The Last Templar - Страница 3

Almost all of the exhibits were displayed in glass cabinets, and it was clear from even a cursory glance that many of those exhibits were enormously valuable. Even for someone with Tess's lack of religious conviction, they were impressive, even stirring, and as she glided past the grand staircase and into the exhibition hall, her heart raced ahead with the rising swell of anticipation.

There were ornate alabaster altar pieces from Burgundy with vivid scenes from the life of Saint Martin. Crucifixes by the score, most of them solid gold and heavily encrusted with precious stones; one of them, a twelfth-century cross, consisted of more than a hundred figures carved out of a walrus tusk. There were elaborate marble statuettes and carved wooden reliquaries; even emptied of their original contents, these chests were superb examples of the meticulous work of medieval craftsmen. A glorious brass eagle lectern proudly held its own next to a superlative six-foot painted Spanish Easter candlestick, which had been prized away from the pope's own apartments.

As Tess took in the various displays, she couldn't help but feel recurring pangs of disappointment.

The objects before her were of a quality she would have never dared hope for during her years out in the field. True, they had been good, challenging years, rewarding to a certain extent. They had given her a chance to travel the world and immerse herself in diverse and fascinating cultures. Some of the curiosities she had unearthed were on display in a few museums scattered around the globe, but nothing she'd found was noteworthy enough to grace, say, the Sackler Wing of Egyptian Art or the Rockefeller Wing of Primitive Art. Maybe... maybe if I'd stuck with it a little bit longer. She shook the thought away. She knew that that life was over now, at least for the foreseeable future.

She would have to make do with enjoying these marvelous glimpses into the past from the remote, passive viewpoint of a grateful observer.

And a marvelous glimpse it was. Hosting the show had been a truly remarkable feat for the Met, because almost none of the items sent over from Rome had ever been previously exhibited.

Not that it was all gleaming gold and glittering jewels.

In a cabinet facing her now was a seemingly mundane object. It was a mechanical device of some sort, about the size of an old typewriter, boxlike and made of copper. It had numerous buttons on its top face as well as interlocking gears and levers protruding from its sides. It seemed out of place amid all this opulence.

Tess brushed aside her hair as she leaned forward to take a closer look. She was reaching for her catalog when, above her own blurred reflection in the glass of the cabinet, another loomed into view as someone came up behind her.

"If you're still looking for the Holy Grail, I'm going to have to disappoint you. It ain't here," a gravelly voice said to her. And although it had been years since she'd heard it, she recognized it even before she turned.

"Clive." She turned, taking in the sight of her former colleague. "How the hell are you? You look great." Which wasn't exactly true; even though he was barely into his fifties, Clive Edmondson looked positively ancient.

"Thanks. How about you?"

"I'm good," she nodded. "So how's the grave-robbing business these days?"

Edmondson showed her the backs of his hands. "The manicure bills are killing me. Other than that, same old same old. Literally," he chuckled. "I hear you joined the Manoukian."

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Oh, it's great," Tess told him. That wasn't true either. Joining the prestigious Manoukian Institute had been a bold stroke for her, but as far as the actual experience of working there went, things weren't all that good. But those things you kept to yourself, especially in the surprisingly gossipy and backstabbing world that archaeology could be. Seeking an impersonal remark, she said, "You know, I really miss being out there with you guys."

His faint smile told her he wasn't buying that. "You're not missing much. We haven't hit the headlines yet."

"It's not that, it's just..." She turned, glancing at the sea of displays around them. "Any one of these would have been great. Any one." She looked at him, suddenly melancholic. "How come we never found anything this good?"

"Hey, I'm still hoping. You're the one who traded in the camels for a desk," he quipped. "Not to mention the flies, the sand, the heat, the food, if you can call it that ..."

"Oh my God, the food." Tess laughed. "Come to think of it, I'm not so sure I really miss it anymore."

"You can always come back, you know."

She winced. It was something she often thought about. "I don't think so. Not for a while, anyway."

Edmondson found a grin that seemed more than a little strained. "We'll always have a shovel with your name on it, you know that," he said, sounding anything but hopeful. An awkward silence settled between them. "Listen," he added, "they've set up a bar over in the Egyptian Room, and, from the looks of it, they've got someone who knows how to mix a decent cocktail. Let me buy you a drink."

