James Acton 04 - The Templar's Relic (18 page)

Castel Gandolfo, Papal Summer Residence

Outside Rome, Italy

True to Chaney’s word, they were immediately permitted access to the Summer Residence, and escorted to His Holiness’ office. In less than five minutes, they had an audience, a roomful of advisors waved out by the old man who remained silent until the room was emptied. Father Morris, in his familiar role, closed the doors behind them.

The elderly pontiff extended his hands in welcome. Reading shook the man’s hand, followed by Chaney, then they both took seats in front of the man’s desk.

“I am pleased you were both able to make it here so quickly.”

Reading gave a half smile. “We were left with little choice.”

Chaney agreed. “Little.”

The man smiled broadly, opening his arms. “I hope I didn’t take you away from anything too pressing.”

But he didn’t wait for an answer.

“As you are well aware, we have a crisis. And I needed people I could trust. As well, you may not be aware that two of your friends are once again involved—”

“Yes, we found that out just a little while ago.”

The old man shook his head. “How they keep managing to get involved in these things…” His voice drifted off as he stared at the ceiling. “God must have a plan for them.”

Reading frowned. “Well, let’s hope it includes them staying alive.”

The old man turned his palms toward Heaven. “It is in His hands.” Any trace of a smile left his face. “You are aware of what is happening around the world.”

“To some extent.”

“As we speak Italians are rising up, marching on the Vatican now, and the police are having to hold them back, fighting a second front as it were. I’ve recorded a statement that will be broadcast on all stations shortly asking for calm, and to turn to prayer instead of violence, and my cardinals and bishops are doing the same around the world. We need to bring this to a stop, and quickly.”

“How?”

“This all started with the discovery of the scroll.”

“What scroll?”

“In the construction work to seal up the”—he tapped his chin, as if trying to find the right words—“unauthorized entrance—”

“That’s one way to put it,” muttered Reading.

“—we discovered a crypt. Inside were several Templar Knight sarcophagi, and in one of them was a scroll. We had the scroll examined, and it looks like it is a verse from the Koran, written in the presence of Mohammad.”

“Pretty valuable. How did it get there?”

The pontiff shrugged his shoulders. “No one knows, but it appeared to be of some importance to the Knight we found it on as it was carefully preserved. But, the value aside, what is truly important about this scroll, are the words inscribed on it.”

“A verse from the Koran,” repeated Chaney.

“Yes, but the words don’t match what is actually written in the Koran. It contains several additional words which change the meaning of one of the most violent quotations, to something much less violent.”

“That’s going to piss off a lot of zealots.”

The Pope gestured at several television screens showing the violence playing out around the world. “You have a gift for understatement, Agent Reading. When word got out about the scroll, the Imams in Rome urged their worshippers to march on the Vatican and demand the scroll be handed over.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“We tried, but no one would take it!”

“What?” echoed Reading and Chaney.

“Nobody. We couldn’t find a single Muslim cleric or academic to accept delivery of the scroll. And that’s before this all got out of hand. Now no one will even accept my calls.”

Reading paused for a moment, watching coverage of the Paris and London incidents. “Where is it now?” he finally asked, turning back to the Pontiff.

The old man, elbows on his desk, ran his fingers through his thin hair. “In the confusion of my evacuation, it was left behind.”

Chaney leaned forward. “Left behind?”

“Do we know where it is?”

The man nodded. “Oh yes, we know.”

And then it dawned on Reading. A forgotten crypt. An ancient scroll. Two archaeologists.

“Jim has it, doesn’t he?”

The old man nodded. “You know your friend well.”

“Too well sometimes.” Reading let out a long, exhausted breath. “What’s the next step?”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. “I find I am at an impasse. I honestly don’t know what to do. I know we can send in thousands of troops with a single phone call, but the bloodshed would be horrendous.”

Reading nodded, frowning. “But it might be the only way. You can’t leave them there, and the longer they stay, the more damage they will do.”

“I know, I know, and I have prayed to God for guidance, but he has left me to solve it alone.”

