The Templar's Quest Part 25

Upsy-daisy.

Long minutes later, he reached the crescent-shaped opening. Peering inside, he saw a shallow grotto about seven feet in height, strewn with rocks and boulders. An inauspicious vault for the most sacred relic in all of Christendom.

Undeterred, he heaved his torso into the breach, wiggling his lower body as he scrambled into the narrow cavity. Crouched on his haunches, he opened his rucksack and removed a torch. Flipping it on, he aimed the beam around the cave. Which is when he saw a set of skeletal remains.

I don't believe it ... it's the b.l.o.o.d.y Grail Guardian!

Thrilled by the discovery, he rushed forward, stumbling on a loose stone in his haste.

Kneeling beside the bones, he shoved the torch under his arm as he examined several bits of metal that looked to be a crudely fas.h.i.+oned belt buckle. A dried, translucent snake skin was draped over the bloke's clavicle bone; a fragile strip of boot leather clung to his bony foot; and several horn b.u.t.tons were scattered about. Everything else had long since disintegrated.

Above the skeleton, a Latin phrase had been clumsily scrawled in what appeared to be a manganese pigment. Ad Augusta Per Angusta. 'To holy places through narrow s.p.a.ces.' Beneath the text was a crudely rendered Cathar cross.

An evocative message scribed for the ages. And while it wasn't proof positive, it strongly suggested that these were the mortal remains of one of the four Cathars who escaped the Montsegur citadel.

Caedmon perused the area, wondering if a skeletal companion lurked in the near vicinity. As he peered through the crescent opening, the Pyrenees unfolded in the airy distance like a granite accordion. The last image imprinted on the Cathar's dying brain. Although a lonely place to spend eternity, the view was splendid. To die for, an irreverent wag might say.

'All right, old boy, where's the blasted Grail?' he demanded cheekily. He shone the torch into the far reaches of the stone sepulchre, surprised to see that the cave extended deeper into the mountain.

Hope springing, Caedmon ambled through a craggy chasm which, in turn, led to another grotto. The womb of the Mother.

At a glance, he could see that there were no bones, no inscriptions and no Grail.

Angered to think that the Knights Templar may have beaten him to the prize, he turned in a slow circle, searching for a stone depository where the relic could have been stashed. His attention was drawn to a ma.s.sive slab that jutted out from the grotto wall. He walked towards it, the unusual rock formation meriting further investigation.

A Cathar cross adorned the thick block of stone. Intrigued, he peered behind the slab.

'I'll be d.a.m.ned,' he murmured upon discovering that the slab hid a pa.s.sageway approximately five and a half feet high and twenty inches wide. 'To holy places through narrow s.p.a.ces.'

Bending his head, Caedmon stepped into the pa.s.sage.

53.

Grande Arche Parking Garage, Paris 1247 hours 'Aren't you the least bit tempted?' Kate asked, still stunned by the staggering amount of money that had been offered to Finn in exchange for the Montsegur Medallion.

'Oh, yeah. Like I want to work for the devil. Which, in case you don't know, is called selling your soul.' Leaning against the railing inside the garage stairwell, Finn unabashedly stared. 'You know, the blonde hair is starting to grow on me.'

'You're absolutely certain that I won't be recognized?'

Plucking one of the corkscrew curls, Finn pulled it straight before releasing it. The blonde curl bounced into place like a well-oiled spring. 'Don't worry. I've been living with you 24/7 and even I wouldn't recognize you.'

As with all of the other equipment, the wig had been part of yesterday's spending spree. Although she'd complained about donning it on a hot day, the disguise was absolutely necessary for Phase Two of the mission op. There were video surveillance cameras in the underground parking garage at Grande Arche and the blonde wig would ensure that she wasn't identified. They'd both agreed that it was easier to alter her appearance than disguise a six-foot-four-inch male.

