The Templar Heresy

1

When Chris Bronson stepped outside the arrivals building at Kuwait International Airport the humid heat hit him like a hot sodden blanket. It actually stopped him in his tracks, and for a few seconds it almost hurt to breathe. His aviator-style sunglasses instantly fogged up, so the heat had rendered him not only immobile but also unable to see.

‘Dear God,’ he muttered, putting down his two small bags at his feet. He only had a cabin bag containing his weekend stuff, a couple of books, washing kit and clothes, and a small leather computer bag that held his netbook and tablet. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, took off his sunglasses, squinting against the hard glare of the morning sun, and wiped the lenses. At least then he would be able to see what was in front of him, even if he had no idea at that moment where he should be heading.

He looked around hopefully, trying to take shallow breaths as his body began to acclimatize to the radical change in temperature and humidity. The air-conditioned aircraft, air-conditioned walkway and air-conditioned terminal building had left him woefully unprepared for the blistering-hot reality of the world outside.

‘Chris!’

He spun round and saw that a sand-coloured 4x4 vehicle had just come to a halt on the access road in front of him, and through the open window a woman was waving enthusiastically at him.

He grinned broadly and waved back, then picked up his bags and walked the short distance across the pavement to the vehicle, opening his arms for a hug as the woman climbed out of the vehicle.

But she shook her head and simply extended her hand for him to shake.

‘No, not here, Chris,’ she said. ‘They’re very touchy about public displays of affection, even between married couples. And we’re not even that any more.’

Bronson took her hand firmly and pulled her towards him, bumping shoulders as he met her eyes.

‘That, Angela, is the biggest regret of my life,’ he said with a wide smile, ‘and I’d be very happy to walk you down the aisle again. All you have to do is say the word.’

‘I do know that,’ she replied, taking a step backwards and looking up at the face of her former husband. ‘And I do kind of miss being Mrs Angela Bronson. It has a nice ring to it, but we had our reasons, Chris, you know that. Anyway, it’s good to see you again. You look well.’

‘So do you,’ Bronson said, his gaze running up and down her body, which was entirely covered apart from her face. ‘What I can see of you, that is.’

‘It’s practical, my dear,’ she said. ‘It’s cooler to wear white or light-coloured clothes out here, and local sensibilities mean I need to cover up.’

‘And the scarf?’ Bronson pointed at her head. ‘You haven’t fully embraced Islam, have you?’

‘Of course not. I don’t have to wear the hijab, but I prefer to, especially in the city. And being blonde always attracts attention in this region. It’s just easier to cover up to avoid being stared at. It makes me feel more comfortable.’

Bronson looked into the back of the vehicle, saw that it was loaded with boxes and packets, and pulled open the rear door, placed his bags on the floor behind the driver’s seat, then walked round and climbed into the front passenger seat.

His ex-wife and still his best friend got in beside him and then, shielded by the tinted windows of the Toyota, leaned over and kissed him firmly on the lips. Bronson grasped her hand and smiled at her, and for a few moments they remained almost motionless, relishing each other’s presence after too long apart.

‘That’s a better hello,’ Angela said, returning his smile. She put the Toyota into gear and pulled away as Bronson buckled his seat belt.

‘Tell me this jeep has got air-conditioning,’ he said with a groan, feeling the sweat already starting to dampen his shirt. ‘It’s like a bloody oven out there.’

‘Actually,’ Angela said brightly, ‘it hasn’t. But what it has got is climate control, which is much better, so if you just sit there and stop complaining about the heat, you’ll cool down in a few seconds.’

Bronson shook his head and adjusted the dashboard vents so that the stream of ice-cold air was directed towards his face and chest.

‘Sorry,’ he replied, as the cool air started to have an effect. ‘The heat was a bit of a shock. I was expecting it, obviously, but it still kind of took me by surprise. How on earth do you manage to work in it?’

Angela shrugged her shoulders. ‘You get used to it, at least to some extent, and we do what we can to keep the sun off our backs at the excavation site. Ideally we’d live somewhere here in the city, but we don’t really have any option,’ she continued. ‘The site is too far away for us to commute there on a daily basis from anywhere half-civilized, and being on site all the time means that we can get a lot of work done first thing in the morning before the sun gets too high in the sky, and carry on late into the evening until the light finally goes. We each spend at least two nights in a hotel in Kuwait every fortnight, just to wash off the dust and dirt. Showering in the desert isn’t the easiest thing to do.’

‘Isn’t it a hassle going back and forth across the border between Kuwait and Iraq so often?’

‘We do have to cross the border, obviously, but there’s absolutely no indication apart from the GPS’ — she pointed at a unit attached to the windscreen with a suction cup — ‘and possibly a couple of border guards patrolling the area in a 4x4 to tell you where you are and when you’ve crossed into Iraq. I can promise you that the desert in Kuwait is absolutely identical to the desert in Iraq. The dig is in a kind of empty quarter, so that’s why we need a professional standard GPS to navigate by lat and long. There are only a handful of roads out there.’

