The venetian code, p.10
The Venetian Code, page 10
The massive stone doorway at the other end began to open, stone grinding against stone, with the action achieved by the intricate movement of pullies and weights behind the walls. All from a stone sphere that weighed no more than a dozen ounces.
Kimball, gesturing to his team to move along, also advised caution. If one man knew about the Darkness and the dangers within, it was him.
Taking rear with Isaiah once again taking point, the Vatican Knights and the monsignors entered the black maw and moved deeper into the labyrinth beneath the canals.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Being slender, fit, and worth billions, Ivan Novikov had a lot to live for. Using the wall as a means to navigate through the underwater passageway since he could not see through the inky darkness, he would often reach out to feel the wall beside him as a reminder that he had not wandered too far off course. Though his lung endurance had developed over the years as an avid swimmer, he also knew his limitations. There would be a time of reaching the point of no return, meaning that if he went beyond the halfway mark and failed to turn around, then he would likely drown inside the tunnel. Given his idea of what he knew to be his limits, Ivan Novikov was surprised that he had not reached the halfway point when he came to a submerged stairwell. Climbing to the top, he broke the surface, the intake of air, though sour, was also wonderfully sweet.
Standing on a platform with his surroundings steeped in absolute darkness, he removed his flashlight, attached it to the strap on his shoulder, and clicked it on. Though the conical beam of light provided ample illumination, it was no substitute for his NV goggles.
Stepping forward, he found himself inside a long, rectangular-sized room. The ceiling was low, about seven feet, and the walls, though supported with now-wilting beams of wood, were constructed of packed earth that seemed to fall away in areas, the walls becoming weak under the stress of constantly dripping water, aging, and cloying dampness.
Walking through ankle-deep water, he came to an archway. Above the opening were two symbols.
He smiled. They were the Philosopher’s Stone and the symbol of water. The Philosopher’s Stone, of course, represented the alchemist’s symbol for turning lead into gold. The water symbol, next to the Philosopher’s Stone, signified a comparison of modifications: turning lead into gold, water into wine.
I’m so close, he thought. I can feel it. I can smell the treasure. I can smell the Cup.
Then he closed his eyes, pulled deep with his nostrils, and put his arms out in mock crucifixion, feeling that the world was his for the taking, his oyster. When he opened his eyes, he brought his hands up and stared at the lines of his palms, the oligarch then wondering if they held the thin streaks of a promising future as a palm reader would suggest. Of course, they do, he told himself. One does not have to be a soothsayer to see where my life is going.
Lowering his hands, Ivan Novikov returned to the submerged stairwell and dove in, the man disappearing into the depths. The only evidence that he had been there at all was the concentric ripples that continued to fan across the surface after he entered the water.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sound of Isaiah’s NVG unit chirped, signaling that the component’s battery was winding down. Normally, the battery of most NVGs lasted approximately five hours.
“That’s not a good sign,” Isaiah commented.
Kimball concurred. All their units were reaching their limits and the treasure had yet to be found.
After twenty minutes passed, Isaiah’s unit died, forcing him to resort to his cam light, which operated on lithium batteries, meaning that his illumination, though not as stellar as his NVG, was longer-lasting. Since light was the bane of NV goggles, everyone had to switch out from NVG to cam lighting.
As they made their way through the dank corridors, they eventually came upon a single archway that had dual symbols scored into the stone above it.
It was the Philosopher’s Stone and the water symbol.
“We’re getting close,” stated Monsignor Russo. “I can feel it.”
“Same,” said Monsignor Calidonna. “Beyond that archway, perhaps, lies the Templar Vault.”
