Chapter Sixteen

 

Cairo - Friday, May 15

Patrick Mulroony, Chief Archivist of the Knights Templar, managing director of the Kruger Institute, and renowned medieval scholar, sat around the conference table in the Antiquities Building of the University of Cairo with the eight other scholars whose job it was to determine the authenticity of the Treaty of Tuscany.

Nobody mentioned the treaty. They had come to an unwritten and informal agreement that they did not discuss the treaty outside the formal meetings of the panel. Nobody had proposed such a rule, and nobody acknowledged it, but that’s how it was.

Ahmed Al Qatani looked at his watch. “Al Dossary should be here any minute now. He said eleven o’clock.”

“And when you have your own private jet, I suppose you can set whatever time you want,” laughed the man from Harvard.

“Let me ask you, John,” said Henry Green of Cambridge. “If you could do it over again, would you rather be a software mogul with a private jet, or a history professor at Harvard?”

“To tell you the truth, Henry, I’d rather be a history professor at Harvard… a history professor with a private jet.” They all laughed.

Mohamed Harketi from Karachi grinned at the Archivist and said, “Patrick, I hear the Kruger Institute has a private jet.”

“A private jet? At the Kruger? What wonderful fantasy you weave, Mohamed, and I do wish you were right. But I’m afraid my board of directors would find a good stout rope and hang me from the nearest oak tree if we did.” He cocked an eyebrow and looked down the table. “But I do have to confess we have a very generous patron who is equally generous with his jet from time to time.”

A technician from the university was setting up the overhead projectors and light filters that would allow them to examine a projection of the treaty on a large screen. 

Hammid had given them all multiple copies of the treaty made under different lighting, so they could make out all the words. But they had only seen the treaty itself once before, when they carefully snipped the samples for the laser analysis. But today they would actually take the treaty from its case and work with the original. Nothing else would do.

The technician was calibrating his equipment with a Tenth Century Mameluke manuscript that was in much the same condition as the treaty. Some of it was readable to the naked eye, while other areas of the page needed special lighting. By trying different combinations of filters, the technician was able to find one that allowed all the script to be easily read.

“That looks good,” said Al Qatani, looking at the projection of the Mameluke manuscript. “What number is it?”

“It’s filter 118 and 207, Sir,” said the technician.

“I see it pretty well. How about the rest of you?” When they all nodded, Al Qatani told the technician to start with those filters when the treaty arrived.

The Chief Archivist glanced at his Blackberry under the table. Nothing. No missed calls. No text messages. No voice messages. Nothing from Zurich about Callahan. Pity.

He figured Callahan was probably buried under a sand dune somewhere in the desert. They all knew their plan was a long shot, but one worth taking. Death in Battle. That’s the life, and that’s how it sometimes ends.

What could he do now? He knew the treaty would pass the textual analysis. He had already done it himself using the pictures Jean Randolph had taken. And the treaty had passed the laser analysis. Tomorrow the ink test would be consistent with the Twelfth Century, and the scroll work around the edges would match hundreds of other manuscripts from that century. The noose was slowly tightening around their necks, and he didn’t have a clue how to get out of it.

Once that happened, the Muslim world would screech like banshees demanding reparations and concessions from the West.  Europe would cave in, the Americans would have a great internal political battle and probably pull their troops back, and Israel would be alone, alone with a few hundred nukes. And that’s just what the politically correct West would give up without a fight. When that was over the real fight would begin as the Arabs and Muslims finally had a rallying point they all could unite around.

The Vatican would be under siege, the Pope would probably denounce the treaty and dump the whole notion of infallibility, the Church would split down doctrinal lines, and they would all be at each other’s throats again for a few hundred years.

Everything moves back to 1189 and starts over from there, with all the blood, bigots, bias, and superstition of the Middle Ages. Oh, the Templars would have their work cut out for them.

 

*     *     *

We’re here at the University of Cairo with Hammid Al Dossary, who just arrived from Saudi Arabia with the Treaty of Tuscany.

CNN: Mr. Al Dossary, can you tell us what you hope to accomplish today?

Al Dossary: Greg, I won’t be doing much. My job is to deliver the treaty to the eminent scholars assembled here. It is they who will determine the truth about the Treaty of Tuscany.

CNN: What do you expect they will find, Sir?

Al Dossary: What will they find? Why, they will find the truth. I’m sorry, no more questions.

