The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) Read online

  Relieved to have her mother finally depart her bedroom, Anala strode over to her desk and flipped open her laptop, hitting the ON switch. Although her cheek still stung, she refused to dwell on her mother’s tantrum. Really, sometimes I think that I’m the only adult in this household. Despite the tiresome carping, as soon as Michaelmas term began in October, she intended to throw herself headlong into her thesis topic, ‘Immigration and the Challenge of Social Justice’. At Oxford. At the Department of Politics and International Relations. Period. The end.

  While she waited for the computer to boot up, Anala snatched her iPod. Popping in the earbuds, she stood in front of the mirror and struck a stylized Bollywood dance pose. A few seconds later, hearing the hip-hop strains of ‘Single Ladies’, she gyrated her hips à la Beyoncé, dance moves that were way too provocative for the Hindi crowd. She’d seen Beyoncé last summer at the Glastonbury Festival, the woman an absolute glamazon.

  Sitting down at her desk, she quickly pulled up her article for the Liberal Conspiracy blog. A regular contributor, she thought the in-depth analysis of social media in the context of citizen journalists and their effect on public policy a timely topic. Although she’d finished the article last night, she was still playing around with various titles.

  ‘How about “The Tweet Heard Round the World”?’ she pondered aloud, giving it a test drive as she typed those six words above the body of text. She cocked her head from side to side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a –’

  Suddenly hearing something that sounded like the crisp thrack! of a willow cricket bat against a cork and leather ball, Anala yanked out the earbuds and glanced at the closed French doors.

  Before her brain could register what was happening, the glass door flung open and a mustachioed man, dressed all in black, entered her bedroom. Spinning in her direction, he charged towards the desk. His narrowed gaze and harshly set facial features screamed malevolent intent.

  Yelping with fear, Anala lurched to her feet. Too stunned to remember what she’d learned in her self-defense class, she grabbed her laptop computer and hurled it at the intruder. The man nimbly ducked to one side, completely avoiding the missile attack.

  Not about to abandon the fight, Anala snatched the nearest items within reach – a lamp, a bronze elephant paperweight and a framed photograph – flinging them in quick succession. She scored two hits and one miss. None of which deterred the mustachioed interloper, the man simply raising his arm and deflecting the blows.

  Quickly running out of ammo, she reached for her office chair . . . just as the intruder clasped her by the waist. Pinning her arms to her sides, he forcefully yanked her away from the desk. The chair toppled over as Anala frantically began to kick him in the shins.

  ‘You bitch!’

  ‘You bastard!’ she screeched, lifting both of her feet off the ground, finally recalling a self-defense tactic.

  In the next instant the two of them hit the floor with a spine-jarring impact.

  Managing to break free of the intruder’s violent embrace, Anala scrambled to her feet and ran towards the bedroom door. No sooner did she reach for the doorknob than she was again seized, this time the brute cinching his fingers around her neck, slamming her against the closed door. As her vision blurred, her lungs screaming for oxygen, she instinctively clawed at his hands.

  To her surprise, the assailant suddenly let go of her throat. Gasping for air, Anala felt a sharp, jabbing pain in her upper arm.

  Rather than clearing, her vision immediately became more blurry, the room spinning off-kilter. Woozy, she opened her mouth to scream. Only to discover that –

  She . . . couldn’t . . . remember . . . how . . .

  3

  Paris, France

  19 August

  ‘. . . and I still think you should rename it “The Abduction of the Divine Bride”. That’s a much catchier title than “The Sacred and the Profane”.’

  ‘It’s a PowerPoint presentation about the medieval Cathars,’ the tall red-headed Englishman retorted, clearly appalled at the suggestion. ‘Not a bloody romance novel.’

  Getting up from the Edwardian sofa, Edie Miller wagged a finger at the man she teasingly referred to as her ‘part-time paramour’. ‘Yeah, but sex sells. Trust me, Caedmon. Change the title and you’ll pack ’em in like sardines at the Avignon symposium.’ She paused a moment before dangling a very enticing carrot. ‘And it could boost your book sales.’

