The Templar's Quest Part 24

50.

The Languedoc 1130 hours Grunting, Caedmon finagled his way between the two rough-hewn embankments that formed a narrow V, the gneiss stone brightly glittering with embedded crystals.

The undiscovered country ...

'From whose bourn I intend to b.l.o.o.d.y well return. Grail in hand,' he puckishly added, still riding euphoria's high crest.

A few moments later he emerged from the rocky slit and entered a boulder-strewn ravine. Coming to a standstill, he beheld the wildflowers that bloomed in haphazard profusion, the vegetation a welcome sight in the otherwise barren landscape. Winded by his two-hour mountain trek, he gracelessly plunked down on a flat-topped boulder. Studying a topographical map, he could see that Mont de la Lune was located at the other end of the ravine. The next port of call, Moon Mountain, was where the hunt would begin in earnest.

Returning the map to his rucksack, he retrieved a water bottle. The tepid liquid did little to satisfy his true thirst, Caedmon entertaining a fantasy that involved big chunks of ice floating in gin with a splash of tonic and a squirt of lemon.

Of late, he frequently viewed the world through green-tinted gla.s.ses, green being the colour of a Tanqueray gin bottle.

Muscles tight, he slowly rolled his neck. First one direction. Then the other. Groaning from the ensuing pain, he found his decrepitude both lamentable and laughable.

Must remember to pull the dumb-bells out of the closet. Or take up jogging. Cycling, perhaps.

Unenthused by the thought of an exercise regime, Caedmon glanced around the ravine. For some inexplicable reason, the abundant stores of rock put him in mind of a cemetery laden with marble headstones.

That, in turn, conjured memories of the annual pilgrimage to his mother's grave site. Where, white lilies in hand, he and his father would stand, heads respectfully bowed, Caedmon afraid to be caught looking anywhere but at that speckled grey stone.

* Helena May Aisquith *

* 3 May 1938 2 February 1967 *

* 'The maid is not dead, but sleepeth.' *

The fact that his mother died in childbirth meant that his birthday was always a glum affair. Rather than cake and presents, he was made to suffer his father's piteous glare, wet February winds and thinly veiled accusations of matricide.

'Did you know, boy, that she was named for Helen of Troy? Flamered hair and eyes of blue. Stole my heart, she did ... and then she was stolen from me.' As if Caedmon had plotted her murder from the womb. Mercifully, his deportation to Eton put an end to the yearly visit.

Disgusted that he'd let himself fall prey to those grim memories, he took another swig from the water bottle. You, Sir Prancelot, are a sorry excuse for a Grail knight.

But was any man truly up to the challenge?

Wolfram von Eschenbach, the author of the definitive Grail romance Parzival, set the bar for would-be knights exceedingly high. In von Eschenbach's perfect medieval world, only those of chaste body and pure heart could seek the Grail. Inebriates and ne'er-do-wells need not apply.

Unwilling to dwell on his appalling lack of knightly credentials, Caedmon instead wondered how much validity there was to the epic tale. According to von Eschenbach, the Knights Templar had become the Grail Guardians. If that was true, it meant that the Templars had deciphered the Montsegur Medallion and collected the prize. And, presumably, like the Cathars before them, they straightaway hid the d.a.m.ned thing to keep it from falling into the Inquisitors' covetous hands.

Hopefully, that part of von Eschenbach's account was pure fiction.

Slinging the rucksack over his shoulder, Caedmon rose to his feet and continued on his way. Since the 'twelfth hour' was significant, he didn't want to be late to the tea party.

Twenty minutes into his trek, he caught his first glimpse of Mont de la Lune, a gleaming spire of granite punctuated with green scrub brush. Seen from below, the rugged peak soared heavenward, the pointed summit disappearing into the hazy clutches of a pa.s.sing cloud. A starkly beautiful and remote juggernaut.

Antic.i.p.ation mounting, Caedmon hurriedly removed a pair of binoculars from his rucksack.