Reading suddenly stood, as did a surprised Chaney. “Not alone, sir. There are hundreds if not thousands of people waiting for word from you. But you are right. An invasion could kill hundreds.”

“Then what—”

Reading didn’t let the man finish. “I propose we remove the excuse.”

“The excuse?”

“The scroll is what they are supposedly after. I suggest we get in, get it, get out, then physically shove it into the hands of an Imam.” Reading pointed at the screens. “And that last part, you do in front of every damned news organization in the world.”

The old man smiled slightly and stood as well. “You have a plan for this?”

“Get in, it, out? Yes.
You
need to come up with the final part.”

The old man nodded, smiling. “I will redouble our efforts.” He rounded the desk and shook Reading’s hand, then Chaney’s. “I was mistaken when I said God had not answered my prayers. He sent you both to me, and now my hope is restored.”

The doors opened as if the old man had sent a telepathic message to the Father outside, and Reading along with Chaney exited the office. As they walked toward the waiting police car in the court yard, Chaney leaned in.

“How the bloody hell do you propose we ‘get in, get it, get out’?”

Reading grimaced.

“I haven’t the foggiest.”

Four Seasons Hotel, Cairo, Egypt

“This is Tim Kensington, reporting live from Cairo. The footage you are about to see, taken only minutes ago, is graphic. I highly recommend our more sensitive and younger viewers not watch.” Tim took a breath.
Are you kidding me? This stuff is NC-17. We shouldn’t even be airing it!
He motioned with his hand, out of sight of the camera, for the footage to roll. His cameraman whispered into his mike for the footage to roll in Atlanta, then nodded to Kensington.

“As you can see, what started off as a peaceful protest quickly turned ugly. Christians are a minority in Muslim dominated Egypt, and under the former dictator Musharraf coexisted mostly peacefully with their Muslim counterparts. But now, in a state dominated by an Islamist parliament, Christians are no longer safe, as evidenced by the events you are watching now.

“This march, meant to demonstrate against the frequent violence they have been subject to, had an added meaning tonight with the events occurring in Rome and around the world. Some I talked to said they gathered not to protest, but for safety, many fearing being at home alone. ‘Safety in numbers’ were the thoughts of many, and how false that turned out to be.

“Within minutes of marching, Muslims began to line the streets in a counter protest, and in less than thirty minutes, the thousands of Christians that had gathered for protection, and to denounce violence, were set upon by the massive crowds. The unarmed marchers, including women, children, and the elderly, were massacred with machetes, clubs, bats, all manner of weapons.

“All of this as the police watched on. It wasn’t until they realized they were being videotaped by our crew, that they took action, and that action was to come after us, rather than stop the crowds. Fortunately for us, we already had an escape route, and were able to get away to send this broadcast. Carson?”

The cameraman, Jason Sharpe, gave a thumbs up as Tim breathed for a moment as he waited for the anchorman’s voice over his ear bud.

“We’re glad you’re all okay, Tim. The footage we’re viewing now is absolutely horrendous, very difficult to watch. It is actually very reminiscent of Rwanda.”

Tim nodded. “Indeed, Carson, it is. Having covered that conflict as well, I felt a sense of déjà vu as I witnessed the machetes raised in the air, the mobs acting with impunity. The hatred, the madness in the eyes was truly disconcerting, and reminded me very much of the Hutu massacre of the Tutsis so many years ago.”

“Are there any other signs of trouble in the streets where you are now?”

“No, Carson, we’re at our hotel, shooting on our balcony. As you can see”—he motioned for the cameraman to take a shot of the road below—“things are quite calm where we are now, and this area is not known for having a large Christian population.”

He noticed his cameraman jabbing his finger at the road below. Tim looked over the balcony and felt his chest tighten as his heart slammed against his ribcage. Police. A lot of them, jumping out of their vehicles and rushing into the hotel.

“Carson, we seem to have a possible situation here. I’m going to ask you to keep us on the air, live, so the world can bear witness. A contingent of police have just stormed the hotel, and may be here for us.”

“Tim, what is your situation, are you secure where you are?”

