The Templar Salvation (2010) (40 page)

A nasty chill prickled the back of her neck, but she tried not to show it. “You think you can undermine people’s faith that easily?”

“Absolutely,” the Iranian shrugged. “I think your people are more deeply religious than you give them credit for. Which makes them all the more vulnerable.”

“I know how religious a lot of us are. I just don’t think anyone really cares about the fine print.”

“Maybe not all of them … but a lot of them do. Enough of them to really cause problems. And that’s good enough for me. Because that’s what it’s all about. That’s what you people don’t understand. This battle, this war, between us … this ‘clash of civilizations,’ as your people like to call it. It’s a long-term fight. It’s not about who’s got the biggest gun. It’s not about landing one big killer punch. It’s about attrition. It’s about killing the body slowly, with lots of well-placed jabs. It’s about relentlessly chipping away at the soul of your enemy with every opportunity you get. And right now, your country’s in bad shape. Your economy’s shot. Your environment’s shot. No one trusts your politicians or your bankers. You’re losing every war you get into. You’re more divided than ever and you’re morally bankrupt. You’re on your knees on every front. And every jab, every uppercut that can help bring you further down is worth pursuing. Especially when it comes to religion, because you’re all religious. All of you. Not just the churchgoers. You’re even more religious than we are.”

“I doubt that,” Tess scoffed.

“Of course you are. In more ways than you realize.” He thought for a beat, then said, “I’ll give you an example. Remember that earthquake that killed tens of thousands of people in Haiti recently? Did you notice the way your leaders reacted to it?”

Tess didn’t get the connection. “They sent money and troops and—”

“Yes, of course they did,” the Iranian interrupted. “But so did the rest of the world. No, what I’m talking about is how your leaders really felt about it. One of your most popular preachers went on national television when it hit. You remember that? He said it had happened because the Haitians had made a pact with the devil. A pact with the devil,” he laughed, “to help them get rid of the French tyrants who ruled over them a long time ago. And the amazing thing is, he wasn’t laughed off the stage. Far from it. He’s still hugely respected in your country, even though he just sat there making the same ridiculous speech preachers have been making for hundreds of years, whenever an earthquake or some other disaster strikes. But here’s the part I find really telling. He wasn’t the only one. Your own president—your liberal, modern, intellectual president—he makes a speech about it and he says that ‘but for the grace of God,’ a similar earthquake could have hit America. Think about it. What does that mean, ‘but for the grace of God’? Does he mean God’s grace is protecting Americans and that His grace chose instead to wipe out the people of Haiti? How different is that from what that preacher was saying? You really think your president’s any less religious, any less superstitious, than that madman?”

“It’s just an expression,” Tess countered. “People survive something terrible and they think, ‘God was watching over me.’ They don’t mean it literally.”

“Of course they do. Deep down, they really do. They believe it, your president believes it. You all believe that your God is the real thing and that by being Christ’s chosen people, He will protect you. You’re as backward as we are,” he chortled. “Which is why all this is important to me. And it’s why I won’t give up until we’ve finished what we started.”

Tess felt her temples throbbing. The man was never going to give up. And if he ever did, he wasn’t going to let her walk away.

The Iranian stared her down in silence, his eyes narrowing to feral slits. “This is a great start. You’ve done well. But it’s not the whole story. Now, we know Conrad came here. From the looks of it, he battled some Muslim fighters. Maybe he died here too. Maybe. What we do know for sure is that when he and his men left the monastery of Mount Argaeus, they had three large trunks with them. Three large trunks that must have had more than just two books in them.” He spread his hands out questioningly. “So where’s the rest of it?”

Chapter 41

CAPPADOCIA

MAY 1310

T
hey caught up with them late the next day. Maysoon knew how to read the terrain well. It helped that she had grown up in the region. What didn’t help was that there were six men out there, five of them viciously fit and able, and they were escorting something Conrad was keen to get back without risking any damage to it.

Given their disadvantage, there was only one option. An ambush. It had worked for the Turks. It would have to work for Conrad and Maysoon, if they chose their spot well.

They had to choose it exceedingly well.

They stalked Qassem and his outfit for a few hours, then tracked around them shortly before sunset and rode ahead to size up the ground the Turks would be covering the next day. Maysoon told Conrad they would have to make their move that morning. Any later, and the convoy would reach the wide, open prairies that led to Konya. It would be virtually impossible to take them by surprise there. The landscape was too flat and exposed. They needed to hit them while they were still making their way out of the pockets of trees, the swell of rolling, sun-baked hills and valleys.

The problem was, even there, there weren’t any great spots to choose from. None at all. The landscape was still too open to present any promising ambush points. There weren’t any natural features that they could use. Furthermore, because the area didn’t have any narrow trails, bridges, or crossings that the Turks would have no choice but to take, Maysoon couldn’t even be absolutely certain of which route they would follow. Which meant that even the most cunning ambush could end up going to waste, with the intended victims not showing up.

They only had one choice. To hit the Turks during the night, where they were camped out. Which wasn’t a bad option, necessarily. They just needed to plan it right.

Exceedingly right.

One and a half versus six.

