A Cup to Die For

By Ron Barber

Before there was "The Da Vinci Code" there was "A Cup To Die For."
When a world famous Tunisian archaeologist finds the Holy Grail on a remote archaeological dig on the north coast of Tunisia, intrigue and violence spread across the globe like ripples on a pond. The Grail turns out to be not the mystical cup of legend, but a document that holds a secret so awesome and terrible that it will cause global chaos.

Two groups have been seeking the document since the Middle Ages.

One is the Pres, an ancient society so secret that most experts dont believe it actually exists. It has formed an unholy alliance with a shadowy group within the Vatican. They are bent on destroying the Grail before its contents can be revealed so that they can pursue a plan of earth-shaking consequences. Opposing them is a tiny group of obscure monks who like the Knights Templar before them are sworn to protect the Holy Grail. They have vowed to reveal its shocking secret to the world. The archeologist hides the document then flees to Key West and his old friend, retired museum director, Rene Barberri. Before he can pass on the secret, his rented car explodes, killing him instantly and almost killing Barberri.

Rene and Key West beach-bum Homicide Detective, Dexter Piet, set out to track down their friends murderers and to find the Grail. By now the two religious groups are attacking each other with the demonic abandon of the possessed while they scour the earth to find the hidden document.

Rene and Dex are plunged into this seething web of murder and deceit in their breakneck pursuit of the murderers that careens from the steamy beaches of Key West, into the teeming souks of Tunis, to the back alleys of Paris and finally to a blood-soaked showdown in the remote Basque Pyrenees.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 27, 2000
• ISBN: 9781453550618

Ron Barber

Ron Barber began writing this first book in his "Rene & Dex" series in 1996 when he retired as Director of the Port of History Museum in Philadelphia. He has traveled widely throughout Europe and North Africa and his French/Basque heritage is reflected in his love of gourmet cooking. He lives most of the year in Philadelphia with his wife who is a dancer. They spend as much time as their careers allow in their two favorite places, Key West and the south of France.

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Acknowledgements

With a special thanks to author Bill Hallahan without whose friendship, guidance and kind encouragement this book would never have been written.

Thanks also to Dr. Mohammed Maamouri for his generosity in sharing his expertise in Islamic, and especially Tunisian, burial practices and traditions and to Rose Freeman and Louise Meri for reading and critiquing the manuscript and for their or their kind encouragement.

Prologue

The north coast of Tunisia,

August 21, 1308

Rénaud struggled down the dark passage of the burial cave. The stagnant air was like the inside of an oven, made worse by his heavy mail shirt, tunic and the coarse wool monk’s cloak he wore over them.

Since that fateful day last October when the Templar Order was destroyed in France by Philip the Fair’s treachery, they had expected the uneasy truce with the Arabs to evaporate. They had just not expected it to be so soon.

Sweat poured into his eyes as he groped the rough hewn stone wall for the recently finished burial niche. The monks had prepared it for brother Joséba, the old abbot of the small monastery at the bottom of the hill. He found it. Panting, he heaped soft, dry sand against the inside wall and carefully placed the two large ceramic jars into it to hold them upright so as not to dislodge their still wet clay lids. Satisfied, he lifted the heavy stone slab that had been prepared to seal the niche and fitted it into the grooves. It slid into place with a thud. Rénaud heard a rustle behind him and spun to face the cave entrance, a long sharp dagger suddenly in his hand. The noise was made by fine debris and sand sifting from around the roof shoring of the cave which was held in place by a single timber that stood in the middle of the passageway several feet from the burial niche.

Rénaud grabbed a coil of rope lying at the side of the passageway and tied one end securely around the base of the supporting timber. Running back toward the mouth of the cave, he played out the rope to its end. He looped the rope’s end over his shoulder and heaved with all his strength. At first nothing happened. He strained harder, felt a movement. The timber suddenly sprang from its base and the roof collapsed enveloping him in a dense cloud of ocher dust. Gasping, Rénaud stumbled from the cave mouth into the brilliant glare of the sunlit wadi.

Smoke! The smell of burning wood could only be the monastery!

He ran, gathering the awkward cloak around his waist.

