Templars Revenge--Chapter 6

Chapter 6



8:05 A.M. March 3

         

Jose rushed into the conference room the Vatican Police were utilizing as the investigations command center, “What have you got for me?”

“We’ve reviewed video from 12 separate security cameras on Seine Isle around Notre Dame to try and get a look at the assailant.  He did his homework…he stopped the van and shot the arrow at the one spot where there is no video coverage.  In this video you see him drive out of view and the flaming arrow shoots across the frame 30 seconds later,” said Lieutenant Pompili.

“If this doesn’t tell us anything why are you wasting my time showing me this?”

“We wanted to show you the next piece.  After reviewing all the video feeds over and over, we noticed that there is something missing.  Watch the time stamp on this video, it jumps from 7:38:05 to 7:39:16, it stopped recording for over one minute.  You would never notice just by watching the video because there is no movement during that time, but if you watch the time you see that a minute is gone.”

“So that’s why we didn’t see the assailant escape?”

“Maybe…or at least that’s what he wanted us to think.”

“Pompili, what are you getting at?”

“There is a minute missing from the one video camera that could have caught the perpetrator’s escape.  However, take a look at this video.  See the arrow again coming into the frame.  Now watch a little while longer.  Right there—freeze.  About 50 seconds later this man starts jogging into the frame and then joins the crowd trying to help the priests.”

“So is that the murderer?”

“We aren’t sure, but it is a place to start.  We talked with the National Police of France and showed them this video.  After watching this video and a number of others, they were able to identify the man.  He was interviewed and released yesterday morning.  He’s an American, Owen Thorne, an internet game developer supposedly working on a game featuring the Knights Templar.”

“Have him picked up immediately!”

“France’s National Police are already on their way to get him.”



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         Owen spotted the spires rising from Chartres Cathedral long before the train reached the town, in fact, from a distance the cathedral seemed to hover over the fields.  The silver train, trimmed in blue, rolled into Gare de Chartres at 8:32 A.M., precisely on time.  As expected for a small town, this station was notably smaller than those in Paris and had only two sets of tracks and platforms.  At the preceding stops that occurred nearly every ten minutes, a handful of passengers disembarked and boarded.  In Chartres, this was no different.  Only a young couple was ahead of Owen as he walked down the aisle with his rolling suitcase and backpack.  Owen was going to head to his hotel well before check-in; he wasn’t in need of rest, just a place to store his luggage while he attended his prearranged meeting with the Bishop of Chartres.

         No nav system was needed now, walking out of the three story, grey brick terminal likely built in the fifties, the flying buttresses of Chartres Cathedral could be seen from anywhere in the minor town the Romans called Auticum and was mentioned by Caesar 2000 years ago for the great druidic gathering held there.  His hotel, Jehan de Beauce was right outside the station and once he had dropped off his luggage, he would check out the tourist office and head to the cathedral.

         The wind blew his light brown hair into his eyes.  When Owen entered the hotel he wasn’t surprised by the minute lobby as he was in Paris.  He walked to the desk and said, “Hello.”

         A chubby, red haired woman in a burgundy blazer was behind the counter and greeted him with a somber, “Bonjour.”

         Owen was a little puzzled; he had selected this hotel since its website specifically said they spoke English.  While in Paris, Owen had found French virtually unnecessary and had rarely tried to speak French after the second day.  After a few seconds, “Bonjour,” stumbled out of his mouth.

         Cheerfully the woman responded, “Welcome to the hotel Jehan de Beauce, my name is Beatrice—how can I help you?”

         “I’m Owen Thorne, I have a reservation.  I know I probably can’t get into my room right now, but I was hoping I could store my suitcase here.”

         “I have room 213 ready on the second floor if you would like to take that now, otherwise a room on the third floor will be ready by two,” Beatrice said.

         Fishing a silver Visa card out of his pocket Owen said, “Thanks, I’ll just take the room on the second floor if you don’t mind.”

         “Not a problem…whatever our guests want we can provide.”  Beatrice swiped the credit card and handed a key to Owen.  “You can take the steps or the lift up to the room; it will be on your left.  Please leave the key at the desk when you are out…there is free Wi-Fi, and if you hurry you can still catch breakfast this morning in the room over there,” she said as she pointed to a room off of the lobby.  “Breakfast is served daily from 7 until 10 and it’s included in your room rate—it’s very good.”

         Owen was thankful that he could get into his room.  The smell of coffee and eggs was radiating from the breakfast room; although he wasn’t really hungry, the smell was too good to pass up.  Owen quickly entered the aged lift, closed the door and the rod iron gate that looked like it had been painted and repainted hundreds of times, and hit two.  The lift slowly ascended to the second floor where he walked to his room.  Attached to the key was a two by two inch piece of white marble with a dull finish and worn round corners; Owen suspected this was a reminder not to remove the key from the hotel as Beatrice had said.

