The Templar Throne (24 page)

“
My
fiasco? We didn’t have anything to do with it,” answered Patchin, genuinely surprised.

“You’re trying to tell me that Quince wasn’t a Company man?”

“The operative word is ‘was,’ ” responded Patchin. “As in twenty years ago. He went out when Clinton came in; part of George Tenet’s new broom. He’s been private ever since.”

“If Quince wasn’t yours, who was he?”

“I have no idea. You know as well as I do that we’ve adopted a wait-and-see attitude about this matter.” It was the CIA man’s standard comeback and the senator’s mother wasn’t buying it.

“Don’t play games with me, Joseph, you’ll lose every time. If my son doesn’t become senior
adelphoi
of Rex Deus he won’t have the clout to get the nomination next year. That in turn means he won’t become president and you’ll lose your shot as secretary of state. It’s like playing dominoes, Joseph—if one falls so do all the rest.”

“We have a contingency for that,” said Patchin quietly.

“Ironstone?” Sinclair asked. “That’s the next best thing to treason.”

“Nevertheless,” said Patchin, pushing his plate away, his appetite suddenly gone. “If the senator doesn’t get the nomination Ironstone may be our only chance. Another four years of that starry-eyed socialist in the White House and you’ll be able to use the Constitution for toilet paper. He’s already flushed the country down the crapper.”

“Could you guarantee Ironstone’s success?” Sinclair asked. She doused her cigarette in a sixty-dollar glass of wine.

“With help from your friends? Yes.” He shrugged. “However, it would be considerably better if he could become head of your . . . organization. Ironstone would fundamentally change the United States forever.”

“Some would say for the better,” said Sinclair.

“And some would call it the last gasp of a failing empire,” answered Patchin. “Ironstone is not an alternative; it is something to be avoided at all costs.”

“Then help me,” said Kate Sinclair. “If the ark is discovered, help me to ensure that it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

“Speaking of the wrong hands,” said Patchin, “just who are we talking about here?”

“There are seven families of the Blood within Rex Deus, all descended from the Desposyni, the blood relatives of Christ, all families of royal blood.”

“I don’t really care about all the religious gobbledygook and the secret handshakes. I just want to know what we’re dealing with. Do all seven of these families have an equal shot at taking over?”

“No,” said the old Sinclair woman. “All of them are descended from the children of Mary—Christ’s brothers and sisters—but ever since the dissolution of the Templars, Rex Deus only accepts members of those families who survived and came to America. Of the fifty-six signatories of the Declaration of Independence, eight were members of Rex Deus and knew of each other. It was those eight who formed Rex Deus as it now exists.”

“I don’t recall anyone named Sinclair having signed the Declaration,” said Patchin.

“Rex Deus and the Desposyni follow a matriarchal line, just like the Jews, which of course Christ was by birth. They are less the children of Jesus than they are the descendants of Mary Magdalene.”

“People still believe this stuff?” Patchin said. “It sounds like it’s straight out of
a novel
.”

“Are the Freemasons out of
a novel
, or the Bilderberg Group or the Roman Catholic Church, or Skull and Bones of Yale University out of
a novel
, Joseph? As I recall, you’re a Bonesman. Class of eighty- four, wasn’t it?”

“Eighty-two,” responded Patchin. He took a long swallow of the expensive wine, barely tasting it.

“Rex Deus is like all of those institutions, Joseph; trappings aside, they are about money. A great deal of money and almost infinite power.”

“Yet it’s trappings we’re talking about,” argued Patchin.

Kate Sinclair lit another cigarette. “It’s the one thing that Mr. Brown got right in his book, and probably accounts for its success—the power of symbols on people’s lives, even when those people have no idea of the symbols’ origins.

“The lucky horseshoe is actually the gilt remains from paintings of saints’ halos when all the other paint had faded. The cross has been used since the Stone Age and has nothing to do with Christianity. The color white is used for funerals in Japan, not weddings. The swastika was in use in Iceland as far back as the eighth century and was known as Thor’s Hammer—it was in use in India long before that. But show a swastika to an Israeli and watch their reaction. An advertising person said it years ago—perception is everything.” The older woman paused and tapped ashes into the remains of her veal.