'Time to get the mission underway.' Unzipping his Go Bag, Finn removed a black metal object that resembled a hockey puck. 'Let's go over the instructions one more time. Once you locate Uhlemann's Mercedes Benz, crouch beside the rear tyre well and, reaching underneath, place the tracking device so it can't be seen.' He pointed to the small flat disk. 'This is the magnetized side of the device. In order for it to adhere, metal has to touch metal. Any questions?'

'Just one ... What happens if I get caught?' Suffering from an acute case of the jitters, Kate gnawed on her bottom lip.

'You're not going to get caught,' Finn a.s.sured her. 'This operation is a two-second "stow and go". I'm talking stupid simple.'

While the hyperbole was meant to buoy her confidence, Kate worried that she might not be up to the task. She hadn't even left the stairwell and already her heart was pounding and her knees were shaking. A terrified blonde Mata Hari.

'After I install the device, then what?'

'As soon as you attach the device, return to the stairwell on the double-quick. Then we pray to Bob Almighty that Ivo follows the script and goes for a ride.' Finn glanced at the concrete block walls that enclosed the stairwell. 'This place is like a fortress. If I'm gonna abduct the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I need him in the open, away from his stronghold.'

Since Ivo Uhlemann had rendered the Dark Angel 'non-negotiable', Finn intended to up the ante by abducting the head of the Seven Research Foundation. To secure Dr Uhlemann's safe return, the Seven would have to give Finn custody of the Dark Angel. He'd demanded the cease-fire in order to lull Uhlemann into a false sense of security.

Steadfastly holding her gaze, Finn took hold of Kate's left hand and gently squeezed it. 'Hey, Katie, I know that you're scared. If it wasn't for the security cameras, I'd go out there and install the device. But I'm confident that you can pull this off.'

Faking a brave front, she mustered a smile. 'Roger Wilco, Sergeant McGuire.'

'Um, you're not supposed to say "Roger" and "Wilco" at the same time,' Finn corrected, a teasing glint in his brown eyes.

'Are you sure about that? I'm certain that I've heard people in the movies say "Roger Wilco".'

' "Roger" and "Wilco" mean the same thing. It's one or the other.'

Conceding the point, Kate rolled her eyes. 'I make a lousy commando, don't I?'

'Yeah, 'fraid so,' Finn agreed. Then, one side of his mouth quirking upward, 'But d.a.m.ned cute.'

Kate glanced at their two wedded hands, having long since got over the shock of Finn's missing finger. The first time she'd set eyes on Master Sergeant Finnegan McGuire at the Pentagon, she'd dismissed him as a stereotypical warrior. A Rambo. Only recently had she begun to realize that the fierce facade masked a deeper complexity. Not only was Finn brave, considerate and loyal to a fault, he was sweetly demonstrative.

She kept envisioning a younger version of Finn, tears rolling down his face, holding a newborn infant in his hands. He probably didn't realize it, but she'd found the story deeply moving. Four days ago, she didn't want to know anything about this rough, tough Alpha male. But something had changed. The situation was different now. For some unfathomable reason, she felt emotionally attached. And not just because she was dependent on him to keep her alive.

Given that Finn wasn't her type, she wondered if the heart didn't contrarily follow its own rules.

Finn waved a hand in front of her face. 'Earth to Kate. Let's get this bad boy installed, okay?' Stepping over to the door, he shoved the lock bar, swinging the door wide open. 'Ready?'

'Set, go,' she said in a chipper tone as she stepped through the doorway. Hit with a blast of musty air laced with car oil, she wrinkled her nose.

Hoping she didn't appear as nervous as she felt, Kate headed for the reserved section of the car park. Each car was in a designated spot with the name of a person or corporate ent.i.ty printed on a placard attached to the concrete wall in front of the vehicle. From the dossier that Caedmon had given to them yesterday, Kate knew that Dr Uhlemann owned a Mercedes Benz S-cla.s.s sedan with licence plate 610-NGH-75.

