The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (9 page)

And the Church has been floundering ever since.

The Church’s Neo-Modernist wing, as the liberals were sometimes called, believed that dogma could evolve over time, shape-shifting and morphing with the tides of history. Even more outrageous than that, the liberals wanted to circumvent those Church teachings that they found burdensome and replace them with new strictures that were easier to bear.
Weaklings!
Their dangerous views had already undermined Church authority to such an extent that it was on the verge of becoming irrelevant.

Franco
was well aware that the Cardinal Secretary and his liberal cronies secretly referred to the conservative standard bearers within the Church as ‘Taliban Catholics’. A profoundly disgusting insult that denigrated those who maintained the supremacy of orthodoxy. In another day and age, one in which
dogmata
was strictly adhered to, Thomas Moran would have been condemned as a heretic, excommunicated and burned at the stake in front of St Peter’s. His blackened bones would have then served as a vivid
aide memoire
to the faithful as to what happens when one strayed from Church doctrine.

There could be no evolution of dogma!

No updating of Catholic morality. No repackaging of the Faith.

A casualty of Pius’s liberal reshuffle, Franco unexpectedly found himself
in charge of the papal archives. Publicly, Pius had stated that it was a suitable post given Franco’s impressive academic credentials and interest in ancient church history. However, privately, the late pontiff had delighted in the fact that he’d effectively neutered the cardinal once known as ‘the Church’s attack dog’, turning the ex-head of the CDF into a
topo de biblioteca –
a library mouse who scurried, out of sight, in the Vatican’s dark recesses.

‘
Let Cardinal Fiorio apply that towering intellect to the pressing problem of how best to safeguard the archives from mold and mildew
,’
Pius had liked to quip.

Although he never mentioned the humiliating ‘demotion’ that he’d suffered three years ago at the hands of the late pontiff, Franco had yet to recover the loss of face, his rage still burning bright.

As he moved away from the crush of reporters gathered around the Cardinal Secretary, a young seminary student who worked in the archives offices approached.

‘
This just arrived for you. I was instructed to hand-deliver it,’ the seminarian said as he gave Franco an unmarked manila envelope.

‘
Thank you.’ Taking the envelope, Franco tucked it under his arm. ‘It’s the budgetary report for the next fiscal quarter,’ he added, not wishing to arouse the young man’s curiosity. Although he no longer had the resources of the CDF at his disposal, Franco still maintained a close relationship with several operatives in the
Servizio Informazione del Vaticano
,
the Vatican’s secret service.

Needing to find a private place, Franco took his leave of the seminarian and headed for a locked door at the far end of the gallery.

Little did the late pontiff know when he’d condemned Franco to the dark recesses of the archives that the library mouse would uncover an explosive secret.

One that could change the odds considerably.

Fort Cochin, Kerala, India

‘Could you please turn the radio down,’ Caedmon requested, raising his voice to be heard over the tinny Indian music blaring from the taxi’s audio system.

The driver, a
shaggy-haired bloke who spoke a minimum of English, bobbed his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes, nice town.’

‘
Down
not – Oh, bloody hell.’

Swearing softly under his breath,
Caedmon turned his head and peered out of the grimy window. Once an English stronghold – the prized harbor town wrested away from the Dutch, who, in turn, pried it from the Portuguese – Fort Cochin had an old-world patina. Nestled amidst the lush foliage and tropical flower gardens were Portuguese arches, Dutch verandas and English bungalows. Normally, he would have been charmed by the bygone beauty of the dilapidated colonial architecture. But not today.

Annoyed by the heavy traffic, he glanced at his watch.
1:32 p.m.
Christ.
The day was fast escaping him. Short on time, he’d left Edie at the hotel to see to their reservations while he quickly checked in with Gita. He and Edie had a 3:30 p.m. appointment with a historian at the St. Thomas Seminary in Kottayam and he didn’t want to be late. With only five days until the ransom deadline, every hour counted.

