned for a cause, he said, and those who mindlessly accept religion are apt to mindlessly accept its perversions.

“We would like your willing cooperation in examining some historical documents in Saudi Arabia, Professor. And by willing, I mean we would like to enlist you as a confidential consultant.” The man opened a briefcase full of neat stacks of American dollars. “I’m sure this would make life much more enjoyable for you and your family.” Then he named the professor’s three daughters, their school, when they left in the morning, and when they returned home. “Don’t look so startled, Professor. I only suggest that with this money, you may be able to hire a driver.”

The visitor stood up and extended his hand. “I look forward to working with you at my estate on the Arabian Gulf.” He rubbed his nose and added, “There’s something else, Professor. If you tell anyone about this, such knowledge could be extremely dangerous to them.”

Hammid Al Dossary left the briefcase with the professor.

*     *     *

When Zahid reached Saudi Arabia, he found Hammid to be a cultured, well-educated, and intelligent person. The veiled threats Hammid made in Cairo were forgotten, and their spirited discussions of the current state of the Arab world were quite interesting. Hammid saw the hand of outsiders as holding back their advancement, while Zahid saw internal cultural weaknesses as the culprits.

He had a workroom for the equipment and materials he would need to examine what he understood to be a very old manuscript. He also had a comfortable bedroom, excellent food, servants on call, and the run of the estate. But he couldn’t leave the estate. Whenever he went out to the gardens, two armed guards followed at a respectful distance.

Then he waited. Hammid told him the manuscript he was to examine would be there soon, but didn’t say when, and didn’t say what it was. Did he really think he had that treaty he had suggested back in Cairo? Some people swore by UFOs, too.

He was particularly distressed when Hammid’s people launched their celebration the day the Vatican was bombed. A thousand innocent people were killed and these fools were dancing around? People who never did a thing to harm Arabs or Muslims? Children? Is this what the Arabs had come to? How could anyone who witnessed this glorification of cowardice ever celebrate the culture that produced it? We are better than that.

So, he kept to himself, read a great deal, and waited for the arrival of whatever manuscript Hammid wanted examined.

The Friday after the Vatican bombing, Hammid came to his workroom and placed a plastic case containing an old brown manuscript on the table. The document, he explained, had just come into their hands, and he wanted Zahid to give his opinion on the authenticity of the manuscript as soon as possible.

“The first thing I must do with something this old is ensure it doesn’t deteriorate. If we’re not careful, you might end up with nothing but a pile of dust.”  That thought seemed to shake Hammid. Hadn’t he thought of that? Zahid held up the plastic case by the edges and peered at the brown parchment. “This is a good container, though. Whoever put it in here knew what they were doing. I can’t tell what shape it’s in right now, but let’s assume the worst. I’ll get pictures like it is, then remove it for examination.”

“How long will it take to authenticate?” asked Hammid.

“A few days here with what I have.” He was now paying less attention to Hammid and more attention to the manuscript. “Uh… Let me take a look and see what we have. Where did you get it?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Zahid shrugged. “Ok. Do you know how it was stored?”

Hammid stroked his chin. That shouldn’t be a problem. “We understand it was between the pages of another book. For how long, we don’t know.”

“Excellent,” said Zahid.

“And can you tell me what it is?” Zahid continued to turn the plastic case in the light and squinted at the script.

“You tell me what it is, Professor. That’s your job.”

“I can do that before anything else. The filters I have should bring out the dark area in the center of the page. I won’t even have to remove it from the plastic.”

*     *     *

Arabic was a beautiful language, capable of lyrical melodies and poetic flights that escaped almost every other tongue of the world. But Hammid had insisted the translation of the Treaty of Tuscany into Arabic be as exact and precise as possible. He ordered no exaggerations, no literary flourishes, and no interpretations. Every Arabic word had to be as close as possible to the meaning of the original Latin. The raw bluntness of the words on the page before him had a power that could never be matched by a more refined or sophisticated translation.

Hammid leaned his hands on the table and hung over the three pages before him. The first was a transcription of the original Latin printed on a Sony Inkjet. The second was a direct translation into Arabic, and the third was a translation of the Latin into English. It was the English most of the world would see, but the Arabic that would make the difference.

English was a practical language, but a rude language. It could say many things, but said nothing well. It had no inner beauty, no flow, and no life, not at all like Arabic. But this Arabic translation was much like English. It was rude, blunt, to the point, and offensive. It was a fitting vehicle for the cold, dripping evil that burned at the core of Western Christianity. And now he had proof of how evil that core was. He had proof from two Popes, channeling their God for their three mightiest kings. What more could he ask for?

Well, he knew what more he could ask for. He could ask for proof the treaty on the table before him was real. Before he announced his find to the world, he had to be sure, one hundred percent sure, that the finest scientific analysis available would verify the treaty.

He knew what would happen. They would scoff at the treaty, deny it, and claim it was an elaborate forgery. But how would they respond when he laid the treaty on the table and offered to let the world’s leading scientists examine it? Would they start tearing through their own records? Turn their libraries upside-down hunting for some reference? Would they question if someone would submit a forgery to the most rigorous analysis?

He smiled at the thought, but there was work to be done. He had to test the treaty himself before he let anyone else test it.

Be patient, he told himself. Let Professor Zahid run his tests. Even though he was sure Zahid would be unable to prove the treaty a hoax, he had to allow him all the time he needed to try. One of the advantages of using Zahid was that he really wanted to prove the treaty was a forgery, and didn’t want it to be real. Good. Let him try. That’s what everyone else would be doing.

It all had to run its course. When the professor finished his tests here, it had to go to London, not the whole treaty, but a sample that could be tested at the British Museum. Hammid was a patient man. They had waited hundreds of years for an opportunity like this, an opportunity to grab the Muslim world and shake some sense into it. He could wait for some tests.

*     *     *

After Zahid delivered the translations to Hammid, he laid the manuscript under his magnifying table and brought out the script again with different colored light. He wasn’t surprised at what he read. It was essentially what Hammid had suggested, and he fully expected it would be easy to demonstrate the treaty was a modern hoax. He just needed to expose one flaw to prove it couldn’t be from the Twelfth Century.  Once he did that, he could show Hammid that anyone else could do the same. Expose the hoax, convey his regrets, and get back to Cairo and away from these people. Cooperate and let them down gently, explaining that it’s better to learn the news from one of their own than some smirking outsider.

But after three days, the treaty defied everything he tried. The ink was consistent with Twelfth Century ink. The same with the parchment, scroll work, dye, pen strokes, wording, and even the seals of the kings and Pope. Was it real?

Hammid dropped by every day to inquire about his progress, but never pushed the work, never showed impatience, and never asked how much longer it would take.