Lost City of the Templars (9 page)

Vincent Lamberto sat in his office of the Telecom Italia building and looked out at the distant skyline of Rome. With his position as head of Romacorp, the largest multinational in the country, his close personal friendship with the Holy Father and his recent investiture in the Order of St. Sebastian all made him the perfect candidate for the chairmanship of the Vatican Bank.

There was only one problem—Vincent Lamberto was broke. Between his attempted takeover of White Horse and the convulsions of the European monetary systems, he was spread so thin that the slightest downtick in the world markets would put him over the edge.

For the last year Romacorp had been flying on fumes in what was actually a giant Ponzi scheme that was going to have Lamberto’s head on a stick when the structure went into its inevitable collapse. To make matters even worse, for the past year he’d borrowed vast amounts of money from P2, the fascist Catholic organization born out of the Second World War and now the biggest thing in European organized crime. It was a nightmare and Lamberto could see no chance of awakening from it.

Except to run. He had two hundred million euros in a Swiss account and a complete alternative identity waiting for him in a safe-deposit box. It would mean leaving his wife, children and mistress behind to take the fury that would come down on the name of Lamberto, but so be it. His wife had given him three children who whined like infants into their thirties, two of whom still lived at home. He was a sixty-five-year-old man who still had some time left to enjoy life, and a lot of life could be enjoyed on two hundred million euros in some country like Brazil, which had no extradition treaty with Italy.

•   •   •

Captain James Calthrop, Royal Marines Third Commando Unit (retired), landed at Fiumincino Airport and took a taxi to the Cavalieri Hotel, where Constantine had made reservations for him. Contrary to fiction, men in his occupation always preferred a large anonymous hotel over a romantic pension tucked away in some side street. For one thing the pension usually had bedbugs or roaches and it didn’t have room service. There was obscurity in numbers, and as his old colonel used to say, “Better to lie in a field of thin stalks of grass than to hide behind a single tree.”

He arrived at the hotel, signed in and went upstairs. He swiftly unpacked his one small bag, then showered. That done, he enjoyed a room service lunch of carpaccio di manzo con la sua salsa, gazpacho andaluso and risotto ai frutti di mare followed by tiramisu and strong black coffee.

Constantine arrived exactly at two thirty. Calthrop had ordered coffee for two, knowing the tall slender man’s penchant for punctuality, so there was plenty for both of them. Calthrop had worked with Constantine on several previous occasions, but he’d never got a read on the man other than a certain ascetic aura that could have been something in the man’s background or a flat affect during their meetings to further his need for privacy. It didn’t really matter to Calthrop and he’d long ago accepted the man for what he said he was—a middleman between Calthrop and those who required his services.

Calthrop was equally vague about himself. He always flew out of his home in the Bahamas via some other country, traveled on a Canadian passport and as chance would have it he spoke Italian like a native after spending three years in Florence getting a completely useless degree in art history for no other reason than obscuring his real origins. He’d even picked up a package of Yesmoke cigarettes at the airport instead of smoking his own Senior Service brand. In the twenty-first century, anonymity was a rare commodity and something to be protected and valued.

Constantine sat down in one of the two armchairs set beside the panoramic view of the city from the glass balcony doors. “Mr. Calthrop.” Constantine nodded, speaking in Italian.

“Mr. Constantine,” answered Calthrop in the same language.

“You read the file I sent you?”

“Of course.”

“What’s your opinion?”

“A powerful man with powerful friends. Allied with P2, a group his father had been involved with shortly after the war.”

“How would you do it?”

“Find out about his daily movements. The usual way—a single shot from a distance, an explosive bullet or a fléchette. He has no real security except for his driver and a single bodyguard.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have that sort of luxury with this target. We have it on good authority that he’s fleeing his debts via Switzerland. He’s flying out tomorrow evening on a Swiss European flight into Zurich. And there can be no use of a bullet; it must look like an accident or at the very least a suicide.”

“Suicides are complicated, accidents even more so,” said Calthrop. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

“He’s probably heading for Brazil if that helps.”

“Presumably because they have no extradition treaty with Italy.”

“We’re assuming that, yes.”

“It’s going to increase costs considerably.”

“Your fee? That can be dealt with.”

“It’s going to increase other costs. I may need to make purchases, employ watchers. You’ve just made the project much more difficult.”

“Not by choice.”

“You want something else,” said Calthrop, looking directly into Constantine’s eyes.

