C. Palov: Templar's Quest

C. M. PALOV

The Templar’s Quest

PENGUIN BOOKS

THE TEMPLAR’S QUEST

Born in Washington DC, C. M. Palov graduated from George Mason University with a degree in art history. The author’s résumé includes working as a museum guide, teaching English in Seoul, Korea and managing a bookshop. Twin interests in art and arcana inspired the author to write esoteric thrillers. C. M. Palov currently lives in West Virginia.

Paris, France

28 June, 1940

Death is the great equalizer , Friedrich Uhlemann silently mused.

As evidenced by the thousands of bones sandwiched between thick slabs of pitted limestone. Indeed, the catacombs of Paris morbidly flaunted the spirit of ‘ liberté, egalité, fraternité ’, with no discernible difference between sinner and saint, prince and pauper, making him think that the French virtues of liberty, equality and brotherhood were only possible in the hereafter. One desiccated bone the same as the next.

Friedrich glanced at the bank of hollowed-out skulls. God alone knew the precise number of residents in the underground necropolis. And only God had known about the gold medallion hidden in these catacombs, safeguarded for centuries by an ossified Templar Knight.

Until the medallion had been uncovered by Friedrich and the six members of his academic team. ‘The Seven’ as some in the Ahnenerbe dismissively referred to them. Founded in 1935 by Heinrich Himmler, the Ahnenerbe was the academic research division for the Nazi SS.

Well aware that the Ahnenerbe did not cultivate or encourage creative vision, Friedrich and his six colleagues took the ridicule in their stride. The fact that they were the only interdisciplinary team in the Ahnenerbe was extraordinary. Even more extraordinary, they counted among their number three Germans, two Italians, a French atheist and a Sunni Muslim from Damascus. Although given the glacial expressions of the dignitaries who were now touring the dimly lit catacombs, the Seven had not yet proven their extraordinary worth.

Tempted to run a finger under his stiff neck collar, Friedrich refrained. They’d been issued new field-grey uniforms for the occasion, and the boiled wool was chafing his skin. In the background, somewhere in the shadows, he heard the steady plop plop plop of dripping water. Belatedly he realized that his heart beat in time with that incessant drip.

A stout fellow in the tour group raised steepled hands to his mouth and noisily blew a warm breath; the ambient air was at least thirty degrees cooler than the above-ground temperature.

Another member of the party, an Iron Cross medal prominently affixed to his uniform jacket, shuddered. ‘My God, this place is macabre.’ No doubt he referred to the twinkling candles inserted into disembodied skulls. This was Friedrich’s doing, though even he agreed that it created a ghoulish effect.

Just then, a lone man broke away from the group and approached the limestone niche where the medallion had been placed. Polished Prussian boots gleamed in the candlelight. As the uniformed man neared, Friedrich took a deep breath, filling his lungs with musty air.

The man stopped in front of the niche, no more than an arm’s length from where Friedrich stood. At that close range, he could see that the other man had pale blue eyes. An unexpected surprise. While his visage was famous the world over, in all honesty, the photographs did not do him justice.

Long moments passed as the blue-eyed man gazed at the gold medallion.

Did he comprehend the importance of the symbols? Their connection to the movement of the great star Sirius? Or that they revealed an ancient and powerful technology?

‘Have you translated the medallion?’

Nodding his head, Friedrich read aloud the engraved inscription. He didn’t bother to mention that the inscription contained a combination of the Occitan language and medieval Latin, suspecting the blue-eyed man didn’t care about the medallion’s linguistic provenance.

‘And you’re certain that this inscription refers to the sacred relic?’

Again, Friedrich nodded, assuming he referred to the Lapis Exillis . ‘We’ve ascertained that the inscription is encrypted and that the encoded message discloses the whereabouts of the sacred relic. Although –’ he hesitated, fearful of the other man’s reaction – ‘we have not yet decoded the message.’

Hearing that, the blue-eyed man glowered. Which, in turn, caused Friedrich’s stomach muscles to painfully cramp.

Like a hapless Christian in the Roman Colosseum, he nervously awaited his fate.

Thumbs up or thumbs down?

‘Find the relic,’ the blue-eyed man ordered brusquely. ‘Its ancient power will decide the destiny of the Reich.’

Friedrich released a pent-up breath. Yes! The blue-eyed man understood!

Unable to contain his euphoria, Friedrich clicked his boot heels while he ardently raised and extended his right hand.

‘Heil, mein Führer!’

PART I

‘Better is little with the fear of the Lord, than great treasure, and trouble therewith’ – Proverbs 15:16

1

Operation Ghost Warrior, Al-Qanawat, Syria

Present Day, 0342 hours

‘What the … ?’

Stunned by what he’d just discovered hidden inside the thirteenth-century chapel, Master Sergeant Finn McGuire reached for the Maglite secured to the front of his battle cammies. Shining the flashlight, he examined the gold medallion nestled inside a velvet-lined box. It looked like something that might have been worn by an Arabian sultan. Or maybe an iced-out rapper. Unbelievably ornate, it was engraved with images of a sun, a moon and a big-ass star.

Finn carefully lifted the medallion out of the box. Three inches in diameter and attached to a heavy chain made of interlocking gold pieces, he estimated its weight at two pounds. Two very valuable pounds, gold trading at a thousand dollars an ounce.

Momentarily seduced, he tuned out the voice in his head urging him to put the medallion back in the box. Make like he never saw the damned thing and just continue with the mission.

Finn and his Delta Force troopers had infiltrated the Syrian village of Al-Qanawat to retrieve ten vials of contraband smallpox virus before they could be transported out of the country and weaponized. Having searched the chapel for the smallpox cache and come up empty-handed, it suddenly occurred to Finn that more than purloined bio-weapons were sold on the black market.

The thought triggered an uneasy feeling in the pit of his belly. General Robert Cavanaugh had personally classified the SpecOps as ‘sensitive’. Loosely translated, that meant the mission was off the books.

Jesus H.

What did Cavanaugh think Finn’s Delta squad was, his own private gang of tomb raiders? It didn’t take a jeweller at Tiffany’s to know the medallion was worth a small fortune. Seventeen years ago, when he first joined the US Army, he’d taken an oath to defend his country against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Commandeering biological weapons fell into that category. Stealing gold trinkets to pad a fat-cat general’s bank account did not.

Angered that he’d been played for a fool, Finn glanced at the black Pathfinder watch strapped to his left wrist. 0343. Two minutes to go before the scheduled helo pick-up. Certain there weren’t any bio-weapons on the premises, he ripped open a Velcro flap and deposited the medallion in his cargo pocket.

Suddenly hearing a muffled footfall, Finn spun on his booted heel. In one smooth, practised motion, he reached for the HK Mark 23 pistol strapped to his right thigh. Ensnared in the beam of his flashlight was a robed Syrian carrying – of all things – a jewelled scimitar. While the other man’s choice of weaponry was odd, the curved blade looked like it could easily cleave Finn in two.