It took a while to find them. The Turks were camped out in a sloping thicket of trees, by the base of a winding valley. Conrad and Maysoon left their horses behind and crawled to within twenty yards of them, guided by the amber flicker of a small campfire the Turks had going and assisted by the glow of a bright gibbous moon. They tracked around their perimeter and noted the relative positions of what they saw: the horses, eight of them, tied to some trees off by the lower end of the slope; one man, seated cross-legged with his back to a tree trunk, watching over the animals; the wagon, its two horses still harnessed to it, the telltale silhouette of the trunks visible under a canvas cover; the men, asleep around the fire; another guard, on the opposite side of the small campsite, one they would have missed if it hadn’t been for a fortuitous change of position he made that triggered a small rustle.

Conrad nodded to Maysoon. He’d seen all he needed.

They crawled back to safety, and Conrad explained his plan to her. They had a lot of preparing to do, and there wasn’t much time to do it. Conrad wanted to hit the Turks just before first light, when the men would be most weary.

By the first hints of dawn, they were ready.

After hiding their horses well out of view from the campsite, Conrad and Maysoon made their way back through the trees and the bushes, carrying the bundles of dried branches and rope that they’d crafted, snaking their way to their staging point overlooking the Turks’ mounts. They crouched low and watched. The man guarding the horses was still where they’d left him. He was also still awake. Not ideal, but not a disaster. Conrad had plans for him anyway. Plans that involved sneaking up on him and stuffing his forearm against the man’s mouth while slitting his throat with Maysoon’s dagger.

Plans that went through without a hitch.

He gave Maysoon a low “all-clear” whistle, and she joined him by the horses.

They worked quickly and quietly, tying one bundle securely to each horse.

Conrad glanced in the direction of the wagon. It was about forty yards away, though Maysoon would have to take a longer, arced trajectory to reach it while steering clear of her father and his men.

Conrad nodded to her. She reached into a leather pouch she had strapped over her shoulder and pulled out the tools she now needed: a fire-steel, a C-shaped piece of hard steel with a straight, sharp midsection; a long, narrow striking stone that had a prominent groove down its center; a small, egg-sized ball of dry grass; and a patch of char cloth made of dried touchwood fungus that had been soaked and boiled in urine.

She crouched low, turning her back to the cluster of sleeping men at the center of the campsite, and spread her tunic wide to shield her hands from any wisp of wind. She then started beating the fire-steel against the flat piece of flint, using short, choppy strokes, holding the touchwood tightly cantilevered over the edge of the striking stone. It didn’t take long for a spark to fly up onto the char cloth, and a small patch of red ember lit up within it. With an expert touch, Maysoon then tilted the char into the nest of dry grass and started blowing on it, softly. A moment later, flames licked out of the tinder. She then slid it under a mound of kindling that, almost instantly, caught fire.

The dry grass and branches crackled in the night.

They now had to move fast.

“Go,” he whispered. “I’ll be close behind.”

“You’d better be,” she whispered back. She planted a quick, hard kiss on his lips, then slipped away.

He waited until she was about halfway to the wagon, then he eased across to the horses and untied them, quietly, one after another, all but the one that he and Maysoon hadn’t lumbered with a special treat. He waited until he saw Maysoon’s silhouette climb onto the wagon’s bench, then he pulled a cluster of branches out of the kindling and, darting from one horse to the next, he lit up the bundles he and Maysoon had tied to their saddles. One after another, they burst into flame, causing the horses to panic and rear up while whinnying fiercely, with Conrad slapping their rumps and yelling manically to set them off even more.

The night burst to life.

The horses charged off through the trees, galloping furiously, dragging the bundles of flaming branches close behind them like fiery Christmas tree baubles, with flames licking at their tails and their buttocks. Two other bursts of activity snagged Conrad’s attention. Through the trees, he glimpsed the wagon lurch forward and thunder away from the campsite, with Maysoon at the reins and cracking a whip, while over by the central bonfire, the Turks were on their feet and scurrying around in apparent confusion.

Manic shouts and panicked neighs echoed around him as the balls of flame disappeared into the forest. It was time for him to get out of there. He sprinted back to the horse he’d left tethered to its tree, the one he would ride out of there. He was ten feet from it when a man sprang into his way, blocking him. It was one of the trader’s hired hands. The man drew a big scimitar. Conrad didn’t even flinch. Without slowing down, he feigned a left and ducked right instead, avoiding the wild swing of the man’s blade and plunging Maysoon’s dagger deep into his rib cage. He only stopped long enough to yank it out of him and grab the man’s scimitar, then he bolted for the horse, leapt onto it, and spurred it through the trees, hot on the trail of Maysoon and the wagon.

MAYSOON CHARGED THROUGH THE VALLEY without looking back, her sole focus being wrangling more speed out of the two horses that were pulling her and her heavily laden wagon.

Every bone in her body was rattling, every vein throbbing, as the open wagon bounced across the rugged trail. She needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and her father’s outfit. They’d be coming after her, of that she had no doubt, even though there was no reason for them to know who she really was. They’d have a hard time getting their horses back, but at some point, they would. The flaming balls of branches the horses were dragging would die out, and they would stop running. They might even seek out their owners themselves. She needed to give herself as big a buffer as possible and kept on whipping her horses. She knew Conrad would be faster than her. He’d eventually catch up with her. Once he did—assuming he did—they’d veer off onto a southerly heading, toward Christian land, while taking the time to cover their tracks.