The Last Templar - Страница 37

Reilly settled into the worn chair. "The box we're interested in should be pretty distinctive. You can just zoom through them, I'll let you know when we get a hit."

"You got it." The man nodded as he started scrolling through his databank.

Images unfurled on his screen, side- and top-view X-rays of crates of various sizes. In them, one could clearly make out the skeletal images of the objects the curators at the Vatican had shipped over for the Met exhibit. Reilly, still annoyed with himself at not having thought of this before, fixed his concentration on the monitor, as did Aparo. His heartbeat raced as blue-and-gray ghosts of ornate frames, crucifixes, and statuettes cascaded before them. The resolution was surprisingly good, much better than he'd anticipated: he could even make out small details like encrusted jewels or moldings.

And then, out of the deluge of dizzying images, it appeared.

"Hold it." A rush of excitement surged through Reilly.

There, in high-resolution clarity, stripped of its cloaking carcass and displaying its glorious innards, was the encoder.

Chapter 46

Tess stopped in her tracks the second she stepped into the meeting room. She'd been happy enough to hear from Reilly after three days of frustrating silence, three days during which she was finding it increasingly difficult to dodge her mother's insistent calls for her to join them in Arizona.

She had also started to feel antsy; she realized that the investigation had taken over her life, and 102

that, regardless of what Reilly advised, this wasn't something she could walk away from.

And now, seeing what was sitting on the conference table, any notion of her walking away from this was dead and buried.

There, built of solid, transparent plastic, was an exact replica of the multigeared rotor encoder.

She could barely manage to bring out the words. "How . . . ?"

She looked up at Reilly in utter amazement. He had obviously planned it that way; his call, asking her to come down to Federal Plaza, had mentioned nothing other than a mundane "going over a couple of things with you."

She was suddenly aware of all the other faces in the room. Jansson, Aparo, Gaines, a few others she didn't recognize—and the monsignor. She looked again at Reilly.

He just flashed a restrained, brief smile. "I thought you might want to be here for this." He pointed at one of the men she hadn't met before. The man was distributing a stapled printout to everyone in the room. "That's Terry Kendricks. He built it."

"Well, my team and I," Kendricks quickly interjected, smiling effusively at Tess. "Good to meet you."

Tess was finding it difficult to tear her eyes away from the machine. She perused the printout in her hands, which confirmed her hopes. She looked up at Kendricks.

"It works?"

"Oh yes. It all fell into place perfectly. In Latin, of course. At least, that's what I'm told by the team of linguists who translated it."

Tess still didn't get it. She turned imploringly to Reilly. "But . . . How?"

"Everything gets X-rayed when it goes through Customs," he explained. "Even when it's on loan from the Holy See."

Tess had to sit down. Her knees felt like they were about to cave in under her. With slightly trembling hands, she studied the document he'd handed her. Eagerly, she concentrated on the neatly printed words.

It was a letter, dated in May of 1291.

"That's the time of the fall of Acre," she exclaimed. "The last city the Crusaders held."

She turned her attention back to the letter and began to read, feeling the thrill of connecting directly over the centuries with men whose exploits had become the stuff of legend.

"It is with great sadness," the letter began, "that I inform you that Acre is no longer under our protection. We departed the city as darkness fell, our hearts heavy as we watched it burn ..."

Chapter 47

Eastern Mediterranean—May 1291

They had sailed north along the coast all night and, when dawn broke, the galley turned west and headed toward Cyprus and the safety of their preceptory there.

After the devastating blow of those last hours at Acre, Martin had gone below to try to rest, but the movement of the ship made that hard, and images of the dying master and of the harried escape remained locked in his mind. When he came back on deck at first light, he was shocked by what he saw. Ahead of them, bright streaks of lightning were breaking the darkness of a fast approaching storm head, and the dim rumble of thunder could be heard over the keening of the wind in the rigging. Behind them, to the east, a strip of angry, purple clouds hid the rising sun, its rays stabbing upward in a desperate attempt to lighten the grim sky.

How is it possible? Martin thought. Two storms, one ahead of us, the other chasing us. A quick word with Hugh confirmed that the shipmaster hadn't seen anything like it before either.

