The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) (31 page)

Someone’s going to be in for a very rude surprise once the conclave begins.

Those same insiders had another expression, one that was entirely apropos: ‘He who enters the conclave as Pope, leaves it as a cardinal.’ Meaning that all the expectations in the world couldn’t get a man elected pontiff if he was unable to secure a two-thirds majority of the College of Cardinals.

For the time being, however, the Cardinal Secretary had caught the attention of the media and sycophants alike, the man basking in the adoration. But the papacy wasn’t a beauty contest where the most telegenic cardinal won the prize. The very soul of the faithful was at stake, Franco convinced that liberals constituted the most dangerous threat the Church had faced in its
2000-year history.

One need only review a sampling of some of Moran’s more outrageous statements to know that the man was a clear and present danger, the Cardinal Secretary having expressed some truly despicable opinions. Such as his belief that it was permissible for a married couple to use condoms if one of them had AIDS. He was also on the record as having publicly stated that homosexuals should be allowed into the priesthood provided they kept to their chastity vow. And Moran had even gone
so far as to claim that it was better to masturbate than to cheat on one’s spouse. None of which was acceptable in Franco’s book.

And this was the man that
Vatican insiders wanted to be the next apostolic successor to Peter!

As he passed the rector’s table where the Cardinal Secretary held his admirers in thrall, Franco pursed his lips in disapproval. He knew that many of the guests seated there considered the Prefect of the Secret Archives a reactionary. A conservative throwback to an earlier era when Catholics ate fish on Fridays, went to confession once a week and attended early-morning weekday mass. Traditions and practices that the liberals were only too happy to consign to the rubbish heap.

His earlier good cheer having suddenly dissipated, Franco left the refectory hall and made his way past study halls and empty classrooms. Leaving the building, he headed towards the cloister in the center of the college where there was a small group of tables and chairs. His belly full, he eased himself into a metal chair. In dire need of an after-dinner smoke, he reached into his cassock pocket and removed a box of cigarillos along with his mobile phone. A few seconds later, he blew a puff of smoke into the night air, the fusion of Madagascar vanilla and Cuban tobacco having a calming effect.

In the tumultuous years following the Second Vatican Council, a rampant sexual decay had infiltrated the Church. Strong-armed into the priesthood by his mother, Franco, at the age of thirty, had a crisis of faith.
Overcome with anarchic thoughts that threatened to emotionally unravel him, he’d decided to leave the priesthood, unable to navigate his way in the new liberal-minded Church.

His mind made up, Franco
had written a resignation letter to the bishop. Having placed the sealed envelope on his desk, he’d left the rectory to visit a sick parishioner in the hospital; for what he assumed would be his last pastoral duty. When he returned a few hours later, to his utter astonishment there was a single red rose petal on top of the addressed envelope.

In that awestruck instant he had his epiphany.

The rose petal was a sign from heaven. A clarion call announcing that he
was
the chosen one. He
was
the Fiorio son who’d been selected by the Queen of Heaven to safeguard the Church against all those who would do Her harm.
The liberals. The naysayers. The atheists. The Jews. The Protestants
. The fault line that had been opened in the aftermath of the Second Vatican Council was actually a battle line. Drawn, not in the sand, but on the spiritual plane.

‘
My Son and your son.
’

Certain that he’d
been singled out for great things, Franco journeyed to Rome, a fire in his belly. At the Pontifical Gregorian University, he earned advanced degrees in theology and ecclesiastical history. In the years that followed, he wrote books; the most notable,
Anno Domini
,
was an in-depth treatise on the sacred mysteries of the Church; he served as secretary of the Apostolic Nunciature; and was appointed Dean of Students at Catholic University. Receiving his episcopal consecration, he was named the Archbishop of New York.

During those same years, p
lagued by scandals and losing the faithful at an alarmingly fast rate, the Roman Catholic Church staggered into the new millennium.

‘
Your Eminence, I hope that I’m not disturbing you,’ a voice said, a man suddenly stepping out of the shadows. ‘I received your earlier message.’

Lost in thought, Franco jerked his head, startled.

Belatedly recognizing the dapper man in the dark suit, he hastily stubbed out his cigarillo, pleased that Len Garvey, a wealthy media mogul and vocal conservative Catholic, had followed him out of the banquet hall.

Going down on his left knee, Garvey chastely kissed the ornate gold ring that adorned Franco’s right ring finger.

After verifying that no one lurked in the cloisters, Franco motioned for the mogul to sit down in the vacant chair beside him. Despite the surge in liberalism within the Church, there were still influential Roman Catholics who ardently believed that the ground so foolishly surrendered in the 1960s must be regained. Len Garvey happened to be one of those men.

Never one to play coy, Franco
got right to it. ‘What if I told you that I have the means to place an ultra-conservative cardinal on Peter’s chair?’

If he was shocked by the bold assertion, Garvey gave no indication. Pokerfaced, he said, ‘
Meaning what exactly?’

‘
Meaning the repeal of Vatican II, the end of ecumenical outreach and strict enforcement of the more heinous lapses.’

An experienced negotiator, Garvey immediately counter-offered. ‘
Only if those lapses include birth control, divorce, stem-cell research, homosexual marriage and – the worst lapse of them all – abortion.’

Franco smiled.
‘Consider it done.’ He paused a moment, the next proposition a bit stickier. ‘Since you’re a businessman, you’ll understand that there’s a cost attached –’

‘
How much?’ Garvey interjected.

‘
Two point two million.’

‘
Euros or dollars?’

‘
Dollars,’ Franco told him, bracing for an objection, the price steep. Even for someone with deep pockets.

To his surprise, Garvey chuckled softly.
‘At eleven thousand a head, there are plenty of Catholics who would consider that a bargain basement price.’