'Reddis lapis exillis cellis.'

'The Stone of Exile has been returned to the niche.'

While no location had been given in the inscription, he a.s.sumed that the 'niche' in question was located on Mont de la Lune. More than likely on the northern facade of Moon Mountain, since that was the side of the mountain visible from Montsegur.

Beginning his search through the binoculars at the base, he slowly, methodically, worked his way up the rocky face. Examining each nook, each cranny. To his surprise, the northern facade was riddled with small cave openings. At least a dozen of them. Three-quarters of the way up, he discovered a small fissure shaped like a crescent moon, brilliantly illuminated by the noonday sun.

'In the glare of the twelfth hour, the moon shines true.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l ... I think I've found it,' he gasped in wonderment.

Lowering the binoculars, he studied the granite cliff. There appeared to be enough protruding rock ledges that he could ascend in a zigzag fashion, making for an arduous but not impossible climb. Since he'd done a bit of rock climbing in his younger days, he was fairly confident that he could reach the crescent-shaped niche.

As he shoved the binoculars into his rucksack, it occurred to him that in many of the medieval Grail poems, it wasn't the treasure discovered in the mist that mattered, but the spiritual journey that led there.

'Sod that.'

Let some other bloke be saved. He was determined to find the Grail.

51.

The Seven Research Foundation Headquarters, Paris 1130 hours 'Eine bloeder Affe! ' Dolf Reinhardt muttered under his breath as he watched the sports video on his laptop computer, outraged that the Hertha Berliner football team had so many Africans in the squad. Disgraceful! They were stupid apes who couldn't even speak proper German!

Disgusted, he slammed the computer closed.

Sitting outside the conference room in a high-backed chair, he sullenly glanced at his watch, wondering how much longer he would have to wait for Herr Doktor's meeting to adjourn. He was hungry and wanted to take his lunch break. He also needed to return to the Oberkampf flat and check on his mother. While tempted to take his leave, he was a good soldier and would wait to be officially dismissed. After yesterday's f.u.c.k-up, he wasn't going to do anything that might jeopardize his position.

Well aware that he had failed miserably in his a.s.signment, he feared that he might have lost Herr Doktor's trust; a trust that he'd striven mightily to cultivate over the last eight years.

The fact that he'd not been promoted during those eight years rankled, his duties rarely extending beyond the washing and waxing of Herr Doktor's sedan, running errands and walking that little furry scheisse Wolfgang. On those days when he felt overworked and underappreciated, he would remind himself that his maternal grandfather had also been a chauffeur.

To the greatest man who ever lived, Adolf Hitler.

A member of the Fuhrer's personal staff, his grandfather Josef Krueger not only drove the Fuhrer to rallies, top-level meetings with his generals and front-line inspections, he was responsible for maintaining the Fuhrer's entire automotive fleet. A responsibility that his grandfather undertook with the utmost devotion. Indeed, he considered it a sacred honour to serve the Fuhrer in this capacity.

When Dolf was a young boy, his mother had regaled him with stories about the Fuhrer and how he'd treated her father with the greatest kindness, often bringing snacks for the two of them to share on long car trips. A man of the people, the Fuhrer always insisted on sitting in the front pa.s.senger seat. While he refrained from discussing politics on those extended journeys, the Fuhrer would speak at length about their shared interest in automotive mechanics as he plotted their course on a road map.

A trusted aide-de-camp, his grandfather had been in the Berlin bunker in late April 1945, when Adolf Hitler had taken his own life. It had been his grandfather's grim task to secure the hundred and twenty gallons of petrol that was used to cremate the Fuhrer and his new bride, Eva Braun. A dark and dreadful day for the Reich.

In idle moments, Dolf would sometimes fantasize about driving the Fuhrer's magnificent 770-K Mercedes Benz with the twelve cha.s.sis, armour plate and bullet-proof gla.s.s. Attired in a black SS jacket, jodhpurs, polished knee boots and peaked visor with silver braid and totenkampf emblem, he would cut a dashing figure. As would the Fuhrer and the other dignitaries in the vehicle.

