The Temple Deliverance Read online

  He looked sharply to Eugene Jr, who looked back along the table towards his father; the young man was upright, proud and strong - just as he himself had been, forty years before when regarding his own father. ‘Eugene, I want you to go directly to Scotland, take personal charge of our people there. Nothing must slip through our grasp.’

  Parsol reached out a hand and rested it briefly on Cassiter’s arm. ‘And you must go to Malta at once. Follow Cameron. Whatever links were made with those priests in Africa must be important. One is even now in Malta, it appears on a simple ecumenical trip, but there is no other obvious reason for Cameron to be there right now. There are no coincidences in this game. Have your team monitor both of their movements. If the two meet, find out why. Use whatever methods you deem appropriate - just be sure to get the answers. We must know what the Ethiopians know. Once you have the facts, tie up the loose ends - permanently.’

  Parsol turned his attention back to the group sat around the table. ‘Everyone else, return to your homes and wait. We do not yet know to whose region the chase will take us. So you must all remain vigilant and be ready to respond to any call for assistance we may issue. This is the endgame. There can be no mistakes.’

  He raised his glass. Taking his cue, all those around the table stood and raised their glasses towards him.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Parsol, ‘this is the year when we finally claim what is ours. Our birthright will come home. Our enemies will be destroyed. Santé!’

  • • •

  A little breathless, Iskinder hurried into the sanctuary afforded by the café’s canopy. Stepping beneath it, he lowered the umbrella and wiped from his face the streaks of rain that had been driven against him in his dash to the café.

  Rising, Sam reached out a hand in welcome. ‘Good to see you, Iskinder.’

  As they greeted one another, a waiter stepped through the doorway and retreated moments later with an order for coffees.

  Sam could tell Iskinder was not acclimatised to the mild Mediterranean winter. While he found it comfortably warm compared to Scotland and the cold grip of a northern winter, it clearly represented a drop from the temperatures of Ethiopia. ‘Are you okay sitting out here? Would you rather go inside?’

  Iskinder promptly sat and waved Sam back into his seat. ‘Outside is cold but better. I don’t think we want to risk anyone overhearing our conversation.’

  ‘There are no customers inside,’ said Sam; ‘the café’s empty.’

  ‘Outside is better.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ Although the threat of the past year seemed to have gone now, taking precautions did nobody any harm and Sam approved. He sat back into his seat and looked across at the priest. Here, far from his bishop and the dictates of Church protocols, he did not seem so confident. In fact, he seemed quite anxious. Sam gave a little laugh to himself, realising this was the first time he had ever addressed Iskinder by his name; he had always been simply ‘the bishop’s assistant’. ‘So, Iskinder, how are you? How’s the bishop? And what’s the big mystery that’s brought us both a long way from home in such secrecy?’

  Iskinder settled more comfortably into his seat, watching the waiter return and place cups of coffee on their table. ‘I’m fine, thank you, as is Bishop Ignatius who sends his regards to you and, of course, to Helen …’ He paused and remained silent, until the waiter retired back inside the building.

  ‘Glad to hear it and please pass on Helen’s regards to him. But Iskinder, this is an out-of-the-way spot. What’s going on?’

  The priest scanned the quayside, which looked abandoned in the falling rain. ‘The box that Bishop Ignatius gave to Helen, she had its twin. Have you managed to open them yet?’

  Sam had guessed the boxes would be at the root of this visit - they had remained a mystery ever since the bishop had handed his over to Helen at the tail end of their African adventures. Both boxes were about the size of a child’s first jewellery box, four inches high, five deep and six wide. Every side highly polished wood, patterned with intricate inlays to create flowing seemingly abstract images of great beauty. A pair so wonderfully crafted that it was impossible to find their lids or any other openings, and they came with the explicit warning that forcing the boxes open would destroy their contents. They were a puzzle, the equal of all the other Templar concealments Sam and Helen had encountered.

