The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (11 page)

While Franco
had been considering his next move, unsure how to coerce Dr. Patel into spilling her golden beans, Pope Pius XIII, who’d always enjoyed excellent health, had suddenly died.

The fact that those two unforeseen incidents occurred within
a twenty-four-hour period convinced Franco that the invisible Hand of Providence was at work, the Almighty giving him the means and the opportunity to rebuild His Church.

However, he’d been
given a very narrow window to do so. In order to execute the plan, he had
to get his hands on the ancient gospel
before
the College of Cardinals went into conclave. Once the papal election was underway, it would be too late to act.

Inserting a key into a lock, Franco opened the door that led to the terrace.
The second-highest point in the Vatican City, the tower provided a breathtaking view of the Cortile del Belvedere
.
When the weather permitted, he often took advantage of the private terrace to escape the maddening crowds, if only for a few brief moments. Between the throngs of tourists and the army of black-robed clerics, he sometimes felt as though he was trapped in an overcrowded ecclesiastical prison.

Inhaling a deep breath, Franco admired the lovely courtyard enclosed at the far end with a soaring exedra wall. A light breeze, blowing across the
Tiber, ruffled the deep folds on his cassock. He reached up and removed his red zucchetto, the skullcap worn by cardinals, and tucked it under his arm to prevent it from skittering across the terrace. He then retrieved a slender box of wood-tipped cigarillos from his pocket. Every priest had his vice. His was tobacco.
We are, after all, men not gods.

Lighting up, he blew a hazy plume into the air. To his surprise, Franco caught sight of Cardinal Secretary Moran rushing along a pathway that separated the grassy courtyard parterres below.

He frowned, his pleasant respite instantly spoiled.

No different than Satan
, Thomas Moran and his liberal ilk constituted a dark menace.

‘
I’m not interested in preserving the status quo; I want to overthrow it,’ Franco murmured, Machiavelli’s advice ringing with pitch-perfect clarity. And he had the perfect secret weapon with which to launch his offensive. Tucked away in the hinterlands of upstate New York.

Needing an update, he removed his mobile phone from his cassock pocket. Father
Gracián Santos and his cadre of not-so-reformed gang-bangers was Franco’s secret weapon. Not even our Lord and Savior could convert the impenitent thief who was crucified alongside of him, for some men were spawned from an evil seed.

Beyond redemption.

India might be a hell hole, but it only took a little
baksheesh
– bribe money – to buy heaven.
Guns. Women. Dope
. It was all there for the rupees.

In the last few days, Hector Calzada had bought all three. The pussy and hashish he could have done without, but the gun was absolutely essential. Particularly since
Caedmon Aisquith had earlier arrived in Fort Cochin. Although G-Dog had been adamant about exercising restraint – ‘
follow but don’t engage
’ – Hector was starting to get a bad feeling about the red-headed Englishman.

Leaning against the trunk of a massive banyan tree,
he trained his gaze on the pink stucco house situated on the other side of the privacy wall. As he dreamt of all the ways that he could alleviate his boredom, he absently rubbed the stippled gun grip that protruded from his waistband.
The best kind of hard-on that a man could have.

Acquiring a gun was never a problem
for Hector; the world was bloated with them. His old gang,
Los Diablos de Santa Muerte
,
like most Latino gangs, had gone global with ‘branches’ in all of the major cities in Western Europe. India, however, was a little trickier since there were no Latino gangs on the subcontinent.
Yet.
But because Indians had a gun obsession – a whole cottage industry having sprung up with illegal backroom factories – he’d actually been able to buy a gun in the bazaar. Like it was some kind of bronze trinket. Granted, it was a piece of Indian shit, but as long it ejected a bullet when he pulled the trigger, Hector would be willing to overlook the inferior design.

Sweltering, h
e smoothed a hand over his moustache before swiping at several beads of perspiration that trickled down his face. He wiped his clammy palms against his jeans, the sweat causing his right palm to itch. Turning his hand over, he lightly scratched the scarred flesh. His stigmata. He relished the story behind the Chi-Rho cross – ‘
In this sign, conquer!
’ – the brand reminding him of his heritage: Hector was descended from a long line of warriors that went all the way back to the ancient Aztecs.

Not only had
his father and all of his uncles been modern-day warriors, i.e. gang-bangers, their small apartment in Spanish Harlem had been used as a flop house for drug dealers and fugitives. Raised to follow in their footsteps, while Hector was still a young boy his male relatives took him to cock fights, let him smoke weed and even, on occasion, allowed him to play with their guns. They also taught him the rules of the street, the code that they lived by. If a man broke the code, any part of it, justice would be swiftly administered. Also, a real man must avenge all insults.
Never turn the other cheek
,
his father had emphasized when he gave Hector a beautiful switchblade for his thirteenth birthday. Three months later, Hector used the knife to cut off a classmate’s ear, the white boy having called Hector a ‘wetback’.

Because that particular incident had occurred on school grounds, Hector had been subjected to a full battery of exams and psychological testing. No one in his family had the education to understand the densely worded report that ensued. ‘Lack of empathy.’ ‘Violent predisposition.’ ‘Sociopathic tendencies.’
What the hell did it mean?
Other than the fact that Hector could no longer attend school, his parents were at a loss. Although they were canny enough to know that the Calzada family had been gravely insulted by the white gringos on the school board.

Unfortunately, Hector’s father was
gunned down by a rival gang member before he could avenge the slight.

Having suddenly become the man of the family, not only did Hector take care of the school superintendent, using a stolen .357 Magnum to blow away the fucker while he was walking his dog, but he also took care of his father’s killer.

