The Sword of Moses (47 page)

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Rome

The Republic of Italy

Saxby pointed towards an unmarked sleek black coach up ahead—its interior obscured behind a row of dark tinted windows.

It was parked immediately opposite the main entranceway to the Basilica di San Clemente, and Ava had spotted it as soon as she emerged through the ancient church’s stone archway.

Oddly for such a large vehicle, its clean modern lines and shiny metalwork blended unobtrusively into the mix of ancient and hi-tech modern that was everywhere in Rome.

Saxby approached its single slim door, which hissed and popped open revealing a low-lit interior.

Perplexed, Ava followed his invitation to climb inside. Ferguson, Max, and the others were right behind her. Saxby entered last.

She had already come to the conclusion that nothing Saxby said or did could surprise her any more.

But what was inside the coach did.

The driver’s compartment was fully sealed off, leaving the rest of the cabin a long open-plan space, divided into two.

The walls and ceiling were covered in a plush dark fabric and the muted light filtering through the tinted windows was augmented by a suffused glow coming from artfully recessed lighting.

Immediately in front of her was a large seating area with four coffee-brown armchairs facing each other in front of a matching sofa. In the corners between the seats were low wooden tables supporting old-fashioned lamps. And in the centre was an ornate butler’s table, its highly polished brass hinges lending an air of elegance.

It was a timeless arrangement that would have been equally at home in a White House reception room or the apartments of a university dean.

Behind the sofa was a partition of lightly tinted glass, broken only against the right wall by a narrow door opening into an office built around an antique L-shaped desk. The main section of polished mahogany was bare save for a large elaborate telephone console, while the side sprig against the wall supported an assembly of six sleek black flat-panel monitors.

Ava instantly recognized the man who rose from behind the desk to greet her.

Despite the different setting, he was unchanged from when she had seen him at the Royal Society the previous day—the same dark eyes, patrician air, neatly clipped dark goatee, and effortless charm.

But in contrast to his geniality on that occasion, De Molay’s expression now was grave.

“Dr Curzon,” he began, as the coach pulled away from the curb and swung out into the traffic, “I wish these were better circumstances.”

Ava was in no mood for small talk. She had a thousand burning questions.

She looked searchingly at him and then at Saxby. “I’d already come to the conclusion you didn’t represent an obscure private Foundation with a side interest in antiquities before I saw … ,” she gestured around at the coach, “this.”

“You’d better take a seat,” De Molay advanced through into the front area, and waited until Ava had sat down, before himself sinking into one of the armchairs.

He gestured for Ferguson and Saxby to sit with them, before turning to Max. “Keep an eye on the monitors,” he instructed. “The vans are in pursuit.”

The Frenchman nodded, disappearing quickly into the back office, followed by his men.

Ava peered through the glass into the rear section, and focused more closely on the screens, which were displaying a dynamic map of Rome with three green dots moving swiftly along its narrow roadways—the first slightly ahead of the others.

“Smart.” Ferguson complimented Saxby, who was also craning to look through the partition at the flat-screens. “You fitted a transmitter into the case.”

Saxby nodded. “Experience suggests it pays not to leave these things to chance.”

“So, Dr Curzon,” De Molay began. “You’re correct in guessing the Foundation is not what it seems. Therefore it’s only fair we reveal to you a little more about who we are—or else Edmund tells me we may lose you as an ally.”

There was something of a challenge in the statement, but Ava returned his gaze without flinching.

Saxby lifted a copy of an English newspaper off the corner table beside him. He passed it to Ava, pointing at the main article. “You’ve seen that?”

She looked at the headline.

GENERAL DANQUAH CONFIRMS HIS TRIP

She was aware of the story. It had been in all the papers recently.

General Danquah, the de facto military ruler of a large central African country and international pariah, was planning to visit the Federal Republic of Somalia—one of the only countries still to maintain diplomatic relations with him. Danquah’s office had been busy pumping out press releases announcing his visit was to celebrate an initiative in the glorious cause of Pan-African unity. But eager journalists had not been slow to ferret out that the real purpose of his trip to Mogadishu was to cement a multi-million dollar deal to supply him with an arsenal of up-to-date Iranian-made surface-to-air missiles.

“Remember that headline,” Saxby looked at her gravely, “and watch the news this evening.”

This was not the sort of revelation about the Foundation Ava had been expecting. “You’re behind Danquah?”

“Not quite,” Saxby took back the paper. “We believe we can make the world a safer place.”

“With arms deals?” Ferguson made no effort to hide his scepticism.

“Maybe this will help,” De Molay announced, picking up a battered wooden box from the table beside him, and opening the lid.

Ava watched with interest as he began to lift a long chain off the folds of the faded sky-blue silk lining its interior.

With mounting incredulity, she saw the chain was made of sturdy gold links, each as thick as a matchstick, alternating between solid and filigree work, with a break every five inches for a hammered gold cross-patty the size of a walnut, each with a blood-red ruby at its centre.

As he pulled the chain clear of the box, she realized there was something chunky suspended from it—an ornamented and gem-encrusted gold pendant the size and shape of an oversize chess pawn.

De Molay put the chain down between them onto the polished surface of the butler’s table.

