The Adept Book 3 The Templar Treasure (4 page)

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re here, Adam,” she whispered. “If only you knew how guilty I’ve been feeling.”

“Guilty?” Adam said. “Whatever for?”

“For not telephoning you sooner,” she replied. “Nathan wanted me to call you last night. Right after the incident, before he lost consciousness, he made me promise to call you
at once.
I gave him my word, fully intending to do as he wished, but I could see he was desperately in need of medical attention. My first call was to summon an ambulance and the police, and after that—” She made a helpless gesture.

“You were doing your best to save your husband’s life,” Adam said quietly. “You were entirely right to regard everything else as secondary.”

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Rachel insisted. “The thieves, whoever they were, took the Seal—the one that’s been in Nathan’s family for goodness knows how many generations. You know the piece I’m talking about?”

“Not the one he used to refer to as the Solomon Seal?” Adam said, seeing it in memory and suddenly flashing on a twinge of greater uneasiness.

“Yes, that’s the one. I’m sure he must have shown it to you.”

Adam nodded. “He did—but that was many years ago. It certainly was very old—though I wouldn’t know about it having been Solomon’s Seal.”

“I don’t know that either,” Rachel said. “I think it was more than just old, though. I do know that research surrounding it had occupied a great deal of his time and energy, these last few years. And just before he passed out, he said—he said, ‘Things about the Seal you don’t know—dangerous things. It’s
got
to be recovered, at all cost. Call Sir Adam Sinclair and tell him what’s happened . . .”

“Indeed,” Adam said, cocking his head. “Do you know what he was talking about, saying there were dangerous things about the Seal?”

She shook her head.

“I see. Tell me this, then. Do you think the thieves were after the Seal in particular?”

Rachel shook her head again. “I don’t know,” she said tersely. “If they were, they didn’t hesitate to take all my jewelry as well. And they would have been welcome to every gaudy scrap of it, if only they’d left me my Nathan, safe and sound!”

As tears welled up and she stifled a sob, releasing his hand to wipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, Adam took a fresh handkerchief of monogrammed linen from the breast pocket of his suit coat and offered it to her. She nodded her thanks and dabbed at her wet cheeks, sniffling miserably, and Adam exchanged a sympathetic glance with Peter.

“Rachel, from what you’ve told me,” Adam said, “it’s obvious that the Seal has acquired a far greater importance of late than it had all those years ago—or at least Nathan had become aware of a greater importance.”

As she nodded, he went on.

“The fact that Nathan asked for me, in conjunction with his worry about the Seal’s theft, also suggests that he intended me to devote my attention specifically to the problem of locating and recovering it before any harm can result from its theft. I have no idea what kind of harm that might be, but I’ll certainly do my best to find out and to carry out his wishes. Tell me: Besides myself, how many people outside the family would have known about the existence of the Seal?”

Rachel gave him a blank look and turned to her son for inspiration. Shaking his head, Peter gave a helpless shrug.

“I suppose that any number of people might have known
something
about it,” he said. “Dad’s never been a particularly secretive man. If you’re talking about anyone having specific knowledge—”

“How about
recent
and specific knowledge,” Adam prompted, “perhaps in the last year or so?”

Peter grimaced and sighed. “I suppose I ought to give you some recent background first, then,” he said. “Since Dad showed you the Seal, he probably also told you that it’s always been something of a family mystery. When I was little, my grandfather used to tell me stories about how the Seal used to belong to the royal house of Israel, and how it had the power to stamp out evil spirits. You know the kinds of tales that grown-ups sometimes tell kids, to embellish.”

Adam nodded, his face impassive, but the mention of evil spirits had triggered a new apprehension.

“Anyway,” Peter went on, “over the years, Dad had been trying to find out more about the Seal—probably sparked by the tales
his
grandfather had told him when
he
was a boy. It started out as a kind of academic game, I think—and you know how tenacious he can be when he gets his teeth into a research project—but a new factor entered the equation about eighteen months ago.”

“What happened eighteen months ago?” Adam asked.

“Well, Grandfather Benjamin died. It wasn’t unexpected—he was eighty-seven, and he went in his sleep, like
that.
”
He snapped his fingers. “After the funeral, Dad went up to the old house in Perth to clear away the last of Grandfather’s personal effects. While he was about it, he came across a whole chest full of old family papers stored in the attic. Among them was a really battered old parchment document. It was badly yellowed, and the writing was faded brown with age, practically illegible, but Dad was able to make out enough to tell that it was in Latin, and seemed to refer to a seal of some kind.”

