Free The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) by C.M. Palov Page A

memoire to the faithful as to what happens when one strayed from Church doctrine.
    There could be no evolution of dogma!
    No updating of Catholic morality. No repackaging of the Faith.
    A casualty of Pius’s liberal reshuffle, Franco unexpectedly found himself in charge of the papal archives. Publicly, Pius had stated that it was a suitable post given Franco’s impressive academic credentials and interest in ancient church history. However, privately, the late pontiff had delighted in the fact that he’d effectively neutered the cardinal once known as ‘the Church’s attack dog’, turning the ex-head of the CDF into a topo de biblioteca – a library mouse who scurried, out of sight, in the Vatican’s dark recesses.
    ‘ Let Cardinal Fiorio apply that towering intellect to the pressing problem of how best to safeguard the archives from mold and mildew ,’ Pius had liked to quip.
    Although he never mentioned the humiliating ‘demotion’ that he’d suffered three years ago at the hands of the late pontiff, Franco had yet to recover the loss of face, his rage still burning bright.
    As he moved away from the crush of reporters gathered around the Cardinal Secretary, a young seminary student who worked in the archives offices approached.
    ‘ This just arrived for you. I was instructed to hand-deliver it,’ the seminarian said as he gave Franco an unmarked manila envelope.
    ‘ Thank you.’ Taking the envelope, Franco tucked it under his arm. ‘It’s the budgetary report for the next fiscal quarter,’ he added, not wishing to arouse the young man’s curiosity. Although he no longer had the resources of the CDF at his disposal, Franco still maintained a close relationship with several operatives in the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano , the Vatican’s secret service.
    Needing to find a private place, Franco took his leave of the seminarian and headed for a locked door at the far end of the gallery.
    Little did the late pontiff know when he’d condemned Franco to the dark recesses of the archives that the library mouse would uncover an explosive secret.
    One that could change the odds considerably.

13
     
    Fort Cochin, Kerala, India
     
    ‘Could you please turn the radio down,’ Caedmon requested, raising his voice to be heard over the tinny Indian music blaring from the taxi’s audio system.
    The driver, a shaggy-haired bloke who spoke a minimum of English, bobbed his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes, nice town.’
    ‘ Down not – Oh, bloody hell.’
    Swearing softly under his breath, Caedmon turned his head and peered out of the grimy window. Once an English stronghold – the prized harbor town wrested away from the Dutch, who, in turn, pried it from the Portuguese – Fort Cochin had an old-world patina. Nestled amidst the lush foliage and tropical flower gardens were Portuguese arches, Dutch verandas and English bungalows. Normally, he would have been charmed by the bygone beauty of the dilapidated colonial architecture. But not today.
    Annoyed by the heavy traffic, he glanced at his watch. 1:32 p.m. Christ. The day was fast escaping him. Short on time, he’d left Edie at the hotel to see to their reservations while he quickly checked in with Gita. He and Edie had a 3:30 p.m. appointment with a historian at the St. Thomas Seminary in Kottayam and he didn’t want to be late. With only five days until the ransom deadline, every hour counted.
    Winding down his window, Caedmon let the sea air ruffle the hair on his forehead, the heat stifling. As he sat roasting, he rubbed his clammy palms against his trouser legs. His great-grandfather, who served in the Royal Scots Greys, used to say that there was no hell worse than being stationed in India during the summer swelter. The old man obviously never had to listen to what sounded like a Bollywood soundtrack whilst languishing in the Bengal heat. An even more fiendish circle of hell.
    ‘R ight house for you?’ the driver inquired as the taxi came to an abrupt