The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (34 page)

It was a clear August morning and camera-wielding visitors and the devout faithful thronged the open expanse. An exuberant press of humanity. While many, if not most, had disembarked from a tour bus, there were hardy pilgrims in the swarm who’d made the journey on foot, having departed from such faraway locales as
Paris and Lisbon. No different to the pilgrims who first paid homage to the Apostle more than a millennium ago, twenty-first-century visitors were anxious to fulfill the age-old rite of passage – to tour the cathedral and see the Apostle’s tomb.

Feigning an interest in the flamboyant cathedral,
Caedmon slowed his step, enabling Calzada to catch up to them. ‘Few people are aware of the fact that, during the Middle Ages, the famous apostle was known as
Santiago Matamoros
, St James the Moor Slayer,’ he remarked, having assumed the role of tour guide.

Shoving her sunglasses on
to the top of her head, Edie glanced over at him. ‘And just how did St James earn the name
Santiago Matamoros
?’

‘Interesting story that. In
the year 844, the Apostle James supposedly resurrected himself from his tomb and led the Christian army to victory at the Battle of Clavijo,’ he nattered on blithely, if for no other reason than to lull the Bête Noire into a false sense of security
.
‘Cervantes himself declared St James one of the most valiant knights the world has ever seen.’

‘
When Jesus commissioned his disciples to go out into the world and spread the Good News, I’m not exactly sure that’s what he had in mind.’ Although outwardly calm, the muscles in Edie’s neck were visibly taut, betraying her anxiety. Like Caedmon, she was aware that, hidden under his shirt tails, Hector Calzada had a Beretta semi-automatic pistol shoved into the waistband of his trousers.

‘I suspect you’re right. Invoking a saint’s intercession to aid in the slaughter of one’s enemies is not something likely to have been condoned by the Prince of Peace.’

Caedmon again glanced about, ostensibly taking in the sights. Just as he’d hoped, Calzada appeared awestruck by the huge baroque construct that dominated the plaza. Slack-jawed, his reaction was no different to that of a medieval wayfarer who’d trekked across the whole of Europe to see the cathedral and view the holy relics.

Designed to evoke that very response, the opulent facade, which was added to the original Romanesque cathedral in the eighteenth century, cut an impressive silhouette against the cloudless blue sky. Flanked by matching pagoda-like bell towers, the cathedral was decorated with highly ornate columns and pilasters, along with a dizzying array of stone statuary. The more attentive pilgrims were quick to notice that there were multiple statues of St James, the saint
surprisingly dapper in his wide-brimmed hat and flowing cape.

Continuing to make their way towards the cathedral, they passed through
an elaborate wrought-iron gate. As they ascended the zigzagging granite staircase, Caedmon placed a solicitous hand on the small of Edie’s back. The movement incited a fierce twinge of pain in his ribs. He ignored it as best he could. If the situation turned dicey, and no doubt it would, he hoped the adrenalin surge would mask the pain. At least long enough for him to set the trap. Too much was at stake for him to let his injuries dictate his actions.

At the top of the steps,
Caedmon came to a standstill. With the serpent’s smooth guile, he motioned Calzada into the cathedral.

Unaware of the fate that awaited him, the Bête Noire stepped across the threshold.

Although he and Edie had had only a narrow window to formulate a plan of action, in the pre-dawn hours they’d managed to make airline reservations, download maps and floor plans, and devise a scheme to give Hector Calzada the artful dodge. The plan now officially in play, they were on a tight timetable, their flight scheduled to depart Santiago de Compostela Airport in two hours’ time.

Since the international airport was located on the outskirts of Compostela, they’d both agreed that the cathedral, a monumental structure inundated with
statuary, ancillary chapels and holy relics, would be the perfect lure. They had only to entrap Calzada who, thus far, seemed oblivious to the skullduggery. To further cement the treachery, before leaving Ponferrada Caedmon had spoken with G-Dog, informing the priest that there was no doubt in his mind that Fortes de Pinós had cached the third copper plate at Santiago de Compostela. In fact, he’d made his case using the very same argument that Edie had put forth the previous evening. Pleased with the progress report, Father Santos ordered Calzada to follow them to the cathedral. Because they had no idea how the Bête Noire would react once they arrived at Compostela, during the two-hour drive from Ponferrada they’d carefully plotted three different ‘take-down’ scenarios.

