“You wore one once to a costume party and somebody said you had a nice ass. And he was drunk.”

  Acton gave her a toothy grin. “It still counts.”

  She leaned back and stretched, and Acton’s grin spread. She caught him. “Should I just take these things off?”

  “What a wonderful idea.”

  She stabbed a finger at him as he rose from his chair. “Don’t you dare move, mister. I’m still packing. Plenty of time for that later.”

  He tapped his watch. “Not really. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

  “You didn’t leave us much time to get ready. You’re sure this is the real thing?”

  “I’m not sure about anything. As soon as I saw the letter, I didn’t know what to think. You read it, what’s your opinion?”

  She zipped up her suitcase in triumph. “I wouldn’t be scrambling to pack a bag and fly to Europe if I didn’t think there was something to it.” She took a moment and stared at him. “The Treatise of the Three Impostors. I had always just assumed it was fake.”

  Acton agreed. “It’s interesting that academia has dismissed it as fake. The early copies that started to appear in the eighteenth century were obviously bullshit, but all of it was based on an accusation made by the pope in 1239. The accusation was real, the reference to the Treatise of the Three Impostors was real. The only thing that was in question was whether this treatise ever actually existed because no one ever found a copy. And back then, with the hatred between the pope and the Holy Roman Emperor and those surrounding them, anything’s possible.”

  He rose and picked up her bag from the bed, placing it next to his by the door. He faced her and pulled off his underwear, the only thing he was wearing, and she smiled.

  “Somebody’s happy to see me.”

  He shrugged. “Could be you, could be the excitement of a new archaeological discovery.”

  She reached back and undid her bra, revealing the twins. “Are you sure?”

  He grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “Sorry, I just forgot my name.”

  8 |

  South of the Vatican Rome, The Papal States AD 1239

  Sir Ricardo Gabillone, knight of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, known to the citizens of Christendom as the Knights Templar, stood on the wet cobblestone, a light rain having just finished, leaving the road slick. To his right was a bakery, to his left a butcher shop, and in front of him an alleyway between the two. This was where he had been told the meeting would take place, a meeting he knew nothing about. As a Templar Knight, he had gone on countless missions in his over twenty years of service, and managed to survive them all, though just barely on occasion. His right leg, just above the knee, ached as it always did when the weather changed, a constant reminder of the Saracen that had almost bested him a decade ago. Right now, his old injury was telling him the light rain they had just received was merely a taste of the storm yet to come. He shivered. He had left the hot and arid Holy Land behind three years ago, and was still unaccustomed to the constant chill of an Italian winter.

  Church bells chimed in the distance, marking the top of the hour. He stepped into the inky black darkness of the alleyway, torches lighting the street casting long shadows, his own stretching out before him then lost. He steadied his breathing. He wasn’t scared. He didn’t expect to be accosted here, yet he was always cautious. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, a blade that had served him well in battle, and it, combined with the crisp white cloak with the red Maltese cross emblazoned on it, were usually enough to send most who unwisely challenged him scurrying.

  He cocked an ear, listening for any sign that the person he was to meet was somewhere in the dark, but heard nothing. He continued forward. This was the location. This was the appointed hour.

  “That’s far enough,” echoed a voice ahead.

  Ricardo stopped, his grip tightening. “The moon shines dim on a cloudy night.”

  “But the sun will quickly burn those clouds away in the morning.”

  Ricardo relaxed, the response to his challenge properly returned. A foot scraped on the cobblestone directly ahead. He could barely make out the figure approaching. The creak of shutters on a lantern opening was followed by a dull orange glow revealing their immediate surroundings. Before him stood a man in the cloak of a monk, his head hooded, though not so much as to hide his face.

  The monk’s eyes widened slightly. “I wasn’t expecting a Templar.”

  “Nor was I expecting a monk.”

  The man bit his lip for a moment. “I suppose it makes sense, and that you can be trusted.”

  Ricardo regarded his counterpart. “Trusted with what?”

  The man reached under his cloak and produced a leather folio, tied tightly with cord. He held it out in both hands, almost reverently. “With this.”

  Ricardo took it and made to open it when the man stopped him.

  “No, you must not open it.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I cannot say. It’s not for you to know.”

  Ricardo frowned slightly. “Can I at least know the nature of what it is? Is it a document?”

  “Why would you need to know?”

  “If I end up having to choose between using a road or wading across a river, I need to know if water could damage the contents, or if it must be shielded from a heavy rain like we’re about to get? Details are important.”

  “It’s a document.”

  “And I assume it’s an important one if all of this”—he waved a hand at their situation—“is necessary?”

  “Of the utmost importance. It’s critical that this be delivered to the leader of the Electoral College now meeting in Padua as quickly as possible.”

  Ricardo cocked an eyebrow. “Padua?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that where the Holy Roman Emperor holds court?”

  “Yes, but it is essential he not intercept this message. It must be delivered to the head of the Electoral College.”

