ABBEY DES FONTAINES
8:00 AM

THE SENESCHAL STOOD BEFORE THE ALTAR AND STARED AT THE oak coffin. The brothers were entering the chapel, marching in solemn order, their sonorous voices chanting in unison. The melody was ancient, sung at every master’s funeral since the Beginning. The Latin lyrics spoke of loss, sorrow, and pain. Renewal would not be discussed until later in the day, when the conclave would convene to choose a successor. Rule was clear. Two suns could not set without a master and, as seneschal, he must ensure that Rule was maintained.

He watched as the brothers completed their entrance and positioned themselves before polished oak pews. Each man was cloaked in a plain russet frock, a cowl concealing his head, only his hands visible, folded in prayer.

The church was formed as a Latin cross with a single nave and two aisles. Little decoration existed, nothing to distract the mind from considering heaven’s mysteries, but it was nonetheless majestic, the capitals and columns projecting an impressive energy. The brothers had first gathered here after the Purge in 1307—those who’d managed to escape Philip IV’s grasp, retreating to the countryside and stealthily migrating south. Eventually they’d convened here, safe within a mountain fortress, and dissolved into the fabric of religious society, making plans, pledging commitments, always remembering.

He closed his eyes and allowed the music to fill him. No tinkling accompaniment, no organ, nothing. Just the human voice, swelling and breaking. He sapped strength from the melody and steeled himself for the hours ahead.

The chanting stopped. He allowed a minute of silence to pass, then stepped close to the coffin.

“Our most exalted and reverent master has left this life. He hath ruled this Order with wisdom and justice, pursuant to Rule, for twenty-eight years. A place for him is now set within the Chronicles.”

One man shoved back his cowl. “On that I challenge.”

A shudder swept over the seneschal. Rule granted any brother the right to challenge. He’d expected a battle later, in conclave, but not during the funeral. The seneschal turned to the first row of pews and faced the speaker.

Raymond de Roquefort.

A stump of a man with an expressionless face and a personality of which the seneschal had always been wary, he’d been a brother for thirty years and had risen to the rank of marshal, which placed him third in the chain of command. In the Beginning, centuries ago, the marshal was the Order’s military commander, the leader of the knights in battle. Now he was the minister of security, charged with making sure the Order stayed inviolate. De Roquefort had held that post for nearly two decades. He and the brothers who worked under him were allowed the privilege to come and go from the abbey at will, reporting to no one other than the master, and the marshal had made no secret of the contempt he felt for his now dead superior.

“Speak your challenge,” the seneschal said.

“Our departed master weakened this Order. His policies lacked courage. The time has come to move in a different direction.”

De Roquefort’s words carried not a hint of emotion, and the seneschal knew how the marshal could clothe wrongs in eloquent language. De Roquefort was a fanatic. Men like him had kept the Order strong for centuries, but the master had many times counseled that their usefulness was waning. Others disagreed, and two factions had emerged—de Roquefort heading one, the master the other. Most brothers had kept their choice private, as was the Order’s way. But the interregnum was a time of debate. Free discussion was how the collective decided which course it would follow.

“Is that the extent of your challenge?” the seneschal asked.

“For too long the brothers have been excluded from the decision process. We have not been consulted, nor has the counsel we offered been heeded.”

“This is not a democracy,” the seneschal said.

“Nor would I want it to be. But it is a brotherhood. One based on common needs and community goals. Each of us has pledged his life and possessions. We do not deserve to be ignored.”

De Roquefort’s voice had a calculating and deflationary effect. The seneschal noted that none of the others stirred the solemnity of the challenge and, for an instant, the sanctity that had for so long loomed within the chapel seemed tainted. He felt as if he was surrounded by men of a different mind and purpose. One word kept ringing through his mind.

Revolt.

“What would you have us do?” the seneschal asked.

“Our master does not deserve the usual respect.”

He stayed rigid and made the required inquiry, “Do you call for a vote?”

“I do.”

