Twist of Time, page 8
“How far ahead?”
“Half a day.” His look was grudging respect. Brychan had been right.
Sara was amazed. “Sir Brychan, was it the sight that told you which direction to take?”
“No.” He looked at Ursus. “What thief does not steal money? One who fears breaking the eighth commandment—stealing. Possibly a priest?”
“What priest has the guts to steal from us?”
“A priest ordered to get the chest and the diary. Both the King and the Pope know of our charge from the Grand Master.”
“How could they?”
“By torturing a brother Templar.” Brychan added. “But if our robber is a priest, is he serving King or Pope?”
Ursus was instantly uneasy; to fight the King was bad enough. But the Pope? Wasn’t that fighting God?
Brychan took a gulp of water from the pig’s bladder canteen and handed it to Sara. “The King is north in Paris. Pope Clement is south at Avignon. Our robber priest is in a hurry to deliver his prize. Why would he go to Paris?”
Sara swallowed the sweet spring water, wiped her mouth, and corked the canteen. “Then,” she said, “Avignon favors us. The south road leads to the Rhône. At Cécile landing, they can hire a barge to take them the long way to Avignon. If we hurry overland, we can still reach the Rhône today ahead of them.” She looked at Brychan. “If you are right.”
“If you are right,” Ursus repeated.
Brychan said nothing, waiting.
Ursus looked fiercely at the Gypsy. He would sooner go to hell than follow a woman. “Lead us to the Rhône!” he ordered.
•••
Thomas closed the diary—it was truly cursed. It had captivated him. He thumbed the legal pad full of translation notes. Oddly, his progress was much faster than anticipated. At times a difficult passage would suddenly become clear. This was happening more frequently. He returned to the diary, where the three reached the Rhône River near the village of Cécile.
Before dawn we pressed on, arriving ahead of our quarry. The day had dawned gray and chill but, as if a favorable omen, the sun suddenly appeared, warming the valley and the green ring of surrounding hills. A lone bird stopped in mid-song; there was an instant hush as if every creature awaited what was coming.
Brychan and Ursus were mounted at opposite sides of the trail that cut through a wooded glade. This was their chosen ambush site. Both studied the terrain—its grade and footing, where the thickest foliage and especially the direction of the wind that would carry their sound and spoor. Unseen beyond the trees they could hear the whispering rush of the Rhône.
To their front, the narrow pathway came down a shallow hill. They would be able to see anyone approaching for the full measure of a plainsong.
They had dressed for battle but without their white Templar mantles. Both wore hauberks—their long coats of mail—and a barrel helmet with flat top and face guard with its eye slits. Each was armed with sword and a long-bladed dagger—the misericord—which in skilled hands could pierce a mail coat.
Hanging from each saddle was a mace, the Turk weapon adopted by the Templars. The mace was so revered that, if lost, punishment was a year’s hard penance. It was chosen specifically to fight Christians, for the Order had a rule against shedding Christian blood. The mace shattered more than cut, so bleeding was less than with a blade. Thereby the Rule of the Order was followed, and a favored weapon created.
Ursus made a final scan of the terrain. They had decided the best advantage would be to let them pass, then attack down-slope at their rear.
“Blessed Jesu!” Sara pointed to the distant hill.
Riders had just broken the far crest. Instead of the expected three, there were seven. Four cavalry had joined them.
“The Pope’s cavalry, by their colors,” Brychan said.
Ursus spat. “Two against seven; on foot, possible. Mounted, two against seven; bad odds.”
“It’s two against six,” Brychan corrected. “One is a priest.”
“You are both wrong,” Sara said. “It’s three against six.”
Father Pierre Du’Bray rode point, in the front rank with the senior sergeant. He felt safer since the rendezvous with the Pope’s men earlier that day. The troopers rode in column with packhorses at the rear. Father Pierre repeatedly looked back. He knew the Templars were somehow following, despite his taking their horses. Even just two Templars would attack the very gates of hell to recover the chest. Fear was alien to them.
