“I presume we can have this discussion in French, Colonel Synthe? I believe you’re fluent in the language?” the man asked in the Gallic tongue, obviously aware of Synthe’s linguistic capabilities.
“That’s fine.” Synthe had always been a man of few words.
“Or we can speak English, or Italian, or Russian. I understand you’re equally comfortable in these as well,” the man said, not so much a question as a statement.
“Whatever. It is of no consequence. But I see you’ve done your homework,” Synthe acknowledged, willing to accede professional courtesy at what was obviously a thorough background check into a high-ranking Mossad asset — an organization that was notoriously tight-lipped about all aspects of its personnel.
The older man smiled, a sort of dry grimace, his message of being able to access the most sacrosanct data in the Mossad efficiently delivered. He carefully lifted his little espresso cup to his lips and sipped before speaking.
“We can dispense with social niceties. You’re a busy man, and so am I. I’m called the Sentinel — perhaps a bit melodramatic, however, it’s a formality which has been observed for a long time, and I’m not going to end the tradition now.”
“The Sentinel. Okay, fair enough. What can I do for you, Mr. Sentinel?” Synthe asked, just a hint of humor in his voice.
“The organization I represent has a position of considerable importance which has become vacant, and you were identified as being a potential candidate for filling it. The job is heading my group’s security force and overseeing all aspects of its operations. The irony is that even though it is a tremendously important position, your duties would be virtually non-existent. Your predecessors have literally never had to do anything but be prepared,” the Sentinel explained.
“Interesting. A position with almost no work involved. Sounds intriguing,” Synthe said noncommittally.
The Sentinel reached over the table, picked up Synthe’s untouched espresso and set the cup on the ledge next to them, along with his own. He leaned to one side, then placed a dark brown ostrich-skin briefcase on the table, turning it so the latches were facing Synthe.
He nodded, indicating that Synthe should open it.
Synthe did and studied the contents without reaction.
“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars — six month’s pay. The position draws a five hundred thousand dollar a year salary,” the Sentinel stated flatly.
The Mossad didn’t pay a fraction of that sort of money, even at its upper tier. This ‘Sentinel’ now had Synthe’s complete and total attention.
“And what would I be expected to do for this generous stipend?” Synthe asked.
“Wait,” the Sentinel responded.
“Wait? That’s it? Wait for what?” Synthe’s usually unreadable composure slipped, just for an instant.
The Sentinel knew Synthe was hooked. He slowly closed the valise and turned it back towards him. After methodically securing the latches, he placed it carefully by Synthe’s left leg before returning their coffee cups to their table. He studied Synthe’s face for several moments, and then nodded.
“Wait for a moment I pray will never come. And participate in security planning for a holy object that is of considerable importance to my organization — an ancient group that is entrusted with the safekeeping of this relic,” the Sentinel explained.
“I presume I’ll have to leave the Mossad if I choose to accept your offer,” Synthe observed.
“That is correct. Your allegiance would need to be to our organization and no one else. You would have a month to decide how best to resign without revealing to anyone why you did. In return, you will have your position for life.”
“I’ll need to understand who I’m working for. If I’m going to make a lifetime commitment, I want to understand the game and the players,” Synthe said.
The Sentinel had agreed and proceeded to explain the details. Established in the sixteenth century, the Order of the Holy Relic was a clandestine offshoot of the Roman Catholic Church. Its mission was to ensure the protection of the Church’s most valuable secret, which was housed in an obscure location in southern England. The Order recruited its security force from outside of the Church, as it required skills that weren’t part of an ecclesiastic curriculum.
“You don’t need to know more than this right now. If you accept my proposal, once you are no longer with the Mossad I will provide further information you’ll require to carry out your duties. Again, most of which will consist of waiting.”
Synthe had already made up his mind. It was a no-brainer. Do nothing for a half mil a year?
“I accept.”
The Sentinel nodded again and finished his espresso. He pushed back his chair and rose, preparing to depart.
“We will call upon you occasionally. Security matters that will demand your presence. This will consist of what will seem to be dreary meetings. Perhaps at another point down the line, you will be asked to perform somewhat more dramatically. I trust you’ll be up to the task.”
“I shall wait for your call.”
The Sentinel smiled tightly again, turned, and exited the courtyard, moving deliberately through the café before disappearing into the pedestrian traffic on the street outside.
In the intervening six years, Gabriel Synthe had been called upon exactly three times — and these were for secret Order meetings in Paris, where one topic was always the focus of attention. The small, obsolete abbey in southern England. Though Synthe had been present at the meetings, he had never been required for anything more than to comment on the various security measures employed to secure the location.
Following his resignation from the Mossad, Synthe’s existence had settled into a comfortable retirement as he collected his half million dollars a year and waited for something to happen. He busied himself in the outside world by devoting himself to a small school he’d opened as an instructional facility for self-defense training, specifically: Krav Maga — the special brand of martial arts developed for the Israeli military.
It had been a peaceful, if extraordinarily boring, six years. Synthe lived modestly, had saved most of his salary, and so was now relatively well-to-do, with his accumulated savings totaling well over two million dollars.
But he’d gotten a panicked call a few days earlier from the Sentinel, who gave him the barest details and advised him to be ready for an in-person meeting. He was to rendezvous with Diego Luca in the parking lot of the Tel Aviv airport, on the north end of the terminal, near a sewage swamp which was notoriously odiferous, guaranteeing they would be the only ones in the area.
As the car wove through traffic, a twinge of anxiety told him that this meeting with Luca would need to be handled very carefully.
The unthinkable had happened. The Order’s precious sacred relic was gone, and Synthe was going to be required to lead the charge to recover it. He had never really believed that anyone could penetrate the security measures in place at the Abbey and make a grab for the Scroll. Given the agitation, and Diego Luca himself coming to Tel Aviv for a rendezvous, apparently Synthe had called that one wrong. That rarely happened.
But he wasn’t sure exactly what the Order expected him to do about it now.
Synthe glanced at his watch once again.
He was early for the meet.
CHAPTER 6
As Deputy Grand Commander to the Pauperes Commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici — the Knights Templar — Diego Luca was the last in a long line of men who bore their hidden duty throughout their life, serving silently and with unquestioning loyalty. As the second most powerful officer in that shadow organization, he was responsible for the administration of a group which, supposedly, had expired centuries before; he was a ghost, a rumor in the hushed halls of the Church, a murmur at the highest levels of the Masonic order. It was common knowledge that the Knights Templar had met with extinction in the Middle Ages, and Luca was chartered with ensuring that history was never disturbed with even a hint of their continued operation.