There you have it, Peter. Our cameras are following Al Dossary up the stairs of the Antiquities Building, where he promises the panel of scholars will determine the truth about the treaty. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, this eight hundred-year-old mystery that has so captivated the attention of the world may be solved.

This is Greg Howard, CNN, Cairo.

 

*     *     *

Four Egyptian plain clothes security men entered the conference room and took positions at the four corners of the room. Hammid Al Dossary followed in a Saville Row suit and burgundy tie, carrying an expensive leather briefcase.

The president of the University of Cairo trailed a few feet behind with a small man in the clerical garb of a Catholic priest. After welcoming the panel, the President introduced Bishop Gustuv as the official Vatican observer. Both Al Dossary and Gustuv would observe, but they would not participate in any discussions.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” an energetic Hammid rubbed his hands together.  “I apologize for my tardiness. And I welcome Bishop Gustuv to the proceedings.” Gustuv nodded to the panel and took a chair against the wall.

“This is the treaty,” Hammid said, “and I now turn it over to you gentlemen for your textual examination. As agreed earlier, when you complete your testing here, we will once again take samples for laser analysis so there is no doubt this manuscript is the treaty in question.” Hammid paused, then made a show of handing the case to Greene. Hammid bowed and walked to a chair on the opposite side of the room from Gustuv.

Greene put on white cotton gloves, placed the case on the table and carefully opened the clasps. Then he slid a stiff piece of plastic under the treaty, lifted it out of the case, and placed it on the viewing table of the overhead projector.

“Let’s start with the 118 and 207 filters you used before,” Greene told the technician. When the image appeared the words on the periphery were clear, but the center was still cloudy. The technician expertly switched filters several times until the script on the page was clearly visible.

“Thank you,” said Greene. “Let’s leave it there. And can we get some hard copies?”

The technician clicked a few keys and eleven clear and crisp copies of the treaty printed out. He distributed one to each man. Hammid glanced at his and sat back to watch victory unfold.

Oh, God, thought the Archivist, here’s Hammid looking bright and cheerful and all ready to go. Well, here we go. Falling straight down into the shitter.

 

Cairo - Friday, May 15

The nine men leaned forward and stared at the bright image of the treaty on the screen. The Papal insignia was at the top, the seals of the two Popes and three kings at the bottom, and the tight Papal Minuscule script layed out the provisions of the agreement.

Professor Zawari of Cambridge looked back and forth between the screen and his hard copy, then reached into a pocket and put on a pair of glasses. Again he peered intently at the screen.

Granville of Harvard consulted his briefcase and removed the copy of the treaty they had been given prior to the start of the initial laser testing, laid it next to the hard copy of the screen, and looked from both papers back to the screen.

Hammid watched Gustuv on the other side of the room. His head was bobbing from two pages in his hands to the image on the screen. Then they all began to whisper quietly and gesture at the screen and the pages they held. More briefcases snapped open and closed as they pulled out the previous copies of the treaty.

Hammid looked at Mulroony from the Kruger. Was the man smiling? He was holding his hand in front of his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The nine men huddled and spoke quietly at the table, then Greene turned to Hammid. “Ahh, Mr. Al Dossary, I think we have the wrong document here.” He gestured to the projector and Hammid felt ice-cold claws clutch his heart.

“This manuscript,” Greene pointed at the image on the screen, “it’s not the same one you showed us before.” Now Greene picked up the copy of the treaty he had received from Hammid before the laser testing, the same copy that had been released to the whole world. Green held both papers next to each other. “They are different. In fact, they are very different.”

“What are you talking about?” Hammid jumped up and rushed to the table. “They are the same. There is only one treaty, and that is it.” He pointed at the page on the screen.

“Excuse, me, Mr. Al Dossary,” Harketi from Karachi said quietly. “Do you read Latin?”

“No. No, I don’t, but I know what the treaty says.”

“Well,” said Harketi patiently, “I’m afraid these two documents say very different things.” Harketi took out a pen and circled several words on each page. “If you look here, you will see these words are not the same. The layout looks the same, and many of the words are the same, and the sentences are the same length and have the same spacing, but the words are different and completely change the meaning. The script even looks like it was done by the same hand.”

“That’s impossible.” Hammid shouted. “I guarded this treaty night and day. It hasn’t left my sight. This is the treaty that was tested under the laser and passed.” This wasn’t happening. He knew what the treaty said, but he could see the words that Harketi had circled were different.