The Dominican had carefully examined the diary. The ciphers were incomprehensible, but the writing in Latin and French was a clear indictment of Templar heresy. Only Satan knew what evil was written in the other language—maybe the Devil’s own. Father Pierre, as an agent of the Holy Office of Inquisition, would turn the diary over to the papal prosecutors. The heretic Templar would be burned alive with his blasphemous diary feeding the flames.
On entering the glade, the sergeant signaled the troop to halt. “S’blood!”
The troop stared at a sight none of them had ever seen. A young woman riding bareback was galloping toward them, her dark hair flying. She was naked. A gift from heaven or hell: the soldiers began cheering. The rear ranks strained for a better look for the pathway was too narrow to go around either side.
Because of the yelling no one heard the clash at their rear. The last trooper in line only knew when a blade tore through his belly from the back. He was falling when Ursus jerked the sword free.
The next man turned, taking Ursus’ mace full between the eyes, splitting his skull. He rolled backward over his horse.
Brychan, never having struck from behind, hesitated. Rules of chivalry dictated the first clash must be face to face; but this was different. As the cavalryman was turning, Brychan’s swift blade cleanly severed head from neck. The knees locked and the headless body eerily held in the saddle a few seconds before falling.
In three quick blows the odds were changed.
As the next two troopers turned, both Templars yelled, “Beauseant!” and charged.
The one nearest Brychan cleared his sword as Brychan’s blade caught his upper arm. A cross-slash severed his jaw and he twisted, falling to the ground.
Ursus’ mace slammed the next man’s helmet knocking him from his horse. Somehow, he landed on his feet; a second blow dropped him.
The last trooper wheeled horse and fled.
Father Pierre stiffened in terror as the two Templars rode slowly toward him. He jumped from his horse and fell prostrate, his eyes clinched shut, hands trembling upward in supplication.
Brychan looked at Ursus. “A priest?”
“Smells like a Dominican.”
At the sound, Father Pierre opened his eyes to see the Gypsy woman on a horse. She was now wearing a long leather cape, her naked legs lusciously dangling. Sara looked down at him with a taunting smile.
Pierre crossed himself and cursed: “Witch.”
Not a witch, Brychan wrote, but an enchantress from whose spell it seemed not even heaven could protect.
In his private conference room, Fallon was meeting with the Bulldogs, Burns and Sawyer. They were licensed private investigators but kept separate from the Med-Tek corporation. Loyal to the last dollar, they were devoid of scruple.
Burns, a former bounty hunter, was front man and negotiator. Sawyer was the techie: electronics, photography, and ordnance. Fallon was amused by his contrasts—a nerdy thug.
They worked with a group of computer databases accessing personal information. Credit cards and banking, travel, telephone, medical, and pharmaceutical records. Personal text messages, too. The Bulldogs were a formidable corporate tool; they specialized in everything from blackmail to wet work. Also, both were dedicated sadists.
Fallon had first hired them during a tricky corporate merger. They acquired dirty background on two executives from the target firm. As a result, Fallon made more millions, and the Bulldogs had a contract for life.
Fallon held up a file. “I’m changing your assignment. Forget finding Denise Hollander’s killer, for now.” He handed it to Burns. “His name is Thomas Bardsey.”
Burns opened the folder. “What’s he done?”
“Disappeared. Find him. He’s a monk.” Fallon explained about the diary. “Which means somebody either kidnapped Bardsey or made him a better offer.”
Sawyer spoke for the first time. “You want both the diary and the monk?”
“One is no good without the other.”
Burns forced a smile. “Any restrictions on how we bring him back?”
“None. Have your fun. Just keep him alive.”
Thomas’ translating was interrupted by the sound of a car, then voices in the next room, speaking Spanish. Nora entered and the door closed behind her with the sound of the lock being bolted from the other side. She pointed to the diary.
