The Templar Concordat (6 page)

The Templar Master took one look at the Marshall and waved the accountants out.  This was serious. In the forty years they had worked together, since they had both been young men in the field, the Master had learned to recognize trouble when it was standing there in front of him. The face staring back at him told him to pay serious attention. He turned away from the computer screens flashing the major global markets and the day’s financial headlines and motioned him to a chair.

The Marshall frowned at the fleeing accountants, made them walk around him, then glided across the deep pile carpet to a chair in front of the antique mahogany desk, moving much more gracefully than one would expect for a man of his size and age. He slid down into the soft leather, dropped the yellow pad on his laptop, gripped the arms of the chair with large, broken hands, and waited.

The Master pushed a button on a depressed console next to his desk and an electronic lock snicked into place in the office door. Both sides of the door were polished oak, but the core was quarter-inch steel.

“This is bad, isn’t it? You’re here as Templar Marshall rather than Vice President for Bank Security. Right?” asked the Master. 

“Bad,” replied the Marshall. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Very bad. This has a rotten stink to it. I just know it.”  He put the laptop on the Master’s desk and tapped a few keys. “Listen. Remember that Watcher who spotted Rashid Al Bahsar on that cruise ship going to Costa Rica?  I sent Callahan and Marie Curtis after him.”

The Master frowned. “Marie I understand. She’s the best. But why Callahan? Did you want to sink the whole ship? Destroy Costa Rica?”

 “Oh, come on. Don’t underestimate Callahan. US Marines recon, loaned out to the CIA, Delta Force. He’s done lots of work for the Americans, and good work for us, too. Loyal as they come, and as good as they come.”

“It’s not his skills or loyalty I question, it’s his judgment.”

The Marshall bit back a response and just stared across at him.

The Master said nothing, just returned the stare. Finally, he held his palms up in a question and said, “And?”

“And what? Just listen to the damn thing.” He pointed at the laptop on the Master’s desk. “That’s what Callahan and Marie found out. Just an hour ago. Thought you might want to know. Listen to it for yourself here, or wait for CNN.”

The Master ignored him, clicked the PLAY button on the laptop, and leaned back in his chair. He listened to the Arabic interrogation twice, made some notes, looked over his glasses, then waved at the laptop and asked, “You think this is real?”

“I’m leaning that way, strongly,” said the Marshall. “When Callahan gets here… he should be here tomorrow… he’s bringing Rashid’s Blackberry with some encoded files. Marie says the clear text Blackberry messages confirm the interrogation. But, if it is true, we have a big problem. I don’t think Rashid knew we had a team on him, so the Blackberry isn’t a plant, and we know the drugs work.”

“What’s this Treaty of Tuscany thing he’s bragging about? You ever hear of it?”

“No idea. You’re going to have to ask Patrick about that.” The Marshall hooted. “Good luck. I know the soft spot he has in his heart for you.”

“I know, I know.” The Master rubbed his forehead. “But if Marie knew, she would have given us a heads-up. She puts a question mark after it on the message. So it’s pretty arcane stuff if she doesn’t know about it.”

The Marshall was enjoying this. “Well, in that case, you just have to consult the guy who knows everything.”

The Master shook his head. “Yes I do. It wouldn’t be so bad except I think he really does know everything. Damn all Irishmen.” He pointed at the laptop again. “So, we got all this from Rashid, and his Blackberry confirms it?”

“Yeah. They got the info we needed from Rashid with those whizbang drugs, and Rashid’s dead. But he talked up a storm before he died and Callahan and Marie got it all. Everything we asked for. Then I guess they found the Blackberry on Rashid or in his room. Callahan’s headed back here with it. As soon as we get it, I’ll give it to the Intel geeks so they can take it apart.”

“Wait a minute,” the Master waved a finger and interrupted. “He got the Blackberry before or after he questioned Rashid?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t say.”