Once they gave Calzada the slip, the plan was to retrieve the third plate and use it to negotiate Anala’s safe release. After yesterday’s carnage at Casa de Pinós,
Caedmon had good reason to suspect that if he turned the last plate over to Calzada – as the duplicitous priest had instructed – he and Edie would meet the same fate as the Marqués de Bagá. Since he was fairly certain that Anala was being held somewhere on the 300-acre Sanguis Christi compound in upstate New York, he would demand that the exchange take place in the near vicinity.

Entering the cathedral, they moved from the baroque
splendor of the exterior facade and approached an enclosed Romanesque porch. The difference between architectural styles was striking, the older structure exuding a curvilinear grace of form that fused the best of ancient Rome and Byzantium.

Following the centuries-old custom, they paused at the magnificently carved
Pórtico de la Gloria
, the original twelfth-century entrance into the cathedral. A tour de force
of Romanesque architecture, the stone statuary on the triple-arched doorway depicted the heavenly Jerusalem as described in the Book of Revelation.

‘This must have been an overwhelming sight for a medieval pilgrim from the backwaters of France or Spain,’ Edie sagely observed, craning her neck to peer at
the Twenty-Four Elders of the Apocalypse who, strangely enough, were all playing musical instruments.

‘It’s why they came: to be beguiled and bedazzled. In fact, as soon as word leaked that the mortal remains of St James had been unearthed in Compostela, Christians set out in droves to venerate the Apostle, the far-flung shrine soon becoming one of the most popular pilgrimages in all Christendom.’
Caedmon peered at the crush of twenty-first-century pilgrims who’d formed a queue a few feet away; each waiting to take a turn at kneeling in front of a statue of the Apostle. ‘Cutting a colorful swath across medieval Europe, sinners, saints, kings and peasants made their way along the Camino de Santiago. A raucous ramble straight out of Chaucer.’

‘What were they expecting to happen once they arrived?’ Edie
inquired, playing the ingenuous accomplice to perfection.

‘The reasons for making the perilous journey varied: many wished to atone for their sins; some hoped to cure a physical malady; and others simply wanted to embark on a grand adventure. Regardless of the individual reason, those intrepid pilgrims knew something that modern man has long since forgotten.’
Caedmon paused a moment, ensuring that he had Hector Calzada’s undivided attention. ‘And that is that holy relics have a transformative and magical power.’

‘
Sí
, the old ones were very wise,’ the Bête Noire solemnly intoned, nodding his head as he spoke.

Delighted with Calzada’s naive observation, he gestured to the stone portal. ‘
Let’s get to it, shall we? We have a gospel to find.’

A few moments later, as they trooped down the cent
er aisle, Caedmon scanned the vast interior. A typical Romanesque layout, the cathedral was comprised of a long nave with three aisles and a north-to-south transept, the whole of which formed a Latin cross. As with all Catholic cathedrals, the focal point was the high altar.

‘While I’m no expert on Catholic cathedrals, the “
wow factor” is off the charts,’ Edie remarked, her gaze focused on the monumental altar and gilded baldachin situated at the other end of the nave.

Heavily l
aden with gold and silver ornamentation, the altar soared six stories into the air, the baldachin held aloft by gigantic, scantily clad angels. Who had presumably descended from the heavens for that very purpose. At the top of the altarpiece, there was an equestrian statue of
Santiago Matamoros
astride a white steed. Closer to the base was a more sedentary, seated statue of the saint. Excessively gaudy – and visually at odds with the Romanesque elegance of the nave – the baroque altar brilliantly gleamed in the soft light cast by enormous cut-crystal chandeliers.