Rule required a vote, when demanded, on all issues during the interregnum. With no master, they governed as a whole. To the remaining brothers, whose faces he could not see, he said, “A show of hands as to who would deny our master his rightful place in the Chronicles.”

Some arms went up immediately. Others hesitated. He gave them the full two minutes that Rule required to make their decision. Then he counted.

Two hundred ninety-one arms pointed to heaven.

“Greater than the required seventy percent are in favor of the challenge.” He repressed his anger. “Our master shall be denied in the Chronicles.” He could not believe he’d said the words. May his old friend forgive him. He stepped away from the coffin, back toward the altar. “Since you have no respect for our departed leader, you are dismissed. For those who wish to participate, I will proceed to the Hall of Fathers in one hour.”

The brothers filed out in silence until only de Roquefort remained. The Frenchman approached the coffin. Confidence showed on his rugged face. “It is the price he pays for cowardice.”

No need for appearances existed any longer. “You will regret what you just did.”

“The student thinks himself master? I look forward to the conclave.”

“You will destroy us.”

“I will resurrect us. The world needs to know the truth. What happened all those centuries ago was wrong, and it is time to right that wrong.”

The seneschal didn’t disagree with that conclusion, but there was another point. “There was no need to desecrate a good man.”

“Good to who? You? I was treated with contempt.”

“Which is far more than you deserved.”

A grim smile spread across de Roquefort’s pale face. “Your protector is no more. It’s now just you and me.”

“I look forward to the battle.”

“As do I.” De Roquefort paused. “Thirty percent of the brotherhood did not support me, so I will leave it to you and them to say goodbye to our master.”

His enemy turned and paraded from the chapel. The seneschal waited until the doors had closed, then laid a trembling hand on the coffin. A network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was closing around him. He heard again his words to the master from yesterday.

I respect the power of our adversaries.

He’d just sparred with his adversary and lost.

Which did not bode well for the hours ahead.

 

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU, FRANCE
11:30 AM

MALONE TURNED THE RENTAL CAR EAST OFF THE MAIN HIGHWAY, just outside Couiza, and started up a twisting incline. The rising road offered stunning vistas of nearby tawny hillsides thick with summer rock roses, lavender, and thyme. The lofty ruins of a fortress, its charred walls standing like gaunt fingers, rose in the distance. The land, as far as the eye could see, oozed the romance of history when marauding knights swooped like eagles from the fortified heights to prey on their foe.

He and Stephanie had left Copenhagen around four AM and flown to Paris, where they caught the first Air France shuttle of the day south for Toulouse. An hour later they were on the ground and motoring southwest into the region known as the Languedoc.

On the way Stephanie told him about the village that stood fifteen hundred feet atop the bleak mound they were now climbing. Gauls were the first to inhabit the hilltop, drawn by the prospect of being able to see for miles across the expansive Aude River valley. But it was the Visigoths in the fifth century who built a citadel and adopted the ancient Celtic name for the location—Rhedae, which meant “chariot”—eventually developing the place into a trading center. Two hundred years later, when the Visigoths were driven south into Spain, the Franks converted Rhedae into a royal city. By the thirteenth century, though, the town’s status had declined, and toward the end of the Albigensian Crusade it was razed. Ownership passed through several wealthy houses of both France and Spain, eventually resting with one of Simon de Montfort’s lieutenants, who founded a barony. The family built themselves a château, around which a tiny hamlet sprouted, and the name eventually changed from Rhedae to Rennes-le-Château. Their issue ruled the land and the town until 1781, when the last heir, Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, died.

“Before her death, it was said that she passed on a great secret,” Stephanie had said, “one that her family kept for centuries. She was childless and her husband died before her, so with no one left, she told the secret to her confessor, the abbé Antoine Bigou, who was the parish priest for Rennes.”

