Paul Christopher: The Sword of the Templars

“This makes no sense at all,” said Holliday. “You’re saying that Saladin, the crusaders’ nemesis, the arch-enemy of Christianity, gave away the treasure to the Templar Knights?”

“He saved the treasure,” said Rodrigues. “Had he not, it would almost certainly have been destroyed. It was the act of a noble and honorable man.” Rodrigues smiled sadly. “Unfortunately it was not an act that ingratiated him to Pope Clement or to Philip of France, both of whom wanted the treasure for themselves.”

“There’s no documentation of this in the historical record,” said Holliday. “Nothing at all.”

“The historical record, as you well know, Doctor, is written much later than the history itself. All history is hindsight. It is well-known that the Templars did business with their enemies; trading with the enemy is a fact of life, even now. Standard Oil filled the tanks of submarines sinking British ships during World War Two. IBM facilitated the record keeping of Adolf Eich mann at Dachau and Auschwitz-Birkenau. American-owned hotels line the beaches of Veradero in Cuba. It was the same during the Crusades. After all, Richard the Lionheart used a sword forged in Damascus.”

“So what happened to the four swords?” Peggy asked.

“The four swords, each with the same message to the Templar hierarchy at Clairvaux, were sent off with four separate messengers, each blade backing up the others in case one or more was lost. None ever reached their destination. Roger de Flor sailed off with Saladin’s treasure and vanished into history, its location a secret.”

“First to La Rochelle, and then here,” said Holliday.

“So some people say,” murmured Rodrigues.

“How does Uncle Henry figure into all of this?”

“There had always been rumors that Boreas, the Sword of the North, had reached Scotland with some of Roger de Flor’s ships. Sir Henry St. Clair was thought to be the Boreas messenger, which is probably how the rumors started. Your uncle became interested in the sword mythology during his time at Oxford, which is of course where our paths begin to cross. It was Henry who discovered the connection to Mussolini and the Hesperios sword, which he eventually traced to Berchtesgaden and Hitler’s lair.”

“The existence of which he kept a secret for the rest of his life,” said Holliday flatly, still finding it difficult to believe that he was having this conversation in the belly of an extinct volcano in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

“Of course he kept it a secret,” said Rodrigues. “To reveal it would have had disastrous consequences. It was the end of the war; the Middle East was in ferment; Israel was barely a dream, and a fragile one at that. The Catholic Church wasn’t in much better shape. Over the years the situation has gone from bad to worse.”

“How does La Sapiniиre fit into all of this, the Sodalitium Pianum or whatever it was called?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because one of their people tried to kill us in Jerusalem,” said Holliday. “A priest, like you.”

“I told you,” said Rodrigues, “I am no longer a priest.”

“That doesn’t matter. What interest does the Vatican have in all of this?”

“The same as it did eight hundred years ago,” answered Rodrigues. “Power. Or the lack of it. The Saladin treasure would make the Roman Catholic Church an irrelevancy in one blow if it was revealed. The political machinery that has evolved in the Holy See over a thousand years would come down like Humpty Dumpty off his wall. There would be no way to put it back together again.”

“I don’t get it,” said Peggy. “The Vatican has more money than it knows what to do with. You’re trying to tell me they’d hire killers just to get more?”

“You’d be surprised at what the Church is capable of,” said Rodrigues. “But this is not about money. It never was.”

“What else is treasure about?” Peggy said.

“When is a treasure not a treasure?” Rodrigues responded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peggy asked, exasperated by the tall man’s roundabout answers.

“I think I see,” said Holliday slowly.

“Well, I sure don’t,” said Peggy.

There was a sound from the road outside the cottage: tires on gravel, and more than one vehicle from the sounds of it. Doors slammed, and they heard the low sound of voices speaking quietly.

Rodrigues stood and went to the window. He looked for a few seconds, then turned away and went to the fireplace. He took down the shotgun, carried it to the desk, and rummaged in one of the desk drawers. He took out a handful of shells, broke the barrels of the shotgun, and loaded it. He snapped the barrels closed and turned to Holliday and Peggy.

“We have visitors,” Rodrigues said. “Unwelcome ones by my estimation.”

Through the window, Holliday saw two cars, an old Citroлn 2CV and an even older Mercedes sedan, standing on the gravel in front of the cottage. There were six men, all big, blond, and hard-faced. One of them stood at the trunk of the Mercedes handing out weapons to the others. Shotguns and small, brutal-looking machine pistols, Uzis and MAC-10s. Holliday caught the flash of a tattoo on the wrist of one of the men.

“Kellerman’s people,” said Holliday.

“Ordo Novi Templi,” nodded Rodrigues. “The Order of the New Templars.”

“You know about Kellerman?” Peggy asked, startled.

“There have been White Templars and Black since the beginning,” answered the ex-priest. “Ordo Novi Templi is simply one of the Black Templars’ more recent incarnations.” The tall man shook his head. “There is no time to explain further. We must leave this place immediately.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Holliday asked. “Those men outside aren’t about to give us a free pass.”

“Vis consili expers mole ruit sua,” said Rodrigues, stuffing the pockets of his trousers with more shotgun shells.

“Horace,” answered Holliday. “ ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’ You don’t happen to have another weapon by any chance, do you?”

Rodrigues reached under the desk. There was a faint tearing sound: Velcro. He handed Holliday a well-oiled Czech CZ 75 automatic pistol in a belt-clip holster.

“It’s loaded with Smith and Wesson.40-caliber copkillers-Teflon coated.”

“Strange priest,” said Holliday, stuffing the holster into the waistband of his jeans.

“Strange times,” responded Rodrigues. “Follow me.”

Rodrigues stepped quickly to the center of the room and threw back the braided rug. Beneath it was the obvious square and iron ring of a trapdoor set into the floor.

Peggy groaned. “Not this again!”

Rodrigues grabbed the ring and pulled up the trapdoor. Beneath it was a narrow set of stone steps leading downward. The ex-priest motioned them toward the opening.

“Go down. I’ll come after you.”

“It’s dark,” objected Peggy.

“The fifth step down on the right,” instructed Rodrigues. “There’s a switch on the wall.”

“Go,” said Holliday to Peggy.

She eased herself onto the stairs and went downward, feeling her way with one hand against the stone. A few seconds later there was a wash of light, and Holliday heard the distant grumbling of a generator coming from far below.

“Your turn,” said Rodrigues.

“They’re going to follow us, you know,” cautioned Holliday.

“I think I can cool their ardor somewhat.” The ex-priest smiled. “Go.”

Holliday went down the steps, following Peggy. He could see her below him on the stairs carved into the ancient, porous, pumice-like stone at a steep angle. A thick old-fashioned strip of flat cable was threaded through rusty old staples in the roof of the stairway, and bare bulbs hung every ten feet or so, the light pulsing with each cycle of the generator.