Emerging from the wadi he saw that the monastery was in flames, all seven of the monks left to defend it, lying dead before the walls.

He bellowed his outrage and charged down the steep hill toward the monastery.

The eyes of the Arab besiegers turned from pillaging to the solitary figure careening down the hill toward them, an approaching storm.

The Grail was now safe from Les Pères and the Roman heretics. There was no more need to hide. As he ran he clawed the heavy cloak off over his head and threw it aside. He drew the three foot Toledo steel Crusader’s sword from its scabbard strapped between his shoulders.

When the Arabs saw the white tunic with the blood-red cross of the Order emblazoned on its breast, they screamed in rage and swarmed toward their hated enemy.

*     *     *

1

Mohammed Hamudi was thoroughly annoyed. Why in the name of Allah were they bothering him with this now? He followed the graduate student to the newly discovered chamber. The student assistant noticed the chamber entrance when he was stringing cables to light the main tomb they had unearthed the evening before.

The entrance was sealed by a cleverly crafted stone which was shaped to blend with the contours of the rock walls.

Well remove it! What are you waiting for! Mohammed snapped.

He knew that he shouldn’t be upset with the young man, but his preliminary examinations of the main tomb led him to believe that it was the grave of no less a figure than Hannibal himself! Surely nothing found in a side chamber could be nearly so important!

The student directed several laborers to remove the stone and set it carefully aside. Mohammed squinted into the chamber’s dark interior. The air was stale and dry, a death rattle held in the mountain’s desiccated lungs for centuries.

A torch! he snapped, his open hand thrust toward the knot of curious men at his back trying to see over his shoulder.

A flashlight slapped into his palm. He swung the beam through the interior darkness. Motes of dust disturbed by the intrusion danced in the column of white light. The circle of light ranged around the tomb like a hound’s nose seeking a scent but revealing only a soft sand floor and rough stone walls. Mohammed was about to declare it empty when the light glinted off a shiny surface against the wall to the right of the chamber entrance.

What’s this? he muttered and ducked through the low doorway to get a closer look.

He examined the two elongated shapes covered in a thick layer of ocher dust. They appeared to be ceramic jars. He felt a small jump inside his chest. He felt it every time he found something long hidden. It was that feeling that had led him to his career as an archaeologist. That sense of turning the handle of a long closed door behind which virtually anything might wait.

Hand me a brush, he called, leaning into the doorway. He carefully brushed away the dust revealing an exquisitely figured pattern of blue and white faience. The two ceramic jars were sealed with clay lids that had been molded to the openings but were clearly not fired in place.

Mohammed’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. The two jars were obviously from the Islamic period and much younger than the main tomb.

Ali! he called to the assistant.

Sir?

Photograph this chamber and check it carefully for other artifacts and then remove these jars to the museum. They’re far too recent to be associated with the main tomb, but they seem to contain something. We’ll get to them later.

He was about to leave when he noticed something on the clay seal of one of the jars. He brushed away the dust and saw a deep impression in the dry clay. It was a star of David surmounted by a Maltese cross.

A strange symbol to be worn on an Islamic artifact, he thought. Oh, well, it would all be sorted out in good time.

*     *     *

The old monk tried to brush off the persistent pains in his chest like crumbs from a sleeve.

No time for this now! he chastened himself. He paced in front of the antique desk trying to control his breathing and excitement, his sandals scuffling softly against the ancient flagstone floor.

Fra Basil was the abbot-general of a group of monks called the Knights of St. Bernard of the White Cowl by those few who knew of their existence.

He stopped pacing at the sound of a soft knock. Scuttling around the desk he sat down, forcing himself to breathe slowly before answering.

Come!

The heavy oaken door opened, and two men in the black robe and white cowl of the Order entered and stood quietly in front of the abbot’s desk.

It’s been found! the old monk said.

The two looked at each other, eyes wide with excitement.

Where? the older of the two gasped.

As we suspected, in Tunisia.

Sit, brothers, Fra Basil said, indicating two stools near his desk, we’ve much to discuss.