Nevertheless, and despite the opinion between the monsignors that the Templar Vault was nearby, Kimball felt ill at ease knowing that Novikov’s Spetsnaz team had to be circling towards the same location from a different point. Moreso, if they had already discovered the chamber, they would neither be willing to surrender the cup nor the treasure—this Kimball was sure of. “Yeah, well, don’t count your blessings yet, Padre,” Kimball said. “Until we have the Cup of Miracles safe in our possession, don’t thank Him yet. There’s still a major obstacle ahead. A big one.” Kimball refrained from adding that they were most likely about to go into a situation outmanned, outgunned, and against a seasoned unit of commandos. But when he saw the hope within their eyes that contained the prospect of holding the Cup of Miracles, Kimball offered them a one-sided smile and a wink, and then he told them, “We’ll bring the cup home.”
Though they forcibly kept their excitement in check, Kimball could see through the veneer that they were as giddy as children underneath.
Looking at the pair of symbols above the door (turn lead into gold, water into wine), it was Isaiah who led them on the final leg of their journey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When Ivan Novikov broke the surface, he was greeted by several flashlights as though he was being spotlighted. Swimming to the stairwell, he said, “The tunnel comes up on the other side, not too far. Stay close to the wall or you’ll find yourself swimming in circles.” Rising to the platform and remaining ankle-deep in water, he added, “It’s so dark down there that your lamps will be next to useless. Believe me, you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. So, be careful. Use the wall as your guide. That will be your best bet.”
“How far in?” asked Rabinovitch.
“Thirty meters, not far.”
“Thirty meters is far enough when you’re carrying backpacks and weapons.”
“It’s doable,” Novikov returned bluntly. And then: “You might as well leave your NVG units behind. They’ll be corrupted by the water and the batteries, by now, must be running low anyway. Go with the lamps.” Donning his holster, his weapon and his backpack, the added weight, he knew, would prove to be a challenge. Nevertheless, as Ivan Novikov stood along the stairwell’s edge and looked into the depth of blue-black darkness, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, held his breath, and he descended the steps until he dipped below the water level. In the wake of his disappearance, a few bubbles rose to the surface and burst, and then nothing.
Rabinovitch then beckoned to his team to follow Novikov’s lead. “Remember, stay close to the wall. Thirty meters, people, that’s the goal. Thirty. It’s doable, even with the weight of your gear.”
One by one, they descended the hidden stairwell beneath the water’s surface and disappeared, leaving Rabinovitch and Vladimir alone.
Vladimir gave Rabinovitch a sidelong glance. “I don’t like him,” he said, referring to Novikov.
“You don’t have to like him. But you have to tolerate him. He’s the only one who can fence the treasure for us without drawing unwanted suspicion. Without him, fencing the cache would draw the attention of certain authorities after the murders of Anton Engel and Maximillian Müller, who were known to be in possession of the manuscript and the maps before they suddenly went missing. Novikov will keep matters under the radar.”
“I don’t trust him. Do you?”
“Do we have a choice?”
Vladimir remained silent.
And then from Rabinovitch. “Don’t worry. This time next month, my friend, you’ll be basking on the sands of your private beach sipping on a piña colada.”
“I don’t like piña coladas.”
“Then have a damn beer for all I care. You’re missing the point. Once the treasure has been fenced off without there being any trace evidence to track us down, we’ll be sitting pretty.” Then he pointed to the surface of the water. “Now, get going.”
Vladimir, pausing as he gave Rabinovitch a pinning stare, entered the water and disappeared. Rabinovitch, shrugging his backpack so that it felt proper on his shoulders for the swim, followed Vladimir beneath the surface.
* * *
His name was Andrei Semyonov, and he was a one-time Spetsnaz operator for the Russian GRU. Though his stints accounted for numerous deaths on the front lines he operated on, Semyonov was now a mercenary who whored his skills for top dollar. Though Novikov’s payment as a member of his protective detail was a meager 25,000 euros, the backend portion of his pay after splitting the amount of the Templar treasure equally was too great to pass up. His net worth would be in the tens of millions, not a bad haul for one day’s work.