“Yes,” the man calling himself Constantine said. There was no point in lying. “We need to recover two hundred million euros from this man. He may also be carrying documents, either in written or electronic form. First of all, you must retrieve those documents.”

“And the money?” Calthrop asked.

“He will have wired it to whatever his eventual destination is. Before he . . . is dealt with, you must find out where it has gone and into what account.”

“A bonus will be required.”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Thirty,” said Calthrop.

“Twenty-five,” replied Constantine.

“Agreed.”

“So, you’ll take the job?”

“I have to think about it. Give me one hour and then call me.”

“Time is of the essence here,” said Constantine.

“An hour,” repeated Calthrop firmly. “I’ll give you your answer then.”

Constantine left the suite and Calthrop poured himself another cup of coffee. The Italian never showed any hint of emotion, but this afternoon Calthrop had sensed evasion. Calthrop had completed eight projects for Constantine, all without any problem, but somehow this was different. There had been a note of finality in the austere-looking man’s face, and Calthrop had an idea why. This one was personal and even when it was resolved, there could be nothing to connect Constantine to it.

So there would be a ghost, a killer watching a killer, and when it was over Calthrop would die. But Calthrop had dealt with ghosts before, and this time Constantine or whoever he was would be severely punished for his lack of trust. An hour later Constantine called and Calthrop gave him his simple answer.

“Yes.”

•   •   •

The man calling himself Hiram, king of Tyre and all Phoenicia, led them through what could only be described as a small paradise. There were flowering trees and plants turning the air into fragrant perfume, orchards of exotic fruits like pomegranates and tamarind and meandering crystal streams and pools that were almost dreamlike.

There was no way that any of it was likely to be seen from the air or by satellite since the whole area was surrounded by canopy forest that allowed full light onto the gardens for only a few minutes each day. At most times the shadows cast by the huge trees would disguise the natural treasure far below them.

“Your English is very good,” said Holliday, walking beside the regally dressed man.

“I had a good teacher,” answered Hiram. “All of us did. It’s the language of this place and has been for almost a hundred years.”

“All of you?”

“Yes, we are a nation in the skies and I am its king. It has always been so.”

They walked through the gardens until they finally reached a large outcropping of rock, which, as they neared it, Holliday saw was actually the artificially hidden entrance to a narrow cave. Entering the opening behind Hiram, Holliday saw that even the cavern was artificial and clearly hewn out of the stone by human hands.

At the far end of the tunnellike structure, there was a wide circular staircase descending into the ground. As they began to go down the steps in single file, Holliday saw that the stairway was eerily lit by natural light coming from narrow carved slots in the rock wall.

Perhaps thirty or forty feet down, the stairway opened up and to left and right in a long curve were actual cobbled streets and rows of buildings, some made of stone and others of sand-colored brick. It was a city buried beneath the surface of the sheer mountain, the streets thronged with people—men, women and children going about their business, all dressed in simple skirtlike tunics.

“This is magnificent,” said Rafi. “A modern Machu Picchu. A city underground cut off from the rest of the world.”

“But how is it possible?” Holliday asked. “How do you keep an economy running, feed these people, get them medical help?”

“We are not as cut off from the world of men as you might think. And we have resources,” said the so-called king.

“What you have are mysteries,” said Holliday. “How did you get here? Why did you come in the first place?”

“All your questions will soon be answered,” said Hiram.

They went down another five levels until, by Holliday’s rough estimation, they were close to the level of the jungle at the base of the strange mountain. All the way down, both the levels of the hidden city and the staircase joining them all were lit by the strangely filtered natural light. By Holliday’s estimation, there was room enough for more than a thousand people in the city, and if those he had already seen were any indication, they were neither Middle Eastern nor any other race he had ever seen.

Their skin was a beautiful golden brown, like heavily creamed coffee, and their hair was mostly straight and as black as the local
indios
’. Their features were fine, neither Caucasian, Negroid nor anything else. Hiram’s eyes were bright blue, which seemed strange for what would now be a Palestinian, but Holliday had seen blue, brown and black on the way down to the last level.

The bottom level of the city seemed much brighter than the others, and stepping out onto a broad cobbled street, Holliday soon saw why. Hiram led him down the street to a wide set of steps that ran down into what looked like a massive circular gorge at least a mile across, its top opening up to the blue sky high overhead.