“Please, Hammid, just listen.” Harketi took Hammid’s elbow. “The copy of the treaty you gave us before called for the elimination of Islam from the Earth. This treaty,” he pointed at the screen, “calls for love and cooperation, toleration and mutual respect. It calls for an end to war and a new era of progress for all humanity. It calls for an alliance between Christianity and Islam to further the welfare of all under the God of Abraham.”

Hammid’s mouth was too dry to speak, and his brain was too confused to think clearly. He sat in Greene’s chair and moved his finger along the words in the two copies of the treaty. He didn’t know what he was reading, but he could see the differences. There might be ten identical words, then there were a few different. The casual observer would look at both and say they were the same, but a detailed examination showed where they differed.

“Zahid. Get Zahid in here,” Hammid croaked.

Harketi nodded to one of the guards and he briefly stepped out of the room. When he returned, Zahid hurried to Hammid’s side.

Greene just showed Zahid the two copies of the treaty and pointed to the image on the screen. “Just read them,” he said.

Zahid knew what the two copies would say. He had known ever since Hammid had handed him the treaty to hold while he showered back in Saudi that morning. When Zahid had read it while Hammid showered, it was immediately obvious that the treaty had been switched. Even if he couldn’t read it all with the naked eye, the differences he could see were startling.  But that was when he made his decision. He could let the world march to death, destruction, and hatred, or he could remain quiet and let his own politics trump scholarship. He could let the haters run wild, or he could check them before they gained a foothold. Maybe it was the work of God.

But, now Zahid was playing for his life, so he carefully read both pages, then the image displayed on the screen.

“Well?” asked Hammid, “are they different? What do they say? What?”

Zahid sighed. “Yes, they are very different, Hammid. In fact, they are completely different. One calls for the destruction of Islam, and one calls for cooperation and prosperity for all Muslims and Christians.”

Different? Zahid wasn’t the only one who had translated the treaty. Hammid knew what it said.

Who had betrayed him, Hammid asked himself. The Filipino. The damned Filipino in the T-shirt! They killed him. Hammid himself had taken the treaty from the dead pig’s backpack. And Hammid had been clutching the treaty all night. He looked at the screen. Or had he been protecting a forgery all night, a forgery that was now shining down from the screen mocking him?

And who had sent the Filipino? The Pope! Who else. The Mexican Pope! The Vatican was behind it all. They make a treaty, deny its existence when it is found, then substitute a fake to back up their claims. Lies! The Vatican was nothing but lies!

That woman. Jean Randolph? What did Zahid say about what she was testing? Did she have something to do with this? But she was dead, Jamilah burned her with all her papers… she couldn’t… but what is happening?

Gustuv watched the unbelievable drama before him. Had Al Dossary been bluffing all the time? How did he expect to get away with it? Or did he have the real treaty, and someone switched it? The Pope? But things were going well enough without any help from him, so he kept quiet and just watched.

“Wait, wait, wait…” Hammid held up both hands. “We have been robbed. Someone has switched the treaty with a forgery, and I can prove it.” Back in control again. The men at the table glanced at each other, all of them confused, but none relishing the spectacle of a man falling apart.

“Take a sample from this thing,” he waved at the screen, “take a sample of this forgery, and do a laser analysis on it. That will prove it is a forgery. It will be different from the original samples you took.”

Al Qatani leaned toward the Archivist and whispered, “I’m losing track of how many forgeries we have here. Is anything real?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the Archivist.  “I think Mr. Al Dossary’s reality may be a state of mind. But, you know, so this thing doesn’t fester for years like some UFO sighting, maybe we should let him have his last laser test on this thing, whatever it is. Let’s put an end to it. Finish it up with no unanswered questions that can haunt us for years.”

“Gentlemen,” said Al Qatani, “I think it is incumbent upon us to pursue all avenues here. So, while we may all be confused by what has transpired, I suggest we follow Mr. Al Dossary’s suggestion and take a sample from that treaty. This one right here,” he tapped the projector, “and run it through the laser analysis. After all, we had originally planned a second analysis after doing the ink and textual examinations. Let us leave no stone unturned. If the results are different from the original samples we took, then Mr. Al Dossary is correct that there has been a switch. If they are the same…”

Heads nodded around the table and they spent the next fifteen minutes discussing the sampling method they would use. In the end they decided that one panel member selected by the Vatican, one selected by Al Dossary, and one selected by the joint committee would each take a sample to London for analysis.