They were boxed in.

The wind speed quickened and with it came sudden spurts of cold, stinging rain. The sail was being whipped violently against its yard, the

crewmen struggling to keep its braces under control,

the mast groaning in protest. The horses in the hold neighed and pawed restlessly at the planking.

Martin watched as the shipmaster feverishly consulted his chart and marked their present position before ordering the overseer to hasten the pace of the galley slaves and shouting out new headings to the steersman in a desperate effort to break away from the storms.

Martin joined Aimard at the forecastle. The older knight was also watching the approaching storms with mounting concern. "It's as if God Himself were willing the sea to swallow us," he said to Martin, his eyes laced with deep-seated unease. Before long, the storm erupted around them with a savage ferocity. The sky darkened into an impenetrable black, turning the day into night, and the wind rose to a full gale. All around the ship, the roiling surface of the water suddenly broke into massive whitecaps that raced toward them, battering their starboard stern. Lightning exploded in tandem with earsplitting thunder cracks, and heavy rain lashed down at the ship in a thick veil of water that cut off the outside world.

Hugh ordered a man aloft to scan the horizon for a possible landfall. Martin watched as the reluctant man braved the torrential rain and scrambled up to the crow's nest. The ship plowed on as massive waves hammered against it, some of them rising high over the stern before smashing down onto the deck. The oars took on a life of their own, some of them snapping against the hull, others slamming brutally into the shackled slaves wrestling with them, injuring several, and prompting Hugh to call for the oars to be pulled in.

The ship had been tossed helplessly through mountainous waves for hours when, over the almost deafening uproar, Martin heard a splintering crack as the aft hatch covers split open and dark blue water poured into the holds. Almost at once, the ship was wallowing dangerously when from above came the wrenching sound of timber being ripped apart. The mast had snapped, and Martin looked up in time to see it crashing down onto three crewmen while catapulting the hapless observer in the crow's nest into the churning sea.

Without sail or oars, the galley was at the mercy of the storm and the currents, pushed and pulled aimlessly by the angry sea. For three days and three nights, the storm didn't let up, the Falcon Temple bending to its rampaging will, somehow managing to stay afloat and in one piece.

Then on the fourth day, with the winds still not letting up, a lone voice cried out, "Land!

Land!" Martin peered out and saw a man pointing dead ahead, but he couldn't see anything apart from the rising sea. Then he spotted it: a distant, dark mass on the horizon, barely discernable.

And then it happened.

Cruelly, and within sight of land, the ship started to break up. The carvel-built, even planking had taken a ferocious beating, and now it was giving up. Deafening groans were followed by what sounded like explosions as the entire hull came apart. Panic erupted among the chained oarsmen, while the horses below reared and whickered furiously.

"The slaves," Hugh roared. "Unshackle them before they drown!" His men scrambled to release them from their chains, but their freedom was short-lived as bursts of water thundered into the hull and swept them away.

Hugh could no longer forestall the inevitable. "Put the longboat to sea," he bellowed, "and abandon ship." Martin rushed to help secure their only means for survival and saw Aimard emerge, carrying a bulky leather pouch, and head in the opposite direction toward the forecastle. Martin yelled out to him just as another massive wave struck, and Aimard was hurled helplessly across the bridge and slammed against the chart table, impaling the side of his chest on its corner. He cried out in pain but then gritted his teeth and braced himself upright, one hand clasped against his ribs. Aimard pushed aside Martin's offer of help and wouldn't release the pouch, even though it was clear that its bulk and weight were adding greatly to his discomfort.

They barely managed to climb into the longboat, which was now level with die galley's deck, and the last glimpse Martin of Carmaux had of the Falcon Temple came as die battered vessel was finally consumed by the raging sea. The huge balk of timber that ended in the carved figurehead snapped like a twig before the awful might of the storm, any sound it made overwhelmed by the demonic shrieking of the wind and the hideous screams of the drowning horses. Looking at the eight other men in the longboat, Martin saw his dread mirrored in their desolate stares as, piece by piece, the ship disappeared beneath the mountainous waves.