Even with his helmet lamp on, the light barely penetrated the darkness of the water that was more algae green than inky black. As he swam for the opposite end of the tunnel, a thick residue of granular-like particles floated freely before his eyes, drifting, the sediment blindingly thick. As he reached out for the guidance of the wall to his left to see if he remained on track, he wasn’t able to feel its surface. So, he changed course, moving to his left.
Still, there was no wall to touch, no guide to feel or follow to the tunnel’s end. He continued to swim to his left, searching, until his continuous left turns turned into a circular route. The floating sediment blinded him as his panicked eyes ogled for direction. And then his lungs began to burn, to ache, the pressure within too great to hold back as bubbles began to escape from between his lips. As panic began to take hold, Semyonov began to cry out with his vocalization a distorted pattern within the water, a primal scream that was muted.
Bubbles continued to burst from his lungs.
His eyes became wide with alarm as his panic became overriding. Then his thought processes were nullified by the pure animal instinct of self-preservation. He clawed at the water, at his throat—nothing but a curtain a residue floating before him in this algae-green water as the edges of his sight darkened. His lungs became enflamed, burning, and then the sudden intake of cold water, as his lungs filled, cooled them. As surrounding darkness closed and pinched its way into the view of tunnel vision, the last thing Andrei Semyonov saw as he floated lazily to the floor were the motes of free-floating sediment, and then absolute darkness.
* * *
Sergei Rabinovitch, who took the rear, felt something graze along his leg as he made his way through the water. Startled, he waded in place, though he could feel the wall to his left as he kept his palm flat against the stone.
There it was again, a strike from something underneath. And then it seemed to come to rest against his calf. Reaching down, Rabinovitch could feel what amounted to be the digits of a human hand, and then the hand itself. Grabbing the wrist and pulling upward, whatever was in tow moved easily due to its buoyancy until he saw the lifeless face of Andrei Semyonov, who looked as though he’d been surprised by his own mortality.
Releasing him, Rabinovitch watched as Semyonov’s body slowly descended with his clawed hands reaching posthumously for Rabinovitch as though he was asking to be saved until he disappeared completely beneath the free-floating sediment. Seconds later, Rabinovitch swam away to join the living.
* * *
When Sergei Rabinovitch broke the surface on the other side, he was caught within the beams of multiple lights.
“You took the rear,” Vladimir told him. “What happened to Andrei?”
Rabinovitch’s answer was clear and precise. “Dead.”
“Dead?” Novikov went to the stairwell’s edge, though it remained underwater, nothing but pooling darkness. Then to Rabinovitch, he asked, “Was it not your duty to see him through?”
“As you said, it’s too dark down there. Visibility, at best and with the lamp, was only a few feet. I’m guessing that Semyonov ventured too far from the wall, got lost within the sediment, panicked, and drowned. I only found him because he brushed up against me as I was making the swim. He’s gone and there’s nothing we can do but to move on without him.”
Novikov nodded and said, “Well, if anything good is to come from this, look at it this way: his share will be evenly divided amongst the rest of you. You’re all wealthier men for it.”
Though Novikov’s statement drew silent ire from some, it also drew satisfaction from others.
Turning and sloshing his way through the water, he came to the archway and pointed at the pair of side-by-side symbols. “You see that?” he stated rhetorically. “They’re the symbols of the Philosopher’s Stone that’s combined with the water symbol; turn lead into gold, water into wine.” He turned to face the remaining team. “The Templar Chamber, gentlemen, is close by. Very close. Perhaps it’s not too far from this archway. In fact, I can almost smell the treasure inside, can’t you?”
