The Last Templar

Chapter 52

The man seated six rows back from Tess was far from comfortable. He hated flying. It didn't have anything to do with an irrational fear of it, nor was he in any way claustrophobic. He simply couldn't stand being confined for hours in a tin can where he wasn't allowed to smoke. Ten hours. And that wasn't counting the time spent in the equally smoke-free terminal.

Nicorette country.

He'd been lucky. Tasked with keeping an eye on Tess, he'd had to make do with an uncomfortably remote viewing spot due to the police watch on her house. Had he been any closer, though, he would have probably missed her slipping away from the back of the house, across two neighboring houses' backyards, then back to the street and the cab that was waiting for her only yards from where he'd been parked.

He'd alerted De Angelis and tailed her to the airport. From his seat in the departure lounge, he'd been able to observe Tess and Reilly at ease without any risk of detection. Neither of them was aware of his existence. He had called De Angelis from his cell phone twice. The first time to let him know that Tess had been allowed to board the aircraft. The second shortly after, this time from his seat inside the plane, when he'd barely had time to inform the monsignor of Reilly's appearance before his conversation was cut short by an insistent flight attendant who made him shut off his cell phone.

Leaning out to look up the aisle, he studied his two targets as he twirled a small disc no bigger than a quarter across his fingers. He'd noticed that Reilly hadn't brought any hand luggage on board. It didn't really matter. Tess had a carry-on bag stuffed into the overhead compartment, and she was his primary target. As he watched them, he knew he didn't need to rush things. It was going to be a long flight, and most of the cabin, including his targets, would be asleep at some point. He'd have to be patient and wait for the right opportunity to plant his tracking device. At least, he mused, it would provide him with some distraction on this otherwise irksome journey.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, frowning as the flight attendant passed him and proceeded down the aisle, checking to make sure die seat belts were all fastened. He hated the rigidity of the whole travail. He felt like he was back in sixth grade. Can't smoke, can't call. Can't call them stewardesses. What's next? Permission slips to use the John?

He glared out the window and stuffed two more pieces of Nicorette into his mouth.

****

De Angelis was arriving at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey when Plunkett called him. The small airport was a quieter and more efficient option for his hastily arranged trip; seven miles from Manhattan, it was a favored haven for celebrities, business executives, and their private jets.

Sitting in the back of the Lincoln Town Car, the monsignor was almost unrecognizable. He had discarded his austere attire for the smart black Zegna suit he was more used to, and, although he always had some misgivings when he set aside his Roman collar, he had readily done so now, opting for a blue dress shirt instead. He had also done away with the dowdy, smeared glasses he had worn during his stay in Manhattan; in their place were his habitual, rimless pair. His tattered leather briefcase was gone, a slim aluminum one now sitting next to him as the dark limousine whisked him right up to the aircraft's door.

As he climbed aboard the Gulfstream IV, he glanced at his watch again and did a quick calculation.

He knew he was in good shape. He would probably land in Rome slightly before Tess and Reilly reached Istanbul. The G-IV wasn't just one of the handful of private jets that had the range to reach Rome without refueling; it was also faster than the massive, four-engined Airbus in which they were flying. He would have a bit of time to collect whatever equipment he needed to complete his mission and still be able to meet them wherever they were headed.

Taking his seat, he pondered again the dilemma Tess Chaykin presented. All the FBI really cared about was locking up Vance for the attack on the Met. She, on the other hand, was after something else; he knew that long after Vance was behind bars, she would keep on searching, turning over stones, looking for it. It was in her nature.

No, he had no doubt about it; at some point, after she had outlived her current usefulness, he would probably have to deal with this problem. A problem that had just been exacerbated by Reilly and his ill-advised decision to accompany her.

He shut his eyes and leaned back against the soft headrest of his plush swivel chair. He wasn't worried in the least. It was an unfortunate complication he would simply have to deal with.

Chapter 53

They were at cruising altitude before Tess began to explain her findings to Reilly. "We were looking for a place that doesn't exist, that's all."

They had managed to get a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline, shimmering in dizzying golden-blue hues from the setting sun, the Twin Towers even more notable now for their absence, the full scale of the catastrophe made even more visceral from the air. Then the red-tailed aircraft had banked and powered itself skyward through thin cloud cover, effortlessly reaching the clear air at thirty-seven thousand feet. Night would come quickly now as they rushed headlong into the approaching darkness.

"Aimard of Villiers was smart and he knew that the man he was writing the letter to, the master of the Paris Preceptory, was as smart as he was." Tess was visibly excited about her discovery. "There is no Fonsalis.'' There never was. But in Latin, fans is the word for 'well'—not as in 'feeling well,' but the kind with water, like a wishing well—and well means 'willow' "

"'The well of the willow'?"

Tess nodded. "Exactly. And then I remembered that they were in enemy territory when Aimard wrote his letter. The village had been overrun by the Muslims, and it got me thinking—why would Aimard use the Latin name for the village? How did he know it? It was more likely he'd know the Arabic name for it, the name its conquerors used. That's the name the goatherd would have given them. But Aimard wanted to disguise the name, in case the letter fell into the wrong hands and was eventually decoded."

"So the village was called 'The well of the willow'?"

"Exactly. It was common practice to name places after any geographic features they had."

He looked at her doubtfully. Something in her reasoning seemed to bother him. "To do that, he had to speak their language."

"He would have known it, or, if not him, one of the others with him. By the end of the Crusades, a lot of those knights were actually born out there in the Holy Land. They called them poulains. And the Templars had a strange affinity to some of the Muslims. I read that they traded scientific knowledge as well as mystical insights with them, and they were even said to have hired the hashasheen—their incredibly efficient, pot-smoking assassins—on a few occasions."

