The Templar Key, By Number One Author (Peter Sparke Book 3) Read online

  Sparke, who never thought of his job as much more than a series of engineering projects, couldn’t think of any reason why he would want to say, ‘no’, so he said ‘yes’.

  “Tilly, since you are in the area, why don’t you come over to the office for a coffee some time.”

  “How about tomorrow at ten?”

  “Let me check,” said Sparke.

  He lifted his head and spoke towards his computer.

  “Screen, diary tomorrow, please.”

  The wall screen glowed briefly with a pulse of light, and then responded.

  “Peter, you have a 7.30 call with Singapore, then nothing until your 14.30 HR meeting with Lynne on the topic of Paternity Leave Policy,” said the Screen.

  “Ten looks fine,” said Sparke. “You know where we are?”

  “I’ll GPS you.”

  Seeing Tilly in his office the next day was one of those strange experiences where two, normally separate, parts of life start to overlap, a bit like wearing beach clothes to the office. The office that Sparke’s firm occupied was a renovated industrial building, about a hundred years old, with large windows, polished-timber floors and the relaxed, but busy feel of a thoroughly twenty-first-century workspace.

  Tilly waved at Sparke through the plate glass that separated the foyer from the main office, where he stood. He opened the sliding door smiling.

  “Good to see you,” he said. “You bring your passport?”

  “Certainly did,” she said, waving it. “Pretty tight security for an office.”

  “Hmm, probably overkill,” agreed Sparke. “Can you put your hand, palm down, on that little screen for me?”

  “You take finger prints?” said Tilly, now incredulous.

  “Ah, well, we need to make sure that we know who is in the place,” said Sparke, apologetic. “All kinds of things are on people’s screens.”

  “Secret stuff?”

  “Secret to some people. Come through to my office and we can get a coffee.”

  People working at their desks looked up as Tilly walked through the space. Not many people made casual visits to the office and Sparke had never, as far as anyone could remember, shown any evidence of life outside work.

  “Where is your famous big computer?” said Tilly.

  Sparke pointed to the wall she was standing next to.

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?” said Tilly, seeing a blank wall.

  Sparke closed the door to his office.

  “Screen, good morning,” he said.

  The whole wall glowed into life. Recognizing the relaxed tone in Sparke’s voice, the Screen adopted a similar manner.

  “Good morning, Peter. Can we help you in any way today?”

  “Screen, guest access, username Pink,” said Sparke, then turning to Tilly, “Say something to the big computer.”

  “Good morning, Screen,” she said.

  “Good morning, Pink,” said the Screen.

  “Screen, change username from ‘Pink’ to username ‘Tilly’,” said Sparke.

  “Good morning, Tilly,” said the Screen. “Please let me know if we can help you in any way.”

  Tilly turned to Sparke.

  “What can it do?”

  “Oh, a lot,” said Sparke. “Mainly it can access a lot of interesting databases.”

  Sparke turned his head slightly and spoke to the system. “Screen, cite references Professor Matilida Pink.”

  The screen split, each section showing a title of one of Tilly’s publications or an image from the various television performances or video lectures she had given.

  “That’s a big screen. What happens when you and I speak to each other on Skype?” said Tilly.

  Sparke shrugged.

  “Screen, open Skype,” he said.

  The full wall gently merged into a video call screen.

  “Are you telling me that when we speak,” said Tilly, “you are talking to an image of me that fills that screen?”

  Sparke felt he might, somehow, be in trouble, but could not imagine why.

  “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  “Peter, promise me that you will never, ever project my face two meters broad onto that screen.”

  “Eh, OK, but why?”

  “Why?” said Tilly. “Every pore on my face must look the size of a coffee mug.”

  Sparke was becoming increasingly comfortable with the idea of looking at Tilly’s face, but promised to keep any screen image to life-size in future.

  “Can I ask it a question?” she said. “There is something in the Munich archives that I think you might be interested in. Maybe your big Screen can find the image?”

  Sparke waved his hand towards the Screen.

  Tilly thought for a moment, and then spoke.

  “Screen, source image Battle of Jacob’s Column. Image is called Knights Led by Builders.”

  Almost immediately, the Screen was filled with a beautifully-colored medieval illustration showing several outsized figures in a landscape of mountains and coastline.

  “Bloody hell, that’s a fast machine,” said Tilly, genuinely impressed.

  “To be honest,” said Sparke, “it is really several computers, all working through one screen. What is this picture of?”

  “This is probably the earliest image we know related to the idea of a Templar battle around the Jacob’s Column site,” said Tilly, “made some years after the event.”

  “What is it, a bit of Templar war reporting?”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” she said, cheerfully. “It’s actually a piece of anti-Templar propaganda. Look,” she said, pointing to some text, “this says that the Knights were afraid, and were only saved by the actions of some builders. See.”

  She pointed to three enlarged figures, wearing simple garments and slouch hats, each holding a brick-carrying hod over his shoulder. All three were mounted on horses. In case there was any confusion, the Latin word for ‘Builder’ was written next to them.