  ‘No. I’ve tried umpteen ways, and they’ve defied me so far. But now Christmas is behind us, I’m planning to focus on opening them. We are convinced they are a clue to something, but what that is, we don’t know. What we do know is every previous clue has been hard to unpick but high in value. Perhaps this will be the same.’

  ‘A word of warning. It seems that somebody in Addis Ababa has been asking questions about why the bishop and I met with you and Helen in Tanzania before Christmas. They also asked about the meeting in Nairobi when Bishop Ignatius gave her the box. They knew all about the box.’

  Sam leant forwards. ‘Who? When?’

  ‘I don’t know who. The questioning has just come to light in the past few days, but it seems to have started three or four weeks ago. Somebody must have been there watching us. But were they watching Helen or the bishop?’

  Sam drew his lips tight as he processed the news. Then he took a sip of coffee. ‘Iskinder, you and the bishop must be careful. If this is the same group that took an interest in Helen previously, they are very dangerous people; but we thought they had been wiped out in Crete last summer. Could it be something different? The bishop had a heavy security detail with him when he gave Helen the box in Nairobi. Could there be a leak there?’

  ‘No, they are members of the Ethiopian military and the Church’s most trusted men. They would die for our Church without hesitation. They cannot be the source of this worry.’

  ‘Okay, well forewarned is forearmed. Let’s hope it’s just a journalist snooping for a story, but you both must be careful, very careful, until we know for sure.’ Sam fixed Iskinder with an earnest stare. ‘Seriously, Iskinder, you must be careful.’ He paused and waited for the priest’s acknowledgement. ‘Good. Now, you said that was a warning, but it’s not why we are here; what exactly brings us together?’

  ‘The Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church looked after Helen’s box for more than seven hundred years. We knew exactly how it had come into the hands of our Church and what our duties and responsibilities were. We fulfilled those to the letter. Keeping it safe and hidden from all comers, until Helen returned to reclaim it with her ring, the true sign of its ownership.’

  ‘Yes, you did your duty. If only others in our world had such integrity, this would be a happier and safer place for everyone.’

  Iskinder smiled at Sam’s compliment to his Church. ‘But what we have never known is how to open the box and what its purpose is.’

  ‘Helen and I are in the same boat. That is the puzzle we need to solve now.’

  ‘Just so. However, I may have something to help you.’ Iskinder began to rummage inside his briefcase. ‘Since people have been asking questions in Addis, and knowing your caution over using electronic communication, the bishop instructed I hand this to you in person, at a place where nobody would think to look for us.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here?’

  ‘No, not quite. This is inconspicuous, but I have another reason for meeting you here. First, let me show you this.’ Iskinder pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper from the briefcase; his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘This is a copy of an old document held in the Church archive. A very old document.’

  Sam reached out a hand and spun the paper round so he could see it more clearly.

  ‘The bishop and I have always accepted the received wisdom and knowledge of our predecessors. Once we had returned the box to Helen and honoured the covenant made so many generations ago, I was prompted to go back through the Church archive to see if I could find something, anything, that might shed more light on things.’

  ‘I thought the bishop had
told Helen everything you knew.’

  ‘Yes, he did. But this piece of writing has probably not been read since the time the covenant was made. Look at the script.’ The Ethiopian priest slid the sheet still closer to Sam, who scanned it with a professional eye. As a highly skilled linguist and archaeologist, he loved to explore ancient scripts and unpick their meanings.

  ‘This looks impressive,’ said Sam, ‘but I don’t know the script.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. It’s an old variation of Coptic writing that has not been written in many hundreds of years.’

  ‘You can read it?’

  ‘No, but we have one or two old priest scholars who can make out parts.’

  ‘Well?’ said Sam, without taking his eyes off the text in front of him. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘It is a letter that came with the bishop who carried Helen’s box into Ethiopia. Not part of the official package, a private note written to the bishop in Addis Ababa by the Coptic pope, John IX of Alexandria. It refers to a conversation overheard between the Templar knight who delivered the box to Alexandria from Scotland and his sergeant.’

