The Templar Salvation (2010) (65 page)

After a while, he just let himself go, relying on the life jacket and its personal locator beacon to do its job. He just drifted along the deep water, drained beyond words, waiting for a rescue he hoped would eventually show up.

ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY MILES due east of his position, the air traffic controller who had been tracking the Conquest’s progress after Steyl had radioed in for permission knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the plane drop below twelve thousand feet and accelerate.

After three no-response calls and less than a minute after he’d first noticed the plane’s unusual behavior, the controller activated the emergency SAR plan. A British Royal Navy Sea King HAR3 Search-and-Rescue chopper took to the air from its base at Akrotiri in Cyprus just as Reilly’s plane was hitting the water.

The signal from Reilly’s PLB, giving his location, was forwarded to the chopper’s pilot while it was speeding to the Conquest’s last known position. And just over an hour after he’d found himself floating in the Mediterranean, a frogman was riding a harness down to pull him to safety.

HE WAS FLOWN BACK TO AKROTIRI, where he had his injuries looked at and dressed by military medical personnel at the Sovereign Base Area’s Princess Mary’s hospital.

Even though the plane had ditched in international waters, there was a whole bunch of questions that Reilly needed to answer regarding who was on it, what had happened and why it has happened. The British were asking. Before long, officials from the Cypriot Directorate of Civil Aviation and the National Guard showed up, and they were asking too.

For a while, Reilly was on his own. He fielded the questions with as much restraint as he could muster, but he was tired and he was hurting and his patience was running thin. He put a call in to New York, got through to Aparo and asked him to help get him out of there, but he knew it would take time. The American Embassy was an hour’s drive away, in Nicosia, and the FBI didn’t keep a legat there. Still, calls were made, and at around midday, the embassy’s defense attache showed up, took control and whisked Reilly out of there. More importantly, he was able to help Reilly with the question he had been desperate to have answered from the very moment he’d been winched aboard the Sea King.

It wasn’t an easy question to answer. With all that had happened and with Ertugrul dead, there was rampant confusion at the Consulate in Istanbul and it was hard to pin down the person who was best suited to find her. It took many phone calls and several frustrating waits, but they were finally able to track her down to a police station in Konya.

Hearing her voice did more to soothe his aches and pains than all the painkillers they’d given him. She was safe and well. But she also needed help.

She was also caught up in a similar bureaucractic web. A whole different bunch of questions needed to be answered, and they weren’t about to let her go until they got their answers.

“Hang tight,” he told Tess. “I’m coming to get you.”

THE JET ARRIVED LATE IN THE NIGHT, a spotless white knight bearing the discreet emblem of the Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation. Reilly watched with mounting impatience as it taxied to the private hangar and its engines whined down. Then its cabin door snapped open and the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Cardinal Mauro Brugnone, stepped out.

His furrowed face cringed with surprise and sympathy as he took notice of the bruising and cuts littering Reilly’s face and hands. He spread his arms wide and embraced the agent before pulling away and saying, “So … it’s gone? It’s definitely gone?”

He already knew it was. Reilly had told him so when he’d called him, but he hadn’t told him the whole story.

“I’m afraid so,” Reilly replied.

“Tell me,” the cardinal said, inviting Reilly on board.

While the pilot hurried to complete the requisite paperwork that would allow them to take off again, Reilly filled in his host on what had happened. By the end of it, the cardinal’s back was hunched forward, the skin under his eyes and skin weighed down by the distressing revelations.

They sat in silence for a moment, then the pilot re-appeared and confirmed they’d have wheels up within minutes. Brugnone didn’t say anything. He just nodded, still stewing over what Reilly had told him.

“Maybe we can recover them,” Reilly offered. “It can’t be that deep out there. I’m sure it’s within reach. And if we did, maybe we can still read what was on them. Forensics labs can do amazing things these days.”

Brugnone looked at him with a shrug and raised eyebrows. Evidently, he didn’t put any more stock in Reilly’s words than Reilly did himself.

“This suits you, doesn’t it?” Reilly asked. “I mean, if they’re gone for good. No questions asked. No damaging revelations … no headaches?”

Brugnone frowned, then said, “Of course, I prefer that whatever was in them should never come out. I wouldn’t want everyone to know what they said. But
I
would have liked to know. Very much so.”

He held Reilly’s gaze for a long beat, then turned and stared out into the darkness, looking like a man in deep mourning.

Chapter 67

T
hey were met at the small, mostly military airport by Rich Burston, the legat from the FBI’s office in Ankara. Burston had flown down from the Turkish capital in a military helicopter. He had been Ertugrul’s boss, and as they drove through the deserted, dark flatlands on their way into the city, Reilly was able to tell him firsthand about how his agent had been killed.

The legat was anxious. “We need to be in and out as quickly as we can,” he told Reilly. “I don’t want these guys figuring out who you really are. Unless you want to spend the next few days answering their questions.”

Reilly understood what the legat was talking about. The plane had gone down in international waters. It had taken off from a Greek island. There was only so much the Cypriot authorities could demand to know.

This was different.

Reilly had been directly involved in events that had led to the deaths of several Turkish soldiers, including, Reilly knew, a senior and well-respected officer. The Turkish authorities would want to know exactly how and why that happened.

“I’d rather talk them through it over the phone from Federal Plaza,” Reilly told him.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. Just leave the talking to me and follow my lead.”

Reilly said he would, then turned to the cardinal. Brugnone just nodded his agreement.

IN THE END, it all went down reasonably smoothly. They were able to get Tess and the old woman out of custody without too much aggravation. The late hour helped, as did the fact that the brass of the Jandarma weren’t based in Konya.

A local police detail was assigned to keep an eye on the old woman and her family business for a few days, although Reilly didn’t think she was in any more danger, not with Zahed dead and the stash of codices gone. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry, and he was happy to know that she’d be protected until things died down.

The pale glimmer of dawn welcomed them as they walked out of the police station. The street was deserted. The city was still well settled into its habitual nightly slumber, with only the hum of scattered air-conditioning condensors detracting from its serenity.

Tess held Reilly’s hand in hers as they walked to the waiting cars. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. She was also deeply disappointed. In a few words, whispered in a snatched, private moment, Reilly had told her and the old woman that the texts had been lost, swallowed up by the sea.

The news had gutted her. The codices had survived close to two thousand years of intrigue. They’d made it through the Crusades, the fall of an expansionist empire, and a couple of World Wars, but they hadn’t survived the savagery of the twenty-first century.

They stopped outside the police car, the one that was taking the old woman back to her son’s apartment above the shop. Tess let go of Reilly’s hand and gave the old woman a hug.

The old woman held on to her for a long moment, then pulled back. “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked. She had Tess’s hand tightly cupped in both of hers.

Tess hesitated, and turned to Reilly. He was still dosed up on painkillers and looked a mess. She knew he was keen to get out of there as soon as possible. Brugnone’s jet was waiting to fly them out of the country and back to Rome, and they’d take a commercial flight back to New York from there. She also wanted to get home to try to put the madness behind her. But standing there, looking into the old woman’s delicate eyes, she realized she couldn’t leave here like that. She wanted to spend more time with her. In little more than twenty-four hours, they’d been through a lot together, and she felt it would be rude to just disappear from her life like that, even if it wasn’t forever. But she didn’t think she had a choice.

Reilly’s grim expression confirmed it. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “We can’t stay. There’s a plane waiting for us.”

The woman’s expression sagged. “Not even for a few hours in the morning? I was hoping you would come over for breakfast at my son’s place. Over the shop.” She tried to give him a smile, but it barely made it past the melancholy that was weighing her down.