“And might I suggest,” added the Archivist, “that we lock this thing up here in Cairo, under guard, with 24-hour observers from the Vatican, Mr. Al Dossary, and the university? We certainly don’t want any more disappearances, switches, or forgeries.”

By now the president of the university had returned and stood nodding with his hands behind his back near the door. “I think we can accommodate that, gentlemen.” He looked at Hammid. “And I doubt Mr. Al Dossary would have any objections.” It was time for damage control, and the president of the university was going to do whatever he could to pull his institution’s name out of Al Dossary’s mud.

The Templar Archivist quietly took his Blackberry from his pocket and typed, “Callahan did it.” Then he hit the hotkey that sent the message to the Templar Master, and slid the phone back in his pocket.

 

Dhahran - Friday, May 15

Berrera yawned. “Look, Callahan, you can’t blame yourself for everything that goes wrong in the world. We did our best.” He yawned again, shook his head, and stood up. “I’m not sure how much longer I can make it. I have to get back to my place and get some real sleep. Think it’s safe to go north yet?”

Callahan shrugged. “I guess so. They can’t watch the roads forever. Besides, it’s noon. Lots of people are on the roads.” They were in the rec room of the flimsy construction camp outside Abqaiq. The crew was almost all Filipino, and out on the job at this time of day.

“What did you tell these guys about me?” Callahan asked.

“I said you were an American engineer from Dhahran with a girlfriend in Abqaiq. Your wife and girlfriend both kicked you out at the same time. They loved that. That’s why we got these fine couches here.”

Berrera took a hard look at Callahan. “Look, I mean it. You did your best. That’s all you can do.”

 “Yeah, yeah. But we still lost a man, a good man. And we didn’t even get anything out of it. He essentially died for nothing. Why did he run back? That’s what I don’t get. He was right behind me.” Callahan got up and looked out at the sand swirling around the camp. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

Berrera aimed the remote at the TV, clicking through the channels. “It doesn’t have to make sense. Just accept it.” Then he moved up close to the TV set. “Hey, Callahan, look at this. Look!”

 

…in a startling development, CNN has learned the treaty Hammid Al Dossary presented to the experts here in Cairo today actually calls for peace and cooperation between Muslims and Christians. Sources tell CNN it says nothing about Christian hostility toward Muslims. This is a complete reversal of what Al Dossary previously told us about the treaty. In our continuing coverage…

 

Callahan and Berrera looked at each other, then back at the TV.

“My God,” said Callahan. “Damn it! I know what he did.” He shot up, looked around, and cocked his head.  Both men moved to a deserted corner.

“Ok,” said Callahan, “let’s work this through. After the gunfight in the treaty room, Eguardo grabs the treaty, the real one, and we ran. We got caught, so we just grabbed the original. He had both the original and the forgery in his pack.” He looked at Berrera. “He was faster.”

Berrera took up the thread. “Then the two of you get out, over the wall, and start running across the sand.”

“Right.” Now Callahan was fully awake. “We take cover behind that pump shed, fire back at the guards, hit a few, then take off again.”

“Yes. I saw it. You both stopped, shot from opposite sides of the shed, then took off running again.”

“And that’s when Eguardo stopped. He says, ‘God be with you, Callahan. Pray for luck. Remember my mass.’ He turns… sneaks halfway back… all in the shadows… they don’t see him… and goes into the lights and starts running for the ridge again. He was escaping all over again. It was a replay. He gave them a second chance to get him.”

Callahan slammed a fist into his palm. “Only one treaty in the world calls for peace. The forgery.  And Eguardo had it in his pack. In the same case that protected the original treaty. That’s where they got it. They thought they had recovered the real treaty.”

“He died for it,” Berrera marveled. “He died so they would believe.” He crossed himself and softly mumbled a short prayer. “They took the forgery off Eguardo’s body and returned it to the treaty room. They thought they had saved the real treaty. They killed him, and took it from him. So, what happened to the real treaty? Where’s the real one? The one Hammid had? The one from the Vatican Museum? The one Eguardo took out of the case in the treaty room?”

