The Lost Crown of the Knights Templar

4 Pilate’s Basin

Sam tried to keep as calm as possible. Even after all his years in investigative journalism, he still had not refined the ability to shed apprehension before entering dangerous places. Usually a cigarette or a double shot of something unhealthy helped pacify his demeanor, but even those things were now pointless as his anxiety kicked in.

Through the streets of Ilford, Sam’s taxi took him along N. Circular Road towards the area where he’d almost met his death the day before. Adrenaline coursed through Sam, but to his surprise, its effect was more encouraging than terrifying now.

“Left here, please,” he told the driver. “I’ll just get off on the next corner, thanks.”

Where Sam stepped onto the sidewalk it was relatively quiet. It was mid-morning in the business part of town with most people inside, working, leaving only the unemployed job seekers and the senior citizens to roam the streets to meet up or shop around. The buildings on both sides of the street reached to several stories and their static towers accentuated the movement of the gray clouds overhead.

One block over and across the railway lines, Sam remembered, is where he had left his car. Dressed in his jeans and coat, the latter functioning to hide his Beretta, he walked briskly through the small walkway between buildings, meandering his trail through refuse and plumbing rubble. As he drew closer, his previous negative expectations grew more legitimate. His car was still there, but its tires had been slashed and all the windows smashed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he sighed, yet he was not as surprised about the damage as he was of the fact that they had not torched his car. He looked carefully around and above to survey the immediate vicinity. There were no hostiles present that he could detect, only a few people crossing the street of sporadic traffic. Sam used his old cell phone to call Roadside Assistance, the one business contact he always had on speed dial thanks to the hazards of his profession.

While he waited for them to arrive with three extra tires, he used the time to estimate the damage to the interior of his car. There’d been nothing inside worth taking, unless the plundering maniacs wished to acquire a second hand car radio from 1991 and a dozen empty cans of Monster. Reluctantly he moved towards the trunk of the car, unsure of what awaited inside the place he’d stashed the military toys from the riot coverage, along with his camera equipment. Sam had to check before the assistance he summoned would arrive, so he cracked open the trunk, somehow expecting a booby trap or a trip wire.

“No fucking way,” he muttered as he lifted the lid higher to reveal his gear still intact. “Not a goddamn chance they left it.” He frowned as he examined the equipment and weapons still in the same place he’d left them. Admittedly he was relieved, but not without some suspicion. Why would they sow this much destruction on his car without bothering to score from the raid?

After Roadside Assistance had fitted new tires and added the steep cost to Sam’s account, he was finally able to drive away from the wretched place with only a freshly depleted credit card and bad memories. At least, he thought, he didn’t have to go through the unbearable annoyances of lodging an insurance claim for all his gear.

He arrived at the hospital just before visiting hours and picked up a newspaper in the cafeteria while he waited to see the woman he had rescued. Taking a seat at one of the lopsided plastic tables, he sat down with coffee, eager to peruse the catchy byline of the front page heading “Suspected Muslim Terrorists killed in Barking” to see what the authorities knew. Sam could feel his heartbeat hasten as he read about the incident. The journalist who wrote the piece, Jan Harris, was of the mind that the group of men were killed in an apparent hit, enforced by a rebel leader of the Women’s Liberation Action, Heidi Rechter. However, it was mere speculation.

“Jan Harris,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he recalled the woman he’d once collaborated with during an investigation into illegal trading of contraband in central London. “Fucking know-it-all.”

Sam and Jan had not gotten on well at all, to the point of compromising the assignment. She didn’t like his reckless and almost primal instincts pertaining to the subjects he was investigating, and he couldn’t understand how she always made excuses for criminals while lashing out ignorantly at those who took bad men to task. It was safe to say Sam and Jan were natural enemies. Now she was doing it again, just outwardly naming an unconfirmed suspect in print, pairing it with an ill researched opinion.

The only good thing Sam found about the blatantly erroneous report was that it threw all suspicion off Gerold the Yuppie. After all, the man had not only served justice by dispatching a handful of killers, but he’d save Sam’s life as well. As long as Jan Harris pointed her crooked fingers at the wrong people, Sam and Gerold’s involvement would remain undiscovered.

