THE LAST ARK

CHAPTER 1: TEMPLAR SACRIFICE

LOST SECRETS OF THE QUMRAN

For some, the path to enlightenment leads to a revelation; for others, it ends with a slide into insanity. Derek Taylor leans toward insanity. T h e SLVIA has disappeared, and each step forward testifi es to the depth of his insane obsession with fi nding the missing program. Either way, a man rarely changes overnight but over a thousand sleepless nights. Th e problem, in Derek’s mind, is that the man never sees the end of his change. Th e person he’s evolving into doesn’t exist yet. A decade ago, Derek would have boldly rushed into this situation, but nothing about this meeting feels right. It may not be his fi rst time feeling the acidic gnaw of fate squeezing the breath out of his lungs, but he can’t shake the premonition of death hovering nearby. With a gentle tap to the right stem of his glasses, a set of transparent data feeds light up on the interior of his custom lenses. A Bluetooth audio channel feeds an encrypted satellite signal booster in his backpack. The satellite connects to the secret data center for an experimental D-WAVE quantum AI that has yet to mature to operate at full capacity. He pulls out his Taser gun, which is useless against a real gun with a night scope. But it makes him feel better. “WITNESS, start recording, turn on full sensors,” Derek whispers as he approaches the main entrance. His partner, a bohemian technical savant named Jester, engineered several high-tech functions within the heavy hipster black-frame glasses. Infrared allows him to detect heat signatures hidden in shadow. A Wi-Fi signal detects camera feeds and other security. “All sensors recording,” WITNESS confirms, with the voice of a British boy. Derek came to meet renowned Templar historian Olavo Silva. The late hour and remote location seemed suspicious, but Olavo feared his cottage was under surveillance. After a week of building trust, the old Portuguese scholar finally agreed to share an anonymous text he received on the same night the SLVIA disappeared. The SLVIA code often sent communications by anonymous text. It could be a meaningless dead-end, but Derek needs to see the message to be sure. More to the point, he needs to find the SLVIA, and the last breadcrumb led to Olavo. T he Convent Church in Tomar, famous as the fourteenth-century castle headquarters of the Order of Christ, seems a cliché location for meeting a Templar fanatic. Any good hacker will know the weakness of being predictable, although the late hour of two a.m. should ensure that they’ll be alone while most of the residents sleep. Derek holds up behind a pillar in the entrance courtyard as a monk passes with his hooded head bowed in prayer. Most residents, but not all. Past the administrative offices and dining halls, Derek steps up to the twelve-foot arched stone doorway of the church. The infrared image of a cat hiding in a dark corner appears in his lens. The scent of Valencia oranges drifts up from the gardens beyond the church. Other than the sound of the wind cutting between the buildings, he hears nothing. Once inside the church, the dim light makes it impossible for Derek to appreciate the astonishing columns, walls, and ceilings painted with brilliant colors and gold leaf. Templar architecture borrowed heavily from Romanesque,