Smiling, Dolf closed his eyes, able to hear the roar of the crowds as they exuberantly chanted Sieg Heil! and the repet.i.tive pound of soldiers marching in picture-perfect stechshritt, legs swinging in unison, right arms raised in a stiff salute.

'Sleeping on the job, are you?'

Hearing that seductive purr of a voice, Dolf opened his eyes. A vision in a skintight white suit and stiletto high-heels stood over him, a mocking sneer on her painted red lips.

'No doubt you're exhausted from performing your important duties,' Angelika Schwarz continued. Placing her hands on her hips, she glanced at his laptop computer. 'Looking at a little Internet p.o.r.n, were you?'

Dolf smoothed his sweaty palms against his trouser legs, uncertain what to say. If he denied the charge, it would make him appear unmanly.

'I am waiting for Herr Doktor to issue my orders for the day,' he muttered, purposefully changing the subject.

Angelika made a big to-do of peering around the deserted antechamber located just outside of the conference room. 'Poor Dolfie. The great man seems to have forgotten all about you. Does anyone even know that you're here, sitting all alone in a dark hallway on the most uncomfortable chair in the entire office suite?' Licking her shiny red lips, she chortled nastily. 'Or are you being punished?'

'I've done nothing wrong.'

'What do you call yesterday's fiasco? A circus clown with a water pistol would have had greater success.'

He bit back a crude oath. For eight long years he'd made numerous sacrifices and put in long hours to prove his worth to the Herr Doktor, often forced to leave his mother unattended for extended lengths of time. He did this without complaint in the hope that he would move up the ranks and become a trusted aide. With the greatest fervency, he desired to have the same type of relationship with Herr Doktor Uhlemann that his grandfather had had with the Fuhrer.

And though he had no proof, Dolf suspected that the blonde woman standing before him was the reason why he'd not been promoted.

Frowning, Angelika slowly tilted her head from side to side. 'It doesn't matter from which angle I gaze at you, with that unsightly nose you have a face that only a mother could love.'

'Leave my mother out of this,' he cautioned. Ire mounting, his right hand balled into a fist. Turning his head, he stared at the empty receptionist's desk at the end of the hallway, grateful that no one was witnessing the humiliating exchange.

'And does she love you, little Dolfie?' Angelika jabbed him in the shin with the pointy toe of her high-heeled shoe. 'Look at me when I speak to you, driver.'

Dolf swung his head in her direction. That he had to obey the b.i.t.c.h infuriated him.

'Does your old mutti lavish you with attention, smother you with kisses and let you suckle at her breast?' she taunted perversely. 'I think that's your problem, Dolfie. You've sucked at that withered t.i.t for too many years.' Red lips curved in a come-hither smile, Angelika undid the top b.u.t.ton of her tailored jacket, exposing her bare breast. 'If you're a good boy, I might let you lick me. Would you like that, Dolfie? Hmm?'

Rabid with l.u.s.t, he stared at the perfectly shaped white breast, torn between strangling Angelika with his bare hands and falling to his knees. Licking her from one end to the other. Submitting himself to the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Dolf adjusted the computer on his lap, hiding the fact that he had a b.o.n.e.r the size of a bratwurst.

Angelika shot him a pitying glance. 'Poor Dolfie. You remind me of the eunuch standing guard at the pasha's '

Just then, Dolf's stomach growled noisily.

Throwing back her head, Angelika laughed, her disdain causing his erection to instantly deflate.

'You're quite the ladies' man, aren't you? What will you do for an encore? Seduce me with a deafening fart?'

b.i.t.c.h! s.l.u.t! Wh.o.r.e!

Mortified, Dolf glared impotently at the blonde seductress. If he put the arrogant c.u.n.t in her place, he'd lose his job. If he touched her breast, he'd lose his job. If he so much as uttered a rude word to the b.i.t.c.h, Herr Doktor Uhlemann would send him packing.