“So, he might have had both the Blackberry and a living and breathing Rashid in his hands at the same time?”

“I suppose so, but can’t say.”

“Like I said, judgment, not skill…”

“You’ve been behind that damned desk too long!”

They both stopped, glared at each other, and silently decided to renew their long truce.

“So what do we do now?” The Master closed the Marshall’s laptop on the desk. He pulled out a file drawer, put a foot up on it, leaned further back, and stared at the ornate gilded ceiling.

“Do? We do nothing,” the Marshall blurted. “The Concordat forbids it. That’s the agreement we have with the Vatican. Pope Pius rejected an alliance under the Concordat. That means we stay out of Vatican business. They’re on their own. Out means out. That’s what the Concordat says, and that’s what the Templars are bound to. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it works. It’s never been pretty, and it’s going to get uglier now.”

The Master frowned and shot back, “Do nothing? What are you talking about? We’ve already violated the Concordat by getting our man in as second-in-command of Vatican Security. Mancini is a Templar. That’s a Templar in the Vatican. Big as day, my friend. A Templar.”

The Marshall drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “That’s intelligence gathering. Just keeping an eye on things. What’s one man?”

The Master scorned the idea with a wave of his hand. “A Templar in the Vatican is a Templar in the Vatican. Like a turd in a punch bowl. Think the Pope knows he’s a Templar? Invites him for afternoon tea to talk over fine points of theology and old Inquisitions?”

The Master rubbed an old scar above his eye. “We need to take this to the Council. We put Mancini in the Vatican on our own, but this new stuff?” He rapped the laptop with a knuckle. “This belongs with the Council. If the two of us do anymore on our own, we’re going too far out on a limb. With the Hashashin going after the Vatican again, this has to be a decision of the Order. And that means the Council.”

The Marshall shrugged. “Ok. Let’s do it.”

The Master unlocked the door, hit a few buttons on the desk console and Andre appeared. “Call a full Council, Andre. Get the other five. Special meeting. No agenda. As soon as possible. ”

“Live or video, Sir?”

“Live, damn it! If I want to choke someone I need a neck handy.”

“Yes, Sir,” Andre retreated and the two men resumed their staring match.

“One more thing,” said the Marshall.

“Yeah. I know. There’s always one more. Now what?”

“I don’t want to leave Mancini down in the Vatican all alone. If it all hits the fan, it would be nice to have someone else around.”

“I have a feeling I won’t like this.”

“You probably won’t. I don’t care. That’s life.” The Marshall paused, leaned forward on his elbows, and cracked his bent knuckles. “We’re already in violation of the Concordat with Mancini. I’ll grant that.  Let’s stick another Templar from Ops down there. Nothing says one of our guys can’t visit Rome and take in the sights.”

“You think I’m an idiot? If you want to send Callahan, just say so. That’s what you want to do since he’s the only one besides us who knows about this. And Marie Curtis knows, too, doesn’t she?”

“Curtis? Of course she knows. They were both there. But she’s as safe as they come.”

“Safe?” He snorted.  “None of us are safe anymore. Right now you, me, Callahan, and Marie know. That’s already four too many. After the Council meeting, eight or nine will know. If the Council honors the Concordat, and keeps quiet about the attack, that makes it a secret that could potentially ruin us.”

“They’re all sworn Templars,” the Marshall shot back.

“Sworn Templars? I don’t care if they tap dance naked on Lake Lucerne. All the Hashashin or the CIA or the KGB has to do is grab someone. I don’t care if they’re sworn Templars or not. Shoot them up with that new joy juice, and they’ll blurt out everything, everything they know, chapter and verse. They’ll sing like castrated canaries.”

The Marshall shrugged.

“And you know all this. Don’t waste my time. That’s why you want to send Callahan to help Mancini. So we don’t have to let anyone else in on this. Callahan knows, so Callahan goes. Right?”