  “Interesting, considering here we stand in Rome, with the glow of the Vatican visible from the street where the pope, the emperor’s greatest challenger, holds court.”

  “Like I said, you’re not to concern yourself with such things.”

  “But I’m a Templar Knight sworn to protect the Church and its leadership.”

  “By delivering this, you’ll be protecting not only the Church, but the Papacy. If I could explain why, I would, but secrecy is of the utmost importance. You must never look at the document.”

  Ricardo frowned. His gut told him something was wrong here, that there was more going on than so far revealed. Yet he had his orders. The Templar Master himself had issued them, though he had been told it was a simple messenger job. The Order had an extensive network throughout Christendom that could swiftly deliver messages and goods from one corner to the other, for a fee, of course. It was one of the ways the Order funded its operation.

  Normally, however, knights weren’t assigned such tasks. This would be outside of the network, a personal delivery, not the traditional route of one messenger delivering to the next outpost, where a fresh rider and horse would be waiting to continue the journey. It made sense if the document contained within this folio was so important.

  The fewer hands it passed through, the better.

  He held up the folio. “Your words and demeanor suggest that should someone know I possess this, they might attempt to take it from me.”

  The man’s head rapidly bobbed. “Yes. No one must know what you possess. No one, not even the members of your order.”

  Ricardo’s eyebrows rose. “My brothers can be trusted.”

  The man dismissed his assertion, pointing at the folio. “Not with this. If they caught wind of what this contains, even your own brothers would kill you where you stand.”

  9 |

  Clearview Private Airport, Maryland Present Day

  “Sorry we’re late,” apologized Laura Palmer as she stepped inside the private jet, part of the lease-share network of which they were members. “Somebody decided to take his time.”

  Acton smirked at his wife. “I thought you liked it when I took my time.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Keep talking like that and there won’t be a next time.”

  Acton grinned at the flight attendant. “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “You would be if you were my husband.”

  Acton laughed and slapped the man on the back as he followed Laura deeper into the cabin. Mai Trinh and Tommy Granger rose to greet them, both leaping at the opportunity for a chance to visit Italy.

  “So good of you to invite us,” gushed Mai as she gave Laura and him a hug. The young woman, exiled from her native Vietnam after helping them evade Vietnamese and Russian authorities several years ago, was a recent American citizen and, now that she had that prized passport, was seeing more of the world than she had ever dreamed. With her family back in Vietnam, she was like a surrogate daughter to them, and by extension, Tommy was like their son-in-law. They were very close, and he would die for them both, as would Laura, though he doubted that would be a problem on this trip. All they were doing was heading to Italy to examine a document.

  That was it.

  Everyone took their seats and they were in the air a few minutes later. He had grown up middle class, the life his parents had provided comfortable, and though his career as an academic didn’t allow for much of a savings account, it still kept him with a roof over his head and fed. After meeting Laura, however, things had changed dramatically. She was filthy stinking rich thanks to an inheritance from her brother when he had died, or rather, supposedly died. They now wanted for nothing and were slowly indulging a little more in her extreme wealth, though he still wore the same style clothes, still enjoyed a good steak on the barbecue or a lowly hamburger, and usually drank domestic beer. Life was definitely good, and one of the pleasures they both took in the money was helping out friends.

  “Did you reach Hugh?”

  Laura shook her head. “I didn’t even try. It’s after his bedtime. I sent him an email. He’ll get it in the morning. I let Mary know that he might be calling her to come join us.”

  “I hope he does.” Mai cuddled up with Tommy. “I like him. He’s kind of like, I don’t know, a grandfather.”

  Acton chuckled. “Don’t let him hear you say that. I think the first time he wants to be called a grandfather is if his son happens to have a child, because then it’s factually true. You saying it just means he’s old.”

  Laura snickered. “He’s not old.”

  Acton cocked an eyebrow. “I have a sneaky suspicion that when you’re his age, you won’t agree. I’m younger than him and I’m already starting to feel the pains.”

  Tommy regarded him. “It might help if you stopped getting yourself shot, stabbed, and beat up.”

  “Don’t forget blown up,” added Mai.

  “Right!”

  Acton wagged a finger. “Wait a minute, of the two of us, who was the last one to get shot?”

  Tommy rolled his shoulder. “I don’t know. You get shot so often I’ve lost track.”

  Laura giggled. “I should talk to Cameron and see if there’s some sort of civilian body armor that we could wear when we’re out and about.”

  Acton grunted. “We’d have to wear it 24/7. We’ve been attacked in our own home and, unless it feels like regular clothing, I don’t want to wear it.”

  Tommy leaned forward. “Actually, there are some interesting developments in that area. You might be surprised at what’s available for the uber-rich.”

  Laura pulled out her phone. “I’m going to send him a message now before I forget. ‘Tommy says there’s magic clothing that can protect us from bullets and missiles. Can you look into it please?’”

  Tommy’s jaw dropped. “I never said that!”