“The Solomon Seal?” Adam asked.

“So he believed. The possibility was enough to make him· drop everything and head across to St. Andrews University to see if anyone in the medieval history department could decipher it for him. The document turned out to be a promissory note for a bronze seal pledged in pawn to one Reuben Fennes of Perth, by somebody named James Graeme, dated 1381!”

He directed an inquiring look at Adam, as if inviting comment, but Adam only shook his head.

“This is all news to me,” he said. “I gather, by your expectation, that the Seal had been pawned for a substantial sum.”

“I’ll say,” Peter replied. “It was practically a duke’s ransom. The figure cited was so extraordinary that Dad was keen to find out who this James Graeme might have been, and why the Seal should have been worth that much money to our distant forebear.”

“And did he?”

“That, I don’t know,” Peter said. “It was about that time, however, that he started seriously ferreting through all manner of medieval archives, not only in the U.K. but also on the Continent. It got to be quite an operation. I’m sure he must have used research assistants to help him sift through some of the documentary material. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“Oh, yes,” Rachel agreed. “There have been several dozen, over the years. He loved to involve his students in his work.”

Adam smiled. “I can attest to that. Tell me, do you suppose you might be able to draw up a list for me?”

“Dear me, you don’t think—”

“Unfortunately, it’s far too soon to tell you what I think,” Adam said easily. “A list of people who know about the Seal is a good place to start, though. Peter, do you think you might be able to give your mother a hand?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t have any direct knowledge, Adam, but maybe Dad’s personal notes would give us some clues. They should be locked up in his desk at home, shouldn’t they, Mother?”

Rachel’s face brightened. “Yes, of course,” she said. “And fortunately, the thieves didn’t tamper with the desk.”

She might have said more, but at that moment, the injured man in the bed stirred and groaned aloud.

Chapter Three

INSTANTLY ATTENTIVE,
Adam and the others leaned in toward the bed. Nathan Fiennes stirred again. His bruised eyelids fluttered, then opened a painful chink, the gaze wandering unfocused.

“Rachel?” he muttered hoarsely.

Suppressing a small sob, his wife bent down and clasped his hand more closely. “I’m right here, Nathan. So is Peter. Larry’s going to be arriving shortly. And Adam—Adam Sinclair. You asked me to call him.”

A crooked smile touched the injured man’s bluish lips. “All here,” he mumbled drowsily. “That’s good. Always nice when the boys come home for the holidays . . .”

Rachel directed a wordless look of dismay toward Adam, who said softly, “This is not unexpected, I’m afraid. It’s very common in the case of head injuries for the patient’s memory to wander.”

“Is there anything you can do to help him focus?” Peter asked. “He was so adamant that Mother call you.”

Considering, Adam gave a cautious nod. “It’s just possible that he might respond to hypnosis, that he’s at least partially aware of his surroundings.”

“Yes, but would it work in a case like this?” Peter wondered. “The surgeon says there’s been localized brain damage.”

“Let me answer your question with yet another question,” Adam said. “Do you believe that your father has an immortal soul?”

The query brought Peter up short. He gave a blink, then said, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then believe me,” said Adam, “when I tell you that the true seat of memory lies there, in the realm of the spirit, not in the perishable physiochemical structures of the brain.”

Even as he spoke, the man in the bed heaved a heavy sigh.

“Sure hope this flu passes off soon,” he murmured, his head moving restlessly from side to side. “Promised the boys we’d drive up to Perth . . . all go camping . . . “

Rachel lifted her head, her expression one of anguished tenderness. “He’s talking about an incident that happened nearly twenty years ago,” she said softly. “You remember, don’t you, Peter?”

Her son nodded without speaking.

“Those were happy times,” Rachel said, her voice quivering on the edge of a break. “He’s there now, in memory. Do we have the right to call him back to the present—to the pain, and the realization that he’s almost certainly dying?”

“That’s your decision, of course,” Adam said quietly. “But given the apparent urgency of his request that I should come, I’d like to at least try to question him. I promise you that nothing I intend will harm your husband in any way, either physically or spiritually. Indeed, it may even be possible to alleviate some of his pain, make him a bit more comfortable.”

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by Nathan’s labored murmurings as his mind wandered aimlessly about its chambers of memories. Then Rachel drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders with an air of decision, her hand tightening on her husband’s.

“Forgive me, Adam. I wasn’t thinking of Nathan’s wishes. He’s always trusted you. You must do what you think best. Were I to interfere with this last confidence he wanted to impart to you, I would be less than true to the trust he and I have shared for most of a lifetime.”

