C. Palov - Templar's Quest

Eyes opened wide, Kate’s head slowly swivelled from side to side. ‘Ohmygosh. You’re right. The summer I spent in Paris, I walked along this path quite a few times and never noticed that.’ Using her finger as a pointer, she counted the number of ‘rays’. ‘What do you know? There’re twelve of them.’

‘Every day, hordes of tourists rush past these monuments, digital cameras madly clicking, and not one of them truly sees what has been depicted in the landscape, the sun and the star harkening to the heliacal rising of Sirius. Indeed, the cloak of invisibility was part of the original blueprint,’ he said with added emphasis, Kate having ably made the point for him.

‘Were there any arches on the Egyptian axis at Thebes?’ Kate asked thoughtfully,

‘Instead of arches, the ancients built a series of pylons that were set along the Sacred Axis. The rectangular gateways served the same purpose as the arches in Paris; they created an enormous horizontal telescope through which astral and telluric energies were funnelled.’ Cædmon turned towards the Egyptian obelisk, clearly visible just beyond the garden. ‘What’s so utterly fascinating about the Axe Historique is that, from this position, as you head west along the axis, the distance between each monument precisely doubles. Even more astounding than that, the size of each of the three arches doubles as well.’

‘I’m wondering just how long it took to build this damned thing?’ McGuire enquired gruffly.

‘The Axe Historique was a project several hundred years in the making,’ Cædmon replied, surprised that the commando had even asked the question. ‘Officially it was begun in 1564 when Catherine de Medici ordered the planting of the Tuileries Gardens. It then took another four hundred years for the axis to finally be completed, the last monument, the Grande Arche, erected in 1989. All in all, the Axe Historique is a sophisticated piece of ancient technology.’

Kate’s brow wrinkled. ‘It certainly makes you wonder who’s got the instruction manual.’

‘Which brings up my next question: so far, you’ve given the “where”, the “why” and the “when”. Call me crazy, but I’m still waiting for the “who”.’ Point made, McGuire unhooked a pair of black sunglasses from the neck of his T shirt and slipped them on.

Carefully considering his reply, Cædmon shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn trousers. ‘Throughout history, there has always been a tight-knit cadre that operates in the shadows. Powerbrokers. Kingmakers. These men wield enormous influence. They do so because they are the keepers of the secrets. Secrets that they share only with the initiated few.’

‘In other words, you don’t have a friggin’ idea who’s responsible for building this axis.’

‘The Knights Templar, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the Illuminati.’ He shrugged, McGuire having posed a thorny question. ‘I assume that at one time or another, each group contributed a piece to the axis. And while seemingly separate, all were germinated from the same seed. Indeed, these sects, orders and secret societies form an esoteric matrix that spans the ages. The names may change, but the agenda remains the same.’

‘I think you can guess at my next question … What’s the agenda?’

Cædmon took a moment to consider his reply, Kate’s query no more easily answered than her cohort’s.

‘These shadow groups are the designated guardians of a body of sacred knowledge which includes the Lost Science of the ancient world,’ he said, admittedly sloshing in murky water. ‘Over the centuries, that knowledge has been transmitted from one group to the next. The agenda, simply put, was to safeguard this knowledge so that it wouldn’t fall into the hands of a despot who would use it for maniacal ends. And then, of course, one must always stay two steps ahead of the black-robed gents in the Inquisition, jolly fellows who wouldn’t hesitate to consign the whole of ancient knowledge to the bonfire.’

‘That’s rather damning, don’t you think?’

‘Is it? In the thirteenth century, the Church not only exterminated the Cathars, but they managed to destroy all of the Cathars’ written texts and documents. Only the legend remains.’

Sliding a black rucksack off her shoulder, Kate unzipped the front pocket and removed a pair of blue-tinted sunglasses. The eyewear did little to hide the fact that her cheeks had suddenly flushed a bright shade of crimson red.

Jaw locked tight, McGuire wordlessly took hold of the rucksack and swung it on to his own shoulder. Then, taking her by the arm, he escorted Kate into the shadows of a nearby tree.

Watching them, Cædmon grudgingly acknowledged that the man’s only saving grace was the care he took with Kate.

‘The design and construction of the Axe Historique is one of the great mysteries of Paris,’ he continued, joining the pair in the shady patch. ‘A massive building project, the construction of each monument required an enormous outlay of cash, funds the French government didn’t always have at its disposal. Just when a project seemed doomed to failure, an anonymous largesse would suddenly be made and – voila! – the project would miraculously be saved.’

‘Do you mean that all of this –’ McGuire swept his arm from the pyramid to the obelisk – ‘was created by a secret sugar daddy?’

‘Some would say that it’s a centuries-old conspiracy.’

‘And you wanna know what I say? All of this was built to give Parisians something pretty to look at as they trudge to and from work every day.’

‘Oh, ye of little faith,’ Kate chided playfully, nudging McGuire with her shoulder.

Feeling a vibrating pulse, Cædmon unclipped his mobile from his waistband and checked the display screen.

‘I’ve just been emailed the dossiers on Fabius Jutier and the Seven Research Foundation,’ he informed them. ‘If we head back to the bookstore, I can open the attachments on the computer.’

‘No need.’ Kate patted the side of the rucksack that was slung over McGuire’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got a laptop with a wireless Internet connection.’

Ah, perfect.

‘I see a vacant bench on the other side of the hedgerow. Shall we?’

35

Dolf Reinhardt glanced at the hand-held transmitter, squinting to better see the small map.

Unknown to Finnegan McGuire, the laptop computer that he had stolen from the French Embassy had a GPS tracking device embedded in the hardware. For the last two days, the Seven had been waiting for the commando to arrive at their lair – from where there would be no escape, the jaws of death very sharp.

While he didn’t know where precisely his quarry was located, Dolf knew that the pair was in the near vicinity. Because of the hundreds of milling tourists, he’d not yet caught sight of them. But since their position updated every five seconds on his transmitter, there was no chance of losing them. They were here. Somewhere.

As he studied the map screen, trying to orientate his position with the landmarks indicated, a gaggle of laughing, half-dressed teenage girls strolled past. Legs, midriffs and cleavages all on eye-popping display. One of them, a curly-haired hussy, glanced over at him and snickered.

‘ Schlampe ,’ he muttered under this breath, the little tramp a disgrace to her sex.

Hard as a rock, he watched their hips provocatively swing in shorts so tight he could see the cracks in their asses. He wanted to fuck them all. Make them go down on their knees and suck him dry. That would teach them a lesson. That’s all they were good for. He couldn’t respect a woman who didn’t behave like a lady.

Dolf swiped at a bead of sweat that trickled down the side of his face. Scheisse. He hated the summer, the heat and humidity an uncomfortable reminder of what didn’t happen the summer of ’92. That was when the Barcelona Olympics took place. The summer that he should have represented East Germany. Instead, he was on the dole. Twenty-one years of age. No job and no prospects. Since he couldn’t find steady work, he couldn’t afford to train at the boxing gym. Everything in the fucking West cost money. And without the regulated discipline of the Sports Dynamo, his life had fallen into a tailspin.