  ‘So you think I should sex up my lecture, eh?’ Having followed her into the hallway, Caedmon Aisquith cocked his head to one side and struck a thoughtful pose. ‘Hmm . . . perhaps I could add a few naughty bits to the section on Isis Mystery cults. Although it’ll require considerable rehearsal time with my research assistant,’ he added, rakishly raising an auburn brow.

  ‘I hate to douse your lurid fantasy, but rehearsal will have to wait until I get some food in me. I’m utterly famished.’ Edie pointedly looked over at her luggage still piled in the middle of the hall. Since she and Caedmon were leaving tomorrow for Avignon – and from there, heading to the Côte d’Azur – she didn’t see the point of unpacking. ‘They served Chicken Cordon Blah on the flight from Guatemala City. Two bites were all I could manage.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask: how did the photo shoot go?’

  ‘Great pictures,’ she told him with a satisfied nod. ‘The women weavers at Santiago Atitlán are an inspiring example of girl power at its very best. On the downside, the poverty in Guatemala is heartbreaking.’

  ‘A repeating refrain the world over, unfortunately.’

  ‘All the same, it’s still a painful tune.’ As Edie was quickly discovering in her new gig with National Geographic magazine, having recently travelled to several third-world countries.

  Five months ago an editor at the renowned monthly caught an exhibition of Edie’s photography at a Washington DC gallery that specialized in African art. To her astonishment, the editor asked if she’d be interested in working as a freelance photographer. Interested? Dream come true. Although it meant that Edie now spent more time on the road than at her DC abode, squeezing in side trips to Paris when time permitted.

  Caedmon glanced at his wristwatch. ‘While it’s a bit early for dinner, l’heure de l’apéro is fast approaching. Care to stroll down the street for an aperitif?’

  Theatrically rolling her eyes, Edie said, ‘Why don’t you put on some French accordion music while you’re at it? Don’t think for one instant, Big Red, that I don’t see through your ploy. After plying me with alcohol, you intend to have your way with me,’ she accused, the rebuke eclipsed with a puckish grin.

  ‘If I’m that transparent, I’ve been out of the game far too long.’ Chortling softly to himself, Caedmon retrieved his jacket from the library ladder that did double duty as a coat rack.

  With its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the expansive hallway put Edie in mind of the library from Beauty and the Beast. A reference that went right over Caedmon’s head. At one time he had owned an English-language bookstore on the Left Bank. Soon after his debut tome Isis Revealed was published, he sold the shop but kept the inventory.

  ‘Come, Miss Miller. A gastronomic adventure awaits us.’ Invitation issued, Caedmon swung open the door to the flat, gallantly sweeping his arm towards the landing beyond.

  A few moments later, after they descended to the ground floor in a rickety, old-fashioned elevator, Edie allowed him to usher out of the building.

  When a religious zealot intent on finding the Ark of the Covenant had marked them both for execution, fate, quite literally, hurled them together. Had it not been for that dangerous episode eight months ago, their paths would never have crossed.

  While they were officially ‘an item’, because Caedmon lived in Paris and she was based in Washington, they saw each other irregularly, although they communicated nearly every day via computer Skype. Something of a commitment phobe, Edie didn’t mind ping-ponging across the Atlantic. Despite the fact that it was an u
nconventional relationship, she considered it the perfect distillation of romance, long-distance longing and shared passions. No wonder she was happier than she’d been in years.

  ‘I thought that we could review our French Riviera itinerary over dinner,’ Edie said as they made their way across the cobbled courtyard adjacent to the Beaux Arts apartment.

  ‘This is the first that I’ve heard of a travel itinerary.’ Putting a hand on the small of her back, Caedmon shepherded her through the stone archway that led to rue Saint-Benoît, a typical Paris street with upscale boutiques at street level and elegant flats with wrought-iron balconies on the floors above.

  ‘A holiday checklist is a must. If I let you do the planning, we’ll spend our entire vacation traipsing through old castles and ancient ruins. When instead we can be hitting the nude beaches and über-hip discotheques.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Caedmon grumbled. ‘Eight months into the relationship and I’ve become a predictable bore.’