Adam smiled gently and patted her hand. “Thank you, Rachel. I know that was not an easy decision. Do you think you and Peter could give me a few minutes alone with him? This is going to require maximum concentration on my part, and the fewer distractions, the better.”

“I think a breath of fresh air might be exactly. What Mother and I need,” Peter said, getting to his feet. “Maybe something to eat as well. Can we bring you anything, Adam? A cup of coffee, maybe? Tea?”

Adam shook his head as he stood. “Not just now, thank you. Give me twenty or thirty minutes, would you?”

“Of course.”

As mother and son left the ICU together, arm in arm, Adam moved closer to the head of the bed and casually drew the curtain partway between Nathan’s bed and the rest of the room, thus shielding them from casual observation by the family gathered two beds down around an unconscious older woman. Nathan was still vaguely conscious, if rambling, but there was no telling when he might lapse back into coma. Adam knew he had to act with dispatch or risk losing what might be his one and only chance to question Nathan and learn whatever it was that the old man wanted him to know.

His action had drawn no untoward attention from the nurses tending patients at the other end of the room. After making an understated show of checking Nathan’s pulse and glancing at the readings on the life-support monitors, he reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat and unclipped a small, pencil-sized flashlight. For a quick trance induction, its beam would catch and hold Nathan’s wandering attention far better than the usual, more indirect focus of his pocket watch, and also be less conspicuous.

Leaning in close over the bed, he turned Nathan’s face gently toward him and directed the light first at one pupil, then at the other, beginning a rhythmic oscillation between the two.

“Nathan,” he called softly. “It’s Adam Sinclair. Listen to me, Nathan. Would you look at me, please?”

The injured man’s distracted gaze slowly gravitated toward the light and the sound of Adam’s voice. He blinked twice, then focused with an effort on the strong face beyond the moving light.

“Adam . . . It
is
you, isn’t it?” he mumbled with a fleeting attempt at a smile. “Always a pleasure to see you. My, but you’re getting grey—but I suppose medical school does that to a man. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing terribly difficult, Nathan. I’ve come to help you.” Adam’s voice deepened slightly as he went on. “I want you to relax. If you can manage it, I’d very much like you to look at the light I’m holding in my hand. Can you see it?” He continued to move it back and forth, flashing it first in one eye, then the other.

“That’s good. Just relax, my friend. Listen to my voice and follow the light. Back and forth . . . that’s right. Relax. Listen to my voice and feel yourself starting to float. Very relaxed. That’s good, Nathan. Tell me, how do you feel?”

Nathan’s pale lips twitched, his eyelids starting to droop as he continued to track the moving light.

“No too well,” he murmured. “Head hurts damnably. Flu, I think . . .”

“No, it isn’t flu,” Adam said softly, his voice taking on a soothing, singsong lilt. “But I think we can do something about the discomfort. Imagine that the pain in your head is like a hat that’s on too tight. Imagine yourself taking the hat off and putting it to one side. Once you’ve taken it off, the pain will ease up and your mind will be clear. It will be like floating on a quiet pool—no noise, no trouble, only peace. Take off the hat, Nathan . . .”

He waited a moment, watching Nathan’s taut face. After a few heartbeats, the trembling eyelids closed and the lines of pain and stress began to smooth out.

“That’s good, Nathan,” Adam murmured, switching off his light and returning it to his breast pocket. “The pain is gone. You’re very relaxed. Tell me, are you floating now?”

“Yes . . . floating . . .”

“Very good,” Adam said. Dropping his voice till it was scarcely louder than a whisper, he said, “Nathan, I want you to picture something in your mind’s eye—a familiar object. It’s a bronze seal engraved with the star of Solomon. Can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you could. Nathan, there was something you wanted to tell me about this Seal, something you were having trouble remembering. I’m taking hold of your wrist, and I’m going to count backwards from five to one. When I reach the end of the count, I’ll give your wrist a tap. At that moment, the clouds will lift from your memory and you’ll be able to recall the message you wanted to convey to me. Are you ready? Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
one.”

He tapped Nathan’s wrist lightly just below the base of his thumb. The old man did not respond at first, but then, all at once, his whole body stiffened. The eyes opened, but what they saw was not Adam or the room beyond.

“The treasure of the Temple!” he rasped hoarsely. “The Seal guards the secret. Adam, it
has
to be recovered, do you hear me? The Seal
has
to be recovered!”

