The Templar's Secret (The Templar Series) Read Free

years ago, for some unknown reason, Gita Patel suddenly embraced her Indian heritage like it was a long-lost child. Accepting a job as head curator at the Kerala Cultural Museum, she moved from London to Fort Cochin, India. Why she did this, Anala had no idea; her mother had had an enviable job at the British Museum and the inexplicable relocation was a definite downgrade. Stranger still, though her mother was an Anglo-Indian – born, raised and educated in England – she’d gone completely native, now proudly wearing a sari and bindi dot.
    Anala stared at the small red bull’s eye that had been perfectly applied between her mother’s hazel-green eyes. This is not what I meant, Mummy, when I told you to ‘get a life’.
    ‘ You will always be my child, Anala. Always .’
    ‘Oh, really? And here I was thinking that I was just your bloody retirement fund! That’s the real reason why you want me to go into investment banking rather than politics, isn’t it? Because then, with my Midas salary, I’ll be able to take care of you in your old age.’
    ‘ How dare you!’ Her mother physically recoiled, clutching her chest with her right hand as though she’d just been struck by a poison-tipped arrow to the heart.
    Anala rolled her eyes. Overreacting much?
    Convinced that what her mother really suffered from was a stab of conscience, Anala held her ground. ‘No, how dare you , dictating what I will or will not study at university. Like every Indian mother, you probably wish that you’d given birth to a son rather than a daughter.’
    Hearing that, her mother gasped . . . just before she soundly slapped Anala across the cheek.
    For several stunned moments they stood motionless.
    Dazed, unable to speak, Anala gaped at her mother.
    A few seconds later, snapping out of her fugue state, she put a hand to her cheek. Blimey, I didn’t see that coming.
    ‘ We’ll discuss this when I get home.’ Clearly flustered, her mother glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I . . . I need to get to the museum. And I’m very sorry that I slapped you.’
    Anala snorted derisively at what she considered an obligatory afterthought. ‘Sorry? I suspect you’ve wanted to do that for a long time. Nothing like exorcising one’s demons, eh Mum?’
    Relieved to have her mother finally depart her bedroom, Anala strode over to her desk and flipped open her laptop, hitting the ON switch. Although her cheek still stung, she refused to dwell on her mother’s tantrum. Really, sometimes I think that I’m the only adult in this household . Despite the tiresome carping, as soon as Michaelmas term began in October, she intended to throw herself headlong into her thesis topic, ‘Immigration and the Challenge of Social Justice’. At Oxford. At the Department of Politics and International Relations. Period. The end.
    While she waited for the computer to boot up, Anala snatched her iPod. Popping in the earbuds, she stood in front of the mirror and struck a stylized Bollywood dance pose. A few seconds later, hearing the hip-hop strains of ‘ Single Ladies’, she gyrated her hips à la Beyoncé, dance moves that were way too provocative for the Hindi crowd. She’d seen Beyoncé last summer at the Glastonbury Festival, the woman an absolute glamazon.
    Sitting down at her desk, she quickly pulled up her article for the Liberal Conspiracy blog. A regular contributor, she thought the in-depth analysis of social media in the context of citizen journalists and their effect on public policy a timely topic. Although she’d finished the article last night, she was still playing around with various titles.
    ‘How about “Th e Tweet Heard Round the World”?’ she pondered aloud, giving it a test drive as she typed those six words above the body of text. She cocked her head from side to side. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a –’
    Suddenly hearing something that sounded like the crisp thrack! of a willow cricket bat against a cork and leather ball, Anala