The abbot reached up and pushed back his white wool cowl revealing a halo of white hair and long curling forelocks above his snowy beard. At the back of his head sat a small round flat black cap held in place by two bobby pins slipped through the fringe of his hair. In the center of the cap was a blood red Maltese cross surmounting a gold embroidered Solomon’s seal, called by some a star of David.

Beads of perspiration stood out on the old man’s forehead. In spite of the elevation of the old cloister on the north slope of the Pyrenees, the early July sun conspired with the heavy woolen robes to place each man in his own private steam bath.

The two monks pushed back their cowls revealing that they, too, wore the small black caps, though theirs were unadorned.

Our brother, Habib Toukebri, in Tunis, has confirmed that his original information was correct regarding the discovery in the burial caves outside Bizerte. He has managed to get himself put in charge of the security detail for the excavations. The Tunisians have found the grave of Hannibal and are so excited by that discovery that they are paying little attention to the two Islamic period jars that were found nearby. Brother Habib is certain that they are the ones we have sought for so long. He awaits only your arrival to seize them. I need not tell you how important this is, nor that the need to keep this totally secret until we are ready to move is our greatest imperative. If the Heretics, or worse Les Pères, discover our plan we will surely be destroyed as were our brothers before us. It is crucial that we recover the jars and verify their contents without delay. The longer it takes, the greater the chance that we will be discovered. Our latest information from Rome is that Les Pères have nearly concluded negotiating their alliance with the Roman Heretics. If they succeed in joining together, the truth of our Lord will be lost forever and the Heresy will rule the world. For six hundred years we have waited and watched and trusted. The only hope of preserving the true legacy of the Lord is to expose its truth to the world, even as we have held it secret over the centuries to preserve the world. Those jars contain the only thing that can prevent them from achieving their goal. Without it we have no hope of exposing the lie that is the secret of their power. Go and make ready for your trip. Your plane will leave at seven from Marseilles.

The two monks nodded and rose.

Be sure to go well armed. You go as soldiers of God and you must do whatever is necessary to succeed.

After they left, Fra Basil walked to the small window in the thick stone wall of his small office that looked out over the footbridge that was the only access to the monastery across the gorge, below the waterfall. He was overwhelmed at the thought that he was to be the one to end the silence. He would expose the secret of Christ’s true message that six hundred years of loyal Knights of the White Cowl had given their lives to keep.

*     *     *

The White Cowls had been secretly founded from the remnants of an older order of warrior monks known as the Knights Templar. In the early fourteenth century, King Philip the Fair, acting with the pope and with the secret assent of Les Pères, moved to destroy the Knights Templar because they had grown too powerful and had begun to question the wisdom of Les Pères’s political machinations.

Les Pères was, though few outside the shadowy group even knew of their existence, an ancient order of mystics whose origins were lost in the pre-Judaic era of the ancient Middle East. They had begun to emerge as a world power in the early tenth century when they began to take a visible hand in the political affairs of men. Eventually, realizing that in order to effectively manipulate the affairs of kings and popes and yet remain anonymous, they needed a vehicle to act as an administrative and, when necessary, a military arm, to insure that their will was worked in the outside world. To serve that purpose, Les Pères, with the collusion of King Baudouin II of Jerusalem, established the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon who became known as the Knights Templar.

Through the Templars, Les Pères came to be the richest and most powerful political force in the known world, manipulating events and bending kings and popes to its will.

Les Pères held such sway over the Roman Church because it controlled the Templars, who, in turn, held a secret document that even popes and kings feared. A secret document called the Holy Grail! The Templars spirited it away from Paris and the clutches of Les Pères the very night before Les Pères’s treacherous attack on them which led to their final destruction. This document was divided into two parts by the Templar Grand Master, and each half was hidden separately to protect it. For six hundred years the secret document lay hidden, and, with the deaths of the Templars’ leaders the locations of its hiding places were lost and its existence slipped into legend, written about in epic poems and ranted about by wild-eyed mystics. Only the White Cowls knew the secret the document contained, but now, even they had lost the key to the document’s actual hiding places.

Then, in the late nineteenth century, the first half was discovered quite by accident by a local priest renovating a church in the south of France. The priest, a greedy and not very pious man, realized what he had found and began to try to sell it to the highest bidder. It didn’t take long to attract Les Pères’s attention. He was richly rewarded for his find, even though the first half of the document was the least important and was useless without the second half.