When no one responded, Novikov, with a one-sided grin that had arrogance labeled all over it, entered the final opening that led to the Templar treasure and the Cup of Miracles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Vatican Knights, along with the monsignors, were moving rapidly through the single tunnel that appeared to have a purpose in its direction. There were no more cutoffs or errant tunnels that led to the initial tunnel where the journey first began. There were no more riddles to decipher, the pathway to the treasure now made clear to those who had decided wisely. But Kimball also thought that believing that the path was clearcut also led to a sense of complacency. Just because one could see the Light at the end of the tunnel didn’t mean that a threat didn’t still loom between here and there. In fact, the Templars may have counted on one of man’s greatest weaknesses, that of complacency, as a final means to stop intruders by stopping them in their path when they least expected it.
No, Kimball thought. This was not the final contest.
Outside of eventually dealing with Ivan Novikov’s kill team, he was sure that the Templars had one more secret to throw at them.
Complacency, Kimball considered further, had always been every man’s downfall.
Slowing his team down, the monsignors appeared perplexed by Kimball’s decision.
“But we’re so close,” said Monsignor Calidonna.
“Never run towards the Light blindly,” Kimball told him.
Though the monsignors had no idea what the Vatican Knight was talking about, Kimball was making a point: Do not run through a field of Darkness to grasp the beacon of Light at its end, unless you know for sure what’s hiding in the shadows in the Between.
Gesturing for Isaiah to move the team forward, the Vatican Knight did so with the utmost caution.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tous les chemins mènent à Rome
“All Roads Lead to Rome”
The words were in French, and the symbols were engraved on an eight-foot monolith that stood in the center of a large, hollowed-out chamber. Unlike the floors of the channels, this floor was bone-dry with the stone tiles arranged in a multitude of patterns which included herringbone, windmill, and hopscotch, with their placements a rather chaotic display.
As Ivan Novikov and his team entered the chamber, they stood before the monolith.
“All Roads Lead to Rome,” Novikov said. “This time it’s joined by the image of the Templar Cross, the Philosopher’s Stone, and the water symbol. The Templar Cross is the X that marks the spot, and the symbols . . . Turn lead into gold, water into wine.” After a pause, he added, “This is it. We’re either standing on top of it—perhaps it lies beneath the monolith—or—” He flashed his shoulder lamp across the walls. Outside of the direction of the channel they had entered, which was from the northside, there were bullet-shaped archways against the east, west, and southside walls, the primary points of the compass. But it was the southside doorway that had the symbols of the Templar Cross, the Philosopher’s Stone, and the water symbol above it to mirror the signs upon the monolith:
Above the other doors were the French proverbs: Tous les chemins mènent à Rome. All Roads Lead to Rome.
He pointed to the southside archway. “There it is,” Novikov said. “The doorway that leads to the Templar’s Chamber, to the Vault of treasures.” Moving towards the dark opening and redirecting his lamp to shed a powerful beam of light inside, he saw a medieval-looking door, though aged by its appearance, that was pieced together by black metal bands and rivets.
Novikov smiled. The journey to the Templar Chamber was reaching its conclusion. Then he shined his lamp along the floor and noted the different designs, careful not to let his guard down. The Templars were extremely wise in their methods. Most would see the door and then the dollar signs, suddenly falling into complacency when an unseen threat may literally be underneath them and ready to rear its ugly head for a final challenge.
“Something wrong?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“These weird patterns along the floor.”
“So.”
“Never underestimate the mindset of the Templar Knights,” he said. “We may see the chamber that is a mere stone’s throw away, but in the distance that the stone traverses between here and there could hold one final unseen challenge. Though we may see nothing, it doesn’t mean that something does not exist.” He continued to examine the different styles of the stone tiles on the floor and tried to reason if there was a hidden puzzle within these intricate designs—a clue, perhaps.
“Do you see anything?” This time it was Vladimir who spoke, a rare occasion.
Novikov looked around him, behind him, next to him. Everything was helter-skelter with no real pattern to give him any insight as to the reason behind the tiles’ configurations. “No,” Novikov finally admitted. Then he looked at the southside archway and at the medieval doorway within. “So close,” he whispered. And yet so far. Knowing the history of the Templars, he knew that it couldn’t have been this simple, to simply walk to the doorway without one final, if not a desperate attempt, of saving the holiest of treasures.
