Grail of Power: Order of Thaddeus, #5

By J. A. Bouma

A mythic grail. A legendary quest. Blood with the power to save.

 

Silas Grey is taking a much-needed vacation after the year has turned his life on end. But when fellow SEPIO agent Matt Gapinski shows up on his beach with a secret mission straight from the Vatican, he knows trouble has found him once again. Which means Day One of his new job with the Order of Thaddeus—ancient defender of the Christian faith—has begun ten days early. And soon it becomes clear an ancient cultic threat is seeking a mythic religious relic:

the Holy Grail that held the blood of Jesus Christ.

 

But is it so mythical? And why is the Church's archenemy so desperate to find it?

 

Those two haunting questions launch the SEPIO agents on their most harrowing mission yet with a clock ticking to find answers just before Christmas. Spanning historic Europe and Medieval Church history, the agents race to solve this threatening puzzle until the final pieces are brought together in a final showdown that will leave readers all at once breathless and inspired.

 

Grail of Power leverages the familiar conspiracy suspense of Dan Brown, the special-ops muscle of James Rollins's Sigma Force novels, and the historical insight of Steve Berry's Cotton Malone series to deliver an explosive religious conspiracy thriller with a technothriller edge— plumbing the depths and significance of the most recognizable religious figure in history: Jesus of Nazareth.

 

Combining fact, faith, and fiction like few contemporary religious writers, J. A. Bouma weaves an adventurous, action-packed page-turner new readers will devour—while offering several explosive reveals that will leave fans of the inventive series satisfied with long-awaited answers.

 

Grab the 5th book in the bestselling series readers have exclaimed: "Indiana Jones, step aside, I have a new hero - Silas Grey!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: EmmausWay Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948545204

Book preview

PROLOGUE

GLASTONBURY, ENGLAND. SEPTEMBER 1539.

Adoor at the back of the Lady Chapel of Glastonbury Abbey thudded loudly behind the last of Father Richard Whiting’s parishioners, a widower who had stayed behind after Mass to offer the kind priest his confession. It was a small matter, something about a cross word he had had with his neighbor. But the elderly man of ninety years and two had been worried sick about the trespass.

Not to worry, Father Whiting had reassured him before praying over the dear man: May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and by his authority I absolve you from every bond of excommunication and interdict, so far as my power allows and your needs require. Then, making the Sign of the Cross, the priest concluded, Thereupon, I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen, the two said together.

The slight man had wheezed a sigh of relief and promised an extra shilling of alms for the poor as penance, then begged Father Whiting to yet partake of the host and chalice from the evening’s ritual. He had forgone the spiritual sustenance in light of his transgression but wanted desperately for his soul to be fed by the body and blood of Christ himself. Whiting had been more than willing to oblige his most faithful congregant’s request, as the host had yet to be retired to the tabernacle and the chalice cleansed.

After the man left, the priest attended to the Eucharistic elements, cleaning up after the sacred ritual. As he worked under the cover of dim candlelight, he wondered how much longer it would be performed in his land. Rumors had reached his abbey in recent days of the reforms wrought by King Henry VIII, and the violent cleansing his henchmen had undertaken for what he saw as abuses within the Catholic Church. That bloody German monk sure had lit a fuse that was burning the whole Temple of Christ to the ground, that was for sure!

Father Whiting stopped his work and closed his eyes. He took a breath and crossed himself, confessing his anger at the fellow brother in the faith known as Luther—even if he was a German nuisance turning the Church on end! He promised the good Lord a day-long fast on the morrow for his own dose of penance. The priest had certainly sympathized with the monk’s disgust at the abuse of indulgences. But the German had taken his reformation too far when he had protested the veneration of relics, as well.

It is claimed that the head of St. John the Baptist is in Rome, Martin Luther wrote in one work, although all histories show that the Saracens opened John’s grave and burned everything to powder. Yet the pope is not ashamed of his lies. So with reference to other relics like the nails and the wood of the cross—they are the greatest lies. He went on, writing in mocking tones, Certain men have impudently boasted that they possess a feather from the holy angel St. Michael. The bishop of Mainz claims to have a flame from the bush of Moses. So in Compostella the banner is exhibited that Christ had in hell, and likewise the crown of thorns, the nails, etc., and also some of Mary’s milk.

Whiting could feel the embers of his anger beginning to rekindle. So he took another breath, sighed heavily, and went back to his priestly work. As he continued, the prized relic of his own abbey caught his attention, orange candlelight glinting off the surface of its golden reliquary. He finished clearing the host and cup, securing the remaining bread in the tabernacle and draining the fermented wine himself. Then he ambled reverently over to the table holding the holy object.