Winding down his window,
Caedmon let the sea air ruffle the hair on his forehead, the heat stifling. As he sat roasting, he rubbed his clammy palms against his trouser legs. His great-grandfather, who served in the Royal Scots Greys, used to say that there was no hell worse than being stationed in India during the summer swelter. The old man obviously never had to listen to what sounded like a Bollywood soundtrack whilst languishing in the Bengal heat. An even more fiendish circle of hell.

‘R
ight house for you?’ the driver inquired as the taxi came to an abrupt stop on a tree-lined residential street.

Because the house in question was obscured by an eight
-foot-high stucco wall and there wasn’t an address plate in sight, Caedmon couldn’t rightly say.

‘
We’ll soon find out,’ he muttered, hitching a hip and removing his wallet from his trouser pocket.

Getting out of the cab, he handed the driver a twenty
-rupee note and nodded obligingly, unable to comprehend the man’s pidgin English. As he walked towards the mahogany gate, an older woman attired in a plain cotton sari and holding aloft a dusty black umbrella strolled past. Wiping the back of his hand across his beaded brow, Caedmon thought the makeshift parasol a damned good idea.

Dismayed to find the gate unlocked, he pushed open the heavy double-doors, disturbing a scrawny three-legged cat that had been napping on the other side of the entry. The cat arched its back and hissed its displeasure before scampering off, the motley beast astonishingly nimble.

In a hurry, Caedmon strode down a pathway that wound through a manicured garden. A two-story colonial bungalow painted a decidedly feminine shade of coral pink with white trim was situated at the end of the cobbled path. A massive banyan tree provided welcome shade. Frowning, he could see that its tangled branches also provided an easy means for an intruder to climb on to the upper balcony and trespass undetected.

Taking a deep breath, he approached the front door. In lieu of a knocker, there was a domed bell attached to one side of the door frame. He reached up and yanked on the leather strap that dangled jauntily, the resounding
clamor causing him to grit his teeth. While he waited for the summons to be answered, he spotted a pair of women’s sandals on a mat near the door.

‘
When in Rome,’ he murmured, toeing off his leather monk shoes, not bothering with undoing the buckle. Bending at the waist, he snatched off a sock and stuffed it into a shoe. Just as he was about to remove the second sock, the front door swung wide open.

‘
Afraid that you’ve caught me in a state of déshabillé,’ he deadpanned. Still bent over, he glanced up, taken aback to see that Gita was garbed in a traditional sari. He was even more surprised to see the small red bindi dot between her eyes. He’d never seen her in anything but Western-style clothing.

‘
How was your flight?’ she asked, stepping back and motioning him inside the house.

‘
Er, fine.’ Not altogether certain how one should greet the estranged mother of one’s child, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave her the obligatory French
faire la bise.

Clearly taken aback by the cheek kiss, Gita
smiled nervously. ‘Would you like something to drink? I could put on the kettle and make some –’

‘
Nothing for me,’ he interjected with a wave of the hand. ‘I grabbed a cup of coffee at the airport.’ As he spoke, Caedmon glanced around the dimly lit foyer, his gaze drawn to a corner of the reception area where there was a bronze statue of Shiva set into a large niche. A trio of votary candles cast flickering shadows on to a framed photograph of Anala that was set in front of the cosmic dancer.

Tearing his gaze away from that
distinctly morbid display, he said, ‘Have Anala’s abductors made contact with you since we last spoke?’

‘
A man who refused to identify himself rang me yesterday and inquired if I’d made any progress in finding the
Evangelium Gaspar
. I assured him that I was doing everything in my power to locate the lost gospel. Then, as you instructed in Paris, I asked for proof of life.’ Stepping over to an ornately carved side table, Gita picked up a mobile phone. ‘This is what he sent me,’ she said in a barely audible voice as she handed the mobile to Caedmon.