"You go ahead, I'll catch up with you later," she said. "I'm waiting for Kim and my mom."

"They're here?"

"Yeah."

He held up his palms. "Whoa. Three generations of Chaykins—that should be interesting."

"You've been warned."

"Duly noted." Edmondson nodded as he ventured into the crowd. "I'll catch you later. Don't disappear on me."

***

Outside, the air around the piazza was electric. The cameraman josded to get into a clean shot as the claps and whoops of delight from the elated crowd drowned out his reporter's efforts at commentating. It got even noisier when the crowd spotted a short, heavy-set man in a brown security guard uniform leave his position and hurry over to the advancing horsemen.

From the corner of his eye, the cameraman could tell something wasn't exacdy going according to plan. The guard's purposeful stride and his body language clearly indicated a difference of opinion.

The guard raised his hands in a stopping motion as he reached the horses, blocking their procession.

The knights reined in their horses, which snorted and stamped, obviously uncomfortable at being kept stationary on the steps.

An argument seemed to be under way. A one-sided one, the cameraman observed, as the horsemen weren't reacting to the guard's ranting in any discernible way.

And then one of them finally did something.

Slowly, milking the moment for all its theatricality, the knight closest to the guard, a bear of a man, unsheathed his broadsword and raised it high above his head, provoking another barrage of popping flashbulbs and yet more applause.

He held it there, with both hands, still staring straight ahead. Unflinching.

Although he had one eye glued to his viewfinder, die cameraman's other eye was picking up peripheral images and he was suddenly aware of something else happening. Hurriedly, he zoomed in on the guard's face. What was that look? Embarrassment? Consternation?

Then he realized what it was.

Fear.

The crowd was now in a frenzy, clapping and cheering wildly. Instinctively, the cameraman zoomed out a touch, broadening his view to take in the horseman.

Just then, the knight suddenly brought down his broadsword in a quick, sweeping arc, its blade glittering terrifyingly in the flashing artificial light before striking the guard just below the ear, the power and velocity of the blow great enough for it to shear straight through flesh, grisde, and bone.

From the onlookers came a huge collective gasp, which turned into penetrating screams of horror that rang through the night. Loudest of all was the shriek of the reporter who clutched at the cameraman's arm, causing his picture to judder before he elbowed her away and kept on shooting.

The guard's head fell forward and began to bounce hideously down the museum's steps, unspooling a splattered, red trail all die way down behind it. And after what seemed like an eternity, his decapitated body slumped sideways, collapsing onto itself while spouting a small geyser of blood.

Screaming teenagers were stumbling and falling in their panic to escape the scene, while others, further back and unaware of exactly what was happening but knowing that something big was taking place, pushed forward. In seconds, there was a terrified tangle of bodies, the air ringing with screams and cries of pain and fear.

The other three horses were now stamping their hooves, jinking sideways on the steps. Then one of the knights yelled, "Go, go, go!"

The executioner spurred his mount forward, charging at die wide-open doorways to die museum.

The otiiers bolted and followed close behind.

Chapter 3

In the Great Hall, Tess heard the screams from outside and quickly realized something was very, very wrong. She turned in time to see the first horse burst through the door, shattering glass and splintering timber inward as the Great Hall erupted into chaos. The smooth, polished, immaculate gathering disintegrated into a snarling atavistic pack as men and women shoved and screamed their way out of the path of the charging horses.

Three of the horsemen rampaged through the crowd, swords crashing through display cabinets, trampling on broken glass and shattered timber, and damaged and destroyed exhibits.

Tess was thrown aside as scores of guests tried desperately to escape through the doors and into the street. Her eyes darted around the hall. Kim—Mom—Where are they'? She looked around, but couldn't see them anywhere. To her far right, the horses wheeled and turned, obliterating more displays in their path. Guests were sent flying into cabinets and against walls, their pained grunts and shrieks echoing in the vast room. Tess glimpsed Clive Edmondson among them as he was knocked violently sideways when one of the horses suddenly reared backward.