You don’t mess with a Calzada.

The kills earned Hector a fearsome reputation as a
depredador
– a predator who, like a shark prowling the ocean deep, would kill anyone who failed to give him the proper respect. When he snuffed out an enemy, he didn’t just kill that one man; he killed his woman, his children, the neighbors and even the family dog.

Pulling a trigger always made Hector feel strong. Potent.
Alive.
In truth, he never felt more alive than when he took the life of another, as though he’d captured the dead man’s very soul and had made it his own. Something the school board forgot to put in their report.

When he was seventeen
years old, Hector had racked up enough kills to have the skeletal
Santa Muerte
,
Saint Death, tattooed on to his chest. The ghoulish image served as a constant reminder that Lady Death ruled the world, a scythe in one hand, a globe in the other. And like the best cocaine money could buy, she gave sweet succor to those who worshipped her.

The Englishman didn’t know it, but he was the walking dead. Once the ransom was delivered, Hector would personally see to it that the red-headed fucker was sacrificed to
Santa Muerte
.

He grinned,
savoring the gory image, imaging how he would slice the other man wide open and remove his still-beating heart from his chest cavity.

Blood lust.
There was no feeling like it. Not even a good fuck could compare.

While Saint Death guided Hector during his waking hours, Our Lady of Guadalupe protected him while he slept,
la Virgen
tattooed on to his back. Although he couldn’t see the beautiful tat, Hector rested easy knowing that the Queen of Heaven kept a vigilant eye. Some might call it conflicted loyalties, but that’s because most people didn’t understand that
Santa Muerte
and Our Lady were two sides of the same street. That’s why he was able to worship the one and revere the other.
Good and evil
. The nature of the beast.

Folding his arms over his chest, Hector watched as his homie Roberto Diaz
approached on foot. The other man grinned foolishly, flashing a gold-plated front tooth.

Somebody’s been smoking a little too much hashish.

In addition to being Hector’s first cousin, Roberto was an initiated member of
Los Diablos de Santa Muerte
. Last year, the two of them had run afoul of a tough-talking Diablo crew leader who’d accused them of skimming drugs and extortion money off the top. Big mistake on their part as they’d belatedly discovered. Roberto, who’d been dragged out of his girlfriend’s bed in the middle of the night, had his tongue cut out. Although he’d managed to escape before the crew leader took the knife to his throat.

Fond of his tongue, and all his other body parts, Hector had turned to Father Gracián Santos, begging the priest to give him and Roberto safe sanctuary. G-Dog had
initially expressed reservations, worried that they might not have the inner strength to go straight. Desperate, he and Roberto each had a Chi-Rho cross branded on to the palm of their right hand. A badge of fidelity and a show of good faith. And while he was still leery, G-Dog agreed to give them safe haven in upstate New York. Hector owed Father Gracián big time, the man, literally, saving his life.

‘
I want you to stay here and watch the Indian bitch while I keep an eye on the Englishman,’ Hector told his cousin.

Roberto grunted his assent; the only form of communication that he was capable of making. It was a language of sorts,
and Hector was actually able to understand what various grunts meant. From time to time, he’d even caught himself answering his cousin in like manner.

Nature of the beast
.

‘Moreover, Constantine’s cross was superimposed with the rallying cry “
In hoc signo vinces
,”’ Caedmon iterated, pointing to the Chi-Rho cross that he’d drawn on the sheet of blank paper. ‘In this sign you shall conquer.’

Edie rolled down the cab window, beginning to suspect that there was some sort of official regulation banning air conditioning in all Indian taxis. Somewhat revived, she tapped her finger against the monogram of an ‘
X’
overlaying a skinny ‘P’. ‘As I recall, chi and rho are the first two letters of the Greek word
Kristós
.’

Caedmon
nodded. ‘Which makes the symbol a christogram rather than a true cross. Immediately after the Emperor Constantine had his vision of the Chi-Rho, he ordered his soldiers to affix the symbol on to their battle standards. Said action famously resulted in Constantine’s triumphant victory at the Battle of Milvian Bridge.’

‘And so began a long tradition of Christians slaughtering their enemy in the name of Jesus Christ,’ Edie retorted sarcastically, the subject one that never failed to raise her ire. ‘Having read the New Testament, I am fairly convinced that JC would have been the first to condemn that sort of brutal carnage.’

‘I daresay the Prince of Peace would not have approved.’ Frowning, Caedmon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger.

Like
Caedmon, Edie wondered at the significance of Anala’s abductor being branded with the ancient symbol. The fact that anyone would purposefully mutilate their flesh indicated a cultish devotion.
But to what? Or who?

As she pondered the bizarre twist, Edie peered out the window, her attention drawn to the passing streetscape. While many, if not most, of
the old colonial buildings were in a sad state of negligent decay, it somehow lent Fort Cochin a decrepit sort of beauty. Rising above the town’s red-tiled rooftops were Islamic minarets, Christian steeples and the gleaming metallic finials of Hindu temples. It bespoke a tolerance that was sadly absent in many of the places she’d recently visited while on assignment for
National Geographic.

A lively coastal town, t
he streets teemed with vehicles of every description, the adjacent pavements jam-packed with tourists, vendors peddling their wares and the occasional farm animal. The latter was taken in stride by the locals. Not to mention their taxi driver who suddenly swerved into the oncoming lane, circumnavigating an emaciated bovine aimlessly wandering in the middle of the road.

‘The Chi-Rho handprint on Anala’s bedroom window
reinforces the notion that someone affiliated with the Catholic Church masterminded her abduction,’ Edie remarked.