Even without examining it, Ava knew in an instant what it was.

The grand chain was unmistakably an elaborate piece of medieval jewellery. There could be no doubt. Nobody made gold chains in those proportions and with that degree of craftsmanship any more.

She could also immediately tell it had been made for a highly important person—a member of a royal or noble family, or a senior churchman. It exuded wealth and influence. Few could afford that quality, even among the privileged elite who filled the castles of medieval Europe.

“Go on,” De Molay encouraged with a smile. “You can pick it up.”

Ava reached out, lifting it gingerly off the table with both hands. She knew that if it was pure gold, which was rarely the case with jewellery, it would be nineteen times heavier than water. She could not tell its exact weight without scales, but even from just holding it, she was left in no doubt that it was solid gold.

She also knew without looking what the pendant dangling from it was for, and she suspected the reason De Molay had given it to her was engraved onto its base.

Taking hold of the pendant and turning it over, she was not disappointed.

Exactly as she had anticipated, the gold bore an image cut into the metal in counter-relief.

At its centre was a crude picture of an oriental building—a portico with four arches topped by a large striped dome with an outsize cross on top. None of the lines were straight. It was as if drawn by a child.

Around the edge of the image she could clearly read three words in mirror writing:

She gazed back at De Molay, open-mouthed.

“There’s the other side, of course,” he smiled. “The head twists over.”

Looking more closely, she saw a hairline join running around the base of the pendant a match head’s width from the bottom. Inserting her thumbnail and twisting gently, the end popped off into her hand, the size and shape of a thick coin.

Flipping it over, she caught her breath at what was looking up at her.

She already had a suspicion what the building on the front was, and what the writing around it meant. But now gazing at the image on the reverse, there could be no doubt.

She could feel her pulse quickening.

The metal intaglio showed two medieval knights sitting together on the back of the same galloping horse. They wore flowing surcoats, and each carried a long kite-shaped shield protecting his body from shoulder to calf. Their heads were covered by chain-mail coifs, and each knight was brandishing a vicious looking lance. Around the image were the words:

Ava stared at De Molay and Saxby in a partial daze.

She knew exactly what she was looking at. She could see the knights in her mind’s eye—their billowing white surcoats emblazoned with bright red crosses.

At last she managed a reply. “You’ve got to be joking?” She spoke quietly, her eyes travelling slowly from one man to the other.

“What do you think?” De Molay asked gently.

Ava let the chain run through her fingers as she placed it back onto the table. She replied slowly. “I think I need you to tell me what you’re doing with this.”

De Molay nodded, settling back into his chair. “What I’m about to tell you is in the utmost confidence.” He fixed her with an intensity she had not seen in his face before—the geniality gone, replaced by an earnest severity. “If I discover you’ve breathed a word of what I’m about to say, you’ll never see or hear from us again.” He shot a similarly firm glance at Ferguson. “The same goes for you, Major Ferguson. Do I make myself clear?”

Ferguson nodded. “But is someone going to tell me what that is?” He nodded towards the chain on the table.

“It’s a seal die, or matrix,” Ava replied. “You push it into wax, and it creates an image—a seal.”

“I guessed that,” Ferguson looked across at her. “But what’s its significance?”

“It means,” Ava began, pausing to take a deep breath. “It means these gentlemen,” she indicated De Molay and Saxby, “want us to believe that they belong to an Order all experts say was eradicated seven hundred years ago.”

De Molay looked at Ava and Ferguson in turn. “You may have expected threats to ensure you don’t tell others what I’m about to tell you. But none are needed, because if you ever repeat what you’re about to learn, no one will believe a single word of your story. You’ll be labelled as deranged—like conspiracy theorists, obsessed with the Opus Dei, the Illuminati, the New World Order, the Rosicrucians, or whatever else is flavour of the month. But do please believe me—you’ll never hear from us again, and that will mean you’ll have lost your one and only realistic chance to track down and retrieve the artefacts we are now all so earnestly seeking.”

Ava nodded.

“Understood.” Ferguson stared at the seal matrix. “I guess ‘SIGILLUM’ means seal. What’s the rest?”

“It means Seal of the Knighthood of Christ.” Ava answered. “‘MILITUM’ comes from the Latin
miles
, meaning a knight—where we get the name Miles. And ‘XPISTI’ is a medieval spelling for
Christi
, using the Greek alphabet for the first two letters.”

“The X and P together,” De Molay added, “the first two letters of the word Christ in Greek, were often written over each other as a monogram to form one letter called the
Chi Rho
. It’s one of the most ancient Christian symbols in existence.”

“Say it then,” Ava paused, turning to Saxby. “Tell him who you are. I don’t think I’ll quite believe it until I hear it.”

Saxby took a deep breath. “Very well. The Foundation is an ancient brotherhood. But what you know of us is almost certainly a farrago of half-truths and speculation, fed by rumour-mongers over the centuries.”

“So I was right,” Ferguson cut in. “That portrait of Sir Robert Moray at the Royal Society gave it away—you’re freemasons.”

“Freemasons?” Saxby shook his head. He paused, allowing himself a half-smile. “Well, yes and no. That is—not entirely.”