Reaching the section reserved for the Seven Research Foundation, Kate spared a quick glance around the deserted parking garage. Not only was the stairwell nearly a hundred feet away, she couldn't even see it from her current position, elevating the fear factor several notches.

A few moments later, catching sight of a graphite-grey Mercedes parked next to the elevator door, Kate ducked behind a large concrete pier. Fingers trembling, she opened her new tote bag. Very carefully, she removed the magnetic-mount vehicle tracking device. Although heavy, it easily fitted into the palm of her very sweaty hand.

Stomach churning, she approached the big four-door Mercedes Benz.

Just then, the elevator bell pinged. One time. The signal that the doors would momentarily open. Kate gasped, her hand tightening around the tracking device.

Hurriedly going down on bended knee, she crouched next to the Mercedes' rear tyre well. Placing her left hand on the concrete floor to keep from tipping over, she reached under the tyre well and stuck the tracking device on to the metal underbelly of the vehicle, the powerful magnet holding it in place.

She lurched to her feet just as the elevator doors slid apart.

At least half a dozen people rushed forth. Frozen in place, Kate stood by the Mercedes and watched the ma.s.s exodus, the last person to exit the elevator a tall, bald-headed man in a dark suit. A Goliath with a hideously swollen nose.

The gunman from the Jardin du Carrousel!

Head c.o.c.ked to one side, the brute glared at her as he approached the Mercedes.

Kate stood motionless. Uncertain what to do. She wasn't a courageous Joan of Arc type or a glib-tongued Mata Hari. She was a scared ninny who 'Fifi! Yoo-hoo!' Bending at the waist, she peered under the grey Mercedes sedan. Never a good actress, she hoped that she resembled a woman who'd just lost her dog. 'Where are you, sweetie?'

A shadow fell over her, the brute standing directly behind her.

'Qu'est-ce que vous faites?' the monster rasped, demanding to know what she was doing.

Barely able to draw breath, Kate straightened her spine and slowly turned to face the man who, only the day before, had tried very hard to kill her. Up close, he was truly menacing, with a blotchy face disfigured by an engorged, off-kilter nose, thin lips and a deeply cleft square jaw.

For one horror-filled instant, Kate imagined him wearing a n.a.z.i uniform.

'I'm s-searching for my l-lost d-dog.'

'Vat does it look like?' he asked in a thick German accent.

'It's a little, um ' Her mind went totally blank. 'Oh, yes! A Yorks.h.i.+re terrier! With long brown hair and a black ' she inanely swished her hand in front of her mouth to indicate a muzzle, the word eluding her.

Eyes narrowing, the monster scrutinized her intently. 'You are an American, aren't you?'

Too late, Kate realized she'd spoken in English rather than French. Stupid, stupid mistake.

'Actually, I'm a, um ... Canadian,' she stammered. 'You know what? I'd better call my husband.' Opening her tote bag, she grabbed the disposable cell phone that Finn had purchased for her.

Without warning, the monster s.n.a.t.c.hed hold of her wrist, preventing her from opening the cell phone. 'You can't make that call.'

Terror-stricken, she glanced at his hand. It was huge. If he grabbed her by the neck, he could easily crush her windpipe with one mighty squeeze. Barely able to swallow, let alone scream, she frantically glanced from side-to-side; everyone who'd been in the elevator had dispersed, no one in sight. In the near distance, she heard the roar of several car engines.

'W-why not?' Kate warbled, certain that he intended to kill her on the spot.

'Because of the concrete walls, there's no reception in the garage.'

Relieved, she visibly sagged. 'Right. Silly me.'

'Hey, Bridget! Where are you?'

At hearing Finn's loud holler, both she and the bald-headed monster turned their heads in the direction of the stairwell.

'Are you Bridget?' the monster enquired gruffly.

'Oh, yes ... yes, I am Bridget and that's my husband calling me.' Kate gestured towards the stairwell. 'He's on the, um, other side of the parking lot searching for Fifi.'