Eventually he began to imply that it might be a shame if news of the discovery were to come to light, and he suggested that perhaps he might need a regular pension to ensure his silence. A bad move. The priest’s threats earned him only a tightly knotted length of twisted leather around his Roman collar and the treasure disappeared into the clutches of Les Pères.

Legend held that the other half of the document was taken to North Africa and hidden by a small group of elite, fanatically dedicated Templars who came to be known by the title given them by their Arab foes, the Fortresses of Religion.

The exact location was lost when the small band of knight-monks were wiped out to a man in a fierce battle with local Arabs in 1308.

The White Cowls were formed by the two surviving members of that group who had remained in France. These monks knew the secret and guarded it through the centuries with the same fanatical fierceness as their warrior brothers who died to protect it from the treachery of Les Pères. They never gave up their quest to recover it.

Now, the White Cowls had learned that Les Pères was about to strike a bargain to consolidate their power through an alliance with the Roman heretics, but, in order to do so, Rome demanded proof that Les Pères possessed both parts of the Grail so that they could be certain of its total destruction and, thus, ensure that its secret would never come to light.

It was against Les Pères that the White Cowls now raced to recover the document and its secret.

The old monk was roused from his reverie by the insistent beep of his wristwatch alarm. Time for the evening meal already? Wearily he returned to his desk, gathered up the notes and papers he had been using and returned them to their folder which he placed into a heavy wall safe hidden behind a fourteenth century painting of the siege of a castle by crusaders. As he turned to leave, the cellular phone on his desk rang. It was Brother Habib in Tunis. There were new complications.

*     *     *

Mohammed Hamudi was tired. He had been working without pause since early morning in the main tomb. It wasn’t until seven in the evening that he had completed measuring and photographing the outside of the sarcophagus, and it took another three hours to loosen and remove the lid. The body in the sarcophagus, was wearing armor that made it a certainty that the person who had owned it in life was indeed the great Hannibal.

He dismissed the exhausted workmen asking them to send the security people to seal and guard the tomb.

He was leaning with his elbows on the edge of the sarcophagus contemplating its contents and the implications of his discovery when a chill fingered the nape of his neck. Someone was watching him. He turned slowly and saw two strangers in the doorway of the tomb.

Who are you? he demanded. This is a forbidden area, what do you want?

The larger of the two spoke. We want the two jars you found this morning, the man said in an Italian accent. His voice was low and soft, almost pleasant.

Jars? What jars? What are you talking about? You have no business here! Leave before I call security!

The man’s face hardened and he reached under his coat. A long evil-looking knife appeared in his hand. Come, come, Dr. Hamudi, surely you remember the two Islamic jars you found this morning. They have no bearing on your great discovery. Give them to us and we will leave you to your fame. The man kept his voice low and conversational but the menace of the softly glinting blade in his hand was clear.

Dr. Hamudi backed around the sarcophagus putting it between himself and the men. I don’t know what you’re talking about! Leave now before I call security!

The man with the knife advanced bearing his teeth in a frightening grimace. Hamudi half expected to hear him growl.

Suddenly he stopped and turned toward the doorway. Someone was coming!

The second man flattened against the wall beside the door drawing an automatic pistol.

Habib Toukebri, the National Police Officer who headed the security detail for the dig appeared followed by a uniformed guard. Dr. Hamudi, what’s . . .

The man by the door struck with the butt of his pistol and Toukebri dropped in a heap on the sandy floor. The guard turned and was struck also but managed to avoid the full force of the blow as he grappled with his assailant. The man with the knife lunged to help his companion in the struggle. The security guard struck the man with the gun square on the jaw knocking him to the ground. As he turned he was struck with the knife which had been aimed at his heart but missed its mark burying itself deeply in the guard’s upper arm. The guard screamed and fell back crabbing along the floor trying to get away from the man with the knife who pursued ready to strike again. The guard cringed in the corner of the tomb as the man moved in.