Kimball, gesturing to his team to move along, also advised caution. If one man knew about the Darkness and the dangers within, it was him.
Taking rear with Isaiah once again taking point, the Vatican Knights and the monsignors entered the black maw and moved deeper into the labyrinth beneath the canals.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Being slender, fit, and worth billions, Ivan Novikov had a lot to live for. Using the wall as a means to navigate through the underwater passageway since he could not see through the inky darkness, he would often reach out to feel the wall beside him as a reminder that he had not wandered too far off course. Though his lung endurance had developed over the years as an avid swimmer, he also knew his limitations. There would be a time of reaching the point of no return, meaning that if he went beyond the halfway mark and failed to turn around, then he would likely drown inside the tunnel. Given his idea of what he knew to be his limits, Ivan Novikov was surprised that he had not reached the halfway point when he came to a submerged stairwell. Climbing to the top, he broke the surface, the intake of air, though sour, was also wonderfully sweet.
Standing on a platform with his surroundings steeped in absolute darkness, he removed his flashlight, attached it to the strap on his shoulder, and clicked it on. Though the conical beam of light provided ample illumination, it was no substitute for his NV goggles.
Stepping forward, he found himself inside a long, rectangular-sized room. The ceiling was low, about seven feet, and the walls, though supported with now-wilting beams of wood, were constructed of packed earth that seemed to fall away in areas, the walls becoming weak under the stress of constantly dripping water, aging, and cloying dampness.
Walking through ankle-deep water, he came to an archway. Above the opening were two symbols.
He smiled. They were the Philosopher’s Stone and the symbol of water. The Philosopher’s Stone, of course, represented the alchemist’s symbol for turning lead into gold. The water symbol, next to the Philosopher’s Stone, signified a comparison of modifications: turning lead into gold, water into wine.
I’m so close, he thought. I can feel it. I can smell the treasure. I can smell the Cup.
Then he closed his eyes, pulled deep with his nostrils, and put his arms out in mock crucifixion, feeling that the world was his for the taking, his oyster. When he opened his eyes, he brought his hands up and stared at the lines of his palms, the oligarch then wondering if they held the thin streaks of a promising future as a palm reader would suggest. Of course, they do, he told himself. One does not have to be a soothsayer to see where my life is going.
Lowering his hands, Ivan Novikov returned to the submerged stairwell and dove in, the man disappearing into the depths. The only evidence that he had been there at all was the concentric ripples that continued to fan across the surface after he entered the water.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The sound of Isaiah’s NVG unit chirped, signaling that the component’s battery was winding down. Normally, the battery of most NVGs lasted approximately five hours.
“That’s not a good sign,” Isaiah commented.
Kimball concurred. All their units were reaching their limits and the treasure had yet to be found.
After twenty minutes passed, Isaiah’s unit died, forcing him to resort to his cam light, which operated on lithium batteries, meaning that his illumination, though not as stellar as his NVG, was longer-lasting. Since light was the bane of NV goggles, everyone had to switch out from NVG to cam lighting.
As they made their way through the dank corridors, they eventually came upon a single archway that had dual symbols scored into the stone above it.
It was the Philosopher’s Stone and the water symbol.
“We’re getting close,” stated Monsignor Russo. “I can feel it.”
“Same,” said Monsignor Calidonna. “Beyond that archway, perhaps, lies the Templar Vault.”
Nevertheless, and despite the opinion between the monsignors that the Templar Vault was nearby, Kimball felt ill at ease knowing that Novikov’s Spetsnaz team had to be circling towards the same location from a different point. Moreso, if they had already discovered the chamber, they would neither be willing to surrender the cup nor the treasure—this Kimball was sure of. “Yeah, well, don’t count your blessings yet, Padre,” Kimball said. “Until we have the Cup of Miracles safe in our possession, don’t thank Him yet. There’s still a major obstacle ahead. A big one.” Kimball refrained from adding that they were most likely about to go into a situation outmanned, outgunned, and against a seasoned unit of commandos. But when he saw the hope within their eyes that contained the prospect of holding the Cup of Miracles, Kimball offered them a one-sided smile and a wink, and then he told them, “We’ll bring the cup home.”