He stood silently before it, alone and consumed by its weight while contemplating its majesty and significance, the memory of the event contained within echoing in his very soul. As he venerated the object resting within, he thought about the lines of prose from his favorite of the Medieval romances depicting the holy relic:

And king Pellam lay so many years sorely wounded, and could never recover until Galahad the High Priest healed him in the quest for the Sankgreall. For in that place was part of the blood of Our Lord Jesu Christ, which Joseph of Arimathea brought into this land…

He smiled proudly at the thought that Providence had chosen his lands to be the steward of what Joseph of Arimathea bore those many centuries ago—had chosen him and his parish as the final resting place of the Son’s Holy Blood. He walked close to the container and lifted his robe, gently caressing and polishing the reliquary to a sacred sheen.

Suddenly, the double doors anchoring one side of the back end of the chapel burst open, thudding angrily against the cut-stone walls and sending a wave of air rippling across the candles near the high altar, their flames flapping in protest.

The priest spun around sharply. His breath caught in his chest and bowels went weak at the sight of six men of various ages and sizes, all dressed in dark brown hooded robes, rushing into the narthex and hustling through the nave toward him.

The man swallowed hard and braced himself as they approached closer. But then sighed with relief, realizing the intruders at that dark hour were fellow ministers of the cross, monks from the abbey standing ground next door.

Soon, however, it was clear all was not right.

Brother Richard, the lead man said with purpose, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling, Christ himself staring down as a witness from his crucifix above to the urgency below.

Whiting took a hesitant step forward, and said, Brother John, what stirs you six at this late hour?

The others filed in quickly behind their brother as they hustled between rows of wooden benches toward the object of their urgent pursuit.

The hour has come, I’m afraid.

No…

Father Whiting took a protective step back toward the holy relic, instinctively shielding it with his body.

Henchmen are galloping toward Glastonbury as we speak, another brother said darkly, Brother Stephen.

What news have you received? asked Father Whiting.

From Hailes, I’m afraid, Brother John said. The abbey has been stripped bare of its precious metal and jeweled adornment and…dismantled.

Dismantled? the priest said, his face twisting with a mixture of confusion and appall.

Ay, the man said, the whole chapel torn down, stone by stone.

Whiting gasped and stepped forward, clutching his robe in front of his chest. He whispered, What of the holy relic? The Holy Blood of Hailes?

Brother John glanced at Brother Stephen, then he shook his head. It is unclear what has befallen it. Which is why we have arrived, to secret the Arimathean treasure away before it is despoiled.

The doors at the back of the Lady Chapel thudded loudly again, causing the heads of all seven of the men huddled around the sacred relic to snap toward the narthex.

They’re here! a young lad shouted, his voice cracking with urgency and brown robe flapping behind him as he ran toward the front of the nave. Descending upon the abbey in droves, bearing torches and arms!

Brother John’s eyes, wide and frantic, met Father Whiting’s own eyes, betraying an equal measure of fright.

The king and his men, then? Brother John asked.

The lad shook his head. No. These men bear not the king’s colors.

The monk stepped forward and narrowed his eyes. Then it appears an ancient threat is bearing down upon the Church this dark hour.

Whiting swallowed hard and nodded knowingly. Quickly, come with me. And you, the priest said pointing at the lad who had just burst into the chapel, barricade the entrances. We’re going to need every ounce of favor for the departure, whether natural locks or divine Providence.

As the one monk rushed back to secure the sets of doors, Brother Richard and Brother John worked to carefully extract the holy relic from its sacred home. Brother John opened a leather satchel and withdrew a purple cloth, at one point soaked in the sacred waters of the mighty Jordan itself, he said, the river in which Jesus was baptized.

A fitting shroud for the holy chalice…

They carefully wrapped the humble wooden cup in the garment and placed it securely in the leather satchel. The lad returned, and Whiting led them to a small door. He withdrew a large ring of keys and inserted one of them into the lock.

Beyond the narthex, there was a whine of horses and a commotion outside. Then the doors on either end shook violently. There were loud, muffled curses, and then another assault on the ramparts to the Lady Chapel.

The sands of time had reached their end.

The priest twisted the lock and crossed himself, then flung open the small, sturdy door and ushered his brothers inside to a stairwell that descended beneath the sacred space. Before closing the door, he lit a torch from one of the altar candles. He hustled them inside and closed the door securely behind them then set the lock, forcing his mind to abandon any thought to whatever was about to occur in the holy sanctuary he had cultivated for a generation. He urged the monks downward to a chamber beneath the chapel, then took the lead to guide them through the darkened passage built for such a time as this.

Soon, they emerged at the far end to another set of stairs that took them back to the surface, arriving at the modest house anchoring the northeast corner of the abbey grounds beyond a wall of trees.

