822 VR. “A European manufacturer, I see.” Topol ran his finger over the long hollow drum attached to its chuck. Its circular tip was razor sharp. “A coring drill. This part of your toolbox?”
Shortly following the theft, when Topol’s forensic crime team initially had analyzed the blast area, they’d found the drill abandoned on the floor. No prints. That morning, Topol had ensured all documentation concerning it had been struck from records.
The archaeologist’s complexion turned gray. “I’ve never seen that thing before in my life,” he said weakly. Voices were starting to sound hazy, as if everything was happening in slow motion. Could this really be happening?
“And what do you have here?” Topol leaned over and snatched the vellum off the table, eyeing it curiously. “Seems to be an ancient document.” He unfolded the sheet of paper containing the photocopy and accompanying transcription. “I’m no biblical scholar Mr. Barton, but this looks to me like something that implies a burial chamber hidden beneath Mount Moriah. And if I’m not mistaken, wasn’t Joseph of Arimathea somehow connected to Jesus Christ? Isn’t he the subject of legends about the Holy Grail—a priceless relic for those who believe?”
There was a sarcastic tone to Topol’s voice that only reaffirmed his suspicion that somehow, he already knew about the scroll. Perspiration started to bead on his forehead. The walls were closing in.
“You were given access to the crime scene and in return you tampered with key evidence—scratching inscriptions from the wall, removing the remaining ossuaries.”
“What?” Barton was aghast. “Are you completely out of your mind?”
“You heard me. The Waqf insists that the remaining nine ossuaries have mysteriously vanished. It seems that the thief is still among us.”
That the ossuaries had suddenly vanished was truly disturbing, but something about the major’s first accusation struck even harder. “Scratching inscriptions from the wall? What does that mean?”
Topol was prepared for this. From his jacket, he produced a picture and handed it to Barton. “See for yourself. That picture was taken by my forensic team a day before you arrived.”
Stunned, Barton saw that the clearly framed image was the stone tablet affixed to the crypt wall. Nine names were listed...and one perfectly clear relief depicting a dolphin intertwined around a trident. He had seen this symbol before, and knew its origin well. Its implications shook him to the core. But he couldn’t deal with that now; he needed to save himself first. “Being framed is not what I had in mind when I signed up for this project.”
Topol dodged that comment. The second officer returned and he motioned them toward Barton.
46
******
Paris, France March 18, 1314
Hands bound behind his back, Jacques DeMolay was escorted by guards up the steps of the wooden scaffold in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. Glancing up at what had once seemed a transcendentally grand work of architecture, DeMolay saw only the stone skeleton of a mammoth demon— the flying buttresses were giant ribs, the twin spires horns, the fiery rose window an enormous evil eye. He heard the sound of the River Seine as it looped around Ile de la Cite, carving the tiny island away from the rest of Paris as if it were a cancer.
Gazing down to the cathedral’s front steps, he scanned the assembled papal prelature seated there and tried to find Clement’s ugly face. Having failed miserably in his appeal to King Philip to reinstate the Order, the damned traitor did not have the nerve or decency to make an appearance. Three cardinals sat center stage to officiate and act the role of executioners.
A large crowd had gathered to watch the impromptu trial, eager to lay eyes on a fallen hero about to meet a tragic end. DeMolay felt like an actor, alone on an ominous stage, until moments later, three other Templar dignitaries were pushed up the wooden stairs and herded beside him.
With pride, Jacques DeMolay glanced over to them: Geoffroy DeCharnay, Hugues DePairaud, and Geoffroy DeGonneville—all honorable men who had served the Order nobly. Unfortunately, they too had been in France almost seven years earlier when King Philip had ordered his armies to secretly round up the Templars.
Minutes later, the farce began with fiery testimonies from sharptongued priests inciting the crowd with their farrago of accusations and false charges levied against the Knights Templar. Particular emphasis was paid to lurid accounts of homosexuality and devil worship, since those fabrications played well with the crowd’s emotions. Then, as DeMolay listened in utter amazement, the priest read a document to the crowd that itemized DeMolay’s signed confessions to the charges—a document he had never seen before.
The lies seared DeMolay’s ears like burning embers, but he remained defiant, occasionally glancing up at the stone gargoyles leering down from Notre Dame’s facade.
Silence fell abruptly over the scene when one cardinal stood, pointed at the Grand Master, and yelled: “And you Jacques DeMolay, the very evil who leads this ungodly Order, what say you to the charges presented herewith? Do you once and for all profess your guilt by affirming that these confessions are your true testament so that you may reclaim your dignity in the presence of God?”
DeMolay eyed the cardinal curiously, amazed that he had once so loyally served men like this. So many Templars had died in the name of Christ in the Holy Land. He felt like shouting out the lies that these sanctimonious bastards had propagated through the centuries to undermine that sacrifice. But no one would ever believe the amazing things he had learned and the equally amazing relics still hidden beneath the site of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem that attested to those truths. Without proof, he would merely tarnish his reputation further and play into the hands of his executioners. DeMolay took solace in knowing that some day the truth would be discovered... and woe to all who tried to deny it, he thought. He knew that these men were determined to destroy him. Whether it happened today, or after more years slowly rotting to death in some vile prison cell, he was doomed—the target for the king’s malicious scheme.
The Grand Master looked deep into the eyes of his three friends and saw a common resolve beneath a thin veil of fear. The brotherhood would endure until the very end.
Clearing his throat DeMolay stared back at the cardinal. “It is only right that when my life is to be taken by those I have so loyally served, that I should make known the deceptions here presented and that I tell the only truth from my own lips. Before God and all who witness this injustice”— his eyes panned over the crowd—“I admit I am guilty of a gross iniquity. But not one fabricated by my accusers.” He swung his gaze back at the cardinal. “I am guilty only of the shame and dishonor I have endured through torture and threat of death to induce these disgusting charges laid against the Templar Order. I declare before you now that the noble men who have served this Church to protect Christianity have been unjustly demonized. Therefore, I disdain to disgrace my brothers by grafting yet another lie.”
Astounded at the prisoner’s brazen rebuttal, the cardinal stood mute for a long moment before declaring, “By denouncing this sworn confession, you leave me no choice but to invoke the decree of King Philip that you shall perish by fire.”
DeMolay smiled thinly. Finally, the end would come.
Then the cardinal addressed the remaining three Templars, sentencing all to life imprisonment. DeMolay was shocked when Hugues DePairaud and Geoffroy DeGonneville confessed to the charges.