Though they forcibly kept their excitement in check, Kimball could see through the veneer that they were as giddy as children underneath.
Looking at the pair of symbols above the door (turn lead into gold, water into wine), it was Isaiah who led them on the final leg of their journey.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When Ivan Novikov broke the surface, he was greeted by several flashlights as though he was being spotlighted. Swimming to the stairwell, he said, “The tunnel comes up on the other side, not too far. Stay close to the wall or you’ll find yourself swimming in circles.” Rising to the platform and remaining ankle-deep in water, he added, “It’s so dark down there that your lamps will be next to useless. Believe me, you won’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. So, be careful. Use the wall as your guide. That will be your best bet.”
“How far in?” asked Rabinovitch.
“Thirty meters, not far.”
“Thirty meters is far enough when you’re carrying backpacks and weapons.”
“It’s doable,” Novikov returned bluntly. And then: “You might as well leave your NVG units behind. They’ll be corrupted by the water and the batteries, by now, must be running low anyway. Go with the lamps.” Donning his holster, his weapon and his backpack, the added weight, he knew, would prove to be a challenge. Nevertheless, as Ivan Novikov stood along the stairwell’s edge and looked into the depth of blue-black darkness, he inhaled deeply through his nostrils, held his breath, and he descended the steps until he dipped below the water level. In the wake of his disappearance, a few bubbles rose to the surface and burst, and then nothing.
Rabinovitch then beckoned to his team to follow Novikov’s lead. “Remember, stay close to the wall. Thirty meters, people, that’s the goal. Thirty. It’s doable, even with the weight of your gear.”
One by one, they descended the hidden stairwell beneath the water’s surface and disappeared, leaving Rabinovitch and Vladimir alone.
Vladimir gave Rabinovitch a sidelong glance. “I don’t like him,” he said, referring to Novikov.
“You don’t have to like him. But you have to tolerate him. He’s the only one who can fence the treasure for us without drawing unwanted suspicion. Without him, fencing the cache would draw the attention of certain authorities after the murders of Anton Engel and Maximillian Müller, who were known to be in possession of the manuscript and the maps before they suddenly went missing. Novikov will keep matters under the radar.”
“I don’t trust him. Do you?”
“Do we have a choice?”
Vladimir remained silent.
And then from Rabinovitch. “Don’t worry. This time next month, my friend, you’ll be basking on the sands of your private beach sipping on a piña colada.”
“I don’t like piña coladas.”
“Then have a damn beer for all I care. You’re missing the point. Once the treasure has been fenced off without there being any trace evidence to track us down, we’ll be sitting pretty.” Then he pointed to the surface of the water. “Now, get going.”
Vladimir, pausing as he gave Rabinovitch a pinning stare, entered the water and disappeared. Rabinovitch, shrugging his backpack so that it felt proper on his shoulders for the swim, followed Vladimir beneath the surface.
* * *
His name was Andrei Semyonov, and he was a one-time Spetsnaz operator for the Russian GRU. Though his stints accounted for numerous deaths on the front lines he operated on, Semyonov was now a mercenary who whored his skills for top dollar. Though Novikov’s payment as a member of his protective detail was a meager 25,000 euros, the backend portion of his pay after splitting the amount of the Templar treasure equally was too great to pass up. His net worth would be in the tens of millions, not a bad haul for one day’s work.
Even with his helmet lamp on, the light barely penetrated the darkness of the water that was more algae green than inky black. As he swam for the opposite end of the tunnel, a thick residue of granular-like particles floated freely before his eyes, drifting, the sediment blindingly thick. As he reached out for the guidance of the wall to his left to see if he remained on track, he wasn’t able to feel its surface. So, he changed course, moving to his left.
