Christ is lost, and the Templar Order’s been wiped out by the King of France, with the help of his puppet pope.” Tess frowned, remembering the unfortunate tale of the last survivors of the Falcon Temple that she and Reilly had uncovered three years ago. “Imagine … If Conrad had managed to get his hands on this just a few years sooner … it could have changed everything.”
The old woman shook her head. “There was no chance of that happening. Conrad only heard about it because he was living in Constantinople. And the only reason he was there was because the Templars were wanted men.”
Tess nodded. The cruel machinations of fate had loaded the dice against him right from the beginning. “These Keepers,” Tess asked. “What happened to them? Did Maysoon try to find them?”
“She did,” the old woman said. “But there was no trace of them. They were probably killed during the sacking of the city, maybe by agents of the pope who were looking for the trove.”
“And so Maysoon and her descendants—your family—became the new Keepers,” Tess observed.
The old woman nodded. “Come,” she said. “Let’s go back up. I’ll make another pot of coffee.”
They filed back down the passage and up to the kitchen and stood there while the old woman refilled the tin pot, fired up one of the gas rings on her cooker, and settled the pot on it. A loaded silence smothered the room. After a long moment, Tess broke it.
“So what do we do now?”
The woman weighed her words, then looked at Tess and said, “I don’t know.” She paused for a beat, then asked, “These killers. They’re still out there?”
Tess nodded.
“Then it has to be moved, doesn’t it?” the old woman said. “It can’t stay here.” She sighed heavily. “Can you get it somewhere safe?”
Tess had been mulling over various soft approaches to try and propose the very same thing, but for the old woman to offer it like that took her by complete surprise.
“Of course.”
The old woman’s shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of her decision. “I don’t have much choice, do I? And maybe that’s not a bad thing. You have to understand. This …” She waved her hands expansively, taking in the ground under their feet and the secret it held. “It’s much bigger than us. It always has been. It’s a burden that’s been handed down, generation after generation …” She shook her head ruefully. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t have a choice in the matter, just like my ancestors didn’t. But I did what was expected of me, as many others did before. And no doubt, if and when the day comes, my son will do the same. But to what end? What can we possibly do with it, from here? We’re a simple people, Miss Chaykin. We live simple lives. And this … this deserves some serious attention. The kind of attention someone like you can bring to it. You would be doing me and my descendants a favor. You’d be relieving us of this enormous weight—especially now that you’re telling me there are people out there willing to kill for it.” She put her hands on Tess’s arms. “It needs to be moved to safety. You need to take it from here and do what you think is best with it. Will you do that?”
“It would be a privilege.”
“And don’t worry,” Reilly added. “I’ll make sure you’re well protected until this thing’s over.”
The old woman’s face softened with a hint of relief, then knotted with a question. “What will you do with it?”
“It’ll need to be properly photographed and catalogued,” Tess said. “Then translated. Then we’ll need to figure out who to share it with and how to do that without stirring up too much of a fuss.”
The old woman didn’t seem convinced. “The Dead Sea Scrolls are still shrouded with suspicion. The Nag Hammadi gospels are barely known … What makes you think these will be received differently?”
“We have to try. These writings … they’re part of our evolution, as a civilization. They’ll help us gain in maturity and enlightenment. But it needs to be done slowly, carefully. It has to be timed right. And not everyone will be convinced, or even interested. Those who want to believe, those who really need to believe … none of this will matter to them. It’s not going to change things for them. They’ll always believe, no matter what. That’s what the word ‘faith’ means to them. It’s all about maintaining a solid, unwavering belief regardless of any proof that says otherwise. But for those who are more open-minded and who’d like to make up their own minds … they deserve to have all the necessary information at hand to help them make that decision. We owe it to them.”
The old woman nodded, seeming somewhat more at peace with her momentous decision—then a creak from the living room area caught her attention and made her frown. Reilly and Tess tensed up and went rigid. Reilly brought his hand up to his mouth in a stilling and silencing gesture.
He crept over to the edge of the kitchen and listened. Heard nothing. Kept his ear turned for a moment, just to be sure. Still heard nothing. Despite that, he wasn’t comfortable with just ignoring what they’d heard. He gestured again for the women to stay still, and his other hand reached instinctively to seek out his handgun—then he realized he didn’t have it on him. It was in the rucksack, in the living room.
He glanced around and spotted a large kitchen knife on the draining board by the sink. He grabbed it, then crept to the doorway and flicked off the kitchen’s overhead light, plunging the small space into darkness and casting them in the cold and flickering orange-blue glow of the gas flame.
The old woman sucked in a short and sharp intake of breath.
Tess tensed up even more.
She watched the shadowy contours of Reilly’s silhouette skulk out the door and disappear from view. She held her breath, waiting, listening, the euphoria of the last half hour now vaporized. For a few strung-out seconds, she heard nothing but the frantic bongo solo in her eardrums—then she heard a sharp snap followed by a grunt of pain, a clatter of something metallic, and a loud thump, like a hefty mass hitting the floor.
A fleshy, hefty mass.
The abrupt noise froze her solid. Then she heard it. The voice she had hoped never to hear again, the one she had planned to expunge from her memory with extreme prejudice. The one with the annoyingly smug tinge to it.
“Come on out, ladies,” the Iranian said before appearing at the kitchen door and flicking the light on. He smiled and casually waved them out of the room with his handgun. “Join us. The party’s just getting started.”
Chapter 58
Reilly’s vision was blurred and his skull was flooded with pain as he writhed on the floor of the living room. The hit had come in fast and hard, a rifle butt to the jaw that cut his legs out from under him and dropped him before he even saw who’d hit him.
He could see them now. Men he didn’t recognize, three of them, armed and efficient, slipping past him. Then he saw one he did recognize. The Iranian was herding Tess and the old woman into the living room, at gunpoint. Reilly’s angle of vision, low and oblique given that he was still down and had his head twisted to one side, made the sight look even more disturbing.
“Sit down,” the Iranian said as he nudged Tess with his silencer and prodded her toward the couch.
The two women set themselves down on the edge of the seat cushions, side by side. The Iranian then spat out some orders to his men in a language Reilly couldn’t understand and waved them off. The three men scurried out of the room, presumably to check out the rest of the house.
Reilly caught Tess’s eye. He gave her a slow blink and a tiny nod to try to reassure her. It didn’t do much to alleviate the fear in her eyes, but she still managed a slight nod back. Reilly then gave the rest of the room a quick sweep, from his low vantage point. He spotted Tess’s rucksack. The one with the gun in it. It was still where he’d left it, leaning against the side of the armchair, by the side of the couch. About eight feet away from him. A paltry distance to cover in a sprint, but a significant one given his current stance.
Reilly inhaled deeply and tried to flush the grogginess out of his head. He peered up at the Iranian. The Iranian, as if sensing him, looked down at him. He didn’t look great. His face was more sallow than Reilly remembered it, and he had a sheen of sweat across his forehead. More noticeable, though, was the rage that was seething in his glare. It seemed to Reilly that the man could barely contain the fury that was raging inside him. Reilly decided to keep quiet. The situation was too precarious, his position too weak to risk provoking the man any