‘Makes sense,’ Bronson said. ‘So we’re heading straight out there, are we? I saw you’ve already got all the gear in the back of the truck.’

‘We are, yes, but we’ve got to stop and pick up somebody before we leave Kuwait City. Stephen Taverner — another archaeologist from the British Museum. I gave him a lift here a couple of days ago for an appointment and it’s easier for us to all go back together.’

‘So you didn’t just drive down to meet me?’

Angela nodded.

‘Well, sort of. The main reason I drove down was to collect you, obviously, but one of our vehicles does a supply run at least once a week, and we also had to deliver some of the relics we’ve uncovered to the museum in Kuwait. The staff there are collating what we’ve found, and they’ll then arrange to transport everything up to Baghdad.

‘Normally, of course, we’d expect to take the stuff straight to the museum that authorized or sponsored the dig, but Baghdad is just too far away to make that feasible in this case. Where we’re digging is about three hundred miles from Baghdad as the crow flies, and probably over four hundred by road — not that there are many of them, or not proper roads anyway. But Kuwait City is only about sixty miles away in a straight line, and a bit over one hundred on the route we drive. And don’t forget that this is a joint expedition. We have both Iraqi and Kuwaiti archaeologists involved in the dig, plus the three of us from the British Museum and a couple of French experts from a Paris museum, so it really does make sense to use Kuwait City as our base.’

Bronson switched his gaze from Angela’s profile to the view through the windscreen. It was the first time he’d been to Kuwait, though he had on occasion visited Dubai and Muscat, albeit briefly, and he could immediately see the similarities. The skyline in front of them was dominated by skyscrapers and there were signs of recent construction everywhere; the roads were wide and in good condition, most of the vehicles looked quite new, and the driving was universally awful, vehicles swapping lanes at random and without the use of indicators or mirrors, and all driving far too close to one another, and far too fast.

‘The driving doesn’t bother you?’ he asked, looking at a car moving alongside them.

‘It terrified me at first, but after a week or so I got used to it.’ She broke off and hit the horn hard as a white Nissan saloon dived across two lanes of traffic and pulled in front of them with only inches to spare, before swinging off on to an exit slip road.

Bronson lifted his foot from the imaginary brake that he had applied as the car appeared, and shook his head.

‘I thought Cairo was bad,’ he muttered, ‘but this is probably worse, and everything’s moving a hell of a lot faster.’

‘We won’t be in it for very long,’ Angela said, slowing down slightly as the vehicles ahead began bunching up, brake lights flaring into life. ‘Once we’ve collected Stephen we’ll be heading out of town, and the roads should be fairly empty.’

About fifteen minutes later she pulled the Toyota to a stop directly outside a hotel on a side street and tooted the horn briefly.

Almost immediately, a tall, thin man with sandy hair and what looked to Bronson like three days’ growth of beard walked out of the hotel and over to the Land Cruiser. He’d actually stretched out his hand to the front passenger door handle before he registered the fact that the seat was already occupied. Instead, he opened the rear door and pulled himself into the back seat, a gust of hot damp air accompanying him.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’m Stephen Taverner,’ he said, and extended his hand for Bronson to shake.

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Chris. I’m Angela’s former other half, if you can call me that.’

‘Oh, of course, Chris Bronson. She’s told us all about you.’

‘Nothing good, I expect,’ Bronson said.

‘No, not really,’ Stephen replied, deadpan. Then he grinned, but immediately grimaced and put the palm of his hand against the side of his face. ‘This blasted tooth,’ he said. ‘The dentist hacked out the old filling and put in a new one, but it’s still giving me gyp. No, actually, Angela was quite complimentary about you, given the fact that you’ve been divorced for so long. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe?’

‘Not in my case,’ Angela piped up, swinging the Land Cruiser around a corner to head back the way they’d come. She gave Bronson a wry smile. ‘But Chris can be useful, especially in a tight corner.’

‘So if you’re not here for some kind of reconciliation with the fair Angela,’ Stephen asked, ‘why are you out here at all?’

‘I had a couple of weeks’ leave due, and I thought I needed a change of scene from rural Kent, so when Angela suggested I come out to see what she was up to in Iraq, I booked a flight and packed my shorts. I would have packed a bucket and spade, but she told me not to bother.’

Stephen nodded. ‘Quite right too. Archaeologists almost never use anything as crude as a spade. Our tool of choice is usually a brush or, if something is particularly reluctant to come back into the light of day, a small trowel.’ He paused for a moment, then added: ‘So are you looking forward to seeing the temple?’

‘Temple?’ Bronson demanded, his interest piqued. ‘What temple?’