Still, there was no wall to touch, no guide to feel or follow to the tunnel’s end. He continued to swim to his left, searching, until his continuous left turns turned into a circular route. The floating sediment blinded him as his panicked eyes ogled for direction. And then his lungs began to burn, to ache, the pressure within too great to hold back as bubbles began to escape from between his lips. As panic began to take hold, Semyonov began to cry out with his vocalization a distorted pattern within the water, a primal scream that was muted.
Bubbles continued to burst from his lungs.
His eyes became wide with alarm as his panic became overriding. Then his thought processes were nullified by the pure animal instinct of self-preservation. He clawed at the water, at his throat—nothing but a curtain a residue floating before him in this algae-green water as the edges of his sight darkened. His lungs became enflamed, burning, and then the sudden intake of cold water, as his lungs filled, cooled them. As surrounding darkness closed and pinched its way into the view of tunnel vision, the last thing Andrei Semyonov saw as he floated lazily to the floor were the motes of free-floating sediment, and then absolute darkness.
* * *
Sergei Rabinovitch, who took the rear, felt something graze along his leg as he made his way through the water. Startled, he waded in place, though he could feel the wall to his left as he kept his palm flat against the stone.
There it was again, a strike from something underneath. And then it seemed to come to rest against his calf. Reaching down, Rabinovitch could feel what amounted to be the digits of a human hand, and then the hand itself. Grabbing the wrist and pulling upward, whatever was in tow moved easily due to its buoyancy until he saw the lifeless face of Andrei Semyonov, who looked as though he’d been surprised by his own mortality.
Releasing him, Rabinovitch watched as Semyonov’s body slowly descended with his clawed hands reaching posthumously for Rabinovitch as though he was asking to be saved until he disappeared completely beneath the free-floating sediment. Seconds later, Rabinovitch swam away to join the living.
* * *
When Sergei Rabinovitch broke the surface on the other side, he was caught within the beams of multiple lights.
“You took the rear,” Vladimir told him. “What happened to Andrei?”
Rabinovitch’s answer was clear and precise. “Dead.”
“Dead?” Novikov went to the stairwell’s edge, though it remained underwater, nothing but pooling darkness. Then to Rabinovitch, he asked, “Was it not your duty to see him through?”
“As you said, it’s too dark down there. Visibility, at best and with the lamp, was only a few feet. I’m guessing that Semyonov ventured too far from the wall, got lost within the sediment, panicked, and drowned. I only found him because he brushed up against me as I was making the swim. He’s gone and there’s nothing we can do but to move on without him.”
Novikov nodded and said, “Well, if anything good is to come from this, look at it this way: his share will be evenly divided amongst the rest of you. You’re all wealthier men for it.”
Though Novikov’s statement drew silent ire from some, it also drew satisfaction from others.
Turning and sloshing his way through the water, he came to the archway and pointed at the pair of side-by-side symbols. “You see that?” he stated rhetorically. “They’re the symbols of the Philosopher’s Stone that’s combined with the water symbol; turn lead into gold, water into wine.” He turned to face the remaining team. “The Templar Chamber, gentlemen, is close by. Very close. Perhaps it’s not too far from this archway. In fact, I can almost smell the treasure inside, can’t you?”
When no one responded, Novikov, with a one-sided grin that had arrogance labeled all over it, entered the final opening that led to the Templar treasure and the Cup of Miracles.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Vatican Knights, along with the monsignors, were moving rapidly through the single tunnel that appeared to have a purpose in its direction. There were no more cutoffs or errant tunnels that led to the initial tunnel where the journey first began. There were no more riddles to decipher, the pathway to the treasure now made clear to those who had decided wisely. But Kimball also thought that believing that the path was clearcut also led to a sense of complacency. Just because one could see the Light at the end of the tunnel didn’t mean that a threat didn’t still loom between here and there. In fact, the Templars may have counted on one of man’s greatest weaknesses, that of complacency, as a final means to stop intruders by stopping them in their path when they least expected it.