  ‘Overheard?’

  Iskinder suddenly looked a little embarrassed. ‘That is how it seems.’ He stretched out his hand and touched the sheet. ‘See, there is no pope’s seal, just writing - a private note, nothing more. But I have seen that signature on other documents, and I had our old scholars double-check’—his finger shifted to the bottom of the text and tapped—‘and that is the same signature. It’s genuine. It is the pope’s signature.’

  ‘I believe you, but what is important about this?’

  ‘It starts with a little preamble. It is written not long after Pope John IX became the patriarch in Alexandria. It tells of events relating to the end of his predecessor’s time, his own early days, and a secret visit by a Templar knight. Then it mentions the Temple of Jupiter—’

  ‘Jupiter? That’s Rome. Centuries before the Templars’ time. Can it be relevant?’

  ‘Yes, but it was not written in Roman times. This is written in the fourteenth century by the pope who sent Helen’s box for safekeeping with the Ethiopian Church.’

  ‘And he’s written about the Temple of Jupiter? Are you sure your people have translated it as they should?’ Sam was interested, very interested. Even so, this seemed an anachronism - just completely the wrong period. Why Jupiter? There should be a Christian-era link.

  ‘Yes. I am sure. They could only make out a few parts, and I told then no speculation, only facts. But it is hard for them, this script drifted out of use shortly after the text was written.’

  ‘I’m not convinced by Jupiter though; it just seems wrong.’

  Iskinder’s finger continued over the sheet. ‘This part they don’t know. We think it is simply explaining that this might prove useful in solving the mystery of the boxes. I wonder if the Coptic pope anticipated the Templar would not return to claim the box. We can never know.’ His finger tapped again. ‘But here is interesting. It definitely says the Temple of Jupiter.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have met in Rome then,’ said Sam.

  ‘No. No, no. Not in Rome. The Temple of Jupiter in Leptis Magna.’

  ‘In Libya? How can that be? Why Libya?’

  ‘The reference to Leptis Magna is clear.’

  ‘Well, okay, I’ll take that as given for now. I know Leptis Magna was a thriving coastal city during the Roman era and then abandoned.’

  ‘Look, within the run of text are tiny cartouches; can you see?’

  ‘I’m not sure … they look like little smudges.’ Sam pulled out his pocket magnifying glass, flipped it open and studied carefully. ‘Yes, I see.’ He glanced up. ‘What does it mean?’ His voice was calm as ever, but a spark in his eye showed his interest was fired up.

  ‘It refers to the approach to the temple. My people disagree on this too. It means either a road or a row, as in a lined road or walkway or steps. Then it gets even muddier. One of my scholars thinks it mentions a sequence, one thinks a key. They won’t agree.’

  ‘A key?’

  ‘Yes, a key. That’s something you need for your boxes.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? What else does it say?’

  ‘In summary, the key or the sequence, depending which scholar you choose, was formed or placed on the approach to the Temple of Jupiter.’

  ‘May I photograph this please?’ said Sam, lifting his phone. ‘I’m going to need to do my own homework before getting too invested in this. I really can’t see how a road or steps can be a key to our boxes.’

  ‘Please, just keep the paper. I have another, and of course, the original is safe in our archive in Addis Ababa.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what our boxes have to do with a Roman city,’ said Sam while folding the paper and pocketing it.

  ‘The bishop thought the only way to find out was to go there.’

  ‘Go to Leptis Magna? To Libya? That’s madness. Who would we arrange access with? It’s effectively a war zone with power and authority just jumbled up - impossible.’

  ‘I think the bishop had in mind that you and I make a discreet visit. Organised by somebody in the know.’

  ‘Really? He thinks that will work? It’s the most patrolled part of the North African coast. There’s a constant watch to stop boats coming and going. And don’t forget, you and I are Christians. If we fall into the wrong hands over there, it could end very badly.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But with the right local connections and enough money, it should be possible to organise a trip.’

  ‘Just where would we find such a connection?’