  ‘Anything but,’ Edie was quick to assure him, unpredictability the key to Caedmon Aisquith’s appeal. That and the fact that he was an incredibly smart man.

  Soon after making Caedmon’s acquaintance, Edie realized that he was addicted to knowledge. In a world of dangerous obsessions – drugs, pornography, online gambling – his was a harmless passion. And the fact that he exhibited such ardor when it came to cerebral pursuits was kinda sexy. But then she’d always been attracted to brainiacs, the mind being the sexiest organ bar none.

  As they strolled leisurely down the street, arm-in-arm, Edie was amused to catch sight of a woman in a passing taxi who gave Caedmon a wide-eyed second glance. At six foot three inches in height with a thatch of thick auburn hair, he definitely stood out in a crowd.

  ‘Which of Paris’s two venerable grandes dames would you care to patronize?’ Caedmon asked when they reached Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  Waiting for the traffic light to change, Edie surveyed the busy street lined with fashionable shops and leafy green trees, the thoroughfare bathed in a golden, only-in-Paris kind of light. Located within spitting distance of one another, Café de Flore and Café Deux Magots were the belle époque ‘grandes dames’ in a city chock full of sidewalk cafés. Long-time rivals, both were icons with a storied history that included some of the most celebrated artists, philosophers and literary giants of the twentieth century.

  Edie contemplatively tapped her chin with her index finger. ‘I think that I’m in the mood to channel my inner Simone de Beauvoir.’

  ‘Café de Flore it is. Shall we sit outside on the patio?’

  ‘Where else can we watch people from every walk of life walk past?’ Edie remarked as they headed towards the welcoming shade of a striped awning. Sidestepping a garçon decked out in a tuxedo jacket, crisp, white shirt and a matching white apron, she suppressed an amused smile. It was the classic Parisian stereotype, and one that she loved. Cue more French accordion music. ‘As I recall, the last time we were here, we actually saw Karl Lagerfeld sitting a few tables away, sipping a glass of –’

  ‘Hello, Caedmon.’

  Hearing the unexpected greeting, Caedmon and Edie simultaneously turned round. Standing a few feet behind them was a lovely olive-skinned woman attired in a lightweight brown trouser suit, a leather messenger bag slung across her chest. Her long black hair was pulled into a serviceable ponytail, the fringe on her forehead accentuating a pair of red-rimmed hazel eyes. Either the woman suffered from severe allergies or she’d recently been crying. Belatedly, Edie realized it was the same woman she’d seen in the passing taxi who’d ogled Caedmon.

  ‘I hope that . . . that you remember me,’ the dark-haired woman stammered nervously.

  Caedmon recoiled slightly, clearly surprised. ‘My God . . . Gita. Of course I remember. What a delightful surprise.’ Quickly recovering, he gestured in Edie’s direction. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my companion, Edie Miller. Edie, this is Gita Patel. Gita and I were chums at Oxford.’

  Smiling politely, Edie extended her hand in the other woman’s direction. Still resembling a deer caught in the headlights, Gita returned the courtesy, murmuring the familiar ‘pleased to meet you’ rejoinder.

  ‘Has it really been more than twenty years since we last saw one another?’ Not giving Gita a chance to reply, Caedmon went on, ‘I take it that you’re in Paris on a holiday?’

  ‘Um, actually I’m here on a matter of great urgency. And I apologize for not ringing ahead, but I – I just arrived.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that this urgent matter involves me?’ Caedmon’s brow furrowed in obvious confusion.

  Suddenly picking up on a very strange vibe, Edie glanced anxiously between the two former Oxford ‘chums’.

  ‘Y-yes . . . it does involve you,’ Gita croaked, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Your daughter has been abducted.’

  ‘Obviously, there’s been some mistake,’ Caedmon replied matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t have a daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . I wasn’t clear . . . Our daughter has been abducted.’

  4

  In a twilight state, Anala Patel blinked several times as the room came into focus. The thump of her heart against her breastbone gave testimony that she was still among the living and not stuck in some afterlife limbo.