Herr Doktor thought the world of Angelika Schwarz. That's because he didn't know about his Dark Angel's lurid predilections. But Dolf knew. He'd followed her one night when she went to one of the city's Black Metal clubs. Standing in the shadows, he'd watched her have s.e.x with two leather-clad, metal-studded men while bar patrons cheered her on. Herr Doktor had no idea; like every other man, he was under her spell, unable to see that she wasn't a real woman dedicated to hearth and home. Instead, she was a promiscuous she-devil who revelled in emasculating every man she came into contact with. She possessed none of the virtues of her s.e.x but all of the vices.

Angelika's cell phone rang. With an exaggerated sigh, she re-b.u.t.toned her jacket before checking the caller ID.

'I have to take this call.' She blew Dolf a kiss. 'Ciao, darling.'

Panting with suppressed rage, Dolf watched Angelika's hips provocatively sway from side to side as she walked down the hallway.

That beautiful blonde b.i.t.c.h will be my undoing.

52.

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc 1242 hours Mad dogs and Englishmen ...

Although the dog, to his credit, knew better than to attempt a perilous mountain climb without a safety harness. Caedmon, to his regret, did not, the ascent proving a savage undertaking. Far more dangerous than he'd originally envisioned.

Or perhaps his vision had been clouded by the same obsessive desire that had led more than a few Grail knights to an untimely death.

Shoving that unpleasant thought aside, he hoisted himself upward. The trick was not to think about the fact that he was 'balanced' on a narrow protuberance of granite no more than fifteen inches wide, while his hands clung to a second, equally narrow, protuberance located a metre above his head. Unable to see the crescent-shaped niche from his current position, he reckoned that he had another twenty metres to traverse.

's.h.i.te,' he muttered, unintentionally jabbing his index finger against a sharp-edged stone. Skin punctured, blood oozed down his hand.

He cautiously tiptoed across the granite shelf. Then, very slowly, he removed his rucksack and turned around. Leaning against the rough-hewn wall, he took a moment's ease. In the far distance, he heard the merry tinkle of sheep bells. In the near distance, an eagle soared in graceful arabesques.

Rumour had it that Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the eighteenth-century philosopher and part-time daredevil, would spend hours perched on this very sort of sheer precipice, from which he'd gleefully toss stones as he imagined them being smashed to smithereens on the rocky gulch below.

Another mad man, Caedmon mused as he rubbed his b.l.o.o.d.y finger against his trouser leg. It was a warm day and his shirt was soaked through with perspiration. He was half tempted to disrobe and fling the drenched garment over the edge like one of Rousseau's rocks.

Rested, he hefted the rucksack on to his shoulders. Turning towards the granite crag, he continued to climb. Extending. Then pulling. Occasionally clinging. A slow but steady ascent. The sun beat down mercilessly on his head. He ignored it as best he could. A small rock shifted beneath his feet. He scrambled. Found another foothold just as the rock broke free. A deadly projectile hurtling through s.p.a.ce.

Caedmon chanced a downward glance.

A mistake.

Seized with an unexpected attack of vertigo, he leaned into the coa.r.s.e rock, afraid to breathe, move or even blink for that matter. A bird on a wire, wings clipped.

Panic-stricken, he tightened his grip on the rocky k.n.o.b. A drop of blood plopped on to his face from the punctured finger, rolling down his cheek to his chin. An instant later, it joined the rock at the bottom of the cliff. Ghoulish images flashed across his mind's eye. Broken bones. Crushed spine. Smashed skull.

'Any moment now I'm going to plunge to my '

Stiffen your backbone, man. To quote the American commando, you seek 'the Holy f.u.c.king Grail'.

Caedmon gulped a deep breath. Then another. A soft breeze wafted across his cheek. A gentle caress. The irrational fear subsided. Courage sh.o.r.ed, he extended his arm. Securing a handhold, he navigated to the next ledge.