Leave it to a hard-nosed businessman to have calculated the cost per cardinal.

‘I’ll drop off the check tomorrow.’

Still
marveling at how easily he’d secured Gracián Santos’s ‘blood’ money, Franco said, ‘Aren’t you the least bit interested in the details?’

‘
Probably best that I not know,’ Garvey replied. ‘Between you and me, I just want to revert to the old ways. To worship God like we did when I was an altar boy at All Saints’ Church.’ Dropping to his left knee, the mogul again paid homage.

Franco
gave a commiserating nod. ‘To return the sacred
mysterion
to the Mass.’

‘We’re reading from the same page, Your Eminence.’
Len Garvey stood upright. ‘I’ll call around nine o’clock.’

‘
I look forward to the visit.’

A few moments later, about to relight his cigarillo, Franco instead picked up his phone which had begun to vibrate, skittering a few inches across the tabletop. He checked the display; it was an incoming text message from Father Santos.

Aisquith has found 2 plates. Will immediately send plates to Rome w/ Diaz.

Breathless with excitement, Franco stared at the display, his hand shaking.
Providence was clearly at work this night, having blessed him yet again.

Soon the years of tedious work, of hiding in the shadows, would come to fruition.

Ever since Pius XIII had ‘demoted’ him to Prefect of the Secret Archives, Franco had been planning for the next conclave. That was the reason why he’d spent hours scouring through the long-forgotten files pertaining to the Knights Templar, searching for a secret weapon that he could use to blackmail the College of Cardinals when the time finally arrived.

But in order to achieve his aims, Franco’s threat had to have real bite. That meant he
had
to have all three copper plates in hand before the conclave convened. To twist the knife even deeper, he would threaten to include the
Evangelium Gaspar
in the upcoming Secret Archives exhibition where it would be on public display and seen by the entire world. Because the exhibition was being held in Rome’s Capitoline Museum rather than the Vatican, the College of Cardinals wouldn’t be able to stop him. Their power ended quite literally at the Sant’Angelo Gate.

Franco estimated that it’d take all of about forty-five seconds for the news of the heretical gospel to go viral on the Internet. Sounding the death knell for the Holy See.

Such a simple plan.

Yet it was one in which the College of Cardinals would be
defenseless against, leaving them with no choice but to capitulate to his demands.

One demand, actually
.

T
he College of Cardinals must elect Franco Fiorio as the next pope, giving him Peter’s keys to the Church. ‘
That whatsoever you should bind on earth might be bound in heaven.
’

A bloodless coup, there would be no
messy cover-up. No digging of mass graves to hide the bodies. And because of the strict secrecy of the conclave, the famous Code of Silence, no one outside of the locked conclave door would ever be the wiser.
Maledictus.
Cursed be the offender.

Such a simple but momentous plan.

Hotel Los Templarios, Ponferrada, Spain

Lightning flashed on the achromatic horizon, Zeus hurling a mighty bolt.

Assuming you believed that sort of thing
,
Edie thought as she stood at the hotel window and peered at the gloomy night sky. Four stories below, the golden glow of street lamps created a lambent contrast to the stone structures that flanked the deserted street, the town of Ponferrada putting her in mind of a medieval theme park.

Located on the last leg of the Camino de Santiago, the four-star Templar Hotel catered to more affluent pilgrims. Those in dire need of an elegant suite, a gourmet meal and that most desired of all amenities,
Wi-Fi. Although the on-site pharmacy ranked a close second, where Edie was able to purchase a bottle of aspirin, a roll of bandages and a tube of antibiotic ointment to patch-up Caedmon’s various abrasions. The walking wounded, he refused to let her call a doctor, insisting that his ribs were bruised not broken and that his head ‘never felt better’. At times, and this was one of them, his stiff-upper-lip stoicism could be infuriating.

‘
People die every day from undiagnosed head injuries,’ she’d insisted. To which he’d drolly replied, ‘Pray that doesn’t happen.’

Unbeknownst to
Caedmon, that’s exactly what she’d been doing, her prayer list including everyone from Anala Patel to the Marqués de Bagá. Earlier, when they’d checked into the hotel, she and Caedmon had been horrified by the news story that they’d seen broadcast on the flat-screen television mounted in the lobby. Hector Calzada, who’d stood beside them at the front desk, had grinned at the grainy footage of ambulance personnel removing ‘butchered’ bodies from Casa de Pinós in Madrid. ‘
Dia de muertos
,’ he’d cackled heartlessly.

Day of the dead
.

Shivering at the recollection, Edie glanced over her shoulder at the locked door on the other side of their hotel room. The fact that the monster had the adjoining chamber would undoubtedly mean a fitful night’s sleep. His sword-wielding compadre, the mute Diaz, had been dispatched to some unknown destination – presumably G-Dog’s lair – taking the two copper plates with him. Leaving
Calzada in charge of the store. Prayer might be a powerful weapon, but somehow she didn’t think it’d stop Calzada from slaughtering the shop customers.

‘
Any luck?’ she inquired, breaking the dull silence. Still standing at the window, she looked expectantly over at the writing desk on the other side of the room.

Caedmon
glanced up from the pile of paper scattered in front of him, shook his head and muttered, ‘Bloody Knights Templar.’

‘
I’ll take that as a “no”,’ she said when he bent his head and resumed his deciphering, attempting to crack Fortes de Pinós’s code of slashes and dots.

For the last two hours, he’d been going nonstop
. Soon after checking into their room, he’d emailed digital photographs of the copper rubbings that she’d made at Ponferrada Castle to a scholar at Oxford who was an expert in ancient languages. That done, he’d phoned Gita with an update, the relief in her voice heartbreaking. Even Caedmon had been rendered misty-eyed, his stiff upper lip quivering ever so slightly.