The Templar Concordat (23 page)

Finally, Zahid had no choice but to tell Hammid the treaty was consistent in every way with a papal manuscript from the Twelfth Century.

“And just what does ‘consistent’ mean here?”

“Well, it means I can’t find anything to show it isn’t from the Twelfth century, and everything I can see matches the Twelfth Century. If I found just one item that was impossible for a Twelfth Century manuscript, that would doom it. Like, maybe it was black-lamp ink? That wasn’t around in the Twelfth Century, so it would prove it was a hoax.” He held up his hands. “But I didn’t. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s the laser analysis.”

“Let me ask you this, Professor. Do you find the content of the treaty troubling?”

“I find the sentiment and the ideas troubling, very troubling. But that’s as far as I will go until the laser results are available.”

“Fair enough.”

London - Tuesday, March 31

She had to stop living like a mole, Jean thought. Nobody was after her, and she was turning into one of those people who rush back home to make sure she turned off the oven.  Nobody has come by the flat. Stop acting guilty. Guilt brings suspicion. Stop canceling seminars, stop hiding in the flat with the drapes pulled, and get yourself out of the house. Get back to living like a normal person.

The missing medallions from the Vatican Library had been all over the news, but police had no leads. Who took the medallions? Hammid didn’t have them when they left the library. And there was no mention of the Treaty of Tuscany. The Vatican must be sitting on that information, she thought, afraid to let anything out.

Hammid hadn’t called. So what? Why should he? The last she saw of him was when he shoved her out of the café. With luck, that would be the last she ever saw of him. She had her money in a Zurich bank… safe. It had been credited to her account minutes before that Arab was shot. Thank God for that. She had even transferred it into new accounts at the bank. The bankers only asked about cash deposits, so nobody noticed, and who knows how much money flows in and out of those places each day? Why should anyone care about her?

She went to the workroom she had set up in the back of the flat and picked up the paper sample from the treaty in its little plastic bag. Everything hinged on that sample being dated in the Twelfth Century. Could the treaty be a forgery? Could it even be a forgery that was once well known, but had been forgotten over time?

The Middle Ages were full of enterprising forgers. One could rebuild Noah’s Ark with all the slivers from the true cross, and there were enough Holy Grails to serve an army. Nor did they shy from creating manuscripts and letters.

She had an opportunity here. She didn’t have to make her big move now. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and there was no cause to rush. But she did need to know the age of that sample now. She had begged another professor to take her seminar, so she had some time, and she had to get out of the house. Now, before she went nuts.

It was easy to schedule time on the British Museum’s new laser equipment. As the head of the lab said, they always had an opening for her. Would she like an 11:00 am slot? She very carefully rubber-banded the plastic bag with her sample between two pieces of cardboard.

She dressed normally, leaving the hat, sunglasses, and trench coat, and discovered a beautiful spring day with clear blue skies, a gentle breeze, and a fresh tang to the air. In London? That was a good omen. So she forgot about the dead Arab bleeding all over the table in Rome, and no matter how tempting it was, she never once looked back to see if someone was following her. That was all in the past.

London - Tuesday, March 31

 “At your service, Sir. Night and day. I’ll be where ever you need me to be.” The Watcher in his black taxi had picked up Callahan at the London Waterloo Station where the Chunnel train stopped. “I’ve been watching for this gal you’re after for a week now, and she just shows up a few days ago. Got a flat up in the gentrified section of Kings Cross. Hah. Used to be all drugs and hookers, let me tell you. Now it’s where the sophisticated folks come to mingle with each other. And all they’re doing is drugs and hooking up, so it really hasn’t changed, I guess.”

They slowly drove by her first-floor flat in a well-tended, three-story brownstone. “I’ve only seen her out once since she got back. Went down to the grocers and stocked up. Walked both ways, and kept looking over her shoulder like she thought she was being followed. Well, I guess she was, heh? Jumpy little thing. Wore sunglasses, a big floppy hat, and a long coat. Made it easier to follow her.”

“Any visitors?” asked Callahan.

 “Everyone else going in the building seems to live there. Second floor has a young couple, and the third has an old lady. Haven’t seen anyone else.”

“How about anyone else watching her? Anything at all?”

“Not unless it’s the invisible man doing the watching. Have to say no to that.”

The next day the Watcher took Jean’s house while Callahan visited the university and consulted a class schedule. Jean had no full-time classes that semester, just a series of seminars. He went by her office and asked about a seminar she was scheduled to give the next week.

“Well, that seminar has been reassigned to Professor Williams, Sir. It was Professor Randolph, but now,” the department secretary ran a finger down a page, “now it’s been changed. Yes, Professor Williams.”

He was heading back for Kings Cross when the Watcher called on his cell. “She’s moving. Going down into Momington Crescent tube station, near her place. I’m right behind her. Going down now, so I’ll lose you on the cell when…”

    Callahan had his own taxi wait at St. Paul’s. Nothing to do until the Watcher called back.

The Watcher was back. “She’s out at Totenham Court Station. Looks like she might be headed for the British Museum.”

When Callahan got to the British Museum, he called the Watcher. “She’s gone into something called the Document Analysis Section,” he whispered. “I’ve been loitering around here with a clip board in my hand too long. Someone’s going to say something here pretty soon.”

“Ok. Get out of there, and go back and get the taxi. I’ll pick her up at the Document Analysis office.”

Callahan used his iPhone to check the Internet site for the Document Analysis Section of the British Museum. He scrolled down the page and stopped at the heading, “Laser Analysis - Document Age Verification.” Marie had mentioned something about this, but what? Why was he doing this, and not her?