“The perception in Rex Deus is that the True Ark and its contents are the most sacred icons and symbols of an ancient and holy order. You can’t crown the British king or queen without the Sceptre, the Orb and the Crown. Philosophically it is Rex Deus’s job, its holy goal, to save America until Armageddon and the Last Judgment. The United States itself is the vessel through which humanity will survive and the True Ark is the symbol of that survival.”

“You believe all that?” Patchin said, dumbfounded.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, Joseph. What matters is that the person who returns the True Ark to its rightful place is guaranteed to be made
adelphoi
or chief elder of Rex Deus, with all the commensurate power such a position entails.”

“And his competition?”

“Of the eight families there are only three in real contention.”

“Who are they?”

Kate Sinclair opened up the expensive little clutch and took out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Patchin. He unfolded the note and read the short list of names. His eyes widened.

“My God,” he whispered, staring at the little slip of paper.

“Precisely.” Sinclair smiled coldly.

“But the one at the top, that’s . . .”

Kate Sinclair lifted a bony finger to her bright red lips, silencing him.

“Can you still help me?” Sinclair asked.

Joseph Patchin stared at her, wondering what kind of terrible snake pit he had stumbled into. He tried to shrug it off. In for a penny, in for a pound; the kind of thinking that got Bernie Madoff a hundred and fifty years in the slammer. He swallowed hard.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

The sea was black glass. The only motion of the dark water was a slow, rolling swell that gave the thirty-two-foot lobster boat a faintly nauseating corkscrew twist that was turning Meg a faint shade of green. The
Deryldene D
was making a steady twelve knots and had been doing so ever since leaving Halifax at dawn, almost seven hours ago. Above them the sky was a featureless gray slab.

“I was expecting worse weather than this,” said Holliday, standing beside Gallant at the wheel and looking out over the slowly undulating sea. Laid out on the windscreen shelf in front of the wheel was a group of high-tech instruments, including a depth finder, a side-scanning sonar array, a fish finder, a color radar screen, and a marine radio.

“You know the expression ‘the calm before the storm’?” said the maritimer.

“Sure,” said Holliday.

“This is it,” Gallant answered flatly.

“There’s a storm coming?” Meg asked anxiously, perched on the bait box close to the transom.

“We’re in a high-pressure system that’s moving with the swell. We meet a low-pressure system and you get what’s called a cyclonic effect. Down south they’d call it a tropical storm. It’s how you get hurricanes.”

“Please tell me we’re not heading into a hurricane,” pleaded Meg.

“Maybe not a hurricane yet, but odds are it’ll become one before long. They’ve already evacuated the island and the offshore rigs nearby; they don’t do that for an ordinary storm. The only question is when she hits,” answered Gallant.

“Best guess?” Holliday asked.

Gallant shrugged and stroked his mustache. “Trying to guess what the sea’s going to do is a fool’s game,” said the lobsterman. “But from my experience and the Doppler radar I’d say we’ve got a few hours yet.”

“You’re saying that Sable Island is deserted now?” Meg asked.

“For what it’s worth,” answered Gallant. “I’ve never seen one, but the captain of the
QE2
ocean liner reported a ninety-two-foot wave nearby. That’s the height of a ten-story building. Sable’s barely thirteen feet above sea level. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be anywhere on the island when a wave like that hits.”

“We should check all that equipment you bought,” said Holliday pointedly. Meg nodded. Holliday led the way through the small hatchway- like door to the left of the wheel down three narrow steps.

There was a galley with a propane stove and burners on the left and a fold-up Formica table on the right with a vinyl-covered banquette against the starboard bulkhead. Everything in the little space seemed coated with a light sheen of old cooking oil and there was the distinct odor of boiled fish in the air. Holliday edged his way through the galley, ducking low, and stepped into the forward cabin.

The equipment was made up of two collapsible camping shovels, a pair of bright yellow, handheld Lowrance Safari GPS units and two very-high-end Garrett metal finders, smaller mine-detector-style versions of the big Garrett metal detector gates used in airports and secure facilities. They were lightweight and computerized.