  She shrugged as she put her phone away. “I just misinterpreted the headline and didn’t bother to read the article. Isn’t that what your generation does?”

  Tommy squirmed. “Sometimes I hate the year I was born in.”

  Acton laughed. “I don’t think it really matters anymore in this post-fact world. Some teenager called me a boomer the other day. Are you kidding me? My father was a boomer. I’m Gen X. If you’re gonna insult someone, don’t make yourself sound like an absolute moron while doing it.”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “There you go. You got him started.”

  Mai attempted to change the subject. “So, what can you tell us about this document we’re going to look at?”

  “Very little and a whole lot,” replied Acton, to which Tommy cocked an eyebrow.

  “Huh?”

  Acton laughed. “Well, what prompted this trip was the letter that your app translated for a user in Italy this morning. I called Mario at the Vatican and he was able to find out that a young boy was playing in the woods and fell into a hole―”

  Mai gasped. “Is he all right?”

  “He broke his ankle but he’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  “I should say, he’ll be fine physically. Mentally, he could be effed up for life.”

  “James!” admonished Laura.

  “Hey, I said effed up. I didn’t say―”

  “James!”

  He grinned and continued. “He found a body in the hole. Looks like it’s been there for centuries. And if the document that was found on the body is genuine, then it looks like he’s been there for almost eight hundred years. The letter, it turns out, was from Pope Gregory IX and it was a letter to the head of the electoral college.”

  Tommy cocked an eyebrow. “Electoral college? You mean like we have?”

  “Sort of. It’s where we got the term from, certainly. It was a group of princes from Europe that would choose the next Holy Roman Emperor after the current one died or was otherwise unable to fulfill his duties. It appears to be a cover letter that refers to another letter sent the same day this was penned, indicating that what accompanied it was the promised copy of the Treatise of the Three Impostors as penned in Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II’s own hand, proving he is a heretic.”

  “Is that important?” asked Tommy.

  Mai nodded, her education in history and anthropology. “Very much so. There could be no more serious an accusation in those days.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Laura. “What was different this time was that Frederick was known to be a bit of a skeptic, quite often challenging the teachings of the Church, questioning why things were the way they were. But this document, this Treatise of the Three Impostors that accompanied the accusation of heresy, was unique. Never before had someone in such a position been accused of such a thing with only alleged proof.”

  Tommy raised a finger. “Alleged. Whenever I hear that, it raises flags.”

  “And it should,” said Acton. “See, the problem is the accusation was made by the pope claiming that the emperor had written this document outlining his true beliefs, but the document was never produced. Frederick denied writing any such thing and the treatise was lost to history, though it did lead to the eventual decline of Frederick’s power and eventually his family line.”

  Tommy wagged his phone. “But I don’t get it. I did some googling on the way here and you can buy the treatise on Amazon.”

  “All fakes.”

  Tommy’s eyebrows rose. “Does Amazon know?”

  Laura laughed. “Amazon doesn’t care, nor should they. We’re talking about centuries-old fakes that started to appear in Europe in the eighteenth century. They all covered the premise of what we know the treatise was supposed to be, but it was quite evident from examining them that they were forgeries.”

  “I’m a little confused. A treatise is an academic paper, right? Sort of like an essay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what or who are the three impostors? What’s this referring to?”

  Acton turned on teacher mode. “Well, let’s look at it this way. We know claims of heresy were made because of it.”

  “So it has to deal with religion.”

  “Exactly. So, what are impostors?”

  “People who pretend to be something they’re not?” replied Mai, uncertainty in her voice.

  “Exactly.” Acton pointed at her. “And don’t doubt yourself. Answer with confidence even if you might be wrong. More than half the time, you’ll come off looking like a genius.”

  Laura groaned. “Please don’t take my husband’s advice.”

  He stuck his tongue out at her. “Fine, don’t look like a genius like I do.”

  “‘Look like’ being the important qualifier here.”

  “Man, you’re just going after me today, aren’t you? And after I took my time and everything with you.”

  She opened her mouth to deliver a retort but he cut her off, continuing with his little lesson.

  “So, we have three people who pretend to be who they’re not. We know it deals with religion. So, what do you think the treatise deals with?”

  “Well, they’d have to be important,” said Mai. “If it were just three priests or three princes, it certainly wouldn’t be enough to bring down an emperor.”

  Tommy’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that a key thing? If the emperor believed that these three people were impostors, why would anyone care even if they were important? He’s claiming they’re impostors. Big deal. If he’s right, then people should be concerned that they are. And if he’s wrong, it doesn’t really matter. He’s the emperor. He can pretty much say whatever he wants.”

  “You’re getting warmer. So, let’s operate under the premise that these three people that the emperor believes are impostors are important, extremely important, and related to religion. Who could they possibly be?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know. The only important people I can think of in Christianity would be Jesus and his apostles.”

  Acton tapped his nose. “You got one of them.”

  Tommy’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute. Jesus is one of the three impostors?”

  “Yes. And if Jesus is one of them, who are the other two?”

 

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