He passed the Watcher on his way out. Neither gave any sign of recognition. The Watcher called him on the cell from fifty feet away. “She’s wearing blue jeans, white blouse, and a brown suede jacket. Carrying a black briefcase with a shoulder strap. Short medium-brown hair. No wig, no hat. Expensive running shoes. In good shape. Looks like she exercises.” This would be Callahan’s first sight of Jean since Rome. The Watcher had taken pictures of her trip to the grocers, but with the hat and shades, it could have been anyone.

“I took a few pics on the cell phone.” The Watcher was silent for a few moments.  Here, I’m sending them. Ok. Look in your inbox.”

Callahan looked at the pictures. There she was. Serious looking. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Good shape. She’d be easy to spot. Running shoes. Hmm, always prepared?

He called Marie in Zurich. “She’s in the British Museum. Document Analysis Section. What do you think?”

“Doc Analysis at the Brit? Best there is.  They have a new system there for dating documents. It’s a Laser Spectrographic system. There aren’t too many in the world. There’s another here in Geneva, and a few more scattered around. Japanese invented it.  If she needs something dated, that’s the place. Her university doesn’t have that equipment, hardly any do.  If it’s older than four hundred years, the machines can figure the age of the manuscript within 20 years. It’s no good for anything less than four hundred years. Very expensive, and very accurate.”

“Could she be dating the actual treaty?”

“She could, I suppose. Maybe she has it. Maybe that Arab guy has it. Maybe she has a sample, and he has the rest of the treaty. But it makes sense to date it.”

“How long does it take?”

“About three days. They shoot the sample, then add some catalysts, shoot it again, more catalysts. You start on day one and get the final results on day three. The first day tells the age within about a thousand years, so that’s worthless unless a caveman wrote it. Day two gets it to two hundred. Day three to about twenty years. That’s as good as it gets.”

 “No waiting time? I mean, can anyone walk in there and put down a sample and get a result in three days?”

“God, no. It’s scheduled months in advance. But, our gal probably has a lot of pull there, and she’s on her home turf. The way this works is any big university can jump the queue and get their stuff done fast. That’s life in the academic big leagues. If that’s what she’s up to, she’ll probably be back every day. The clients usually work with the techs fine-tuning each day’s laser shot. It can do more than just age, and they sort of follow where the data leads them.”

“Your Kruger Institute have much pull with the British Museum?”

“Oh, we have a lot. Believe me, we have a lot.”

Callahan explained his plan to her.

London - Wednesday, April 1

Callahan hit the ANSWER button on his phone. “Callahan, it’s Marie. I’m here. At the Dorchester.”

“You travel in style. I’m staying in a real dump. Smells like curry,” said Callahan. “Lots of curry.”

“I travel for the Kruger Institute, and we stay at the best,” replied Marie.

“Is everything set up?”

“Yeah, we’re scheduled in the laser lab at 10:00 am this morning. That’s the first slot of the day, so I’ll be there before she gets in for her second shot. Her second shot should be around eleven or twelve, twenty-four hours since her first laser shot.”

“Any trouble getting laser time?”

“None at all. All the Chief Archivist had to do was pick up the phone.”

“I didn’t realize he had that much influence.”

“You’ve only seen him as a Templar on Templar stuff. As Managing Director of the Kruger Institute, he can get just about anything he wants from anyone. He’s written more stuff than most people have read.  You should see him sometime when he has his academic hat on.”

“I’ll take your word for it. How about the phony samples? Any chance the museum will catch on?”

“Callahan, phony samples were your idea. I brought real samples from real research projects. We really need these samples age-dated on the laser. I keep telling you, the Kruger is a legitimate historical research institute. We don’t fake it. You don’t fake your computer projects, do you? We don’t fake our research.”

“Ok. You win. Give me a call later when you have Jean in sight at the Museum. I’ll call when I’m done at her place.”

“Ok. You going to buy me dinner tonight?”

“Me? You’re the one on the Kruger expense account.”

She laughed. “Touché. Ok. Talk to you later. Good luck.”

*     *     *

Callahan sat at a wooden table outside a construction site lunch wagon when Marie called a little after eleven. He wore a red and black-checked flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders, porkpie hat, heavy brown pants and scuffed brown boots.

 “Just thought I’d call to let you know everything is going well. This is an amazing facility,” Marie gushed.

“Does all that mean you have Jean in sight inside the laser lab?”

 “Oh, yes. We just shot our first sample. Can you believe it? Yes, within twenty years.”

“Have you made contact with her?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t believe who I ran into here. Jean Randolph. Yes, right. From Oxford. We’re having a late lunch after she shoots her sample.”

“You and Jean are having lunch? Good work. Go shopping when you’re done. Buy a dog. Do anything. I don’t care. Just give me as much time as you can.”

“Ok. Good luck. Bye-bye.”

*     *     *

Callahan’s van said, “Zodiac Fine Woodworking Installation and Restoration.” He parked in front of Jean’s flat, opened the back doors of the van, and took out a toolbox. He stood on the sidewalk a few minutes appraising the house, faked a cell phone call, then walked up the front stairs, through the outer door, and measured her front door, jotting numbers down on a small pad.

She had a new Schlage deadbolt lock with five pins that opened to his hook pick after a few minutes. He was careful not to let the cylinder turn all the way around so he didn’t have to pick it closed when he left. Then he held the door open with his foot and carefully measured the doorjamb before going into the flat and closing the door. That’s what fine woodworkers did, and that’s what he was supposed to be.

He called out when he entered, heard nothing, and took a fast walk through the flat. Living room, dining room, small kitchen, full bath, study, small bedroom, and a workroom. The furnishings were comfortable and practical, but nothing fancy. But it was the workroom that caught his attention. The walls and two tables were covered with taped up pictures of old manuscripts, some normal-sized, others were enlargements notated with a red marker pen. He could see all the pictures were from an excellent photo quality inkjet printer.