Looking outward, he could see across to the rock wall on the far side, and in the interior there was the incredible vision of what could only be described as a jungle as it might have existed a million years or more ago. Gigantic ferns battled strange flowering trees for light, and cascading foliage of plants and vines with tentacle-like leaves flowed down the rock walls.

Holliday saw what looked like something half reptile and half bird in a fluttering flight from tree to tree, and he saw what looked like a miniature dinosaur racing across his line of vision, head high, running upright, his short front legs ending in razor claws. Out of the corner of his eye, Holliday saw something glittering and turning. He saw that it was an emerald the size of a baby’s fist still in the rock matrix of the wall.

A man stepped out of the jungle to their left. He looked to be in his early to midthirties and was dressed like a model for Tilley Endurables complete with heavy mountaineering boots. He was wearing modern-looking aviator-style sunglasses and had a camera slung around his neck.

“That’s a Hasselblad H4D-60,” whispered Peggy. “Forty grand on the hoof. Who the hell is this guy?”

“Hello there,” he said, the accent definitely British. “My name’s Harrison Fawcett. Who might you people be?”

Fawcett and Hiram led the others back inside the city. Directly in front of them was a large building carved out of the rock, three stories high, its facade studded with high windows set with wooden shutters. A set of steps led into the cool interior of the building, where Hiram showed them into a large room on the left side of the broad entranceway, its surface set with a mosaic of colored stones in a design of three large sailing ships around a dark blue circular sea. In the corners of the immense mosaic, dolphins arched into the air and giant serpents twisted around the perimeter framing the whole design.

The room Hiram led them to was high ceilinged, the walls were covered in pale brick and the furniture—tables, chairs and a single large cupboard—was all wood and had brightly colored simple Mediterranean lines. The chair seats and backs were pale rattan or split bamboo and the larger seats, looking almost Egyptian in their designs, were slung with some white, closely woven cloth. There were mats and rugs of the same white fabric littered across the floor. Hiram indicated that they should sit in the larger chairs, which they did.

“Harrison Fawcett,” said Holliday. “Let me guess, Jack’s grandson?”

“That’s right,” said the younger man. “You still haven’t told me your names.”

“My name is John Holliday, the young lady is my cousin Peggy, the man with the curly hair is Rafi, her husband, and this is Eddie, my good friend from Cuba.”

“I see one of the Old Ones has come with you up the Devil’s Throat,” said Hiram. “No doubt he will find some of his friends who have come before him.” Seated in the large chair, his head high and his posture straight as a statue’s, he certainly did look very kinglike.

“Old Ones?”

“In the time of the first Hiram they were called magi. Harrison tells me the English word is shaman. Those with the strength sometimes come here to die. We care for them until they do.”

“His name is Nenderu,” said Holliday. “His grandson remained behind.”

“It’s taboo for any young warriors to climb here before their time,” said Fawcett.

“I have a thousand questions,” said Rafi eagerly. “We all do, I think. Why the Phoenicians? How did they get here and why? And how does Percy Fawcett wind up with a great-grandson living in the Brazilian rain forest?”

“All your questions will be answered,” Hiram said. “But first we must eat.”

The food was brought into the room and laid out on the table by two men and a woman a little younger than Harrison Fawcett. Holliday assumed by their uniform-like white tunics that they were servants and wondered if the old Phoenician tradition of slavery was still carried on here.

There were several courses: an enormous fish that looked like a gigantic trout, some sort of roasted fowl and slabs of succulent white meat crusted with some sort of crushed and roasted nut and a dessert of mixed fruits and dripping squares of honeycomb.

Fawcett described the dinner laid out before them, all of which turned out to be excellent. “The big fish is called a taimen, a prehistoric version of the trout and the largest salmonid ever discovered, the bird is Brazilian shamo—something like the guinea fowl, only much larger—and the white meat is smoked tapir.”

Surprisingly at the end of the meal, they were served rich aromatic coffee in high-sided hand-sized bowls. “Coffee grows all over the summit,” explained Fawcett.

“Okay,” said Holliday. “Percy Fawcett and your grandfather Jack were supposed to be a thousand miles south of here when they vanished, never to be heard from again except for various sightings for more than ten years after they vanished. What really happened?”

Fawcett smiled and sipped his coffee, gathering his thoughts. “From what I can gather from my grandfather’s stories, Percy had heard stories about this place from his previous expeditions and he believed them. On his final expedition his whole intention was to hide his true destination from everyone except his backers.”

“The White Gloves,” said Holliday.