“What do you think?” she said.
“Fascinating.”
“How much longer will you be?”
“First problem, it’s pointless to read just the Gaelic. Now I have to read the other languages for context. The Middle English I can hack. But the Latin is medieval church and mine is first-century classic and rusty. The next time you kidnap a translator, I suggest you also steal their reference books.”
“Stalling? I told you—’’
“I’m not finished,” Thomas cut in. “Brychan was deliberately ambiguous in case the Inquisition got hold of the diary to use as evidence against him or the Templars. It would be impossible for them to translate. Hell, the CIA should add it to their codes. All of which makes getting into Brychan’s head very tricky.”
“And if you take too long, you’re dead and I’m in deep shit. How do we lick this?”
Her use of “we” was a subtle manipulation and he played along. “It would help if you told me more.”
“Like what?”
“What’s in the chest? You said that you want to destroy it. Why?”
“To keep Fallon from getting it.”
“Why is Fallon so important?”
“He and his team have created a supercomputer called GOLEM. He is also working on a top-secret government program, JANUS. Its mission is to completely interface a human brain with GOLEM. Do you realize what that means?”
“Mind control?”
“Much more. The interface subject is some poor bastard named Longrieve.”
“Herbert Longrieve?”
She smiled at his surprise. “The Bobby Fischer of psychics. I also know that as an adolescent you were studied by the Rhine Institute. When Longrieve was there before you, he scored off the charts. He still holds the record in most categories.”
“I thought ol’ Herbie-the-nerdy disappeared.”
“Fallon found him. He appealed to Longrieve’s giant ego and buried him in money to become the GOLEM-JANUS interface.”
“Why would Fallon need a psychic for GOLEM?”
Nora shrugged. “Maybe to analyze how a psychic’s brain operates?”
“Already done. The Soviets in the sixties, with proven psychics. Psychokinesis works at the back of the brain. Precognition, the frontal lobes. There are also tons of studies by universities and classified projects by the CIA and Department of Intelligence going back decades, which of course, they deny. But what has that to do with a seven-hundred-year-old Templar chest?”
“Fallon is convinced that whatever it contains is critical to the GOLEM-JANUS project.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s Fallon. Maybe he thinks by interfacing with Longrieve, GOLEM will detect psychic energy.”
“What energy?” Thomas argued. “It may simply be a brain abnormality. My own brain scans show an irregularity which has yet to be explained.”
“Whatever breakthrough Fallon controls would be disastrous. I will stop him.”
Thomas flared. “What in hell gives you the right to stop scientific research?”
“I’m a zealous fanatic,” she gleamed proudly. “Had I been around during the Manhattan Project, believe me, there would have been no atomic bomb. What is the life of a few scientists compared with all who will die in nuclear wars and centuries of radioactive contamination?”
Thomas suddenly understood. Nora was like the Unabomber—kill real people to save imaginary thousands from a threat that may never happen. She was dangerously disturbed.
Nora continued. “I can’t do anything about scientists toying with mass destruction, but I can do something about Fallon.”
“How did you become so obsessed with Fallon?”
“Really? A monk, secluded in a monastery, who attends five masses daily and can never touch a woman, is calling me obsessed?” Her laugh was a rasping file. “I began by monitoring Fallon’s experiments on animals.”
“You didn’t get data on GOLEM that way.”
“No. That cost someone’s life. But by God, I got it.” She knocked at the door and pointedly looked at him. “Believe me Thomas, to get what I want, I’ll do it again.” The door opened. She slammed it behind her as she left.
Thomas was mystified. Nora had revealed Fallon in a new light. How did Herbert Longrieve, a psychic, fit in with Fallon’s plan? What was the medieval Templar connection to a modern-day intel operation? He knew they had discovered something important under Solomon’s temple. They also brought the Shroud of Turin to Europe. In Spain they collected rare manuscripts from the Sufis who were famous for their studies in prophecy and precognition.