“Eguardo had the real treaty in his pack when we got out of the villa. He told me several times he had both treaties.” Callahan held up two fingers. “Both treaties. When we got out of there, we only stopped one time, at that shed. He had to have stashed it somewhere around that shed.” Callahan leaned his elbows on his knees. “Hammid recovered only one treaty from Eguardo. If he had recovered both the forgery and the real one, he would have had them checked. So, the only thing he got from Eguardo was the forgery.”

“You know what this means, don’t you, Callahan? Eguardo let them kill him so they would accept the forged treaty as the real one. That’s why he ran back.” He crossed himself again. “He gave his life for his Church. That’s what he did, Callahan. He didn’t die for nothing. He gave his life for his Church.”

 

*     *     *

They watched Hammid’s villa from the ridge, saw only two cars in the drive, and just one man on patrol. They doubted Hammid would be back so soon after his public humiliation. The guard circled the villa every ten minutes, smoked the entire time, and was as useless as he had been before. 

Thirty minutes later a pizza delivery van drove into the driveway. “Looks like only two pizzas,” said Berrera. “So, three, maybe four guys?”

“Yeah. Look. Our smoking guard is going inside for the goodies.” Callahan looked around. “I’m going down there. Now’s the time. Pray for luck.”

Callahan pulled the balaclava over his face, adjusted the night vision goggles, put on the thin black gloves, and eased over the ridge on his belly. He crawled the hundred yards to the pump shed, coming up on his knees behind it. He had been shooting around the left side, and Eguardo had been shooting on the right side, so if Eguardo stashed the original treaty somewhere, it had to be on the right side.

He inspected the area with the goggles. The wall was cheap concrete block covered with brown stucco, topped with a sloping tile roof. He felt around under the eaves. Nothing. But Eguardo wasn’t standing when they fired from behind the shed. He was half-sitting, bracing his arm, and taking well aimed shots.

“Guard coming back,” Callahan heard Berrera’s whisper in his earpiece. He flattened to the ground and peeked around the shed. The guard was back on his patrol with a piece of pizza in each hand. Callahan waited for him to turn the corner of the villa. That should give him eight minutes.

 He knelt where Eguardo had been and felt around the shed’s foundation. The stucco had only been applied from the ground up, and was crumbling at the bottom, exposing the concrete block. He took off a glove and ran his hand along the foundation blocks where the ground had eroded. There it was, the TIME magazine Eguardo had been reading, right where he had been sitting.

Callahan quickly fanned the pages and saw the stiff, brown treaty, folded in half and sandwiched between two pages. Had Eguardo planned this from the beginning? And now the treaty was here in his hands.

He clicked the radio three times, and Berrera responded with three clicks. All clear. He crawled back up and over the ridge, and an hour later they were back in Callahan’s compound in Dhahran.

“Here it is,” Callahan said. “Take a look. God knows you deserve it.” He carefully unfolded the treaty and spread it on the coffee table. “Can you read any of it?”

“A little, but not much. I can’t make out those letters. Hmm, just one little piece of paper can turn the world upside down. What happens to it now?”

“Now it goes back to Rome. After that, they can do whatever they want with it. If they have any brains, they’ll burn it. I hope I never see it again.”

 

Dhahran - Monday, May 20

Only Zahid remained with Hammid at his villa. Everyone else had drifted away, some under orders, some recruited by others, and some in disgust.

Hammid sat on the balcony watching the waters of the gulf, as he had ever since returning from Cairo. His father had taken the private jet, cut off his funding, and suggested he find another family to disgrace.

He was a public fool, a fraud, and a charlatan. Rather than leading his people, he felt their contempt, and rather than a great victory, he had made fools of all those who supported him. Already there were calls on both sides for dialog and exchange. The rioters went home, and even CNN lost interest. He was old news. An old fool.

Zahid came onto the balcony and leaned back against the railing. “I must be going, Hammid.”

Hammid swirled the ice cubes in his Scotch. “We were right, weren’t we, Zahid?”

“Yes, we were right.”

“That treaty we had was authentic, wasn’t it? It really did call for the destruction of Islam?”

“It did, indeed. We will always know that, no matter what else happens.”

“And that Mexican Pope? He sent a Filipino to switch manuscripts at the last moment. But how did the laser test show the forgery was the same as the original? That is a question I will take to my grave.”

A grave that is beckoning sooner rather than later, Zahid thought. He had to get out of here.