Now, as Malone stared ahead at the last bend in the narrow road, he imagined what it must have been like to live then in such a remote place. The isolated valleys formed a perfect repository for both fleeing fugitives and restless pilgrims. Easy to see why the region had become a theme park for the imagination, a mecca for mystery buffs and new agers, a place where writers with a unique vision could forge a reputation.

Like Lars Nelle.

The town came into view. He slowed the car and eased through a gate framed by limestone pillars. A sign warned FOUILLES INTERDITES. Excavating prohibited.

“They had to post a notice about digging?” he asked.

Stephanie nodded. “Years ago, people were shoveling dirt in every corner looking for treasure. Even dynamiting. It had to be regulated.”

Daylight dimmed beyond the town gate. The limestone buildings were packed tight, like books on a shelf, many with pitched roofs, thick doors, and rusted iron verandas. A narrow and flinty grand rue wound up a short incline. People with backpacks and Michelin Green Guides hugged the walls on either side, parading single-file back and forth. Malone saw a couple of stores, a bookshop, and a restaurant. Alleys led off the main rue to nests of buildings, but not many. The entire town was less than five hundred yards across.

“Only about a hundred people live here full time,” Stephanie said. “Though fifty thousand visit each year.”

“Lars had quite an effect.”

“More than I ever realized.”

She pointed ahead and directed him to turn left. They eased past kiosks peddling rosaries, medals, pictures, and souvenirs to more camera-toting visitors.

“They come by the busload,” she said. “Wanting to believe in the impossible.”

Up another incline and he parked the Peugeot in a sandy lot. Two buses were already there, their drivers milling about smoking. A water tower rose to one side, its tattered stone adorned with a zodiac sign.

“The crowds come early,” Stephanie said as they climbed out. “Here to see the domaine d’Abbé Saunière. The priest’s domain—what he built with all that mysterious treasure he supposedly found.”

Malone stepped close to a waist-high rock wall. The panorama below, a patchwork of field, forest, valley, and rock, stretched for miles. The silver-green hills were dotted with chestnut and oak. He checked his bearings. The great bulk of the snowcapped Pyrénées blocked the southern horizon. A stiff wind howled from the west, thankfully warmed by the summer sun.

He glanced to the right. A hundred feet away the neo-Gothic tower, with its crenellated roof and single round turret, had graced the cover of many a book and tourist brochure. It stood on the edge of a cliff, grim and defiant, seemingly clinging to rock. A long belvedere stretched from its far side and rounded back toward an iron glasshouse, then to another cluster of olden stone buildings, each topped with orange-tiled roofs. People milled back and forth on the ramparts, cameras in hand, admiring the valleys below.

“The tower is the Tour Magdala. Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Stephanie asked.

“Seems out of place.”

“That’s what I always thought, too.”

To the right of the Magdala rose an ornamental garden that led to a compact Renaissance-style building that also seemed from another locale.

“The Villa Béthanie,” she said. “Saunière built it, too.”

He noted the name. Bethany. “That’s biblical. In the Holy Land. It meant ‘house with an answer.’ ”

She nodded. “Saunière was clever with names.” She pointed to more buildings behind them. “Lars’s house is down that alley. Before we head there, I have to do something. As we walk, let me tell you about what happened here in 1891. What I read about last week. What brought this place back from obscurity.”

The abbé Bérenger Saunière pondered the daunting task before him. The Church of Mary Magdalene had been built upon Visigoth ruins and consecrated in 1059. Now, eight centuries later, the inside was in ruin, thanks to a roof that leaked as if it weren’t there. The walls themselves were crumbling, the foundations slipping away. It would take both patience and stamina to repair the damage, but he thought himself up to the task.

He was a husky man, muscular, broad-shouldered, with a head of close-cropped black hair. His one endearing feature, which he used to his advantage, was the cleft in his chin. It added a whimsical air to the stiff countenance of his black eyes and thick eyebrows. Born and raised a few miles away, in the village of Montazels, he knew the geography of the Corbières well. From childhood he’d been familiar with Rennes-le-Château. Its church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, had been in limited use for decades, and he’d never imagined that one day its many problems would be his.