Now Fallon, Templar-obsessed, had recruited Herbert Longrieve, the highest-scoring psychic to work on his GOLEM-JANUS project. How did Fallon plan to use Longrieve? An earlier observation was reinforced; Fallon was far more dangerous than just his involvement in a homicide.
Otis Hardegree put down the paint sprayer and removed his mask. The boss wanted to see him at Bay 4. He swore, removed his gloves, and walked down the row of cars.
Jake, the foreman, looked up from his clipboard. “Otis, what in hell have you done now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Some cop is looking for you.”
“Oh, that. Last night was our poker game. We was shooting the shit and talking pussy. This dude from a Camarillo shop said he was visited by a woman cop, a Latina with totally awesome tits. She was checking paint jobs, looking for a green four-door with a blue scrape. We got one, so I called the Santa Barbara police and left my name.”
Jake gestured awkwardly. “Uh, this is a police detective.”
Otis turned to see a woman standing behind him.
“The one without awesome tits.” Kate smiled.
“Sorry, Officer. I was just kidding . . .” He flushed pink.
“No problem. You should hear how we girls talk about you guys.” She pointedly stared at Otis’ crotch. “What have you got . . . car-wise?”
Flustered by her comment, Otis led her to a dark green Ford two-door with banged bumper, deep fender ding, and a long blue scrape. The Ford looked brand-new. He showed her the work order. It was dated the day after Thomas’ abduction.
“What’s the delay?” Kate asked.
“Waiting on a paint color. When I told the guy it might take a few days, I thought he was gonna . . . he got upset.”
Kate looked again at the order: a J. Ramirez with a Santa Barbara address. “Santa Barbara?”
“Yeah. You know how many body shops there are between here and there? Why come all the way to Ventura?”
On the drive back, traffic moved at a glacial crawl. Kate called Vicky on her cell. It was dark when, within minutes of each other, they pulled up at the address of J. Ramirez. No lights were showing but inside they could hear salsa music. It stopped when they knocked on the door. Then silence.
CHAPTER SIX
Kate and Vicky both unsnapped their holsters. Kate knocked again, no response. Vicky drew her Beretta and pressed it flat against the side of her leg, finger on trigger.
The door opened a crack, revealing a young Latino man. “Yes?”
“Mr. Ramirez?” Kate showed her badge. “Police.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Flynn. This is Detective Marroquin. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” His eyes were cautious.
“Do you own a dark green Ford two-door sedan?”
“No. I mean, it’s my wife’s.”
“Why is it being repaired in Ventura?”
“Is that a crime?”
“Contesta la pregunta!” Vickie snapped.
Her tone shriveled his testicles like frostbite. “My wife has gone to Texas to visit her folks. I was driving her car and scratched it. It’s brand new. I wanted to get it fixed so she wouldn’t know.”
“Was this on Monastery Road?” Kate asked.
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“I was speeding. I rounded a curve and scraped another car. Then they hit something, but I kept going. My insurance will make it good. I swear.”
“Why didn’t you stop?”
“I . . . I . . . was being chased.”
Kate glanced at Vicky. “Chased?”
“It’s personal. I can’t go into it.”
“Go there,” Vicky said. “We’re talking homicide.”
“Homicide?” His voice cracked.
“If we go downtown,” Kate added, “you won’t be coming back. It’s called obstruction.”
“Look, I was with this . . . this woman. We were in bed. Okay?”
“Okay. So, what happened?”
“Her husband came home. And caught us.”
“What’s that got to do with your wife’s car?” Vicky asked.
“He’s a security guard. He carries a gun, man! I ran out in just my jockey shorts. Him and her got into an argument, so I managed to get to my car. I made it out of the driveway when he comes running out of the house with a gun. He was coming after me! I took off. He was in his car right behind me. That’s why when I scraped that Ford I didn’t stop.”
“You took your car to the Ventura shop so the security guard would have trouble finding you?”