Holliday sat down on the neatly made bunk against the port-side bulkhead and waited for Meg to join him. They were sitting in the bow now and the sliding, mild roller-coaster movement of the
Deryldene D
on the light swell was more pronounced. Meg’s color deepened and she put a hand on her stomach.

“What do you want to check?” she said, obviously irritated. “The batteries are fully charged and the salesman calibrated the detectors for copper, bronze and iron as well as gold and silver. Those are the most likely metals the ark would have been sheathed in.”

“I wanted to talk with you privately,” answered Holliday.

“About what?” Meg swallowed. “And make it quick. I need some fresh air as soon as possible.”

“All right. One quick question. When we were in that bar where we met Gallant you said you knew where the ark was buried. How is that possible since you didn’t know about Sable Island until a few days ago?”

“My, my, aren’t you the suspicious one,” said Meg. She swallowed again and closed her eyes briefly as a wave of nausea hit her.

“Call it professional curiosity,” said Holliday.

“Okay,” she said and nodded. “To satisfy your curiosity.” She took a deep shuddering breath to control her seasickness. “Hopefully it won’t bruise that delicate male ego of yours, but I’m a historian as well, and sometimes I can figure out puzzles too.”

“What puzzle?” Holliday asked.

“The painting in Prague. The one by Cranach. You couldn’t figure out the six monks around the well, remember?”

“I’m with you so far.”

“You told me there’s a freshwater lake on Sable Island, right?”

“Lake Wallace. There’s a spring somewhere but it’s mostly rainwater runoff, which is why the water level rises and falls so dramatically, at least according to that book I read.”

“But would it have been there in the time of the Blessed Juliana and Saint-Clair?”

“Presumably.”

“Don’t you see? Lake Wallace is the well,” said Meg, managing a faint smile of triumph.

“And the six monks?”

“Sext,” answered Meg.

“Pardon?”

“It’s the most important of the canonical hours,” explained Meg. “It’s even sacred to the Jews. Sext is the sixth hour of the day. Originally sext was seen as dawn, but by the Blessed Juliana’s day and the advent of clocks, prime, the first hour of the day, was arbitrarily set at six a.m. and sext officially became noon, the time Christ was crucified. Sext was also St. Benedict’s most sacred time for prayer, and St. Benedict was the patron saint of the Templars. That’s where Jean de Saint-Clair and the Blessed Juliana hid their holy treasure. The six o’clock position on the face of a sundial or a clock. We’ll find the True Ark at the six o’clock position on the shore of Lake Wallace.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” whispered Holliday.

Dr. Rafi Wanounou, a professor of medieval archaeology at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, sat under the fly tent that served as his office, sweating profusely and doing paperwork, most of which was scattered over the rough plywood table in front of him.

Through the open end of the tent he could see the entire archaeological site of the 4000 B.C. cult temple that had served the nomadic tribes passing through the desert. Beyond the ruins of the old temple where his students were laboring like busy little ants under the broiling sun, Rafi could see the white salt rime on the beaches and the blue-green expanse of the Dead Sea.

If he squinted he could faintly see Jordan ten miles away on the other side, and with a pair of good binoculars he could even make out the five-hundred-foot block of halite that was usually referred to as Mount Sodom.

It was well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit and it was almost time to call in the kids for lunch and a hydrating break and maybe even a trip to one of the springs surrounding the nearby Ein Gedi Oasis for a swim. Rafi sighed. The Chalcolithic period of Hebrew history was hardly his area of expertise, but like the rest of his colleagues in the department he had to lead his fair share of field trips to give the students experience doing site work.

Rafi sighed again; he was also worried about Peggy. She was only in her first trimester but he was already fretting over her. He had even been considering making the arduous hundred-kilometer journey back to Jerusalem later in the afternoon, even though Ein Gedi was hardly within commuting distance. Fifty miles on secondary desert roads in Israel wasn’t like the same distance on a freeway in the United States. On the other hand, Peggy was worth it; in fact, meeting and falling in love with Peggy Blackstock had been the best thing that had ever happened to him; even his mother thought so, even though he’d married a
shiksa
who hadn’t changed her name when they got married. He smiled; convincing Reyna Wanounou of
anything
was a small miracle, even his father said so.