Whiting handed his torch to Brother John. He withdrew his ring of keys once more and thrust one into the complementary lock. He closed his eyes and held his breath, his heart pounding a mean rhythm as he waited—listening, discerning, praying.

Hearing nothing of import, he twisted the lock and eased open the door. The abbey abode was still, silent, but for a wicked menace raging several blocks west from whence they came.

The priest stepped into the darkened space growing brighter from an orange glow seeping in through small windows a few rooms down. He ushered his brothers inside and led them to a door that would take them to an adjoining stable.

They quickly saddled three steeds and mounted them as the revelry and mayhem continued desecrating the sacred space they had just fled. The men exchanged words with Father Whiting; the priest blessed them for their journey and urged them to make haste.

As the sound of the galloping horses faded into the darkness, the corners of Whiting’s eyes couldn’t help but prickle with sorrow at the loss of the relic that thousands of pilgrims had venerated for centuries, including himself—the echo of its memory provoking within them a deep devotion for the Savior whose blood had been spilt into it.

The grail of power will live to see another day—provoking faith with its memory, nourishing souls with its blood.

DAY I

DECEMBER 17

CHAPTER 1

NEW YORK CITY. PRESENT DAY.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

In the next beat, every single one of the burnished bronze lampposts lighting Central Park flickered off. From the vantage point of the man with the mustache and slicked-back hair hovering high above, it looked as if the Universe itself made a wish and sent a lungful of air across them all, puffing them out like tiny birthday candles.

Joining the outage were several blocks along Fifth Avenue between 79 th Street and 82 nd Street. Apartments, office complexes, and retail shops, the whole lot of them dimmed down to nothing, like a replay of the great Northeast Blackout of 2003.

Including one building in particular, the target of the midnight spectacle.

Predictably, headlights and horns from the rat-pack of cars below responded with frustration. Voices, faint but distinct, rose upward with confusion, as if petitioning the gods for redress. The man could smell the fear high above, mingling with the urban stench of idling cars, fast food, and too many bodies emanating from the streets below. He swallowed hard, bile threatening to sideline him before the mission and embarrass him in front of his two companions.

How he hated America and everything it stood for. Especially that two-thousand-year-old faith, with all of its weakness and self-loathing and guilt-laden pity, its dead god and hypocritical followers, its easy-believism and cheap grace written in blood. His stomach clenched as another round of bile reached for the surface. Again, he swallowed.

Soon the world will experience the full weight of our confusion and reap the benefits of what we have to offer in place of the Church. But all in good time…

The mechanical bird swooped in from its perch high above in the low-hanging midnight clouds, coming in fast toward a rooftop garden on the southwest corner of the baroque-style building sitting on the eastern edge of Central Park along Museum Mile, one of the world's largest art galleries with over two million works. The New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. It also happened to contain a single object that would bring about a realignment of the religious faiths, as well as destruction to the bane of his and his spiritual order’s existence.

The helicopter came in low and was brought to a sudden standstill. As it hovered, a rope was thrown from a side door, and three black-clad operatives shimmied down to the deck below. Within seconds the chopper retreated toward safer space back to its perch above while the trio ran to the elevator entrance leading down into the belly of the museum where their relic waited for them.

With the power cut, the man with the mustache took the lead by shoving a crowbar into the thin wedge running the length of the heavy metal doors. A second man helped him pry them open, while the other heaved one door in the opposite direction. With a little muscle the door gave. The mustachioed man dropped the bar with a clang and quickly positioned himself between the doors, arms pressing against both sides to shove them open. After they gave and retreated inside the wall, he clicked on an LED penlight and peered down into the abyss below. Thankfully, the carriage was down at ground level.

He nodded to the other two, stepped out, and grabbed the cable running from top to bottom. Then he descended into the darkness, emergency lights guiding his way until he thudded heavily on the roof of the elevator car. He moved to the side as the other two quickly followed behind him, stooping to open the ceiling trapdoor.

He hesitated before climbing down inside. It was dark and quiet. He let another three beats tick by. Satisfied, he jumped into the void. The others followed. The elevator doors stood open, a faint trace of white LED light from more emergency lighting deeper inside the museum casting eerie shadows toward the trio.

The man’s heart began to gallop forward, the familiar coppery taste of adrenaline from similar missions offering a high to encourage him forward. He withdrew a weapon stuffed at the small of his back, a Heckler & Koch semi-automatic special forces handgun outfitted with the optional silencer and laser sight. His weapon of choice.