‘
Dios mío
,’ Calzada whispered, enthralled by the lavish splendor. ‘
Que es magnífico!
’

‘I hadn’t planned to tour the cathedral,’
Caedmon said offhandedly. ‘We’re only here to retrieve the copper plate from an ancillary chapel.’

‘No!’ the other man exclaimed angrily. ‘We are here! We must see the altar!’

Caedmon glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Time really doesn’t permit –’

‘Don’t fucking mess with me!’ Calzada hissed in a lowered voice. ‘I must pay my respects to
Santiago.’

‘As you wish,’ he acquiesced with a nod. ‘Far be it for me to come between a man and his religious convictions.’

Trap set, neither he nor Edie said a word as they made their way towards the main altar. There was no need to speak; the architects who created the cathedral had crafted the perfect lure. They had only to ‘go with the flow’, their job made all the easier by the scent of incense that hung heavy in the air, the pungent aroma slightly intoxicating. Evidently, a high Mass had recently been celebrated. More than likely a memorial service for the lately deceased Pope Pius XIII, the Roman Catholic Church in the midst of a nine-day mourning period.

A jaded
skeptic, Caedmon had always considered the medieval Church’s use of fragrance, candlelight, Gregorian chant and stained glass a not-so-subtle attempt to numb the intellect. To overwhelm the faithful with sight, scent and sound and, in so doing, create an enchanted world of mystery which only the priests could decipher. It worked a thousand years ago. And, given Calzada’s wide-eyed look of awe, it still worked today.

Stopping near the front of the altar, Calzada genuflected and made the sign of the cross.

‘The blessed Santiago looks so real,’ he whispered in a reverential tone, mesmerized by the seated statue of St James.

Not about to inform Calzada that the lifelike effect was created by enamel paint applied to the stone statuary,
Caedmon said, ‘It’s customary for pilgrims to climb the steps behind St James’s statue and embrace the saint from the backside. Furthermore, it’s my understanding that if you kiss the saint’s mantle, you’ll be granted plenary indulgence.’ Again, the Catholic Church had made the entrapment all too easy; ‘kissing the Apostle’ was a centuries-old tradition at Santiago de Compostela.

Calzada raised a questioning brow. ‘What does this mean, a plenary indulgence?’

‘A plenary indulgence is the remission of God’s punishment for the sins that you’ve committed heretofore.’

The other man’s eyes opened wide. The significance of that bit of Catholic catechism had grave import to a sinner with blood on his hands. ‘Meaning that when I die, I won’t go to hell,
sí
?’

‘Exactly so.’

‘Then I
must
kiss Santiago’s mantle!’ Calzada didn’t just nibble the bait; he gobbled it whole.

‘The stairway that leads behind the altar is right over here.’ Smiling blandly,
Caedmon led the beguiled Calzada towards the side aisle, steering him away from the crowd of tourists clustered around the altar.

Completely ensnared, glad-hearted that his slate of sins would soon be wiped clean, Calzada accompanied him into an empty alcove
fronted by graceful Romanesque arches. As they entered the dimly lit snuggery, Caedmon shot Edie a surreptitious glance. Trailing a few feet behind, she subtly jutted her chin.
Good.
They were both pulling their oars in the same direction.

About to teach Hector Calzada
a harsh lesson about blind faith, Caedmon gestured to a closed door situated in a dark corner of the alcove. ‘This is the entryway that leads to the
camarín
behind the altar.’

Just as Calzada reached for the doorknob,
Caedmon advanced. Thrusting his left hand under the other man’s loose shirt tails, he made a quick grab for the Beretta semi-automatic.

‘Look out,
Caedmon! He’s making a move!’ Edie shrieked when Calzada abruptly shoved his right hand behind his back to grab the gun at the exact same instant that Caedmon reached for the weapon.

To prevent Calzada from drawing first,
Caedmon captured the other man’s right wrist, violently jerking his arm at a bent angle behind his back. He then cinched his left arm around Calzada’s neck, pinning him firmly against his chest in a chokehold. Grunting, like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap, Calzada twisted and turned, repeatedly ramming his left elbow backwards, trying to hit Caedmon in the ribs.