         The room was small, a …cheap, clean, basic hotel as the online review had stated.  The window opened up to the street Owen had come in off of, although a tree directly in front blocked part of the view.  He left his coat and everything in his room except for his phone and iPad as he took the steps downstairs.

         In the breakfast room were two older couples finishing their coffee and fruit, and four tables that would seat three at best.  Owen looked around and didn’t see any wait staff.  He stood for a minute taking in the dated oil paintings on the walls when a diminutive elderly woman, in a dark dress and a stained apron, walked through the swinging doors with a pot of coffee.  She waved Owen over to the table nearest her as she said, “Bon matin, Voudriez-vous du café ?”

         “Yes,” Owen replied as he studied her and walked over.

         “Would you like some fresh squeezed orange juice?” She asked with an accent Owen could barely understand as she poured coffee into one of the two oversized mugs that sat on the table.  “I will make you eggs to order…and we have fruit and pastries over there…help yourself.  How would you like your eggs?”

         Owen wasn’t a huge fan of eggs; nevertheless the offer was very appealing.  “Yes, I’d like some juice. Can you make an omelet?”

         She looked annoyed, “Certainly, what would you like in it?”

         “How about mushrooms, tomatoes, onions, and cheese?”

         “I’ll be back with it in a minute, help yourself to the berries, pastries, and cereal.”

         Owen nodded his head in acknowledgement.  He reached for a white bowl on his table he assumed was filled with sugar.  He stirred in two spoonfuls while he opened his iPad case and started checking messages.  After responding to a couple, he left the phone on the table and walked directly to the croissants and breakfast rolls.  He added a cherry tart to a butter croissant, looked at the bananas and apples, and then returned to his seat.  Just as he sat down, the little woman flung the dented, stainless steel door open and headed to his table.

         “Here you go, would you like more coffee or juice?”

         “Thank you—more coffee please; the omelet looks great.”  Owen plunged his fork into the omelet, and smiled at the women as she returned with another pot of coffee filling the mug to the top.  She quickly went to the two tables with people, filled up their coffee mugs, and started to clear dishes away.

         Owen could hear the others speaking in French while he ate his second breakfast and read his news feed on the iPad before googling Chartres Cathedral as he had the night before.  The search returned 683,000 results, quite a number to cull through.  After he had downed his coffee, eggs, and croissants, he sat back full and satisfied while he looked around the room.  He tried to remember ever having as good of a breakfast back home as he had become accustomed to in France.  He stood up and thanked the French woman for breakfast before heading back to 213 where he brushed his teeth and retrieved his backpack.

         At 10 A.M., he headed over to the cathedral for his appointment.  From his research, he knew that Chartres was built and occupied by the Knights Templar for over 100 years.  The cathedral had long been rumored to be a potential hiding place for Templar treasure, although no one had ever provided any physical proof of this.  Still, for 700 years the rumors have persisted and Owen was hoping that he would find something in Chartres that he could use to include in the game or its marketing.

         For a video game, he would never have to show any real evidence to support his theories, or the storyline but would just have to make a plausible argument—if he could enhance details on Wikipedia, and other online sources to support the game’s storyline, all the better.  This suited Owen just fine, he knew that the Templars were very powerful in their day and there had to be a reason for all that power, but deep down he couldn’t conceive of any physical proof still being around after all these years.



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         Pope Pius had requested this meeting, although Jose Carlozzi was well aware that it was coming.  As before, Camerlengo Cervini, Secretary of State Dubois, and Enrico were present.  The pope was looking for answers.

         “What new information do you have for us?” asked his holiness.

         “Working with the French Police, we are seeking an American that may have something to do with the murders of Bishops Gilson and Cabon.”

         “Do you have him?”

         “No, he was questioned and released by the French National Police before we made the linkage—we will find him.  There must have been others involved as we confirmed that Owen Thorne, the American suspect, was in the United States two weeks ago.  He could not have taken part in Bishop Guilbert’s murder.”

         “What do you know of the other priests’ murders?” asked the secretary of state.

         “We have numerous experts helping us and we are making progress.  We will know shortly precisely how the 50 priests were killed,” responded Jose in his signature monotone voice.          

         “How about who did it?” Dubois pressed.

         “We do not know the identities of any of those calling themselves the Knights Templar.  Beyond Owen Thorne we do not have any suspects.  It would help the investigation if I could have access to the information the Holy See has on the Knights Templar and the Ark of the Covenant.”

         “Inspector, there is some knowledge, some secrets that is known and protected by the church and must remain so.  This is one of those secrets,” answered the pope.  “I cannot share this knowledge with you.” 

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