No, Kimball thought. This was not the final contest.
Outside of eventually dealing with Ivan Novikov’s kill team, he was sure that the Templars had one more secret to throw at them.
Complacency, Kimball considered further, had always been every man’s downfall.
Slowing his team down, the monsignors appeared perplexed by Kimball’s decision.
“But we’re so close,” said Monsignor Calidonna.
“Never run towards the Light blindly,” Kimball told him.
Though the monsignors had no idea what the Vatican Knight was talking about, Kimball was making a point: Do not run through a field of Darkness to grasp the beacon of Light at its end, unless you know for sure what’s hiding in the shadows in the Between.
Gesturing for Isaiah to move the team forward, the Vatican Knight did so with the utmost caution.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tous les chemins mènent à Rome
“All Roads Lead to Rome”
The words were in French, and the symbols were engraved on an eight-foot monolith that stood in the center of a large, hollowed-out chamber. Unlike the floors of the channels, this floor was bone-dry with the stone tiles arranged in a multitude of patterns which included herringbone, windmill, and hopscotch, with their placements a rather chaotic display.
As Ivan Novikov and his team entered the chamber, they stood before the monolith.
“All Roads Lead to Rome,” Novikov said. “This time it’s joined by the image of the Templar Cross, the Philosopher’s Stone, and the water symbol. The Templar Cross is the X that marks the spot, and the symbols . . . Turn lead into gold, water into wine.” After a pause, he added, “This is it. We’re either standing on top of it—perhaps it lies beneath the monolith—or—” He flashed his shoulder lamp across the walls. Outside of the direction of the channel they had entered, which was from the northside, there were bullet-shaped archways against the east, west, and southside walls, the primary points of the compass. But it was the southside doorway that had the symbols of the Templar Cross, the Philosopher’s Stone, and the water symbol above it to mirror the signs upon the monolith:
Above the other doors were the French proverbs: Tous les chemins mènent à Rome. All Roads Lead to Rome.
He pointed to the southside archway. “There it is,” Novikov said. “The doorway that leads to the Templar’s Chamber, to the Vault of treasures.” Moving towards the dark opening and redirecting his lamp to shed a powerful beam of light inside, he saw a medieval-looking door, though aged by its appearance, that was pieced together by black metal bands and rivets.
Novikov smiled. The journey to the Templar Chamber was reaching its conclusion. Then he shined his lamp along the floor and noted the different designs, careful not to let his guard down. The Templars were extremely wise in their methods. Most would see the door and then the dollar signs, suddenly falling into complacency when an unseen threat may literally be underneath them and ready to rear its ugly head for a final challenge.
“Something wrong?” Rabinovitch asked him.
“These weird patterns along the floor.”
“So.”
“Never underestimate the mindset of the Templar Knights,” he said. “We may see the chamber that is a mere stone’s throw away, but in the distance that the stone traverses between here and there could hold one final unseen challenge. Though we may see nothing, it doesn’t mean that something does not exist.” He continued to examine the different styles of the stone tiles on the floor and tried to reason if there was a hidden puzzle within these intricate designs—a clue, perhaps.
“Do you see anything?” This time it was Vladimir who spoke, a rare occasion.
Novikov looked around him, behind him, next to him. Everything was helter-skelter with no real pattern to give him any insight as to the reason behind the tiles’ configurations. “No,” Novikov finally admitted. Then he looked at the southside archway and at the medieval doorway within. “So close,” he whispered. And yet so far. Knowing the history of the Templars, he knew that it couldn’t have been this simple, to simply walk to the doorway without one final, if not a desperate attempt, of saving the holiest of treasures.
