C. Palov - Templar's Quest

Minimizing the calendar, Kate quickly accessed the Air France webpage. ‘It’s a nonstop between Washington and Paris.’

‘And Paris is a big, freaking city.’ Shit. A roadblock. He got up and walked over to the kitchen, the bottle of Jameson’s starting to look real good.

‘I just found the Seven.’

‘ What? ’ Finn spun on his heel, wondering if he’d heard correctly. ‘What do you mean, you just found the Seven?’

‘I mean that I went to an online search engine and I typed the words “Paris”, “Seven” and “Fabius Jutier”. The Seven Research Foundation is a private endowment and Fabius Jutier is listed as one of the board members. A man by the name of Ivo Uhlemann is listed as the Director. Here. See for yourself.’

Bracing one hand on the back of Kate’s chair and the other on the table, Finn leaned over her shoulder. Only to back away a split-second later. ‘It’s in French. As in no par-lay-voo.’

‘According to their site, the Seven Research Foundation is a private institute that awards research grants to qualified scholars in the fields of astronomy, physics, geology, electrical engineering, linguistics, history and archaeology.’ She peered at him, brows drawn together in a quizzical frown. ‘That’s a rather unusual mix, don’t you think? Particularly for a group that may be linked to esoteric Nazis.’

‘Maybe the foundation is just a front. And what were you expecting? For them to put a bunch of Nazi symbols on the home page?’

Jesus. The Nazis. When he was a kid, their upstairs neighbour used to tell stories about the day his army unit liberated the Dachau concentration camp and how the black vultures were circling around stacked corpses left outside to rot. Old man Garrett sure knew how to scare the shit out of a six-year-old .

‘According to the contact page, the Seven Research Foundation is headquartered in the Grande Arche office building just west of Paris,’ Kate remarked.

‘Then it’s a do-able.’

Greyish-blue eyes opened wide. ‘You’re actually going to Paris?’

‘You got a better plan?’ Not waiting for her reply, he said, ‘Something tells me that I want to have a little meet-and-greet with this Ivo Uhlemann dude. Best way to catch a lion is to track him to his lair.’

‘And then what?’

Backing away from the table, Finn said, ‘I’ll figure that out once I get to Paris.’

‘Then you better book two seats. I’m going with you.’

17

Paris, France

Alas, Paris is the key , Ivo Uhlemann ruminated. A key that fitted a unique lock designed centuries ago by the Knights Templar.

Not Berlin, or even Vienna, but Paris.

As his chauffer-driven Mercedes Benz cruised through the eighth arrondissement, the city lights passed in a blurred collage. Peering out of the window, Ivo contemplated the night sky, the cosmic sphere that taunted so many physicists.

And was so intimately conjoined to Paris and the Lapis Exillis.

Because Paris was the key, it had been spared from destruction in 1940. At the time, many feared the German Luftwaffe would reduce the city to rubble. But the Führer never gave the order. Not because he had a sentimental attachment to Baroque architecture or possessed a magnanimous heart. The order wasn’t given because the Seven had briefed Adolf Hitler several months prior to the invasion of France. In that extraordinary meeting, they’d shown the Führer why das Groß Versuch , the Great Experiment, had to take place in Paris.

‘For better or for worse,’ Ivo muttered as he set his gaze on the Grande Arche, the massive white marble hypercube visible at the western terminus of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

‘It’s a warm night. Would you like me to turn on the air conditioner, Herr Doktor?’

Lost in thought, Ivo glanced at his driver. As usual, he thought the ridiculous chauffeur’s cap accentuated Dolf Reinhardt’s cauliflower ears and misshapen skull, the unsightly keepsakes of an ex-boxer who’d lost more bouts than he’d won. Like so many men of middling intelligence, Dolf had been forced to use his body to earn his keep. Although to his chauffeur’s credit, he was loyal to a fault.

‘I am comfortable. Thank you, Dolf.’

Having been apprised that Katsumi Bauer survived the explosion, Ivo now feared that they were dealing with a cunning enemy. Moreover, he worried that the American commando had somehow discovered that the Montségur Medallion contained a treasure map. One that had been devised nearly eight hundred years ago by a group of religious heretics known as the Cathars.

On the verge of total annihilation, the Pope having called a bloodthirsty crusade against them, the beleaguered Cathars sought the aid of the only Catholics who’d not turned against them, the Knights Templar. In exchange for their military support, the Cathars offered to give the Templars their most prized possession, the Lapis Exillis. Rightly concerned that the Templars might not hold up their end of the bargain, the Cathars crafted a magnificent gold medallion. Engraved on one side of the medallion was an encrypted map that indicated where the Lapis Exillis had been hidden. The Templars would not be given the encryption key until their battle-ready knights arrived at Montségur. Tragically, the besieged Cathar stronghold fell to papal forces before the military contingent arrived. To the Templars’ great dismay, for without the encryption key, they could not decipher the ingeniously devised map.

Although that didn’t stop them from spending the next sixty years searching for the Lapis Exillis. In 1307, their search came to an abrupt end when the French king, Philippe le Bel, issued a general arrest warrant for the Knights Templar, the entire order accused of committing religious heresy. To ensure that the covetous king didn’t acquire the Montségur Medallion, the Templars hid it in the catacombs beneath their Paris preceptory.

Which is where the Seven discovered the medallion in the summer of 1940. Five years later, in the wake of the Reich’s defeat, Friedrich Uhlemann managed to safely smuggle it out of Germany. Like the Templars before him, he spent years searching, in vain, for the Lapis Exillis.

In the hours before his death, Friedrich composed one last letter, imploring Ivo to continue the search for the Lapis Exillis. Considering it an honour, Ivo gladly accepted the passed torch.

In the hopes that, one day, he could shine a bright light upon a new Reich.

‘ Gott in Himmel ,’ his chauffeur angrily muttered. ‘Do these people never sleep?’

Ivo wondered the same thing as he caught sight of a gypsy woman standing on the street corner, a passel of grubby-faced children huddled at her feet. A repulsive display , he thought, annoyed when the sloe-eyed slattern dared to raise her right hand, palm up, in his direction. The beggar’s age-old appeal for alms.

‘ Give me some of your hard-earned money because I am too stupid and lazy to earn my own keep. ’

An inbred race of conniving ingrates, the gypsies, or the Romani as they indignantly preferred; they were only skilled at one thing, sucking on society’s teat. And they’d done so since their ragtag horde first emigrated to Europe from the Indian subcontinent during the Middle Ages. In all that time, they’d produced nothing of lasting value. No art. No science. No literature. No music worthy of the name. They merely reproduced. Fathers sleeping with daughters. Brothers sleeping with sisters. Uncles sleeping with anyone they could find. Utterly disgusting. Indeed, the marvel of the human brain was completely wasted on them. A spinal column alone would have sufficed.