The Templar's Quest Part 26

In the months that followed, the raw grief mutated into a numbed apathy. An improvement, some might claim. Caedmon wasn't so sure. At least with the former, you knew that you had a heart. Never quite certain with the latter.

So many milestones, so many mistakes, he thought, unable to shut off the memories that flashed in frantic succession: Holding a white lily at his mother's grave. 'Say a prayer, Caedmon. The poor woman martyred herself to bring you into the world.' No prayers for Juliana. What was the point? And no lilies. Hate lilies. Long-stemmed white roses instead. d.a.m.n. p.r.i.c.ked my thumb. And now I've stained my shirt. Jules would be amused. She loved to laugh. Or was that sweet Kate? Such a lovely sight perched in an oriel window seat at Queen's College. 'There wasn't anything quite as beautiful as when the setting sun tinted your centuries-old window a rich shade of tangerine.' Yes, yes, quite true. The sun never sets on the British Empire. Or the Kingdom of Heaven, for that matter. Since 'I cannot bend Heaven, I shall move h.e.l.l.' Oh, sod Virgil. Time spent with the devil takes its toll. And now Lucifer wants his b.l.o.o.d.y stone back!

Chilled to the bone, Caedmon shivered. A heavy weight suddenly pressed against his chest, as though the granite shaft was cinching around him. In fact, his heart muscle was so painfully constricted, he wondered if he might be on the verge of a full-blown heart attack.

Suppose this is the close of business, eh?

For the last two years he'd heard the rapacious lion panting at his backside. Only a matter of time before the beast caught up with him.

'You had it coming, old boy.'

Did I? Maybe so. In that case, now I lay me down to sleep ...

... forever and a day.

55.

Hotel des Saints-Peres, Paris 1936 hours h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l, Finn stared at the painting of naked nymphs cavorting in a woodland glen.

Although he'd seen similar works of art yesterday at the Louvre, the fact that this painting hung over the hotel bed seemed blatantly erotic. Like an ornately framed striptease. And an expensive one at that, the luxury accommodation costing a jaw-dropping five hundred euros. A far cry from the hundred and thirty euros he'd spent the previous night.

However, this hotel, located on Rue des Saints-Peres, was directly across the street from Ivo Uhlemann's eighteenth-century apartment building. Not only that, he'd scored a room with a view; from the expansive window, he could peer right into Uhlemann's study. Which was the reason why he was willing to overlook the price, the painting and the girly decor. As in, pink upholstered armchairs, floral curtains with silk ta.s.sels and a delicate antique bureau.

'I'm starving. What's on the menu?' Kate enquired cheerfully as she stepped out of the bathroom. Dressed in a white terrycloth robe, wet hair combed back from her face, she glowed with a womanly sheen. A lot like the woodland nymphs.

Realizing that he still had two plastic shopping bags looped around his wrist, Finn deposited them on the bedside table. Trying his d.a.m.nedest to ignore the fact that Kate looked good, smelled good and probably tasted good, he unloaded the groceries. 'I bought a loaf of bread at the bakery, a wheel of Camembert at the cheese shop and smoked salmon at some little hole-in-the-wall market around the corner.'

Kate reached for a bottle of water. 'Are those apples?' she asked, pointing to the second shopping bag that was in the process of rolling off the table.

'Apples and oranges,' he said, making a grab for the runaway bag. 'I didn't know which you preferred, so I got a coupla each.' Feast laid out, he unsnapped the small leather sheath hooked on the side of his waistband and removed his penknife. Extracting a blade, he sliced the cheese and smoked salmon.

Sidling next to him, Kate tore a hunk of bread from the loaf, the terrycloth robe gaping slightly. Transfixed, Finn stared at the upper curve of her breast.

Jaysus.

Aware that he was acting like a perv at a peep show, he averted his gaze. Uncomfortable as h.e.l.l, he picked up a slice of salmon and popped into his mouth.

'Delicious, isn't it?'

'Uh-huh,' he grunted inanely around a mouthful of fish.

Loading her meal on to a piece of white butcher-block paper, Kate carried it over to the bed. 'Bon appet.i.t,' she trilled as she sat cross-legged on the middle of the mattress. Right under the painting of naked nymphs.

Finn nearly choked on his salmon.

Given the close quarters, his attraction to Kate Bauer was to be expected. h.e.l.l, that was the reason why women weren't allowed to fight alongside men in combat. Put a man and a woman together in a foxhole, they're going to start thinking about getting it on. And even though he knew s.e.x wasn't a pill that you popped when you were having a bad day, he couldn't stop thinking about the two of them engaged in a good old-fashioned life-affirming f.u.c.k.

Uncertain how to deal with his pent-up s.e.xual tension, Finn strode over to the window. Grabbing the Bushnell binoculars off the bureau, he aimed them at the window directly opposite. A grey-haired woman, probably Uhlemann's maid, lackadaisically pushed a vacuum cleaner across the oriental carpet.

'I trust that the coast is clear.'

'Uh-huh,' he grunted again, setting the binoculars back on the bureau.