The sound of the gunshot in the small tomb was deafening. The man with the knife flew forward and landed in a heap on top of the terrified guard. Hamudi turned and saw Toukebri kneeling on the floor, blood running down his face, a smoking pistol in his hand. They both turned toward the door but the other man had disappeared, his running footsteps fading down the access tunnel.

Are you all right, Dr. Hamudi? What did those men want?

They wanted the jars we found this morning.

The jars? Why?

I don’t know

Did you give them to them?

I couldn’t have if I wanted to. I sent them to Tunis with the supply van early this afternoon. They’re at the museum.

*     *     *

Dr. Hamudi went back to Tunis earlier than usual. He wanted to stop at the museum to have a look at those jars before he went to the mosque for Friday prayers. They had certainly not struck him as anything very exciting or special, but the incident in the burial cave last evening had piqued his curiosity. Had those thugs known what the jars contained or were they just hoping they contained some kind of treasure?

He greeted the guard and went directly to his lab. The box holding the two jars was on the sorting table in the middle of the room, its sealing tape intact.

Hamudi removed the tape and lifted out the jars and set them on a foam-rubber pad on the table. He examined each closely to see if there was any inscription on the jars themselves to indicate their contents. The jars were finely made and decorated in a beautiful vine and flower motif typical of thirteenth-century Islamic ceramics from Tunisia. The only distinguishing marks evident on the jars were impressed into the clay seals at the neck of each jar: that curious symbol of the Solomon’s seal surmounted by a Maltese cross.

He was careful to photograph the jars in great detail and to take precise measurements of each before trying to remove the seals. That done, he lifted one of the jars and shook it gently. It made no sound and it was so light that he doubted that it held anything of substance. The second jar was considerably heavier and rattled softly when he shook it. Perhaps it did hold treasure!

He examined the seal at the neck of each jar. It was clearly made of unfired clay and had been set in place in a rather crude fashion. He wanted to remove them with the least possible damage. The jars themselves were finished in a shiny glaze so the clay had not adhered tightly when it dried. Close examination revealed that the seal seemed to be held in place by the edge of the clay which had been curled under the shallow lip of the neck of the jar. Using a dental pick he very gently began to scrape away the edge of the clay seal. It was very dry and the dental pick quickly abraded it into a fine dust.

After a half hour of working, the seal suddenly fell free landing, intact, on the soft, foam-rubber pad. Hamudi picked it up and turned it in his hand. On the underside he saw an inscription in Latin.

Stranger and stranger, he thought, Islamic jars in a Carthaginian tomb with a Latin inscription. His Latin was pretty rusty but he tried to decipher the words scratched into the clay noting them with a pen on a yellow pad as he translated. He thought it was not classical Latin and, it appeared, that its author was a little shaky in declensions and spelling, but, after a half hour he thought he had a pretty fair translation. He picked up the pad and read.

Who disturbs this vessel risks the wrath of God upon him and his descendants. This truth within is by His own hand and holds the sword of fire and the cup of salvation.

Hamudi’s brows knitted, Stranger and stranger.

He bent over and peered into the open neck of the jar. Nothing glinted like gold or jewels. He pulled the flexible-neck lamp down so the light penetrated the dark interior of the jar. He saw what appeared to be the pieces of an old broken unglazed pot! Using a pair of long forceps he reached in and removed a piece of the pottery. It was crudely made of poor quality, low-fired clay and at first appeared to be undecorated. He turned it over to examine the concave surface that would have been the inside of the vessel. To his surprise it contained neat rows of precise script. Clearly it wasn’t Latin. Hamudi did not recognize it although it did look strangely familiar. He removed several others and found that each contained the same script on its inside surface. He knew that in very ancient times it was usual to use broken pottery to inscribe contracts and other important documents because of the cost and scarcity of parchment, but he had never himself come across any before.

He glanced at his watch. It was getting late. He would consider this strange little mystery later. Right now he must be going or he would be late to his prayers.

He covered the potsherds and jars with a cloth and left. As he was locking the door to the lab he saw his friend Dr. Hanna, a Coptic Christian and an expert in archaic languages of the Near East coming down the hall.

Boutros, my friend! I was just thinking of you!

Mohammed! How are you? I’m surprised to see you here so late on a Friday. Aren’t you going to prayers today?

