"They fought for the Church," Clement said.
"They were steadfast in their faith."
"They were steadfast in the profits they made from usury," the High Counsel replied.
"Which, if my teaching serves me right, is against Church canon. They fought for the Church when it fit their needs or I told them to."
"He shifted his gaze to the Pope.
"You had no choice, and have no choice. You will do as I order."
With that, the High Counsel turned and made for the stairs, leaving king and Pope behind him.
As soon as he was out of sight, Clement V made the sign of the cross and evoked his own curse: "May God take His own vengeance on you and those you rule."
Philip nodded his assent, but still fearful that the man might overhear them, he did not say anything.
The High Counsel slowly descended and was met halfway down the seventy-meter high tower by the man who had thrown the flammable liquid onto De Molay and silenced him. Like the High Counsel, he used no name other than his title: the Curator.
"The reports from across the continent are coming in," the Curator informed the High Counsel, and fell into step beside his superior, who retraced his route down the tower.
"The knights are finished. A few managed to escape, but most are in custody. Their base of power is gone."
The High Counsel nodded but made no comment. They exited the tower and made their way through the silent cathedral, the early-morning sun casting long shadows through the stained-glass windows, which depicted various biblical scenes. Neither man paused to appreciate the displays. They exited at the rear, where a coach, surrounded by a dozen of the Curator's men armed with swords and crossbows, awaited them. The two entered the coach, the guards mounted their horses, and the entourage moved out.
Inside the coach, they sat across from each other. The curtains were drawn and the interior dark. Despite the lack of light and dialogue, the High Counsel could sense the mood of his chief of security.
"You are upset about disbanding the Templars?"
The Curator had worked for the High Counsel all his life. He'd been at the side of the High Counsel as his bodyguard and responsible for overall security of the organization for over twenty years. He knew better than to deny his true feelings.
"Yes."
"They were becoming too powerful, and coming out of the shadows much too far," the High Counsel said.
"Worse, once De Molay became aware of our existence and that we were using his knights for our own means via the Church, the Templars became dangerous. Our best security is ignorance of our existence and surrounding ourselves with many rings of protection and secrecy."
"I understand," the Curator said.
"But who will we use for our force in the world now? For our outer ring of protection? We need that buffer of ignorant protection to keep our secrecy."
"We will always be able to find and manipulate shadow warriors to unknowingly protect us. There are many ways to manipulate men's hearts and minds to do what we bid without them knowing that we bid it."
"And the Pope and king?"
"Ah, the real cause for your concern," the High Counsel said.
"Let us make De Molay's dying curse come true. Make sure both are dead within the year."
"The Curator nodded in agreement.
"For the greater good."
"For the greater good," the High Counsel echoed.
CHAPTER 1
Jungle surrounded the Philippine army firebase, a dark wall of menacing sounds and shadows in the grayness of evening. The sounds of men preparing for battle – the clank of metal on metal, the grunts of rucksacks being lifted, the murmur of quiet talk between comrades – was muted compared to the noise of the jungle.
"Too close."
Major Jim Vaughn turned to the man at his side, his top noncommissioned officer and his brother-in-law, Sergeant Major Frank Jenkins.
"What?" Jenkins nodded at the wall of trees.
"Field of fire is too short. You could get RPGs right there and blast the crap out of this place."
Vaughn had noted the same thing as soon as they landed.
"Let's be glad this is our last time here."
"Damn civilians," Jenkins muttered.
"'Ours is not to question why – '" Vaughn began.
"'Ours is but to do and die,'" Jenkins finished.
"Not the most cheery saying in the world, Jim."
Vaughn shrugged.
"Okay. But this beats taking tolls on the Jersey Turnpike."
"Not by much," Jenkins said.
"And maybe I'll be one of those toll takers next month. I'm so short – "
Vaughn held up a hand while he laughed.
"Not another 'I'm so short' joke, Frank. Please. My sister knows how short you are."
Jenkins frowned. He reached into one of his pockets and retrieved a worn photograph of a young woman, tenderly placed it to his lips and gave it a light kiss.
"You ain't so young anymore, babe, but you still got it."
He said the words to himself, but Vaughn could hear. He had seen his brother-in-law enact this ritual five times before with his older sister's photo, and it always made him uneasy. Jenkins slid the picture back into his pocket, technically a violation of the rules requiring they be "sterile" for this mission, carrying nothing that indicated in any way who they were, but Vaughn didn't say anything.
Jenkins turned to Vaughn.
"Let's get ready."
Both reached down and lifted the MP-5 submachine guns lying on top of a mound of gear. Made by Heckler amp; Koch of Germany, they were the standard now for most Special Operations forces. These were specially modified with integrated laser sights, and had telescoping stocks allowing the entire weapon to be collapsed to a very short and efficient length or extended for more accurate firing. The worn sheen of the metal indicated they had been handled quite a bit.
Like warriors throughout the ages, the two men geared up for battle. The process was the same – all that had changed was the actual gear. In some ways, with the advent of advanced body armor technology, soldiers were harkening back to the days of knights, when protection was almost as important as weapons. It was a constant race between offense and defense, an axiom of military technology.
Vaughn was tall, just over six feet, and slender, wiry. The uniform draped over his body consisted of plain green jungle fatigues without any markings or insignia. Over the shirt, he slid on a sleeveless vest of body armor securing it tightly around his torso with Velcro straps. It was lightweight but still added noticeably to his bulk. On top of that went a combat harness festooned with holders for extra magazines for the submachine guns, grenades, FM radio, and knife. He wrapped the thin wire for the radio around the vest, placed the earplug in his left ear, and strapped the mike around his throat.
Vaughn slid an automatic pistol into a holster strapped on the outside of his left thigh. Two spare magazines for the pistol went on either side of the holster. Two more spare magazines were strapped around his right thigh in a specially designed holster. He then pulled hard composite armor guards up to just below his elbow, protecting his forearms from elbow to wrist, followed by thin green Nomex flight gloves. Whether handling hot weapons, forcing his way through thick jungle, or simply for protection against falling, he had long ago learned to cover the skin on his hands.
For the final piece of weaponry, he used a loose piece of Velcro on his combat vest to secure a set of brass knuckles that had been spray-painted flat black to his left side.
"You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can't take Boston out of the boy," Jenkins commented.
"South Boston," Vaughn corrected his team sergeant. Jenkins had grown up on a farm in Wisconsin and always found his wife's and brother-in-law's stories of big city life strange. As strange as Vaughn found Jenkins's stories of farm life.
"If you got to use those," Jenkins said, pointing at the brass knuckles, "you're in some deep shit."