“How can that be, Zahid? How could the original and the forgery show the same analysis?”

Zahid knew a bit, but not all. He and Jean Randolph had identical laser analyses for their sample when they ran them in London. Zahid never did find out what Jean had been running. But they were identical. He had seen the results.

But Jean was dead, burned to death right after that. That was a mystery he had decided to leave unsolved.

“I don’t know, Hammid. I really don’t know. But I do know we had the real treaty, and I do know what it said. So do you. It’s little comfort, but a man has to face himself and face his God. And God knows it. The treaty was stolen and a forgery put in its place.”

“Goodbye, my friend,” said Hammid. He stood and embraced Zahid. “And thank you for your efforts. I don’t know what more you could have done.”

“Thank you, Sheik.”

When Zahid’s taxi passed the two men parked down the road from Hammid’s villa, they slowly drove up the long driveway. Hammid died on his balcony as he predicted he would, with no warning and without knowing, while he was pouring himself another Scotch.

 

Zurich - Monday, May 20

The sour Saudi guard at King Fahd airport sneered at Callahan and rummaged through his carry-on, unzipping all the pockets and probing with his fingers. Callahan knew the drill and had planted a small but expensive pen knife for the guard to confiscate. When the guard triumphantly held up the knife, the more urbane supervisor came over and apologized for the inconvenience, but explained it was for everybody’s safety. Callahan managed a resigned look of disappointment, apologized for overlooking the knife, thanked the supervisor, and entered the boarding area.

That was his last inspection in Saudi Arabia. He would fly from King Fahd to Riyadh, and then to Zurich. The guard had flipped right past the Treaty of Tuscany when he fanned the notebook of sample fonts in his briefcase.  Callahan resisted the temptation to turn back to see whose pocket became the new home to the little knife.

In Zurich he took a taxi from the airport to the Templar headquarters, arriving before the bank opened. But it was always open for Templar business, and the guards buzzed him into the “cage” where he was trapped in a glass cubicle until they were satisfied he was one of them.

He took the stairs to the third sublevel and went down the corridor to the Marshall’s office. The Marshall looked up and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s about time, Callahan. Come in, close the door, and take a seat.”

Callahan opened his briefcase, removed the notebook of fonts, and carefully extracted the flexible plastic protector holding the Treaty of Tuscany. He slid it across the desk and said, “I believe this mission is complete.”

The Marshall stared down at the treaty and shook his head. “So this is it, huh? The real thing.”

“That’s it. The one that would convince all the Muslims the West wants them dead.”

“Tell me about it. Everything.” The Marshall leaned back and put a foot on his bottom drawer.

When Callahan finished, the Marshall let out a deep breath and said, “Ok. You did it. To tell you the truth, I really didn’t expect to see you again. You were lucky, but a man makes his own luck most of the time.”

“There are a couple of loose ends we should take care of,” Callahan said. “The man we lost, Eguardo. His family in Manila needs to be taken care of.” Callahan passed over a card Berrera had given him. “That’s his father. And here’s a son who wants to go to engineering school.”

The Marshall nodded.

“And we owe Anna Archuletta a second payment of ten thousand US dollars. She’s the hooker who gave us the inside information on Hammid’s villa. Same terms as before.”

The Marshall took a second card from him. “We’ll take care of it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Berrera. The Filipino priest I worked with. He might be a good prospect for the Templars. I can vouch for him.”

The Marshall just nodded. “Ok. But now, I want you to get this thing over to the Kruger Institute and give it to the Archivist.”

“Why don’t we just burn the damn thing?”

“Because we take the long view of history, and it just might do us some good in a few hundred years. Hard to tell. Besides, do you want to face the Archivist and tell him you burned it? I don’t.”

 

*     *     *

When the Templar driver let him off at the Kruger, Marie Curtis met him at the entrance. “We got a warning call you were on the way,” she said. “I hear you have acquired a valuable document for our collection.”

“Whatever it takes to get it out of my hands. The Archivist here?”

“Oh, he’s here, alright. Pacing around up there like a caged lion waiting for that thing.” She nodded at Callahan’s briefcase.

“Well, let’s not keep the lion waiting.”

The Archivist gazed at the treaty resting on his desk, then back up at Callahan. “Oh, it’s a rare thing of beauty, my boy. A thing of beauty. From 1189. Eight hundred years, and here it is with us now. Right where it belongs.”

