Paul Christopher - The Sword of the Templars

“I don’t think Henry Granger ever chased a firefly in his life,” answered Holliday. “It simply wasn’t in his nature. He was a historian; he gathered facts, checked sources, did his research, developed hypotheses, and constructed theories.”

“In other words he did it by the book.”

“That’s right,” nodded Holliday.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” argued Peggy. “He had the sword for decades, and he kept it hidden. Then all of a sudden he gets in touch with Carr-Harris and goes running off to England.”

“And then Germany,” added Holliday.

“Assume that means Kellerman,” said Peggy. “So what got him going after all those years?”

“Maybe it wasn’t his interest,” said Holliday. “Maybe it was someone else’s interest in him.”

“Like Broadbent?”

“The lawyer?” Holliday said. He shrugged. “I think Broadbent’s a latecomer, nothing more than a hired gun. I think Kellerman’s people used him. That story about his father and the sword was completely bogus. He was fishing for information.”

“So you think Kellerman is behind this?” Peggy asked.

“It’s either him or this Sodalitium Pianum or whatever Duroc called her Vatican assassins.”

“You believe her?” Peggy said a little skeptically. “We’re getting into grassy-knoll-people-going-around-with-aluminum-foil-on-their-heads-to-keep-out-the- cosmic-rays territory here, don’t you think?”

The stewardess came around with a cart loaded down with cheese sandwiches wrapped up in plastic and cans of Fanta Orange. They took one of each. The cheese tasted like something you’d use for an insole. They were a long way from La Tourelle, the little cafй in Paris.

“Did you know that Fanta was invented in Nazi Germany by a chemist from Atlanta to replace Coca-Cola?” Holliday said. “They made it from saccharin, scrapings from apple cider presses, and cheese curds.”

“And that is relevant how?” Peggy asked, frowning at the familiar can in her hand.

“It just shows how truth really can be stranger than fiction,” he explained. “The Borgias did exist, and some of them really were assassins just like she said.”

“But really, secret societies, Doc? Come on.”

“Why not?” Holliday said. “A secret society is really nothing more than a network, like the Mafia is a network, or the Bush family and Skull and Bones at Yale. Put it in the right context, and you’ve got something that Oprah would approve of.”

“Dead priests in the streets of Jerusalem would never wind up being on her approved list of things to see on your next summer vacation,” said Peggy with a snort.

“The point is, things like Duroc’s Sodalitium Pianum or La Sapiniиre really exist. That priest was sent to kill us, there’s no disputing that. He was an assassin. Even the Portuguese have secret societies-the Carbonбria was a military group of Freemasons who were responsible for killing King Carlos I back in the early nineteen hundreds.”

“Another history lesson, Doc?” Peggy warned.

“Sorry.” He took a sip of the Fanta, thought about cheese curds and Nazis and put the can down on his seat table.

“The Azores is a long way to go on the basis of a name you saw on the back of a boat,” said Peggy, staring out the window at a fleet of fluffy white clouds sailing by, all sails set.

“It’s more than that,” responded Holliday. “I’m doing this the way Uncle Henry would. Make the hypothesis fit the facts, not the other way around. When you get enough facts together to make an overwhelming case then you go from hypothesis to theory, and the only way to prove the theory is by-”

“Finding the treasure that Roger de Flor took away from Castle Pelerin,” completed Peggy.

“Which is why we’re going to the Azores,” said Holliday.

“You have enough facts to prove the hypothesis?” Peggy asked.

“A lot of suppositions at least.”

“So suppose away.” Peggy grinned.

“Suppose you’re a pirate. Where do you bury your treasure?”

“A desert island.”

“Not a hermit’s cave in France or a busy port like La Rochelle.”

“Why not leave it at Castle Pelerin?” Peggy argued.

“Because like Jerusalem itself, you have no idea of how long it’s going to be before the place is overrun by the godless infidels. Pirates bury treasure to keep it away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.”

“But maybe it’s all smoke and mirrors,” argued Peggy. “Like I said before, what if the whole idea of a Templar treasure is a myth?”

“They dug up the Temple Mount for nine years; they were looking for something. The stories say it was the Ark of the Covenant, but who knows?”

“People dig for treasure all the time,” said Peggy. “I used to do it in Grandpa’s backyard, looking for artifacts from the Cattaraugus Indians. I never found so much as an arrowhead.”

“Templar treasure is one thing. Templar wealth is another. They were unbelievably rich; that’s established fact. It’s also fact that they liquidated their assets shortly before they were disbanded. Those assets went somewhere. The money is out there.”

“And you think it’s in the Azores?”

“It fits. For one thing, they’re the nearest thing to desert islands close enough to La Rochelle to be useful. The Catalan Atlas shows a few of the islands in 1375, but colonization didn’t really begin for another hundred years or so. According to the guide I just read, Corvo, the smallest of the islands, wasn’t discovered until the middle of the fifteenth century. Even now only about three hundred people live there.”

“Okay,” nodded Peggy. “I’ll give you the desert island.”

“What?” Holliday laughed. “Now we’re doing Deal or No Deal?”

“Something like that,” said Peggy. “I need more proof.”

“Kellerman,” responded Holliday.

“What’s Kellerman’s connection with the Azores?”

“A ship called the MS Schwabenland. It operated under Himmler’s orders for the Ahnenerbe, looking for evidence of their so-called Aryan ancestors in South America and Antarctica in particular. The ship operated out of the Azores before the war and even during, even though Portugal was supposedly neutral. Maybe one of the people on the Schwabenland got a whiff of a Templar treasure somewhere on the Azores, and the mythology grew from there.”

“Thin, but barely possible, I suppose,” she said. “What about Duroc’s Vatican assassins?”

“Settling old scores?”

“Really thin,” said Peggy. “Can’t you do any better than that?”

“At a guess I’d say it probably had something to do with keeping secrets. The Vatican has been getting a lot of bad press recently, and with a German Pope on the papal throne they’d be particularly vulnerable to bringing up old ghosts connected with Nazi Germany.”

“So that’s it?”

“Pretty much, except for the most important thing.”

“Which is?”

“Uncle Henry again.”

“What about him?”

“He never started anything without finishing it, not in his whole life,” said Holliday emphatically. “Everything we’ve done so far has been at his direction. He didn’t put that sword where he knew we’d find it for no reason. He wanted us to do this. He planned on it. He knew we’d follow in his footsteps no matter where the trail led.” Holliday held up his hand and counted off the fingers one by one: “England, Germany, Italy, Jerusalem, France, and now the Azores. It’s the last link in the chain.”

“I still don’t get why he waited more than half a century to start this wild-goose chase,” said Peggy. “If he’d known all this for all that time you’d think he would have found the treasure a long time ago.”