He arched his eyebrows. "They hired their enemies' assassins? I thought they were there to fight them."

Tess shrugged. "You spend two hundred years in someone else's backyard, sooner or later you make friends."

Reilly acquiesced. "Okay, so what is it in Arabic?"

" 'Beer el Sifsaaf: "

"Which you found by . . . ?"

Tess couldn't suppress a self-satisfied grin. "The journals of Al-Idrissi. He was a famous Arab traveler, one of the great cartographers of the period, and he kept extensive, highly detailed journals of his trips across Africa and the Muslim world, many of which survive to this day."

"In English?"

"French, actually, but it's not that much of a stretch." Tess reached for her tote and pulled out a map and some photocopies she had made of the old book she had found. "He mentions the town and its pillaged church in one of his journals." She opened up a map that was marked with scribbles and notes. "He passed through it, on his journey from Antalya, through Myra, and up the coast to Izmir.

The coastal area there has an abundance of historic sites—Byzantine, Lycian . . . Anyway, his journal's pretty detailed.

All we need to do is follow his route and we'll find the town—and the church."

Reilly stared at die map. "Now that you've done it . . . what do you think the chances are of Vance figuring it out too?"

She frowned, then looked at him with dead-certain eyes. "I'd be amazed if he isn't on his way there already."

Reilly nodded. He was clearly of the same opinion. "I need to use the radio."

He got up and headed for the cockpit.

* * *

By the time Reilly got back, Tess was well settled in, sipping the last of a glass of spicy tomato juice. She'd gotten him one, too. She watched him drink it, feeling a slight quiver at the idea of sitting there next to him, bound for a distant, exotic land, en route to adventure. If someone had told me just two weeks ago that I'd be doing this . . . She smiled inwardly.

He noticed. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm just . . . I'm still stunned that you're here."

"Not as stunned as my boss is, that's for sure."

Her jaw dropped. "You're not AWOL, are you?"

"Put it this way. He's not exactly thrilled about it. But since you didn't know exactly where it is, and since the only way to figure it out was for you to be there physically . . ."

"But you didn't know that before you got on the plane."

He flashed her a small grin. "Are you always such a stickler for detail or what?"

She shook her head, amused by the revelation. So they were going out on a limb. He wants to be here as much as I do. Which surprised her.

Watching him, she realized that she still didn't know that much about the man behind the badge.

That evening, when he had driven her home, she'd caught a few glimpses. His taste in music; his spirituality; his sense of humor, even if it was slightly silted over. She wanted to know more. Ten hours would provide ample opportunity for that—if she could manage to stay awake. Her eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. The exhaustion of the last few days was suddenly catching up on her.

She shifted in her seat, nestling against the window while turning to face him.

"So how is it you can just hop on a plane at a minute's notice?" The curling smile was back.

"Isn't there anyone back home I can bust your balls about, the way you lecture me about Kim?"

Reilly knew what she meant. "Sorry," he teased. "I'm not married."

"Divorced?"

"Nope." Her look made him feel like he needed to expand on that. "A job like mine can be tough on partners."

"Well, sure. If it allows you to hop on planes with girls you barely know—I wouldn't want my husband doing that every day."

He was glad she'd provided a way for him to tack away from where that conversation was headed.

"Talking about husbands, what about you? What happened with Doug?"

Her soft features hardened, her eyes betraying some regret and a tinge of lingering anger. "It was a mistake. I was young—" she groaned, "— younger, and I was working with my dad at the time, not the most exciting of careers. Archaeology's pretty insular. And when I met Doug, he was this brash, confident showbiz guy. He's a charismatic bastard, there's no denying it, and I was just carried away by it. My dad was well-known and admired in his field, but he was a pretty serious guy—a bit grim, you know? And controlling. I needed to get out from under his dominance. And Doug was the way out. This in-your-face, highfalutin go-getter."

"And you're partial to highfalutin, are you?"

Her face scrunched inward. "No. Well, maybe I was. A bit. Anyway, when we were dating, he loved the fact that I also had a career. He was very supportive and interested. Then when we got married ... he changed overnight. He became even more controlling than my dad was. It was like he owned me, like I'd been a collectible he wanted on his shelves. And once he got it ... I was pregnant with Kim before I realized I'd made a mistake. I reluctantly took up my dad's offer to join him on his dig in Turkey—"

"—this is the same trip where you first met Vance?"

"Yes," she confirmed, "anyway, I went there thinking the time off would be good to mull things over, and when I got back I found out he'd been having an affair with the cliche of cliches."

"The weathergirl?"

Tess let out a pained chuckle. "Almost. His producer. Anyway, that was it. I was out of there."

"And you went back to using your maiden name."

"It doesn't exactly hurt in this business. Not that I wanted that creep's name associated with mine any longer than I had to." Far from hurting, it had gone a long way in helping her get the job at the Manoukian Institute. And that was why a potential discovery of this magnitude, which owed nothing to Oliver Chaykin or to being his daughter, might be the stroke that dissolved any lingering thoughts, in her mind and the minds of others, that she was anything other than her own woman.

Provided, of course, that she was the one who made the discovery.

Her eyelids fluttered. She was weary and needed some sleep. They both did.

She looked at him warmly. After a quiet moment, she just said, "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For everything." She leaned over, kissed him softly on his cheek, and pulled back. Outside, the stars felt close enough to touch, gliding by almost imperceptibly in the darkening sky. She pulled down the window shade and, turning over and closing her eyes, she felt herself drift away.