“Any news on Hammid Al Dossary?” Callahan asked.

“Besides the fact that he’s now public idiot number one, disgraced and exposed as a fraud who slandered the Church and tried to incite a religious war?” said the Archivist.

“It’s that bad? I haven’t seen much news lately.”

“Oh, yes. The University of Cairo has even given the treaty, the one Jean Randolph made for us, back to the Vatican so they can enshrine it forever as a monument to peace and understanding among the peoples of the world.”

“And the Hashashin?”

The Archivist shrugged. “We killed a bunch, but you know that. They nearly succeeded with this treaty plan. It really was brilliant. Wish I had thought of it. Just didn’t work out the way they expected.” He leaned forward in his chair. “But you know them, they’re back there in the bowels of the Bekka Valley planning something new.”

“And how about Jean Randolph?” Callahan looked at Marie. “How shall I say this? How’s her general health?”

Marie smiled. “Oh, I’d say she’s in quite a bit of pain right about now. She just got a new face at a clinic in Bern. I think she gets a new voice today. She wanted to get it all over with at once.”

“As a Templar?”

The Archivist twisted up his face. “Not sure yet. We can use her. Mind you, she knows what we did substituting that forged treaty. Hell, she forged the thing. Couldn’t keep that from her.” His eyes lost their focus. “God, that forgery was a work of art. I’ve got to get down to the Vatican to see it in its place of honor.”

“And,” Marie added, “we know everything she did, and she’s accepted she has no life without us. And now the Hashashin are truly pissed off.”

“Good. I kind of liked her.” Callahan stood up. “Ok. You guys have the treaty, and I’m out of here.”

 

*     *     *

When Callahan and Marie left, the Templar Archivist called the Master. “Callahan just delivered the treaty. The real thing, the one demanding all good Christians rend the infidel limb from limb.”

“Where’s it going?”

“Into the mountain vault with our most prized collection. We’ll not be keeping it here. And I’ll be writing up the whole story so the Templars in a few hundred years aren’t left as clueless as we were.” He let out a high-pitched laugh. “Wonder what those boys will use it for?”

 

*     *     *

The Pope hung up the phone and grinned at Carlos. “The Templars have the treaty.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Carlos.

“What makes me sure? The Templar Master just told me they burned it. That’s what.”

 

*     *     *

The Master clicked off his phone, and said, “The Pope thanks us, and wishes us well.”

“Hmmph,” the Marshall grunted, “did he believe that stuff about burning the real treaty?”

“Of course not. He said he did, but the man’s not stupid, and he doesn’t think we’re stupid, either.”

“I hope he’s right about that,” sighed the Marshall. “You know, we probably should have recruited that guy a long time ago.”

 

Vatican - Monday, May 20

The Pope and Bishop Carlos Perez sat across from each other with bottles of San Miguel beer. Carlos raised his up and asked, “Where’d you get this?”

“I asked a Filipino bishop for a favor,” the Pope replied. “In case anyone ever asks, the San Miguel is the favor.”

Carlos nodded. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t ask a Frenchman for the favor. Maybe you should ask him for another favor when this is gone.” He pointed the neck of his bottle at the blue TV screen. “Run it again, Boss, run it again. I love this.”

The Pope aimed the remote at the TV and clicked.

 

*     *     *

And this just in… CNN has learned of another, perhaps final, twist in the confusing saga of the Treaty of Tuscany. We go now to Greg Conrad in London.

“Thank you, Peter. I’m here with Professor Ahmed Al Qatani of Cairo University… Professor Qatani is one of the scholars entrusted with conducting laser analysis of the manuscript presented to the panel of experts last week by Hammid Al Dossary. If you remember, Peter, when Mr. Al Dossary actually handed the original treaty to the panel for examination, it was completely different from the copies that had previously been circulated.

The previous copies called for the destruction of Islam. However, when Al Dossary gave the original treaty to the panel, it called for peace, cooperation, and mutual respect between Christianity and Islam.

CNN: Professor Qatani, what were you testing here?

Qatani: As you said, the treaty Mr. Al Dossary provided was quite different from the copies he previously provided. He claimed the original treaty had been stolen from him after we took our samples, and a forgery put in its place. And he believed laser analysis would show the alleged forgery was not authentic.