  Depicted in much smaller scale, and standing behind the builders, were a number of figures in white surcoats and armor, carrying swords. Beneath them were more figures, wearing dark, shapeless robes, lying horizontally. Tilly began pointing out features, one at a time, her voice taking on a slightly educational tone.

  “So, from the bottom. We can see the sea with some ships. See the people praying? They’re pilgrims. This here is a port, and then snaking up here from the coast is a roadway. See the little figures?”

  “More pilgrims?” said Sparke.

  “Yup, big crosses round their necks, see? Now here, the road goes right into the hills. These little figures lying on the ground are dead. Muslims, see? They are wearing robes and have curved swords. Up here,” she said pointing to the top of the image “is probably Jacob’s Column itself.” There was a vertical column shown with a halo around it.

  “The dead bodies are not at the same place as the column,” said Sparke, “so, the Battle of Jacob’s Column took place on a pilgrim road leading to it?”

  “You get one point for noticing that, but you lose three points for not noticing this,” said Tilly, pointing back at the spot where the dead bodies lay. There was a low square building without any adornment. It stood on a narrow piece of landscape, hemmed in on both sides by steep hills.

  “That,” said Tilly, making no attempt to hide her pride, “is, almost certainly, the building we flew to when we left the Monastery. I would say that we have found the true site of the battle of Jacob’s Column.”

  Home

  “You British,” said the General, shaking his head, “you turn up in a battleship and tell us that you want to get back to business-as-usual as quickly as possible. And your expectations of us?”

  “Only to be allowed to look after our own people without hindrance and to have civil power remain with yourselves.”

  The General nodded at Bastian’s words. It made sense to leave the city to the Turks to manage on behalf of the British and their allie
s.

  “Sir,” said Bastian, “would it be a problem if I asked you if we could exchange pistols? I am grateful that you presented me with yours, but you see, I am very attached to my old Webley and I am sure you prefer to have your own back.”

  The General smiled, and placed Bastian’s revolver on the desk, accepting his own Mauser in return.

  “It is unusual to find an Englishman who speaks Turkish like a Turk.”

  “Actually, sir, I am not English,” Bastian said. “I was born here.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “My family is still here. They never left when the war started.”

  “The name of your family?”

  “Drysdale-Behier.”

  The General walked to the door and looked out at the group of junior officers who were clustered in the outer office, staring at the British sailors who sat against the wall on a long bench. He summoned one of the officers inside.

  “Find the Chief of Police and the Governor. Find out where the family called Drysdale-Behier is and any news of how they are. Bring that news directly to the young Admiral here first, and then let me know.”

  The young officer saluted and rushed out. Satisfied, the General turned to Bastian.

  “You had better get back to your ship and tell them that your mission has been a success, I suppose.”

  The march back to the docks was infinitely less stressful than the journey in. The Turkish General had taken time to be seen chatting with Bastian in the parade ground. Then he briefly inspected the British sailors. As the party marched back through the streets, children paraded behind them, swinging their arms and gleefully mimicking Bastian’s salute as he again passed the former British Consul’s office.

  Back at the quayside, in a last-minute decision, Bastian walked into the shabby terrace of the Cafe Spiro, which had been one of the centers of the business community before the war. The place was open, but empty of clients. He spoke briefly to the manager and, a few moments later, the entire shore party was standing on the street, rifles slung over their shoulders drinking glasses of hot sweet tea and smoking Turkish cigarettes. The message was clear: invaders don’t drink tea.

  Back on board the ship, Bastian was summoned straight to the Flag Quarters where he found the Admiral and The Boss.

  “Have any problems?” said The Boss.

  “No, sir.”

  “Make any promises?” said the Admiral.

  “No, sir.”

  “Safe enough for our men to go ashore a bit?” said The Boss.

  “Yes, sir, in groups. Locals will be glad of the business, I would expect.”

  “Good. Well done, Drysdale-Behier. Your family well?” said the Admiral.

  “Haven’t had time to find out just yet, sir.”

  “Well, you’d best head ashore and do that, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bastian, snapping to attention, saluting and heading back down to the main deck where he ordered the boat back to the quayside.

  As Bastian’s boat neared the quayside, he noticed a long open-topped staff car arrive and the young Turkish officer from the General’s office step out along with a short, heavy man, also in uniform, but not a soldier.

  “Captain,” said the young officer, crisply, “this is the Chief of Police.”

  Bastian shook the short man’s hand. He appeared nervous and stared openly at Bastian when he spoke in Turkish.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Bastian. “With your permission we will be allowing small groups of our men shore leave in the city. I hope that will not be a problem.”

  “It is not a problem, Captain,” said the young officer without glancing at the Chief of Police. “The General personally asked me to find out about your family.”

  Something in the way the officer spoke set alarm bells ringing for Bastian. He made no comment, but looked hard at the policeman.

  “Sir,” said the Chief, “citizens of hostile nations were treated with the greatest respect and care in the city during the war.”