The foxhole getting smaller by the second, Finn ripped open the Velcro flap on his cargo pants and retrieved his new palm pilot. He'd purchased it yesterday because he needed to log on to a secure website in order to track Uhlemann's vehicle. Using a stylus to navigate through the menus, he pulled up the real-time map and checked the vehicle location.

'What's the status report?' Kate asked as she dabbed at her upper lip with a paper napkin.

'The Benz is still parked at the Grande Arche.'

Hoping that Uhlemann would hurry up and leave his marble fortress, Finn set the palm pilot next to his binoculars. Jaw clamped tight, he leaned against the side of the bureau and moodily stared out of the window. The late-evening sun shone through the gla.s.s, casting a golden sheen on to the striped wallpaper.

How the h.e.l.l am I going to get through the next couple of hours holed up in this d.a.m.ned hotel room?

It'd reached the point where he wanted Kate so badly, he was willing to forego the s.e.x. Just spooning with her, feeling her a.s.s snuggled against his groin, would be pleasure enough. About to implode, he was afraid to go anywhere near the bed. Push-ups might help. Although it'd probably take a couple of hundred of 'em to take the edge off.

Hearing Kate wiggle around on the mattress, he ground his teeth.

A few moments later, she appeared at his side. 'I should have gone with Caedmon to the Languedoc,' she said in a snippy tone as she disposed of her rubbish in the wastebasket next to the bureau. 'At least he knows how to have a pleasant conversation.'

'I don't want to converse with you,' Finn growled, hit with a gut-churning burst of jealousy. Grabbing Kate, he yanked her into his arms. 'I want '

Too revved up to be romantic, he kissed Kate with a bruising intensity. Roughly. Wildly. Sliding a hand down her back, he palmed the curve of her b.u.t.tock. Fully aroused, he was on the verge of taking her right there against the bureau.

Clutching his shoulders, Kate moaned, whimpered, arched into him.

Jaysus.

Chest heaving, he dragged his mouth away from hers. 'Okay, here's the deal. I'm not real good at courtly love so I'll just be blunt ... I want you, Kate. All I need from you is a straight-up "yes" or "no" answer.'

Staring him directly in the eye, Kate pulled the tie on her robe. Then, gracefully rolling her shoulders, she let the garment fall to the floor. Completely naked, she took hold of his right hand and placed it on her bare breast.

'Yes.'

56.

Oberkampf Neighbourhood, Paris 1942 hours Stepping out of the bathroom, Dolf Reinhardt glanced at his watch.

Scheisse! He was scheduled to go back on duty in forty-five minutes. Striding over to the wardrobe, he pulled a freshly laundered shirt off the hanger.

A few minutes later, dressed in his chauffeur's uniform, Dolf grabbed the black cap and jammed it on his head. He despised the ridiculous hat, but Herr Doktor Uhlemann insisted that he wear it.

Ready to leave, he quickly strode down the dingy hallway to the second bedroom.

'h.e.l.lo, Mutter.' He wrinkled his nose at the faint scent of dried urine and sour perspiration.

The grey-haired woman who sat at the window didn't acknowledge the greeting. She never did. Diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer's disease, his mother had withdrawn into a non-verbal state. Day in, day out, she sat beside the window staring at the Paris rooftops, a blank, slack-jawed expression on her face. Dolf didn't have the money to put her in a nursing facility and the one time he'd hired a health-care worker, he'd come home and found the aide yelling at his mother. He nearly killed the b.i.t.c.h on the spot.

While he loved his mother with all his heart, a part of him deeply resented that she'd become such a burden. The daily monotony of cleaning her foul bed pans and soiled bed sheets was grinding him down. Of late, he kept wishing that she'd hurry up and die. If she could carry on a minimal conversation, the situation would be easier to withstand. But living with a silent, frail ghost was becoming unbearable. A strange type of h.e.l.l in which they shared the same s.p.a.ce and yet she was unaware of his existence.

In a hurry, he stepped over to the dresser and retrieved a green plastic prescription bottle from the top drawer.

'Time for your medicine,' he told his mother, gently inserting a capsule between her lips. Grabbing the water gla.s.s from the nearby table, he finagled the straw into her mouth. 'Take a sip, Mother.'

Never taking her gaze from the window, his mother sucked a bit of water through the straw. Dolf returned the gla.s.s to the table then pried open his mother's mouth to make certain that she'd swallowed the sleeping pill. He next checked the restraints on her wrists. To keep her from wandering off, he was forced to strap her into the chair whenever he left the flat.

Bending down, he kissed his mother on the cheek, making a mental note to give her a sponge bath in the morning. 'I'll be back later this evening.'

It was the same one-sided conversation that they had each and every night.