CNN: So, let me recap for our viewers. You came here to test the document Mr. Al Dossary claims is a forgery. The manuscript calling for peace and cooperation?

Qatani: Yes. That’s correct. We felt we should leave no unanswered questions.

CNN: And your previous laser testing was done on what Mr. Al Dossary claims was the real treaty. But you only had samples…

Qatani: Yes.

CNN: And what is the result?

Qatani: These new samples show the same, identical chemical profile as the previous samples we tested. Identical. All samples we tested… the first set… the second set… they are all identical.

CNN: So what do you conclude?

Qatani: Well, there are two possibilities. First, the samples we originally took, and the samples we later took are from the exact same manuscript. This is by far the most likely scenario.

CNN: Is there an alternative?

Qatani: Only that a forger got hold of a piece of parchment manufactured in the Twelfth Century… there isn’t any… and that piece of parchment was from the exact same batch as the original. The probability is ridiculously low.

CNN: And the panel’s final conclusion?

Qatani: We conclude that the Treat of Tuscany is indeed authentic. It has passed every test known to man, and it calls for peaceful cooperation between all Christians and Muslims.

CNN: Is Mr. Al Dossary a fraud?

Qatani: Our job is analysis of manuscripts. We conclude the treaty is authentic. We conclude it calls for peaceful cooperation between Christians and Muslims. We leave analysis of people to others.

 

*     *     *

“I’ve seen you pull some big rabbits out of small hats, Boss, but this? This is in a class all by itself. How’d you do it?”

“Maybe someday, Carlos, maybe someday,” the Pope gave a half smile. “There really are some things that should be lost to history.”

Carlos reached into his coat pocket. “Oh, Mancini gave me this. It’s the report they sent to Agretti about the theft of the treaty from the Vatican Library. Translations Agretti had, too. He said these are the only copies, and you could always put them back in the files if you wanted.”

The Pope scanned the folded sheets Carlos handed him. “I suppose I could put them back in the files. I guess that’s the responsible thing to do.” He got up and walked to his desk. “And I suppose I could be irresponsible, too.” He pushed the button on the shredder and watched the machine chop the pages into teeny squares.

“Tell Mancini thanks.”

“Mancini’s gone. The permanent security chief, the guy who got hit in the bombing trying to throw the blast blanket over the Pope, he’s out of the hospital and back on the job. Mancini’s gone…” he lifted his eyebrows and palms together, “gone to wherever Templars go, I guess.”

“He knew he had to go. So did I. His first loyalty is to the Templars.”

“Yeah,” Carlos laughed, “he wished you the best and said if you ever needed him you know how to get in touch.”

Carlos fetched two more San Miguels from the cooler and passed one to the Pope. “You know that parish in the Italian Alps you asked me to find?”

“Yeah.”

“Found one. Looks perfect. They have a priest, but he’d be happy to have someone from the Vatican retire there.”

“Good job.”

“You going to tell Agretti you know what he did? With the treaty and all?”

“Nope. Let him think it was all a miracle, divine intervention, the work of the Holy Spirit protecting the Church.  He can spend the rest of his life trying to figure it out. No point in letting him know what I know. I’m sure he’ll be happy in the mountains. Might fall and break his neck.”

“Like his friend Santini over at the Vatican Library? He’s still dead. In fact, it looks like he was the one who started the cover-up. You need to stick someone in there you can trust. I wouldn’t have thought that place could be so important.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought of that. Santini was a fine scholar, but we need a fine scholar we can trust. Tell you what, ask those three guys we nominated for the treaty panel. I do want someone from inside the Church, but ask them who they like for the job. Make sure you talk to that little guy from Zurich. See who he thinks would be good.”

“You are a truly devious man, Boss.” Carlos saluted the Pope with his bottle of beer.

“One more thing…” Carlos stood up and took a small card from his pants pocket and squinted at it. “Mancini said the Templars promised you would say a Papal Mass for the soul of this man, Eguardo Santiago. Santiago thought he might need someone to fix his visa to the next life. He said you would understand.”

The Pope took the card and rubbed a thumb across the name. “I don’t really understand.” He took a pull from the beer. “But then I suppose I really do. Eguardo Santiago will have his mass, and I hope his visa. I suspect we owe him a great deal.”

The Pope shrugged. ”Well, I’ve learned one thing from the Templars.”

“What’s that?”

“Pray for luck. Sometimes your prayers are answered.”