  Still, Bastian said nothing. The Chief stole another glance at the young Turkish officer, looking for support, but seeing no help there, continued.

  “Your mother and father are safe and secure in their own home. They have been fully protected by our police.”

  “And the rest of my family,” said Bastian, “have you news of my brothers?”

  The Chief swallowed hard.

  “You must understand,” he said, “the police are only responsible for the actual city. The lands outside the city are beyond our control.”

  “My brothers?” said Bastian, now staring hard at the squirming policeman.

  “There was an incident. An incident outside the city’s jurisdiction. Your two brothers were involved. Brigands. The war has made the situation in the countryside very difficult.”

  For a long moment, there was a painful silence, which only the policeman could break.

  “I am sorry to say that both of your brothers were involved in the incident. Neither survived. We have made every effort to track down those responsible, even the Army was sent to help, but in the mountains, with those country people... there was nothing to be done.”

  “They are both dead,” said Bastian flatly.

  He saw his two younger brothers, both in their early teens, standing at this very dockside when he sailed off to Britain and the war. Both were excited and envious of him leaving for a country they referred to as ‘home’ even though they had never been there.

  “When?” he said.

  “It was this year, in February, near the mine your family owns. In the hills”

  Bastian had seen many men during the war torturing themselves with thoughts of home and their return once it was all over. Others had received letters from home and even leave with their families, but he had closed his heart to any dreams of a joyful homecoming. He had always pushed that thought away. Now he was home to find news that was worse than he could imagine.

  The silence of the docks was deafening. Bastian looked along the stone quay and saw two crows strutting over the stonework.

  “I wonder if those are the same crows that I saw this morning?” though Bastian, his mind a blank.

  “The General has offered his car to take you home,” said the young officer.

  Bastian took a moment to absorb what he had said and looked across the dirty water for a moment.

  “Please thank the General for me,” said Bastian, then he stepped into the car and removed his hat, placing it carefully on the seat by his side.

  The journey from the docks to his family home took thirty minutes in the powerful car. They sped through the dusty streets and out into the rich suburbs where his family home lay. The flood of familiar sights overwhelmed Bastian. The place looked as though it had gone to sleep for four years.

  The gate to the house was closed, but not locked, and the driver pushed back the heavy ironwork. Bastian heard the gravel crunch under the tires and could not help notice that the garden was overgrown. As soon as the car reached the front door, the driver leapt out and opened the door for Bastian.

  At the bottom of the steps Bastian wondered stupidly if he should ring the bell or just walk in. As he thought about it, the door swung open. His mother and their housekeeper stood together at the entrance. His mother had seen the Turkish military car sweep into the grounds, but was shocked speechless at the sight before her.

  Bastian looked to have grown in height. The sun-tanned naval officer with a gun at his hip looked like a stranger in her son’s body. Her oldest son had been taken away and replaced by this man. A tiny, nearly silent sob escaped her, but she did not move.

  The housekeeper, who had looked after Bastian as an infant, had no such restraint. She burst into tears and threw herself towards him, wrapping her arms so tightly around him that he almost lost his balance.

  At last, she let him go and retreated, sobbing loudly into her apron, and his mother took a step forward. She reached out and grabbed
his hand, crushing it to her face.

  “Bastian, you are back home.”

  Archive

  “Finding the site of a battle fought eight hundred years ago is a big deal, I guess?” said Sparke. Tilly looked at Sparke as though he was a slightly disappointing child.

  “Finding the site of a battle fought eight hundred years ago is certainly a big deal,” she said. “If we’re right about the location, we’ll have a project to survey the site. There are very, very few historical battlefield sites that we can be confident of. You do know that we can’t be sure exactly where even big events, like the Battle of Hastings, were fought, don’t you?”

  “Wasn’t it fought at Hastings?” he said, smiling.

  “Somewhere in the area of Hastings, but it’s the detail that matters. If we can find an actual battlefield it makes a difference to our understanding of what really happened.”

  “You’re a happy bunny?” said Sparke.

  Tilly smiled.

  “I am, just a little bit happy, but I don’t imagine Maryam will be so pleased.”

  “No, why not?”

  “Can you find a map of the area on your big Screen?”

  Sparke walked over to the Screen and pulled up a touch keyboard. After a few seconds typing, the screen split in two and a satellite image of the area appeared next to the medieval illustration.

  “OK, Mr. Big Brain,” said Tilly, “tell me what you think is wrong here?”

  Sparke stepped back from the screen and looked at the two images. The illustration was nothing like the actual landscape in most ways, but the road from the coast, the tight mountain pass and the long, broad plain beyond it were all in, more or less, the right places. The small, strange enclosure building was close to the neck of the pass, just as it was in real life.

  “I can see why people might want to ambush someone at the pass, where the building is, narrow pathway, steep hillsides to hide in, that sort of thing,” he said.

  “But?” said Tilly.

  “Well, I suppose I always thought of medieval battles being masses of men moving around, cavalry charges, that sort of thing.”