  My head is about to split wide open, she brooded, wondering why someone didn’t take chisel and hammer and finish her off. Utterly decimated, she decided that she was hung-over, suffering from a severe case of brown-bottle flu. Although, for the life of her, she couldn’t recall any of the party particulars.

  Parched, she tried to lick her lips, but couldn’t do that either. That was when she belatedly realized that there was a strap of tape across her mouth.

  Hmm . . . that’s odd.

  She tried to decipher the reason for her unusual predicament, but it proved an impossible undertaking. Her brain was functioning at a frustratingly sluggish speed, unable to do much of anything other than note the fact that she was in a dismally ugly room. Paneled in dark wood, there was only one window, near the ceiling, and no furniture save for a metal cot and a plain wooden chair. Heavy-limbed and heavy-lidded, she fought the urge to close her eyes and return to the Land of Nod.

  I can’t go to sleep. I need to go to the loo.

  Determined to follow through on what she considered a very good idea, she moved to get off the cot. Only to fall back upon the lumpy mattress, her hands bound behind her back. Peering down at her legs, she could see that her ankles were strapped together as well with gray duct tape.

  Panic-stricken, Anala struggled to come out of her stupor, a host of images flashing across her mind’s eyes – a mustachioed brute, a violent struggle and then a total blackout.

  I’ve been abducted!

  By who? And why?

  She’d obviously been tranquilized. Whatever drug had been administered, the after-effects were grueling. As though she’d been lashed to the wheel and forced to withstand the mother of all storms. Grimacing, she rolled her tongue over the back of her teeth, her mouth tasting like the bottom of a baby pram. Wondering if she’d been given a date-rape drug, she glanced at her garments, relieved to see that her sleeveless cotton shirt was buttoned and her cropped cargo trousers were properly fastened. Her feet, though, were bare, someone having removed her running shoes. Puzzled, she wondered why someone would have taken her shoes but left her clothes on?

  Work, brain, work!

  She had to figure out why she’d been kidnapped. Had to gather her thoughts and –

  Suddenly realizing the reason for the abduction, her stomach lurched.

  Feeling the sting of tears, she squeezed her eyes shut . . . She’d been nabbed by sex traffickers. Who else would brazenly kidnap a woman right out of her own home? Every day, all across India, females were seized and forced into brothels.

  Shock, horror and fear hit her in equal measure.

  I have to escape! Now!

  Refusing to become another sex statistic, Anala squi
rmed clumsily into a seated position. From there, she wiggled her bum to the edge of the cot. She then bent at the waist and examined the bed frame. Espying a raised screw head, she twisted, positioning her bound wrists over the top of the metal protuberance.

  Her only hope of escape.

  5

  A daughter!

  Christ. The sky was falling.

  The blood drained from Caedmon’s head so rapidly, it nearly felled him in its nauseous swoop. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words skidded to a silencing halt, his vocal cords paralyzed with shock.

  Edie, glancing nervously between him and Gita Patel, gestured to a nearby café table. ‘Um, maybe we should all sit down and, you know, regroup?’

  Caedmon managed a half-hearted nod. Pulling out a chair, he perfunctorily motioned for Gita to sit down. Then, still on auto-pilot, he performed the same courtesy for Edie before gracelessly plunking his own arse in a less than sturdy café chair. The ridiculously small table, no more than twenty inches in diameter, was designed for an intimate duo rather than an impersonal trio, forcing the three of them to huddle awkwardly around it.

  Still processing Gita’s bombshell, Caedmon tried to wrap his mind around the fact that twentysome years ago he’d fathered a child. Out of wedlock and seemingly out of the blue.

  Her expression one of deepening concern, Edie put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Caedmon, are you all right?’ she asked in a lowered voice.

  He nodded weakly once more. Better to lie than confess to the truth – that he was far from all right.

  A weighty silence ensued, not a one of them knowing what next to say.

  An aproned waiter stepped over to their table. ‘Désirez-vous un apéritif?’

  Taking charge, Edie asked Gita what she would like to drink. She then glanced expectantly in Caedmon’s direction. His thoughts jumbled, he shrugged. He didn’t want a drink; he wanted to climb into a hole. And a deep, dark, bottomless pit at that.