Gothic, Manueline, and Renaissance styles, exquisite in both design and execution. Derek is not here for a tour. Careful to scan every corner for a heat signature, he slowly steps toward the ornately painted rotunda called the Charola. The Templars modeled the octagon design after the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. His mind subconsciously recalls the history. On Friday the 13th, 1309, King Philip IV of France, deep in debt to the Templars, arrested the Grand Master along with thousands of Knights. Thousands more escaped with the vast Templar wealth. By the time King Philip and Pope Clement were burning the Grand Master Jacque de Monet at the stake a year later, the rest of the Order were making new alliances in Scotland, where they resurrected as the Scottish Rite Freemasons. Other Templars landed in Portugal where King Dinis I founded the Order of Christ. By 1357, the Convent Church and castle were their headquarters. Countless secrets rest within these walls, but those are not the secrets Derek seeks tonight. Inside the rotunda, Derek stays at the perimeter to sweep the area of surprises. A life-sized bronze crucifix hanging from the ceiling draws his eyes upward to the hundred-sixty-foot-high dome. When Derek lowers his gaze, he finds Olavo lying directly under the crucifix. The scholar is trembling and frothing at the mouth with his eyes rolled back into his head. Poisoned. Derek instinctively pivots in a complete circle to check the infrared for surprises, but he’s alone. He lights a flashlight and kneels next to the old man. T here are no signs of blunt trauma or blood. With a heaving chest, Olavo breathes a last breath. Whatever secrets the old historian intended to share were now lost. A thousand questions rush through Derek’s mind, too fast to process. “WITNESS. Access security cameras for the Convent Church in Tomar.” He takes Olavo’s phone, which holds evidence of their communications. A moment later. “Access gained.” “Replay the last ten minutes for the Charola area.” A small window opens within his lenses to show a black-and-white security video of the area where he stands. Olavo paces the floor between the octagon pillars, checking his watch. Derek checks the video time. Five minutes ago. A deadly price to pay for his extra cautions. He and the killer just missed each other. From outside the church, a mile or so away, the telltale sound of police sirens heads up the hill in his direction. Derek taps his lens to find a police channel and catches Portuguese chatter about an intruder. He keeps watching the video, urgently needing answers. Soon a large, stocky man approaches. The same hooded monk he passed only moments ago. “I have a message for Mr. Taylor?” the monk says in a thick Scottish brogue. Derek watches as Olavo hesitates, maybe wondering how the monk knew Derek would be there. It’s a trap, the question of someone who suspects a disguise. He and Olavo are roughly the same height. To his horror, the ever curious scholar nods. “Yes, go on.” T he monk leaps on Olavo to slap a hand over his mouth and jab something into his neck. He steps back and lets the historian drop to the floor, watching long enough for Olavo to convulse before the monk turns back into the darkness and disappears. Sirens grow louder as Derek glances down to see Olavo’s fingers clutching a tiny piece of paper. He reaches to unfold it. Abbot Sabas must heed Sefer HaBahir Derek can only assume that this was the message Olavo wanted to share, but it makes no sense to him. The Sefer HaBahir is a famous Kabbalah book of wisdom and mystic knowledge. First published in 1176 and still held in high regard, the name HaBahir means brilliant or illumination. Templar lore maintains that Hugh de Payens, the first Grand Master of the Knights Templar, discovered the original scroll of Sefer HaBahir under the Temple Mount. Believed to be written in the first century by Rabbi Nehunya ben HaKanah, the Templars reprinted the book. T he name of Abbot Sabas, however, is a complete mystery. Sirens grow closer to the church and will wake the castle residents. “WITNESS, find a floor plan for the Convent Church,” Derek requests as he checks Olavo’s pockets for other clues. He turns to the rear of the church just as a floor plan appears in his lenses. As he had suspected, the church design includes a clergy sacristy in the back with a separate exit. But that’s the simple part. The entire complex sits in the middle of a twenty-acre castle surrounded by twelfth-century stone walls. The vast layout will buy him a few minutes at most. The problem will be how to escape the walled citadel, which has only one entrance—the one at which the police will arrive at any moment. He’s trapped. “WITNESS, show me a Google Earth view of the Convent de Crist, Tomar, Portugal,” Derek orders as he exits into another courtyard. Behind the church, two-story living quarters block any exit to the left. Lights turning on in the windows confirm to Derek that curious eyes will soon follow. A garden with workshops and a stone guard tower lays straight ahead but offers no exit. An ancient orchard with even older oaks grows up against the crumbling southern wall. Based on the satellite view, at least one tree spans the wall and drops to a hillside above a dirt trail that leads to a nearby village. “Could be worse,” Derek mumbles as he races for the enormous oak. Voices and commands shouted in Portuguese echo from inside the church and surrounding courtyards. At the oak’s base, he reaches up for the lowest branch to hoist himself with a stifled grunt, fueled by adrenaline. Shouts from inside the church show they must have discovered the body of poor Olavo, f looding Derek with immense guilt. The killer asked for him. Derek climbs over a branch that spans the crumbling wall. As carefully as he can in the dark, he hangs from the branch, worried about the drop. The bark of a dog and the searching beam of a flashlight provide him with the courage to let go. Derek lands hard after a ten-foot drop to roll down the brush and grassy hill another thirty feet. It takes a moment to get his bearing and check for anything broken. Except for ripped clothing and some bruises, he’ll survive. Shouts from inside the wall urge him to hurry. He needs to get to the village at the bottom of the hill where he parked. Disappointed, and soaked in guilt, he can’t even be sure the SLVIA sent the message. The only way to find out will be to find an abbot named Sabas.