“A mess,” the man known as Rousset said to him.

He glanced at the mason. “I agree.”

Another mason, Babou, was busy shoring up one of the walls. The region’s state architect had recently recommended that the building be razed, but Saunière would never allow that to happen. Something about the old church demanded that it be saved.

“It will take much money to complete the repairs,” Rousset said.

“Enormous amounts of money.” He added a smile to let the older man know that he understood the challenge. “But we shall make this house worthy of the Lord.”

What he did not say was that he’d already secured a fair amount of funds. A bequest from one of his predecessors had left six hundred francs especially for repairs. He’d also managed to convince the town council to loan him another fourteen hundred francs. But the bulk of his money had come in secret five years ago. Three thousand francs had been donated by the countess of Chambord, the widow of Henri, the last Bourbon claimant to the defunct French throne. At the time Saunière had managed to bring a great deal of attention to himself with anti-republican sermons, ones that stirred monarchist feelings in his parishioners. The government reeled from the comments, withdrawing his yearly stipend and demanding that he be fired. Instead the bishop suspended him for nine months, but his actions caught the attention of the countess, who’d made contact through an intermediary.

“Where do we start?” Rousset asked.

He’d given that matter a great deal of thought. The stained-glass windows had already been replaced and a new porch, outside the main entrance, would be completed shortly. Certainly the north wall, where Babou was working, must be mended, a new pulpit installed, and the roof replaced. But he knew where they must start.

“We will begin with the altar.”

A curious look came to Rousset’s face.

“The people’s focus is there,” Saunière said.

“As you say, Abbé.”

He liked the respect his older parishioners showed him, though he was only thirty-eight. Over the past five years he’d come to like Rennes. He was near home, with plenty of opportunities to study Scriptures and perfect his Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He also enjoyed trekking in the mountains, fishing, and hunting. But the time had come to do something constructive.

He approached the altar.

The top was white marble pitted by water that had rained down for centuries from the porous ceiling. The slab was supported by two ornate columns, their exteriors adorned with Visigoth crosses and Greek letters.

“We shall replace the top and the pillars,” he declared.

“How, Abbé?” Rousset asked. “There is no way we can lift that.”

He pointed to where Babou stood. “Use the sledgehammer. There is no need for delicacy.”

Babou brought the heavy tool over and surveyed his task. Then, with a great heave, Babou hoisted the hammer and crashed it down onto the center of the altar. The thick top cracked, but the stone did not give way.

“It’s solid,” Babou said.

“Again,” Saunière said with a flourish.

Another blow and the limestone shattered, the two halves collapsing into each other between the still standing pillars.

“Finish,” he said.

The two pieces were quickly busted into many.

He bent down. “Let’s haul all this away.”

“We’ll get it, Abbé,” Babou said, setting the sledgehammer aside. “You pile it for us.”

The two men lifted large chunks and headed for the door.

“Take it around to the cemetery and stack it. We should have use for it there,” he called out to them.

As they left, he noticed that both pillars had survived the demolition. With a swipe he cleared dust and debris away from the crown of one. On the other a piece of limestone still lay, and, when he tossed the chunk into the pile, he noticed beneath, in the crown of the pillar, a shallow mortise hole. The space was no bigger than the palm of his hand, surely designed to hold the top’s locking pin, but inside the cavity he caught sight of a glimmer.

He bent close and carefully blew away the dust.

Yes, something was there.

A glass vial.

Not much longer than his index finger and only slightly wider, the top sealed with crimson wax. He looked close and saw that the vessel contained a rolled piece of paper. He wondered how long it had been there. He was not aware of any recent work done to the altar, so it must have been secreted there a long time ago.

He freed the object from its hiding place.

“That vial started everything,” Stephanie said.

Malone nodded. “I read Lars’s books, too. But I thought Saunière was supposed to have found three parchments in that pillar with some sort of coded messages.”