“Negative, we’re in a hotel room.”

Pounding on the hotel room door caused a lump to form in his throat. He had been in many harrowing situations before, but what he had witnessed today, with the police doing nothing, was something unique.

“They’re at our door now, Carson. We won’t be opening the door, and we will stay on the air as long as we can.”

“We’re contacting the US embassy now,” he heard the producer’s voice say over his ear bud. “Just stay calm, keep your hands up, tell them you’re a CNN crew and are on live. Jason, try to get a shot of their faces when they come through the door, but keep the camera low.”

“Okay, Carson, we’re receiving instructions from our producers now. We’re going to stay on the air as long as we can.”

The door burst open.

“They’re in the room. The door has just been kicked open, and they’re in the room!” Kensington raised his hands, his mike still in his left, as Sharpe dropped the camera low, the red light still on, his other hand raised in the air, as was their guide’s.

“Tim, are you okay?”

Kensington didn’t answer at first, the dozen or more policemen charging toward them, automatic weapons drawn, screaming at them in Arabic. Their guide said something in reply, and two shots rang out. He dropped.

“Tim!”

“Oh my God, they just shot our guide. The Egyptian police have just shot our guide. I think he’s dead.” The yelling continued as they advanced on the balcony. “We’re a CNN crew, we’re press! You can’t do this!” yelled Kensington.

“Tim, show them the monitor, show them they are live!”

Tim pointed at the display he used to monitor what was broadcast. “We’re live, we’re on the air right now! The world can see what you are doing!”

More yelling, then a hail of gunfire shattered the monitor, then tore holes in Sharpe, who screamed in pain, then went silent.

The gunfire stopped, then all the weapons were pointed at Kensington.

“Carson, can you still hear me?”

“Yes, Tim, we can, but we’ve lost video.”

“Tell my family I love them.”

One of the policemen stepped forward, raising his weapon to Kensington’s head.

He never heard the shot.

Hotel Alimandi Vaticano, Rome, Italy

Reading and Chaney exited the elevators of the hotel that had been arranged for them across the street from the Vatican. Chaney pointed at a door. “Two-oh-four. That’s me.”

Reading nodded. “Come to my room in fifteen.”

“Will do,” said Chaney, inserting his keycard and opening the door.

Reading continued to the next door, 206, and was about to insert his keycard when he heard voices on the other side of the door. Then laughter.

He checked the room number again, then the little envelope that had contained the card to confirm.

206.

Could the maid have left the telly on?

It was probably that, but he wasn’t sure. And it was times like these that he was thankful he had taken the time to get his weapon back from the Rome Police. He slipped the keycard in, and he heard the click, impossibly loud in the hall.

The voices stopped.

Shite!

He pushed the door open, weapon extended in front of him, and loudly announced, “Police, everyone freeze!”

And they did.

Reading smiled, lowering his weapon as he advanced into the room. “What the bloody hell are you blokes doing here?”

Dawson stood up and approached Reading, his hand extended. “Good to see you again, Agent Reading.”

“And you, Sergeant.”

Suddenly pounding on the door caused the entire room to tense up.

“Hugh, are you okay?”

Chaney.

“Just a second!” called Reading as he stepped back to the door, opening it.

“I heard you yelling. Is everything—” He stopped when he saw the occupants of the room, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “What the bloody hell are you blokes doing here?”

The Asian one Reading recalled as Niner came out of the bathroom. “Hey, BD, there’s some kinda weird fountain thing in there if you’re looking for something to drink. You gotta bend over real low though. Must have been made for kids.”

Reading and Chaney looked at each other, then burst out laughing as Chaney entered the room, closing the door behind him. Reading stepped forward. “That’s a bidet, Sergeant. It’s meant for cleaning your”—he paused, searching for the right words, but Niner beat him to it.

“Ass.” He shook his head. “Yeah,
I
know that,
you
know that, but he”—he jabbed his finger at Jimmy—“doesn’t. Within five minutes I would’ve had him drinking out of that damned thing, then had
years
of fun with it.”