Adam tightened his clasp reassuringly about the older man’s wrist, his other hand brushing soothingly across the forehead. “I hear you, Nathan, but I don’t yet follow you. What does the Seal guard? What secret? What treasure? And what Temple?”

“Solomon’s treasure,” Nathan murmured, “from the Temple in Jerusalem. The Seal came from there . . . part of a sacred trust. Great power and great danger . . . royal legacy of the House of David.”

Beneath his calm exterior, Adam’s mind began to work furiously. What Nathan seemed to be hinting was that the missing Seal was, in fact, the legendary Seal of Solomon himself! Tradition had always ascribed to Solomon power and authority over evil spirits, and Adam found himself wondering if some measure of that controlling influence might have been vested in this Seal of which they were speaking. If that was so, there might well be some who would be willing to steal and even kill to obtain it.

“Nathan, what was the purpose of the Seal?” he asked softly. “Do you know?”

“It was a key,” Nathan whispered. “A key to keep a deadly evil locked away from the rest of the world. But the Seal is only part of the secret. I think . . . the Knights knew . . . the Knights of the Temple knew . . .”

“The Knights of the Temple?” Adam repeated. “You mean, the Knights Templar?”

Nathan drew a labored breath, nodding weakly. “So I believe. The Seal came in pledge . . . Pawned to my ancestor . . . 1381 . . . Graeme of Templegrange . . .”

The significance of the name was not lost on Adam. The appearance of the word “temple” in many a Scottish place name generally indicated that the site had once been associated with the Knights of the Temple of Jerusalem. Indeed, the Templars figured prominently in Adam’s own family history. The ruined tower of Templemor, now being restored on a hilltop overlooking Strathmourne Manor, had once been a Templar outpost.

“Then, you think the Templars guarded this secret?” Adam asked.

“I think so . . . Many connections,” Nathan whispered, his breathing starting to quicken. “I was getting so close . . . Try Dundee . . . Dundee may provide more of the answers . . .”

Nathan’s voice broke on the last word, and his pulse suddenly gave an irregular, ominous flutter beneath Adam’s fingers. In the same heartbeat, the gauges on the monitors beside him came alive with blips and warning lights as the old man’s pulse rate soared. As if sensing that his body was nearing the limits of its endurance, Nathan made a struggling attempt to raise his head off his pillow.

“Find the Seal!” he muttered hoarsely. “Stop those who stole it! The evil they can loose . . . Adam, you must stop them! Please, Adam, for the love of God . . .”

“I understand, Nathan,” Adam said in a tone of quiet authority, gently pressing him back against the pillows and trying to calm him. “That’s enough for now. I’ll do what must be done. You’ve told me what I need to know. Stop fighting now and relax. Stop struggling and be at peace. This need not concern you anymore.”

Under the influence of his voice and the stroke of a soothing hand across his brow, Nathan’s agitation gradually subsided. His pulse rate slowed, though it remained very weak, and the monitor readings somewhat stabilized, but his condition clearly was deteriorating. Nathan had not much time, and Adam knew he must try to ready the way for the soul’s passing.

“You’re doing just fine now, Nathan,” he continued softly, as nurses and an ICU physician converged on them and he fended them off with a glance and a shake of his head. “Let go all thoughts of the Seal. Let go all thoughts of strife. Feel yourself floating without pain now on a tranquil stream. Feel the pull of a gentle current carrying you backwards in time. Somewhere in the past a safe haven is waiting to receive you—a place of gentleness and peace and joy. Find a moment of your own choosing, and say to that moment,
Stay . . .
And there abide in peace until the door opens into Light . . .”

“Light . . .
” came Nathan’s faint and unexpected whisper, hardly more than a sigh.

“Yes, Nathan,” Adam murmured, heartened to have gotten any response at all, and suddenly aware what final thing he still might do, that would mean much to his old friend. “The Light will embrace you and hold you safe. Listen to me now, and try to repeat what I say. This is very important. You taught me yourself. If you can’t speak the words, then offer them up in the temple of your own heart.
Shema Yisrael.”

Nathan’s eyelids fluttered, and his hand tightened slightly in Adam’s.

“Shema . . . Yisrael . . .”

“Adonai Elohenu. “

“Adonai Elohenu . . .”

“Adonai Echad.”

“Adonai . . . Echad . . .”

Nathan Fiennes slipped gently back into a coma shortly thereafter, and did not rouse a second time. Though apparently in no discomfort, his vital signs became more and more depressed as the evening wore on. His physicians held out little hope that he would last the night.