She shook her head. “That’s all part of the myth others added to the story. This, Lars and I did talk about. Most of the fallacies were started in the fifties by a Rennes innkeeper who wanted to generate business. One lie built on another. Lars never accepted that those parchments were real. Their supposed text was printed in countless books, but no one has ever seen them.”

“Then why did he write about them?”

“To sell books. I know it bothered him, but he did it anyway. He always said that whatever wealth Saunière found could be traced to 1891 and whatever was inside that glass vial. But he was the only one who believed that.” She pointed off to another of the stone buildings. “That’s the presbytery where Saunière lived. It’s a museum about him now. The pillar with the small niche is in there for all to see.”

They passed the crowded kiosks and kept to the rough-paved street.

“The Church of Mary Magdalene,” she said, pointing at a Romanesque building. “Once the chapel for the local counts. Now, for a few euros, you can see the great creation of Abbé Saunière.”

“You don’t approve?”

She shrugged. “I never did. That was the problem.”

Off to their right he saw a tumbled-down château, its mud-colored outer walls baked by the sun. “That’s the Hautpouls estate,” she said. “It was lost during the Revolution to the government and has been a mess ever since.”

They rounded the far end of the church and passed beneath a stone gateway that bore what looked like a skull and crossbones. He recalled from the book he’d read last night that the symbol appeared on many Templar gravestones.

The earth beyond the entrance was littered with pebbles. He knew what the French called the space. Enclos paroissiaux. Parish close. And the enclosure seemed typical—one side bounded by a low wall, the other nestled close to a church, its entrance a triumphal arch. The cemetery hosted a profusion of table tombs, headstones, and memorials. Floral tributes topped some of the graves, and many were adorned, in the French tradition, with photographs of the deceased.

Stephanie walked to one of the monuments that displayed neither flowers nor images, and Malone let her go alone. He knew that Lars Nelle had been so liked by the locals that they’d granted him the privilege of being buried in their cherished churchyard.

The headstone was simple and noted only the name, dates, and an epitaph of HUSBAND, FATHER, SCHOLAR.

He eased up beside her.

“They never once wavered in burying him here,” she muttered.

He knew what she meant. In sacred ground.

“The mayor at the time said there was no conclusive evidence he killed himself. He and Lars were close, and he wanted his friend buried here.”

“It’s the perfect place,” he said.

She was hurting, he knew, but to recognize her pain would be viewed as an invasion of her privacy.

“I made a lot of mistakes with Lars,” she said. “And most of them eventually cost me with Mark.”

“Marriage is tough.” His own failed through selfishness, too. “So is parenthood.”

“I always thought Lars’s passion silly. I was a government lawyer doing important things. He was searching for the impossible.”

“So why are you here?”

Her gaze stayed on the grave. “I’ve come to realize that I owe him.”

“Or do you owe yourself.”

She turned away from the grave. “Perhaps I do owe us both,” she said.

He let it drop.

Stephanie pointed to a far corner. “Saunière’s mistress is buried there.”

Malone knew about the mistress from Lars’s books. She was sixteen years Saunière’s junior, a mere eighteen when she quit her job as a hatmaker and became the abbé’s housekeeper. She stayed by his side for thirty-one years, until his death in 1917. Everything Saunière acquired was eventually placed in her name, including all of his land and bank accounts, which subsequently made it impossible for anyone, including the Church, to claim them. She continued to live in Rennes, dressing in somber clothes and behaving as strangely as when her lover was alive, until her death in 1953.

“She was an odd one,” Stephanie said. “She made a statement, long after Saunière died, about how with what he left behind you could feed all of Rennes for a hundred years, but she lived in poverty till the day she died.”

“Any one ever learn why?”

“Her only statement was, I cannot touch it.”

“Thought you didn’t know much about all this.”

“I didn’t, until last week. The books and journal were informative. Lars spent a lot of time interviewing locals.”

“Sounds like that would have been double or triple hearsay.”