He glanced back to his two comrades who had also retrieved their weapons, suppressed submachine guns, both Heckler & Koch. As the head of the alt-spirituality’s armory and commander of operations, he had spent years carefully assembling an arsenal built by the German defense manufacturing company, ensuring his soldiers would be armed with only the best engineering of his adopted homeland. Tonight they would need it. Nothing could go wrong. The Grand Master wouldn’t allow any more mistakes after the disaster from earlier that fall.

The man with the mustache pivoted left and padded forward into the bare hallway, weapon outstretched and red dot leading the way. They passed a pair of restrooms on the left before entering the first gallery full of nineteenth-century sculptures. They moved quickly through the darkened room, passing a statue of white marble, a woman with long hair curled on either side of her face and a nearly-nude boy draped across her with a bowl spilled of its contents lying next to them. Europeans and their disgusting tastes in art! His people from the land of Persia would never create something so garish.

They continued on into the next room, where pale-white emergency lighting up ahead beckoned them and more European sculptures of stone and metal awaited. The man stopped short before entering, holding up his arm with a fist to instruct his men to do the same.

The space was larger and longer, a court with a high ceiling of glass built between two separate additions to the original museum. The vastness was bathed in faint white light, giving it an air of mysticism with its platoon of mythological and allegorical statues bearing swords, as if they were ready to go to their deaths protecting the treasured works of art within.

He held his breath—waiting, listening, intuiting. When he was satisfied they were safe to proceed, he stepped forward, leading his men toward their prize.

I don’t know what the hell is going on!

The man stopped short and cursed under his breath, then retreated into the darkness.

The voice was gruff and gravelly, sounding forth from a man who knew how to carry himself, with steps that were heavy, purposeful. Not good.

The trio quickly, quietly retreated back into the gallery shadows as voices and footfalls echoed from the left toward them. The mustachioed man eased himself leftward, gripping his silencer-equipped HK close to his chest, the long cylindrical barrel pointing toward the ceiling but ready to do business. The other two had backed up away from the entranceway across from him, their own weapons ready for a fight.

This is 2003 all over again, another man mumbled, pitch high and heady. He was someone who would certainly fold without a fight.

There goes our night. Shot to hell along with the power.

They were nearly at their doorstep. Literally. The man inched backwards as the voices came upon them. His breath was hot and heavy; he had always struggled with keeping his body under control during crucial missions. He cursed himself silently and willed the two men to pass.

Did you hear that chopper earlier? Think it had anything to do with the power?

In this city? Choppers are a dime a dozen, zooming this way and that like flocks of geese!

There they were. A few more steps and they would be upon them.

True that I guess.

Come on, the gruff one echoed toward them. Let’s see what’s going on with that damn generator. Those cheapskate curators care more about their precious pieces of art and pottery than they do keeping the lights on!

And then they passed, retreating farther into the space, arguing about the outcome of the recent presidential election before a door creaked open and clanged shut behind them.

The man with the mustache closed his eyes, then exhaled heavily. He lowered his weapon, nodded toward the submachine-gun duo across the room and hustled through the entrance and through to the other side past large doors of dark solid wood. The generator complicated things, but no matter. They would be long gone before then.

They continued onward through a lightless room with darkened walls of Sèvres-porcelain-mounted furniture. The French theme continued through two more rooms of various sixteenth-century tin-enameled earthenware dishes until they reached the main sculpture hall of Medieval art—the next-to-the-last stop until they reached their object of pursuit.

More of the same mystical faint light gently dappled the room in white from the room’s four corners, this time aided by moonlight struggling for purchase through fourteen windows set high above. The clouds must be giving way, which would make their escape more difficult.

They pressed onward, a cadre of gargoyles and small Byzantine statues staring at them in a mixture of apprehension and appall as they prepared to do their deed. He glanced at one as he passed, a man standing and holding his head, a saintly Christian martyr perhaps. How appropriate.

They veered to the right, taking another darkened passageway filled with more Christian relics—a sarcophagus displaying the twelve apostles, crosses and censers for worship, Eucharistic instruments used to celebrate the body and blood of Christ.

Again, how appropriate.

Wait…

He nearly passed the object encased in glass had light from behind not glinted off its surface. It was so modest, so humble, so unlike what he expected given what it was supposed to have held.

Stuffing his weapon behind his back, he knelt on his haunches. There it was. The submachine-gun duo came up next to him as he examined it, verified it, even quietly venerated it.

If only you had known then what you’d be part of two thousand years later…

The man grinned widely, the caterpillar resting above his upper lip wiggling with approval. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the object. One of his two companions got to work, zipping down his black jacket and pulling out a device. A suction cup with a rod six inches long anchored on top, tipped with a quarter carat diamond. He held the device over the glass in front of the object the mustachioed man had pointed to, then gently pressed it against its surface. Kneeling, he eyed the object on the other side, then adjusted the length of the