  Iskinder shot a tight little smile at Sam then looked beyond him, staring through the drizzle that still fell onto the quayside.

  Sam followed Iskinder’s gaze to where the row of boats tugged at their moorings in the gusty breeze. ‘A fishing boat?’

  ‘One particular and very big boat. With a captain who has good friends and contacts on the Libyan coast. See the big blue boat?’

  ‘To have live connections in Libya today, he must, almost certainly, be linked to people smuggling, and God knows what else. Are you sure about this?’ At the far end of the line of boats was an old and large fishing boat. Built for deep-sea work, it dwarfed most of the other boats, its hull and superstructure all painted a pale bluish grey that was streaked with harsh lines of orange rust. A little gangway ran down from the stern of the boat to the quay.

  Iskinder continued talking. ‘I know. It’s not ideal but needs must. We have a duty to help you, and this is the only way you will get to Leptis Magna. One of the Church’s intermediaries has made an arrangement for us. We are to go and speak with the captain. According to our man, this captain is a frequent visitor to Libya. Oh, and I have been specifically instructed not to ask about his business - he is just a legitimate fisherman. And by the way, I understand he is a Christian too, so it would seem profit trumps doctrine over there.’

  Sam was unconvinced. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t do any harm to speak with the man.’ He leant back, rapped his hand on the café window and made a sign through the glass for the check. He pulled out some euros to settle the bill.

  The two men walked quickly across the road to the quayside. As they passed the parked car, Sam noticed a young priest watching them with interest from the dry comfort of the driver’s seat. The deacon averted his gaze at Iskinder’s slightly irritated hand gesture. Then they were past, moving along the quayside to the big fishing boat.

  At the foot of the gangway, they stopped. Sam could tell that Iskinder was nervous; this was as far removed from his natural environment as might be imagined.

  ‘Best let me lead,’ said Sam. He put a hand on the guide rail, but before he could step up, a scruffy deckhand appeared and blocked access at the top.

  ‘Who’re you?’ said the deckhand. ‘What do you want?’

  Sam paused; he could feel Iskinder backing up behind him.

  ‘I have a meeting arranged with your c
aptain,’ said Iskinder. ‘Please let him know his visitor from Ethiopia is here, as he was notified.’

  ‘Captain’s not here. He’s gone.’

  ‘But we have a meeting.’

  ‘Captain’s gone. Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘The priest said he’s got a meeting with your captain,’ said Sam.

  The deckhand shrugged then lifted and swung over a little hinged bar that clanged on top of the handrail to close the top of the gangway. ‘Come back tomorrow, eleven o’clock. He’ll be here.’

  ‘Come on, we’re wasting our time, let’s go,’ said Sam.

  ‘Agreed. Though it’s not very professional.’

  ‘I’m thinking professional is not a word I’d use to describe the captain of a boat like this.’

  ‘Yes. Sam, will you come back to Valletta with me? We could have an early dinner at my hotel then arrange to meet in the morning. I’ll attend my deacon’s service, then we will return here by taxi - the deacon will have duties all morning, so I can’t call on him for transport.’

  ‘Yes, that all sounds good. Though it would be best for me if we travelled back here separately tomorrow. I really want to consider your text, and I might want to look around a bit in the morning. Malta is not an island I know well. We could meet here for an update at half past ten. Then we can go and meet your fisherman friend at eleven.’

  ‘I have never met the fisherman; he’s certainly not a friend. Just a contact, that’s all. But I agree with your plan.’

  As the rain renewed its downpour, they hurried towards the car. The deacon had been watching their approach in his car mirror and fired up his vehicle’s engine when they pulled open the passenger doors.

  2

  Sunday, January 5th

  From his position of advantage, standing in a dark corner, Cassiter watched with interest. Sat in the middle of the barn was his subject - a man with questions to answer. Stood beside the subject were two men, sourced by Parsol’s local connection. Burly men who Cassiter hoped he could rely on in a crisis. He wished he had his own team with him but losses in the past year had been high, and they were stretched very thin.