Bracing himself,
Caedmon examined the small LCD screen. Even in miniature, the photo of a young woman, sitting on the edge of a metal-framed bed, bound and gagged, was sickening. In that instant, his belly painfully cramped, as though some sadistic bastard had just clamped a pair of red-hot pincers around his intestines.

Only one other time in his life had he experienced
the same sort of palpable, existential horror; that was five years ago when his lover, Juliana Howe, had been killed in a RIRA bomb attack on a London tube station. That incident, and its brutal and bloodthirsty aftermath, caused a downward spiral that was best forgotten, his battle with the bottle still ongoing.

‘
Did the caller permit you to speak to Anala?’ Caedmon asked in a businesslike tone as he returned the mobile to Gita.

She
wordlessly shook her head, the bleak despair in her eyes almost too painful to bear.

‘
Right.’ Grateful for the muted lighting, he coughed into a balled fist, trying desperately to suppress his swelling emotions.
‘You mentioned that Anala was abducted from her bedroom, is that correct?’ When Gita, again, mutely nodded, Caedmon glanced at his wristwatch and said, ‘I have just enough time to examine the room before I have to depart for Kottayam.’

‘This way.’ Turning, Gita headed towards the staircase on the other side of the hallway.

A few moments later, stopping in front of a closed door, Gita turned the handle and pushed the door ajar. Caedmon followed her into Anala’s bedroom, taken aback by the ransacked debris. Smashed lamps; apparel, bedding and curtains flung haphazardly; an overturned night table; pictures ripped from the wall and smashed underfoot.

Staring at the wreckage, he could feel his self-control disintegrating. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Anala
had fought her abductor. Tooth and nail by the looks of it.

Suddenly feeling the sting of bitter tears,
Caedmon closed his eyes and breathed deeply, fighting for control. Accidentally stepping on a framed photograph, he bent down and retrieved it. For several moments, he stared pensively at the picture of Anala standing beside Gita in front of Balliol College at Oxford. For one brief, forbidden moment, he imagined himself standing on the other side of his daughter.

‘
You didn’t tell me that she was a student at Oxford,’ he said in a ragged voice, the disequilibrium expanding. Like a metastasizing cancer.

‘
There’s a great deal that I didn’t tell you,’ Gita replied with a guilty blush. ‘I was only in Paris for a few hours and –’ She waved away the explanation. ‘Anala has a first-class honors degree in PPE and has been accepted at the Department of Politics and International Relations.’ Taking the framed photograph from him, she turned it upside down, broken shards of glass falling on to the bed covers. She then removed the photo from the frame and handed it to him. ‘You should have a picture of her.’

Caedmon
wordlessly slipped the photograph into his trouser pocket. More affected than he wanted to be, he strode over to the window.

‘
Caedmon, are you all right?’ Joining him at the window, Gita put a solicitous hand on his forearm.

‘I’m fine,’ he said automatically.
Turning his head, he looked directly into Gita’s eyes. The dark half-moons that shadowed her lower lids indicated that she’d been getting little to no sleep.

Unwillingly,
Caedmon recalled that when he was nineteen years old, he fell in love with Gita Patel’s eyes, going weak at the knees when he used to gaze into her hazel orbs. He also remembered how, in the pre-dawn light, he would dash from Gita’s Oxford digs, the cobbles slick with rain, the scent of her still clinging to his person.

How did I get from there to here?

As the seconds slipped past, neither spoke. Probably because neither of them knew what to say.

He redirected his gaze out of the window, the long-ago remembrances making him distinctly uncomfortable.

On the other side of the stucco wall, he saw a group of boys playing cricket on a cleared field with youthful abandon, their childish shouts carried on the breeze. About to turn away from the window, Caedmon caught sight of a dark-skinned man attired in a black T-shirt and baggy jeans. Loitering near a red motorbike, his gaze was fixed on Gita’s house. Although he stood in the shadows, Caedmon could see that the lone figure had a moustache and closely shaved dark hair.