“Great minds think alike.” The Marshall spread his fingers and studied his hands.  “And I’ll even grant you Callahan’s not the best. He’s not a Steinhaus or a Creole. But he is very good. Besides, what choice do we have? I think both of us know what the Council will decide.”

“Steinhaus or Creole?” the Master said. “If we were talking about them, I wouldn’t have as much of a problem. But we’re not talking about them, are we? We’re talking sending Callahan down there.”

“Good point, good point,” said the Marshall. “But let’s not forget it was Steinhaus who recruited Callahan away from the Americans. I always said Steinhaus had good judgment.”

“Go to hell.”

 The Master pointed to the laptop. “Who has heard this thing? Anyone else? Code clerks? Programmers?”

“It came directly to me, and I decoded it myself. The other stuff they got from Rashid? That came in through normal channels. I’m the only one who got the Vatican stuff.” He gave an evil grin. “Thank God for Callahan’s good judgment.”

“Crap.”

“So, do we send Callahan to keep Mancini company?” The Marshall stood up. “And do we let him tell Mancini what he knows?”

The Master got up and stared out the windows at the mountains. Now, why wasn’t he up there at his cabin and not here?

He gave a hard spin to the old globe that showed the boundaries of the world prior to World War I, and turned back to the Marshall. “Anyone with half a brain in the Vatican knows they are under a threat of attack from Al Qaeda. They probably don’t know about the Hashashin, but an attack is still an attack.  I guess they just do what little they can with that idiot Pope in charge. The message from Callahan and Marie says there will be an attack. That’s not news. But it says it’s imminent and the countdown has started, soon enough that Rashid Al Bashar was being recalled for the new phase of the struggle. That is news. Big news.”

He turned back to the globe and waited until it stopped turning on the well-oiled bearings. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the other side of the globe and looked across it at the Marshall. “Callahan can tell Mancini there will be an attack, that he found that message. They know that. But he cannot tell them it will be soon. He can’t let Mancini or anyone else know. The Council can always overrule me on that. In some ways I wish they would. It meets in two days.”

Zurich - Wednesday, March 18

The Master’s secretary said, “Sir, I have the Chief Archivist.”

Great, thought the Master. Just what I need now.

“Hello, Patrick, how are you today?”

“How am I, my ass. When did you ever give a shit? We’re in the shitter and we have to talk.”

“Can it wait?” asked the Master. “We’re busy with a few things now. Maybe you noticed, things like…”

“Sure, it can wait,” the Archivist cut him off, “and the longer we wait, the deeper we sink into the shitter. We can wait if I can stand on your shoulders. You best pay attention here. When’s the last time I called you and said we were in the shitter?”

“You never did.”

“Well then you better pay attention, don’t you think?”

*     *     *

The Templar Master sat in the back of his armored limo and thought about the Treaty of Tuscany. Twenty minutes after the Marshall left his office, the Templar Archivist had essentially summoned him.  So what on Earth was the Treaty of Tuscany, and what’s so important about it? The Templar Archivist might be a pain in the ass, but he was the smartest man the Master had ever known. If he was sounding the alarm, then he better pay attention.

His driver turned in to a driveway to an old stone building on the edge of the university campus, adjacent to the university, but not on the campus itself. More modern structures were off to one side, but the old stone defined it. The Kruger Institute was one of the premier private research libraries in the world. Its origins were a bit murky, intentionally murky, but an endowment from a Templar company in the late 1800s, plus astute management of the endowment by another Templar company, allowed it to maintain its independence and become a destination for scholars from all over the world.

When the car stopped in the back parking lot next to the staff entrance, a silent young man held the library door for the Master and escorted him to the Archivist.

 “Well, well, well, come in. Come in. What a surprise.” A short, wiry man looked up from a desk piled high with books and papers. “Wonderful to see you.”

“You called me this morning, Patrick, so let’s drop the crap.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I seem to remember something like that way back in this addled brain and broken body that is no longer fit for field duty.”