Paul Christopher - The Templar throne

"When can we leave?" Meg said.

Joseph Patchin sat at the elegant table in the Domingo Room at the Cafe Milano in Georgetown, happily working his way through his grilled lobster and heart of palm salad, knowing that it was Kate Sinclair's treat, since she was the one who'd called the meeting. He and Kate were the only ones in the secluded room off the main restaurant, discretion guaranteed by a row of descending wooden shutters that ensured their privacy. He took a sip of his very expensive glass of Gaja Alteni di Brassica Sauvignon Blanc and patted herbed butter off his lips with his starched linen napkin.

"We've been here for the better part of an hour, Kate. That's enough time for every CNN reporter and Washington Post writer inside the Beltway to know that the director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency is having dinner with the last best hope of the Republican Party and to wonder loudly about it. Why don't we get down to business."

The brittle, hatchet-faced woman ignored the sumptuous-looking veal cutlet on the plate in front of her and reached into the Lana Marks one- of-a-kind clutch purse on her lap. She took out a plain gold Van Cleef amp; Arpels cigarette case that had belonged to her mother and the matching lighter. She removed a cigarette and lit it.

"I thought that was illegal in Washington restaurants," said Patchin.

"For the price I'm paying for this meal and this room, Franco can eat the fine," said Sinclair sharply. She took a healthy drag on the cigarette and sat back in her chair. "Tell me about this fiasco of yours in Canada," she said.

"My fiasco? We didn't have anything to do with it," answered Patchin, genuinely surprised.

"You're trying to tell me that Quince wasn't a Company man?"

"The operative word is 'was,' " responded Patchin. "As in twenty years ago. He went out when Clinton came in; part of George Tenet's new broom. He's been private ever since."

"If Quince wasn't yours, who was he?"

"I have no idea. You know as well as I do that we've adopted a wait-and-see attitude about this matter." It was the CIA man's standard comeback and the senator's mother wasn't buying it.

"Don't play games with me, Joseph, you'll lose every time. If my son doesn't become senior adelphoi of Rex Deus he won't have the clout to get the nomination next year. That in turn means he won't become president and you'll lose your shot as secretary of state. It's like playing dominoes, Joseph-if one falls so do all the rest."

"We have a contingency for that," said Patchin quietly.

"Ironstone?" Sinclair asked. "That's the next best thing to treason."

"Nevertheless," said Patchin, pushing his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. "If the senator doesn't get the nomination Ironstone may be our only chance. Another four years of that starry-eyed socialist in the White House and you'll be able to use the Constitution for toilet paper. He's already flushed the country down the crapper."

"Could you guarantee Ironstone's success?" Sinclair asked. She doused her cigarette in a sixty-dollar glass of wine.

"With help from your friends? Yes." He shrugged. "However, it would be considerably better if he could become head of your… organization. Ironstone would fundamentally change the United States forever."

"Some would say for the better," said Sinclair.

"And some would call it the last gasp of a failing empire," answered Patchin. "Ironstone is not an alternative; it is something to be avoided at all costs."

"Then help me," said Kate Sinclair. "If the ark is discovered, help me to ensure that it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

"Speaking of the wrong hands," said Patchin, "just who are we talking about here?"

"There are seven families of the Blood within Rex Deus, all descended from the Desposyni, the blood relatives of Christ, all families of royal blood."

"I don't really care about all the religious gobbledygook and the secret handshakes. I just want to know what we're dealing with. Do all seven of these families have an equal shot at taking over?"

"No," said the old Sinclair woman. "All of them are descended from the children of Mary-Christ's brothers and sisters-but ever since the dissolution of the Templars, Rex Deus only accepts members of those families who survived and came to America. Of the fifty-six signatories of the Declaration of Independence, eight were members of Rex Deus and knew of each other. It was those eight who formed Rex Deus as it now exists."

"I don't recall anyone named Sinclair having signed the Declaration," said Patchin.

"Rex Deus and the Desposyni follow a matriarchal line, just like the Jews, which of course Christ was by birth. They are less the children of Jesus than they are the descendants of Mary Magdalene."

"People still believe this stuff?" Patchin said. "It sounds like it's straight out of a novel."

"Are the Freemasons out of a novel, or the Bilderberg Group or the Roman Catholic Church, or Skull and Bones of Yale University out of a novel, Joseph? As I recall, you're a Bonesman. Class of eighty- four, wasn't it?"

"Eighty-two," responded Patchin. He took a long swallow of the expensive wine, barely tasting it.

"Rex Deus is like all of those institutions, Joseph; trappings aside, they are about money. A great deal of money and almost infinite power."

"Yet it's trappings we're talking about," argued Patchin.

Kate Sinclair lit another cigarette. "It's the one thing that Mr. Brown got right in his book, and probably accounts for its success-the power of symbols on people's lives, even when those people have no idea of the symbols' origins.

"The lucky horseshoe is actually the gilt remains from paintings of saints' halos when all the other paint had faded. The cross has been used since the Stone Age and has nothing to do with Christianity. The color white is used for funerals in Japan, not weddings. The swastika was in use in Iceland as far back as the eighth century and was known as Thor's Hammer-it was in use in India long before that. But show a swastika to an Israeli and watch their reaction. An advertising person said it years ago-perception is everything." The older woman paused and tapped ashes into the remains of her veal.

"The perception in Rex Deus is that the True Ark and its contents are the most sacred icons and symbols of an ancient and holy order. You can't crown the British king or queen without the Sceptre, the Orb and the Crown. Philosophically it is Rex Deus's job, its holy goal, to save America until Armageddon and the Last Judgment. The United States itself is the vessel through which humanity will survive and the True Ark is the symbol of that survival."

"You believe all that?" Patchin said, dumbfounded.

"It doesn't matter what I believe, Joseph. What matters is that the person who returns the True Ark to its rightful place is guaranteed to be made adelphoi or chief elder of Rex Deus, with all the commensurate power such a position entails."

"And his competition?"

"Of the eight families there are only three in real contention."

"Who are they?"

Kate Sinclair opened up the expensive little clutch and took out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Patchin. He unfolded the note and read the short list of names. His eyes widened.

"My God," he whispered, staring at the little slip of paper.

"Precisely." Sinclair smiled coldly.

"But the one at the top, that's…"

Kate Sinclair lifted a bony finger to her bright red lips, silencing him.

"Can you still help me?" Sinclair asked.

Joseph Patchin stared at her, wondering what kind of terrible snake pit he had stumbled into. He tried to shrug it off. In for a penny, in for a pound; the kind of thinking that got Bernie Madoff a hundred and fifty years in the slammer. He swallowed hard.