Yes, yes, I am, but, I have made a strange discovery at our site in Bizerte. I’m not quite sure of its significance but I think you might find it interesting.

Really? What is it, an inscription of some kind?

Well, yes and no. It is a group of potsherds that have writing on them. It’s a language I don’t recognize and I thought you might like to take a look at them.

I’d be very interested in seeing them. Unfortunately I’m leaving tomorrow to visit my daughter in Paris, but I’d be glad to look at them when I return in two weeks. When would you like me to stop by?

Hamudi looked nervously at his watch. He was not a religious fanatic but he was a devout Muslim and did not like to miss his Friday prayers if he could help it. Still, the strange inscription in Latin and the contents of the jar had his curiosity in a lather and he was dying to know the nature of his find. Do you have a moment right now?

Dr. Hanna looked at his watch. Of course.

Good! I’m sure it will only take a moment. The sherds are on the sorting table, he said removing his keys and unlocking the lab door.

Hamudi removed the cloth and turned on the lamp. First, he showed the linguist the clay seal and his translation.

Not bad for an archaeologist, Boutros chided as he read the translation Hamudi had written on the yellow tablet and compared it to the inscription on the seal. It’s not a classical form of Latin. It’s characteristic of Latin used in Europe in the Middle Ages, probably from the eleventh or twelfth century.

Oh, Hamudi said, feeling a little disappointed.

Let’s have a look at the potsherds.

Of course, they’re right here, Hamudi said, indicating a rubber pad on which he had laid them out after removing them from the jar.

Boutros picked one up and examined it closely. Very interesting indeed! he said raising his glasses to his forehead fishing a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket. He sat down and pulled the lamp closer and studied the potsherd more closely.

Hamudi could see the old man’s lips move slightly as he translated.

Boutros placed the sherd gently on the foam-rubber pad and picked up another. This is quite amazing! he said, almost to

himself.

What? What is it?

I’m not sure but it appears to be a very ancient text. It’s written in a form of Aramaic that was used in Palestine around the advent of the Common Era. The old man quickly moved from sherd to sherd, rearranging them on the foam-rubber pad. By the time he had finished his hands were shaking and he was sweating, although the air conditioner was humming in the window and Hamudi was actually feeling a little chilly.

What? Boutros, what is it?

I . . . I’m not sure, he answered his voice trembling. I . . . I need to . . . umm . . . I need to have more time. I . . . ah . . . I can’t be sure I . . . it’s a religious text I think but . . . I just . . . I don’t . . . I have to go! To, ah, to pack. My plane to Paris, you see. I’ll see you when I get back. I’m sorry. I don’t think . . . ah . . . I wouldn’t worry about those sherds. They’re probably just an old religious text of some kind. Not very important, I don’t think. No, no, not at all. As he spoke, he quickly gathered up his things and virtually fled out the door.

Hamudi was totally perplexed. He had never seen his friend behave so strangely. Oh, well. He’d clear it all up when Boutros got back.

He was turning to leave when he noticed that Boutros had scribbled several lines on the yellow pad as he had been looking at the potsherds. He picked it up and read. As he read, his hand, too, began to shake. Could it be?

*     *     *

Boutros Hanna unlocked the door to his house. It was dark and empty. The maid always left early on Fridays. She was a Muslim. He hurried to his study and picked up the phone and dialed a number in downtown Tunis. It was answered on the first ring.

Yes? the voice said softly.

Brother Habib?

Yes

It is Boutros.

Yes?

It has been found!

The jars from Bizerte?

You know about them?

The phone was silent for a long moment. Yes, I had hoped they were they. You’re sure?

Positive. There is no doubt!

At last! Are you at home?

Yes.

Good. Stay there until you hear from me.

Yes, Brother Habib.

You’ve done well, Boutros, God bless you.

Thank you, Brother.

*     *     *

Fra Basil locked his office door and proceeded to the small kitchen where he and the brothers took their meals because there were only the three of them in the monastery at the moment. Of the others, three were in Rome keeping an eye on the Heretics. Another, whose job was to monitor the activities of Les Pères, was in a small monastery outside Paris.