The monster let go of her wrist. 'Go. Your husband has summoned you. A woman must always obey her man.'

54.

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc 1415 hours Down the rabbit hole Sir Prancelot merrily traipsed.

'Although the b.a.s.t.a.r.d should have been more wary than merry,' Caedmon grumbled, accidentally bas.h.i.+ng the crown of his head against the low-slung stone ceiling. Holding his rucksack in one hand and the torch in the other, he compressed his tall frame in an uncomfortable stoop-shouldered twist, the constrictive corridor designed for a knight of shorter stature.

He'd trekked approximately one hundred and fifty feet when the corridor abruptly switched directions, veering ninety degrees to the left. At which point the pa.s.sageway gradually sloped downward. When he was a doctoral candidate at Oxford, he'd tramped through catacombs and medieval crypts, but he'd never navigated anything as strangely surreal as this. Whether by design or accident, the pa.s.sageway put him in mind of a hewn birth ca.n.a.l.

Which, in turn, incited an existential unease, Caedmon's heart beating noticeably faster.

He estimated that he'd traversed another hundred feet when the pa.s.sageway unexpectedly ended. Bewildered, he awkwardly turned around, aiming his torch in the opposite direction. The golden beam struck an aperture, approximately two feet in diameter, near the ceiling.

Committed to following the trail to its terminus, he peered inside the hole which opened into a long tunnel. Satisfied that the shaft was wide enough for him to engineer through, he shoved his rucksack and torch into the hole. Hefting himself into the chute, he proceeded by slithering centipede-like, pus.h.i.+ng with his feet as he dragged his body forward with his hands.

Nearly twenty minutes had lapsed at a maddeningly sluggish pace when Caedmon belatedly realized that there was no room to turn around. If the tunnel didn't expand sufficiently further down the line, he'd have to make a backward egress. A tortuous prospect.

'Although that might be a moot point,' he muttered as the b.a.l.l.s of his shoulders sc.r.a.ped against the rough stone, the tunnel suddenly tapering.

Unable to move either forward or backward he drew in a ragged breath.

I'm plugged tight as a cork in a bottle.

Biting back a yelp of pain, he pulled his elbows together, squeezing his shoulders towards his chest. Awkwardly contorted, he s.h.i.+mmied through the narrow orifice, relieved when it widened to its former diameter.

In dire need of a drink, he opened his rucksack and retrieved a water bottle. Having begun the day with three full bottles, he was down to his last litre. Gracelessly tipping his head and banging it against the top of the shaft he took a measured sip. As he returned the bottle to the rucksack, the beam on his torch flickered twice. The only warning he had before the light went out, plunging the tunnel into a stultifying darkness.

Unable to see anything, he swiped his hand from side to side, searching for the malfunctioning torch. s.n.a.t.c.hing hold of it, he pushed the ON switch. When that produced no result, he banged the torch against the palm of his hand.

's.h.i.+te!'

Discouraged by the latest setback, he conceded that the venture was proving a mental and physical challenge; the thought of squirming backward, in the dark, was too daunting to contemplate at the moment.

Exhausted, he squirmed on to his back, pulling the rucksack under his head. A makes.h.i.+ft pillow. The phrase 'silent as the grave' took on a whole new meaning as Caedmon folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

I'm interred in a d.a.m.ned stone coffin in a remote mountain. And no one knows that I am even here.

'Not to worry. "The maid is not dead, but sleepeth",' he whispered, envisioning his red-haired mother eternally resting in a satin-lined casket. ' "Brightness falls from the air; Queens have died young and fair; Dust hath closed Helen's eye." '

The same dust that closed Juliana Howe's eyes two years ago.

Christ.

Because his mother died in childbirth, grief had never been part of that equation. Which might be why he was so ill-equipped to handle the emotional tumult that erupted in the wake of Juliana's death. It was as though his chest cavity had been pried open, his heart flayed and the organ left to hang in long b.l.o.o.d.y strips.