Creed that churchgoers still recite every Sunday. His letter can tell us a hell of a lot about how that really happened. What more do you want? What the hell are we doing here anyway? What more do you think you’re going to find?”
The Iranian smiled. “The devil’s handiwork, of course. All of it.”
“There is no devil’s handiwork. They’re old gospels.” Just as she said it, she grimaced. An understanding came bursting out of the dust and the darkness.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, mocking her. “These writings and whatever else the Templars were transporting terrified those monks so much that they were willing to murder to keep them hidden. Then they killed themselves when they lost control of them. They’re not just gospels. To them, they
“And that’s why you want them?”
His smile broadened. “Of course. Your world is already crumbling. And my guess is, this could really help you along your downward spiral. Coming on the back of all these pedophile scandals the Vatican has been so helpful in suppressing? The timing couldn’t be better.”
A nasty chill prickled the back of her neck, but she tried not to show it. “You think you can undermine people’s faith that easily?”
“Absolutely,” the Iranian shrugged. “I think your people are more deeply religious than you give them credit for. Which makes them all the more vulnerable.”
“I know how religious a lot of us are. I just don’t think anyone really cares about the fine print.”
“Maybe not all of them … but a lot of them do. Enough of them to really cause problems. And that’s good enough for me. Because that’s what it’s all about. That’s what you people don’t understand. This battle, this war, between us … this ‘clash of civilizations,’ as your people like to call it. It’s a long-term fight. It’s not about who’s got the biggest gun. It’s not about landing one big killer punch. It’s about attrition. It’s about killing the body slowly, with lots of well-placed jabs. It’s about relentlessly chipping away at the soul of your enemy with every opportunity you get. And right now, your country’s in bad shape. Your economy’s shot. Your environment’s shot. No one trusts your politicians or your bankers. You’re losing every war you get into. You’re more divided than ever and you’re morally bankrupt. You’re on your knees on every front. And every jab, every uppercut that can help bring you further down is worth pursuing. Especially when it comes to religion, because you’re all religious. All of you. Not just the churchgoers. You’re even more religious than we are.”
“I doubt that,” Tess scoffed.
“Of course you are. In more ways than you realize.” He thought for a beat, then said, “I’ll give you an example. Remember that earthquake that killed tens of thousands of people in Haiti recently? Did you notice the way your leaders reacted to it?”
Tess didn’t get the connection. “They sent money and troops and—”
“Yes, of course they did,” the Iranian interrupted. “But so did the rest of the world. No, what I’m talking about is how your leaders really felt about it. One of your most popular preachers went on national television when it hit. You remember that? He said it had happened because the Haitians had made a pact with the devil. A pact with the devil,” he laughed, “to help them get rid of the French tyrants who ruled over them a long time ago. And the amazing thing is, he wasn’t laughed off the stage. Far from it. He’s still hugely respected in your country, even though he just sat there making the same ridiculous speech preachers have been making for hundreds of years, whenever an earthquake or some other disaster strikes. But here’s the part I find really telling. He wasn’t the only one. Your own president—your liberal, modern, intellectual president—he makes a speech about it and he says that ‘but for the grace of God,’ a similar earthquake could have hit America. Think about it. What does that mean, ‘but for the grace of God’? Does he mean God’s grace is protecting Americans and that His grace chose instead to wipe out the people of Haiti? How different is that from what that preacher was saying? You really think your president’s any less religious, any less superstitious, than that madman?”
“It’s just an expression,” Tess countered. “People survive something terrible and they think, ‘God was watching over me.’ They don’t mean it literally.”
“Of course they do. Deep down, they really do. They believe it, your president believes it. You all believe that your God is the real thing and that by being Christ’s chosen people, He will protect you. You’re as backward as we are,” he chortled. “Which is why all this is important to me. And it’s why I won’t give up until we’ve finished what we started.”
Tess felt her temples throbbing. The man was never going to give up. And if he ever did, he wasn’t going to let her walk away.
The Iranian stared her down in silence, his eyes narrowing to feral slits. “This is a great start. You’ve done well. But it’s not the whole story. Now, we know Conrad came here. From the looks of it, he battled some Muslim fighters. Maybe he died here too. Maybe. What we do know for sure is that when he and his men left the monastery of Mount Argaeus, they had three large trunks with them. Three large trunks that must have had more than just two books in them.” He spread his hands out questioningly. “So where’s the rest of it?”
Chapter 41
CAPPADOCIA
MAY 1310
They caught up with them late the next day. Maysoon knew how to read the terrain well. It helped that she had grown up in the region. What didn’t help was that there were six men out there, five of them viciously fit and able, and they were escorting something Conrad was keen to get back without risking any damage to it.
Given their disadvantage, there was only one option. An ambush. It had worked for the Turks. It would have to work for Conrad and Maysoon, if they chose their spot well.
They had to choose it exceedingly well.
They stalked Qassem and his outfit for a few hours, then tracked around them shortly before sunset and rode ahead to size up the ground the Turks would be covering the next day. Maysoon told Conrad they would have to make their move that morning. Any later, and the convoy would reach the wide, open prairies that led to Konya. It would be virtually impossible to take them by surprise there. The landscape was too flat and exposed. They needed to hit them while they were still making their way out of the pockets of trees, the swell of rolling, sun-baked hills and valleys.
The problem was, even there, there weren’t any great spots to choose from. None at all. The landscape was still too open to present any promising ambush points. There weren’t any natural features that they could use. Furthermore, because the area didn’t have any narrow trails, bridges, or crossings that the Turks would have no choice but to take, Maysoon couldn’t even be absolutely certain of which route they would follow. Which meant that even the most cunning ambush could end up going to waste, with the intended victims not showing up.
They only had one choice. To hit the Turks during the night, where they were camped out. Which wasn’t a bad option, necessarily. They just needed to plan it right.
Exceedingly right.
One and a half versus six.
It took a while to find them. The Turks were camped out in a sloping thicket of trees, by the base of a winding valley. Conrad and Maysoon left their horses behind and crawled to within twenty yards of them, guided by the amber flicker of a small campfire the Turks had going and assisted by the glow of a bright gibbous moon. They tracked around their perimeter and noted the relative positions of what they saw: the horses, eight of them, tied to some trees off by the lower end of the slope; one man, seated cross-legged with his back to a tree trunk, watching over the animals; the wagon, its two horses still harnessed to it, the telltale silhouette of the trunks visible under a canvas cover; the men, asleep around the fire; another guard, on the opposite side of the small campsite, one they