As he turned to leave, Dolf glanced at the framed picture hanging on the wall next to his mother's chair. The faded photograph, published in a 1943 edition of the Volkische Beobachter newspaper, was of a six-year-old girl with long blonde braids attired in a traditional dirndl dress. Arms extended, she offered the Fuhrer a slice of freshly baked black bread on an ornately carved wooden platter. Taken during Walpurgisnacht, the pagan spring festival when bonfires burned bright to lure witches from their covens, the photograph had captured the hearts and souls of the German people. Enthralled by the sight of their Fuhrer with such a lovely child, households across the Reich framed the photograph and hung it alongside their cherished family portraits.

An overnight celebrity, his mother, Hedwig Krueger, became known to an entire generation as 'the Fuhrer's Little Handmaid'.

Before she lapsed into a demented state of mind, his mother often spoke of that long ago May day, fondly recalling how the Fuhrer, his piercing eyes as blue as the lake waters at Konigsee, pinched her cheek and squeezed her shoulder, thanking her profusely for the slice of schwarzbrot.

Dolf stared at the photograph for a few more seconds before turning to leave.

When he was a young boy and his mother would tuck him in at night, she used to always tell him that good things come to those who wait.

At thirty-seven years of age, Dolf Reinhardt was tired of waiting.

57.

Mont de la Lune, The Languedoc 2159 hours Catching his first glimpse of the stacked mound of kindling and the dour-faced Dominican priest, Caedmon's heart slammed against his breastbone.

'There's been a mistake!' he fearfully exclaimed. 'I'm not supposed to be here!' 'Here' being an unlit funeral pyre at the foot of Montsegur.

The priest smiled humourlessly. 'This is penance for your sins.'

'What sins?' he demanded to know as two soldiers, each garbed in a bright blue surcoat emblazoned with a white fleur-de-lis, roughly grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to the pyre. Grinning, they bound him, hand and foot, to a stake in the middle of the wood stack. Horrified, he stared at the fleur-de-lis. The monarch's royal lily.

'Repent, sinner!' the priest commanded in a booming voice.

'But I did nothing wrong!'

'You were born with the taint of original sin.'

'At least I don't b.u.g.g.e.r little boys on the sly!' he shot back. 'How many indulgences did that cost, you f.e.c.kless b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

The Dominican motioned for the fire to be lit. Then, wearing the sneer of the self-righteous, he said calmly, ' "Nulla salus extra ecclesium." '

Outside the Church there is no salvation.

Christ.

Almost immediately, the flames set his khaki trousers ablaze. Caedmon screamed, the pain of seared flesh more than he could bear.

'For the love of G.o.d! Give me another chance!'

'Am I dead?'

Grappling with the odd sensation of being tethered to his own corpse, Caedmon opened his eyes. To his dismay, he could perceive no difference in the tarry gloom. Even more worrisome, his chest cavity felt empty. Hollowed out. Ready for the Egyptian embalmers to begin the laborious task of mummification.

'Ah ... still among the living,' he murmured a few seconds later, able to hear his own faint breath. Unwilling to take a chance with the grim reaper hovering so near, he inflated his lungs with a robust, life-affirming gulp.

It came as something of a surprise to realize that he wanted to live.

While there had been times over the course of the last two years when he thought death might be a welcome alternative, he now knew that was an illusion born of grief. The same dark illusion that usually induced a burst of frantic regret somewhere between the sixth and fifth floor.

He reached for his water bottle, the side of his hand b.u.mping against the defective torch. A split-second later, the light came on, the narrow confines of the tunnel softly illuminated.

'There is a G.o.d,' he murmured.

Turning on to his belly, he took a swig of water before packing the bottle in his rucksack. In the golden beam, he could see that the tunnel took a sharp turn up ahead. Shoving the rucksack and flashlight in front of him, he doggedly squirmed forward. He'd come too far to back out of the venture.

A few minutes later, grunting, he navigated the tight turn, worming his way into a small vestibule. Although there wasn't enough room to stand upright, he was able to squat comfortably. As he inspected the s.p.a.ce, he noticed that one of the walls was constructed of densely packed rubble rock. A false wall! Lacking excavation tools, he clawed excitedly at the rocks with his bare hands.

Ten minutes of diligent digging exposed a small opening. Caedmon poked his head through the breach.

Un-b.l.o.o.d.y-believable!

Bowled over, he stared in wonderment at the hidden chamber. Scores of stalact.i.tes dripped like icicles while stockier stalagmites rose up from the rock floor. A few had conjoined, giving birth to lone columns, the unexpected juxtaposition of wobbly shapes breathtakingly surreal. Imbedded mica and crystallized rock created a shimmery effect. In a word, it was spectacular. A limestone cathedral hidden in the depths of Mont de la Lune.

The fact that the cavern had been deliberately hidden made him eager to explore. Wriggling his way through the opening, Caedmon stood upright, taking heed not to touch the fragile rock formations.

' "Take my counsel, happy man; act upon it if you can," ' he sang in a deep baritone, testing the acoustics with the silly Gilbert and Sullivan ditty. Enchanted, he listened to the sound of his own voice echoing back at him.

Torch in hand, he turned in a slow pirouette, shedding light on numerous nooks and niches. Any one of which could have concealed a treasure. Near the end of the rotation, his breath caught in his throat.

The cathedral had an altar!