The Last Templar

Chapter 17

O nly a few messages awaited Tess when she walked into her office at the Manoukian Archaeological Institute on Lexington and Seventy-ninth. Predictably, half of them were from her ex-husband, Doug; the other half, almost as predictably, were from Leo Guiragossian, the head of the Manoukian Institute. Guiragossian never made any secret of the fact that he tolerated Tess only because having Oliver Chaykin's daughter at the Institute was very useful when it came to fund-raising. She disliked the balding creep, but she needed the job, and with current budget restraints sparking rumors of staff cuts, now was not the time to act the way she would like to act toward him.

She tossed all the messages into the wastebasket, ignoring the rolled eyes of Lizzie Harding, the demure and motherly secretary she shared with three other researchers. Both Leo and Doug would want the same thing from her: the gory details of Saturday night's events. Her boss's reasons for wanting to know, out of morbid curiosity, were, in a way, slightly less irksome than Doug's self-serving ones.

Tess kept her computer and telephone positioned so that, with a slight turn of her head, she could look out into the paved garden that lay behind the brownstone. The house had been lovingly restored years before her time by the Institute's founder, an Armenian shipping magnate. A massive weeping willow dominated the garden, its elegant foliage cascading down to shelter a bench as well as scores of pigeons and sparrows.

Tess turned her attention back to her desk and fished out the number Clive Edmondson had given her for Jeb Simmons. She dialed it and got his answering machine. She hung up and tried the other number she had for him. His secretary at the History Department at Brown University informed her that Simmons was away on a dig in the Negev desert for three months, but could be reached if it was important. Tess said she'd call back and hung up.

Recalling her conversation with Edmondson, Tess decided to try another tack. She checked the online Yellow Pages, clicked on the dial icon, and got through to the switchboard at Columbia University.

"Professor William Vance," she said to the reedy voice that answered.

"One moment, please," the woman said. After a momentary pause, she was told, "I'm sorry, I don't show anyone listed by that name."

She expected as much. "Can you connect me with the History Department?" A couple of clicks and buzzes and she was speaking to another woman. This one seemed to know who Tess was talking about.

"Sure, I remember Bill Vance. He left us . . . ooh, it must be five or six years ago."

Tess felt a surge of anticipation. "Do you know where I can reach him?"

"I'm afraid I don't, I believe he retired. I'm sorry."

Still, Tess was hopeful. "Could you do me a favor?" she persisted. "I really need to talk to him. I'm with the Manoukian Institute, and we met years ago on a dig. Perhaps you could ask around, see if any of his colleagues at the department know where he can be reached?"

The woman was only too happy to help. Tess gave her name and contact numbers, thanked the woman, and clicked off. She mused on it for a moment, then went back online and did a White Pages search for William Vance. She started in the New York area, but got no hits. One of the disadvantages of cell-phone proliferation, most of which weren't listed. She tried Connecticut. No hits either. She widened the search nationwide, but this time there were just too many matches. She then entered his name into her search engine and got hundreds of hits, but a quick trawl through them didn't reveal any that pointed to his current affiliation.

She sat there, thinking for a moment. In the garden, the pigeons were gone and the sparrows had doubled their presence and were squabbling among themselves. She swung her chair around, letting her eyes range over her bookshelves. An idea struck her and she redialed Columbia University, this time asking to be connected to the library. After identifying herself to the man who answered, she told him she was looking for any research papers or publications they had that were written by Vance. She spelled the name for him and pointed out that she was particularly interested in anything that dealt with the Crusades, knowing Vance probably wouldn't have written papers dealing specifically with the Templars.

"Sure, hold on a moment," the librarian told her and disappeared. After a few moments, he came back. "I just called up everything that we have by William Vance." He read out the titles of the papers and articles Vance had written that seemed to fulfill Tess's requirements.

"Any chance you can send me copies of them?"

"Not a problem. We'll have to charge you, though."

Tess gave him her office address and made sure he billed her in her own name. Right now was not a 41

good time to upset the budget watchers at the Institute. She hung up and felt strangely elated. It brought back memories of the field and of the excitement, particularly at the beginning of a dig, when everything was possible.

But this wasn't a dig.

What are you doing? You're an archaeologist. This isn't detective amateur hour. Call the FBI, tell them what you're thinking, and let them follow it up. Tess wondered if not telling them what she was working on was in any way hindering their progress. Then she dismissed the thought. They'd probably laugh her out of the building. Still. Detectives and archaeologists. They weren't that different, were they? They both uncovered what happened in the past. Okay, so two days ago wasn't really a time frame archaeologists usually focused on.

It didn't matter.

She couldn't help herself. She was way too intrigued by it all. She was there, after all. She was there and she'd made the connection. And most of all, she really, really missed a bit of excitement in her life. She went back online and dove back into her research into the Knights Templar. She glanced up and noticed Lizzie, the secretary, looking at her curiously. Tess smiled at her. She liked Lizzie and occasionally confided in her over personal matters. But, having already talked with Edmondson, she wasn't about to confide in anyone else. Not about this. Not to anyone.