C. M. PALOV
The Templar’s Quest
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
PART II
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
PART III
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
PART IV
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Acknowledgements
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE TEMPLAR’S QUEST
Born in Washington DC, C. M. Palov graduated from George Mason University with a degree in art history. The author’s résumé includes working as a museum guide, teaching English in Seoul, Korea and managing a bookshop. Twin interests in art and arcana inspired the author to write esoteric thrillers. C. M. Palov currently lives in West Virginia.
Paris, France
28 June, 1940
Death is the great equalizer, Friedrich Uhlemann silently mused.
As evidenced by the thousands of bones sandwiched between thick slabs of pitted limestone. Indeed, the catacombs of Paris morbidly flaunted the spirit of ‘ liberté, egalité, fraternité’, with no discernible difference between sinner and saint, prince and pauper, making him think that the French virtues of liberty, equality and brotherhood were only possible in the hereafter. One desiccated bone the same as the next.
Friedrich glanced at the bank of hollowed-out skulls. God alone knew the precise number of residents in the underground necropolis. And only God had known about the gold medallion hidden in these catacombs, safeguarded for centuries by an ossified Templar Knight.
Until the medallion had been uncovered by Friedrich and the six members of his academic team. ‘The Seven’ as some in the Ahnenerbe dismissively referred to them. Founded in 1935 by Heinrich Himmler, the Ahnenerbe was the academic research division for the Nazi SS.
Well aware that the Ahnenerbe did not cultivate or encourage creative vision, Friedrich and his six colleagues took the ridicule in their stride. The fact that they were the only interdisciplinary team in the Ahnenerbe was extraordinary. Even more extraordinary, they counted among their number three Germans, two Italians, a French atheist and a Sunni Muslim from Damascus. Although given the glacial expressions of the dignitaries who were now touring the dimly lit catacombs, the Seven had not yet proven their extraordinary worth.
Tempted to run a finger under his stiff neck collar, Friedrich refrained. They’d been issued new field-grey uniforms for the occasion, and the boiled wool was chafing his skin. In the background, somewhere in the shadows, he heard the steady plop plop plop of dripping water. Belatedly he realized that his heart beat in time with that incessant drip.
A stout fellow in the tour group raised steepled hands to his mouth and noisily blew a warm breath; the ambient air was at least thirty degrees cooler than the above-ground temperature.
Another member of the party, an Iron Cross medal prominently affixed to his uniform jacket, shuddered. ‘My God, this place is macabre.’ No doubt he referred to the twinkling candles inserted into disembodied skulls. This was Friedrich’s doing, though even he agreed that it created a ghoulish effect.
Just then, a lone man broke away from the group and approached the limestone niche where the medallion had been placed. Polished Prussian boots gleamed in the candlelight. As the uniformed man neared, Friedrich took a deep breath, filling his lungs with musty air.
The man stopped in front of the niche, no more than an arm’s length from where Friedrich stood. At that close range, he could see that the other man had pale blue eyes. An unexpected surprise. While his visage was famous the world over, in all honesty, the photographs did not do him justice.
Long moments passed as the blue-eyed man gazed at the gold medallion.
Did he comprehend the importance of the symbols? Their connection to the movement of the great star Sirius? Or that they revealed an ancient and powerful technology?
‘Have you translated the medallion?’
Nodding his head, Friedrich read aloud the engraved inscription. He didn’t bother to mention that the inscription contained a combination of the Occitan language and medieval Latin, suspecting the blue-eyed man didn’t care about the medallion’s linguistic provenance.
‘And you’re certain that this inscription refers to the sacred relic?’
Again, Friedrich nodded, assuming he referred to the Lapis Exillis. ‘We’ve ascertained that the inscription is encrypted and that the encoded message discloses the whereabouts of the sacred relic. Although –’ he hesitated, fearful of the other man’s reaction – ‘we have not yet decoded the message.’
Hearing that, the blue-eyed man glowered. Which, in turn, caused Friedrich’s stomach muscles to painfully cramp.
Like a hapless Christian in the Roman Colosseum, he nervously awaited his fate.
Thumbs up or thumbs down?
‘Find the relic,’ the blue-eyed man ordered brusquely. ‘Its ancient power will decide the destiny of the Reich.’
Friedrich released a pent-up breath. Yes! The blue-eyed man understood!
Unable to contain his euphoria, Friedrich clicked his boot heels while he ardently raised and extended his right hand.
‘Heil, mein Führer!’
PART I
‘Better is little with the fear of the Lord, than great treasure, and trouble therewith’ – Proverbs 15:16
1
Operation Ghost Warrior, Al-Qanawat, Syria
Present Day, 0342 hours
‘What the … ?’
Stunned by what he’d just discovered hidden inside the thirteenth-century chapel, Master Sergeant Finn McGuire reached for the Maglite secured to the front of his battle cammies. Shining the flashlight, he examined the gold medallion nestled inside a velvet-lined box. It looked like something that might have been worn by an Arabian sultan. Or maybe an iced-out rapper. Unbelievably ornate, it was engraved with images of a sun, a moon and a big-ass star.