After reading the article that mostly made the incident out to be an undercover hit on immigrants, Sam folded the paper under his arm and went up two floors to pay Patient #1312 a visit. When he entered the single room she was in, Sam found her awake and quietly examining the walls and ceiling of her room. Her head was heavily bandaged and most of her face was blackened and swollen, hardly allowing her eyes to open.

“Hello,” Sam smiled.

She seemed to start at the sight of him, but he quickly disarmed her with a smile and a gentle tone. “My name is Sam Cleave. I’m a friend. How are you feeling?”

With difficulty she licked her lips to be able to speak. “I have no friends.”

“Then how do you explain being in hospital, instead of being in a morgue fridge?” he said bluntly, but his charm repelled any animosity dormant in his reply. She had to think about a retort, but finally she wearily conceded that he had a valid point.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said slowly, trying to focus on the rough-hewn stranger with her dark eyes. Her nostrils flared slightly, followed by an almost imperceptible gasp. “I remember you,” she said. “You have a distinctive scent, the same odor I smelled yesterday when you carried me.”

A little flustered and somewhat embarrassed, Sam replied, “I did take a shower this morning. That odor should have been gone by now.”

Had her face not been swollen, she would have smiled, but instead, she only managed a grotesque wince. “That’s not what I meant… Sam. Must be your coat or something. It smells of cologne and bad cigarettes.”

Sam didn’t quite know how to take the remark, so he just gave her a coy scoff and looked away. As he did, he noticed the identification number on her slate and it reminded him of something he was supposed to ask.

“Can you remember anything at all about your attack?” he asked. “I mean, why were you sentenced to death? Do you have a husband? Was he involved?”

Whoa, give her time to think! It’s daft to hail down so many questions! his common sense implored. The woman fixed a wide-eyed stare on him, prompting Sam to apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just obsessively curious, you know,” he shrugged, “because of my profession.”

“What is your profession?” she asked plainly. “Snitch? Inspector? Inquisitor?”

Sam smiled. “No, investigative journalist.”

“Snitch, then,” she replied indifferently.

“Why is that? Reporting on injustices is important to those suffering it, including yourself, as we saw yesterday,” Sam explained, trying to be nice.

“Journalists stick their noses where they do not belong, Sam,” she sneered. “They interfere and corrupt the truth to fit the expectations of their governments and appeal to their self-righteous moral high ground.”

“Had I not interfered yesterday, you would have been dead, lady,” Sam snapped.

“Ah,” she nodded, “was that your journalistic duty or your high morals at work, then?”

“Does it matter? Really, does it?” he asked impatiently. “Does there have to be an agenda behind helping people? Does everything have to be the result of some indoctrinated decision based on prejudice?”

“Would you have asked me this if I were not at the receiving end of Sharia Law when you found me?” she inquired sharply. It was that very comment that sparked Sam’s suspicion that she recalled more than she had let on, but he said nothing about this inkling. Instead, he simply rose from his chair and straightened his coat, his eyes cast away from her and smoldering.

“Well, now that you are safe and healing on, I guess I should get going,” he said cordially, his words tinted with sudden emotional distance. He turned and gave her a courteous nod. “I’m glad you are okay. Best of luck.”

Sam left her behind without even remote feelings of guilt. She may have sustained brain damage to her memory receptors, but if she could remember that she was being stoned — if she could recall by which laws she was being punished in such specifics, and odors from his coat — she would have no reason not to remember her own name.

Either she was selectively injured, or she was a liar. Whatever her motives for deceiving the doctors, Sam didn’t have time for feminine mind games, especially when a simple thank you shouldn’t have been too much to ask. Her hostility towards her rescuer was uncalled for, regardless of her injuries, and Sam Cleave was not the type to entertain her blooming resentment.

Leaving the ward felt like a weight lifting off Sam’s shoulders. Of course, he felt sorry for the woman after all she’d been through, but her attitude liberated him from the responsibility he felt toward her, the responsibility that kept him from completing his assignment for submission to the Edinburgh Post. Now he could concentrate on his work and put the stressful incident behind him, with no small amount of thanks to the misguided journalism of Jan Harris.

Sam owed the woman nothing. As he skipped down the steps, he felt light. He had done his part. In fact, he’d done something that hadn’t even been expected of him, and that peaked the balance of his emotional account to leave him all paid up, proud that he’d made a difference… and grateful that he’d survived it.