“You’ve done your research, haven’t you? Yes, the White Gloves, really what remained of the Order of Templars. On his previous expedition Percy had come back with some large gems from the Xingu area as well as a number of Phoenician gold coins.”

“That was enough to convince this White Glove organization?”

“According to my grandfather they had their own sources of information. He just provided the concrete proof.”

“You spoke as if you knew your grandfather well. How old was he when he died?”

“He lived here for many years. He was a hundred and nine when he died.”

“Amazing,” said Rafi.

“Not so amazing.” Fawcett shrugged. “I’m fifty-two, for instance, and Hiram is well into his eighties. It seems that living here has a beneficial effect on one’s health.” He shrugged again. “No one is really sure, but I think it’s the concentrated oxygen levels down here on the bottom of the mountain.”

“The giant dragonfly we found in Raleigh Miller’s box,” said Peggy.

“The dragonfly he stole, not to mention Percy’s notebooks,” said Fawcett. “They found the dragonfly dead a few miles away from the mountain. Percy mounted it and that night Raleigh disappeared along with the notebooks.”

“And that’s the end of the story?” Holliday asked.

“For Percy it was. He’d contracted some sort of infection along the way, and no matter what, they couldn’t cure him here. Somehow from what my grandfather told me he was just as happy to die here. He saw the great wealth this wonderful place represents and he knew the Glove would only destroy it to enrich themselves. The people here would not have survived. He’s buried on the summit, facing the sunrise, which was his dying wish.”

“How do you figure in all of this?”

“Jack, my grandfather, married one of the local women. They had a child. He was named Percy, in honor of his grandfather. His namesake had been a great believer in education, so when my father was eighteen Grandfather Jack took him up the Essequibo River to Georgetown, where he sold a handful of gems for cash and held back a bag of even finer stones for his son’s use abroad.

“He bought young Percy a fake American passport and put him on a freighter for the United States. This was shortly after the end of the war. He wrote the entrance examinations at Harvard University and ten years later emerged as a medical doctor, paying his tuition and expenses using the second bag of stones.

“Dr. ‘Smith’ returned here with his knowledge and an assortment of useful medical supplies. That was in 1957. I made my own trip in 1976, to Cambridge this time, using a counterfeit British passport. Eight years later I had an official passport and degrees in paleontology and prehistoric botany. I’ve been cataloging the flora and fauna here ever since and I’ve barely begun.”

“Do you ever leave the mountain?” Holliday asked.

“Regularly. The same route my father and grandfather made. From Georgetown I go either to America or the United Kingdom for supplies and books, then bring them back to Georgetown. I keep a boat there and hide it carefully at the end of the journey. I have a prearranged return date and my people meet me at the boat and help me bring the supplies back to the mountain. Soon I will be sending the first of my sons on his own journey.”

“You have children?” Rafi asked.

“Three sons and two daughters. Each will make the journey into the outside world when they feel they’re ready. For all King Hiram’s royal stature, he deals far more in ecclesiastical matters than those of day-to-day living. The mountain is essentially a democracy, each level electing two members to sit on what they call the Great Council.”

“What’s your role in all of this?” Holliday asked.

Fawcett smiled and shrugged. “Adviser, teacher of children, librarian, a botanist who tells the people here which creatures and plants in the canyon are beneficial and which are dangerous. A medical doctor or what passes for it with the help of my father’s textbooks, a midwife when it is required. A jack-of-all-trades and a master of a few.” Fawcett’s expression darkened. “I’m also a man who keeps his ear to the ground for any information about activities that might harm this place.”

“Such as?”

“Such as I am aware that what is nothing more than the modern-day version of the Glove is building a dam nearby. It purports to be for power generation, but its real intent is to dry out the downriver plain to expose the ancient alluvial river courses that ran through the valley. They’ve already got a test mine for diamonds, and when the dam is complete it will have accomplished two things—destroyed the hunting and fishing habitats of the river people and provided a trail back to the source of the gems—this mountain.”

“You’re talking about White Horse,” Holliday said.

“And the present Lord Grayle, the direct descendant of the man who underwrote Percy Fawcett’s last expedition. They knew something then, and they know more about this place now. I can’t allow them to destroy what this place has become and what it once was.”

“Cryptic,” Holliday said. “But how are you going to stop them?”

“There’s a band of warriors on the way there now.”

“What do you propose doing?”

“I’m going to help them blow the dam to hell and gone.”