Free The Lost Treasure of the Templars by James Becker Page A

photographs and the details of the two volumes that the bookseller had supplied. He connected his printer and spat out a copy of the message, then took it over to the bookcase where he kept his research material and scanned the shelves, checking to see if he had already got copies of either volume. He hadn’t, he realized, so he would definitely buy the two on offer.
    It was only then, as he walked back to his desk, that he looked at the last paragraph of the e-mail message. His steps slowed and he came to a dead stop, his eyes fixed on the sheet of paper he was holding.
    â€œInteresting,” he muttered as he sat down again.
    One word in the message stood out for him, and that largely determined what he did next. He took a sheet of paper and wrote the letters of the alphabet on it, then wrote the reversed alphabet underneath. Then he glanced back at the information in the e-mail and began writing the sequence of letters printed in it. When he finished, he sat back with a frown, because what he’d expected to achieve simply hadn’t happened. He had to be missing something. Either that or his guess was wrong.
    Another thought struck him, and he looked back at what he’d done and then jotted down a completely different sequence of letters. That also didn’t produce anything that seemed to make sense, so he wrote out anumber of other lines of letters, checking his interpretation of each one as he did so. When he read the result of one of them, a smile crossed his face. That actually seemed to work.
    He looked back at the e-mail and wrote a short message in reply. Then he smiled again, deleted what he’d written, jotted down a few more letters on the piece of paper, worked out the ciphertext, and sent a five-word reply: “Latin. ZGYZHS OVUG HSRUG VOVEVM.” It would be interesting to see what response that produced.
    Then he looked again at the e-mail, at the signature block at the bottom. The contact details included both a business and a mobile number, and before he dialed he glanced at his watch. It was almost seven, too late to expect an answer on an office telephone, but not too late to call the mobile.
    He decided he would revert to a more old-fashioned form of communication and telephone the man. More personal and much more immediate. So he dialed, and almost immediately a woman answered.
    â€œCan I speak to your husband, please?” Mallory began.
    There was a pause that went on a couple of beats too long, and he was just about to speak again when the woman replied.
    â€œI don’t seem to have one of them,” she said, “so you’ve probably got the wrong number.”
    â€œThis is the number that was on an e-mail I was sent today,” Mallory insisted. “I’m trying to reach Robin Jessop. He has a couple of books I’d like to buy.”
    â€œAh. Robin is not exclusively a man’s name, Mr. Mallory. I’m Robin Jessop, and I was a woman the last time I checked.”
    This time Mallory paused.
    â€œHow’d you know my name?” he asked.
    â€œI’m not psychic and it’s not rocket science,” Robin replied. “I only sent out one e-mail today, which listed two books for sale so—though we’ve never spoken before—it more or less had to be you. Normally you just send me an e-mail when I’ve offered you a book you want, so is there any particular reason why you’ve called me? After office hours, I mean. I don’t think anyone else is going to be queuing to snap up a couple of collections of parish records.”
    Mallory was slightly nonplussed by the unexpected turn the conversation had taken.
    â€œNo, you’re probably right there,” he said. “I’m doing a lot of genealogical research, and it’s amazing what information you can sometimes find in parish records. That’s why I’ve bought every book you’ve offered me on the subject, and that will include the two