“For Saunière, that’s true. He’s been dead a long time. But his mistress lived till the fifties, so there were many still around in the seventies and eighties who knew her. She sold the Villa Béthanie in 1946 to a man named Noël Corbu. He was the one who converted it into a hotel—the innkeeper I mentioned who made up much of the false information about Rennes. The mistress promised to tell Saunière’s great secret to Corbu, but at the end of her life she suffered a stroke and was unable to communicate.”

They trudged across the hard ground, grit crunching with every step.

“Saunière was once buried here, too, beside her, but the mayor said the grave was in danger from treasure hunters.” She shook her head. “So a few years ago they dug the priest up and moved him into a mausoleum in the garden. Now it costs three euros to see his grave . . . the price of a corpse’s safety, I assume.”

He caught her sarcasm.

She pointed at the grave. “I remember coming here once years ago. When Lars first arrived in the late sixties, nothing but two tattered crosses marked the graves, overgrown with vines. No one tended to them. No one cared. Saunière and his lover were totally forgotten.”

An iron chain encircled the plot and fresh flowers sprouted from concrete vases. Malone noticed the epitaph on one of the stones, barely legible.

HERE LIES BÉRENGER SAUNIÈRE

PARISH PRIEST OF RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU

1853–1917

DIED 22 JANUARY 1917 AGED 64

“I read somewhere that the marker was too fragile to move,” she said, “so they left it. More for the tourists to see.”

He noticed the mistress’s gravestone. “She wasn’t a target of opportunists, too?”

“Apparently not, since they left her here.”

“Wasn’t it a scandal, their relationship?”

She shrugged. “Whatever wealth Saunière acquired, he spread around. The water tower back at the car park? He built it for the town. He also paved roads, repaired houses, made loans to people in trouble. So he was forgiven whatever weakness he may have possessed. And it was not uncommon for priests of that time to have female housekeepers. Or at least that’s what Lars wrote in one of his books.”

A group of noisy visitors rounded the corner behind them and headed for the grave.

“Here they come to gawk,” Stephanie said, a touch of contempt in her voice. “I wonder if they would act that way back home, in the cemetery where their loved ones are buried?”

The boisterous crowd drew close, and a tour guide started talking about the mistress. Stephanie retreated and Malone followed.

“This is nothing but an attraction to them,” Stephanie said in a low voice. “Where the abbé Saunière found his treasure and supposedly decorated his church with messages that somehow led the way to it. Hard to imagine that anyone buys that crap.”

“Isn’t that what Lars wrote about?”

“To an extent. But think about it, Cotton. Even if the priest found a treasure, why would he leave a map for someone else to find it? He built all of this during his lifetime. The last thing he’d want was for someone to jump his claim.” She shook her head. “It all makes for great books, but it’s not real.”

He was about to inquire further when he noticed her gaze drift to another corner of the cemetery, past a set of stone stairs that led down to the shade of an oak towering above more markers. In the shadows, he spied a fresh grave decorated with colorful bouquets, the silvery lettering on the headstone bright against a crisp gray matte.

Stephanie marched toward it and he followed.

“Oh, dear,” she said, concern in her face.

He read the marker. ERNST SCOVILLE. Then he did the math from the dates noted. The man was seventy-three years old when he died.

Last week.

“You knew him?” he asked.

“I talked with him three weeks ago. Just after receiving Lars’s journal.” Her attention stayed riveted on the grave. “He was one of those people I mentioned who worked with Lars that we needed to speak with.”

“Did you tell him what you planned to do?”

She slowly nodded. “I told him about the auction, the book, and that I was coming to Europe.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought you said last night no one knew anything.”

“I lied.”

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES
1:00 PM

DE ROQUEFORT WAS PLEASED. HIS FIRST CONFRONTATION WITH the seneschal had been a resounding victory. Only six masters had ever been successfully challenged, those men’s sins ranging from thievery, to cowardice, to lust for a woman, all from centuries ago, in the decades after the Purge, when the brotherhood was weak and chaotic. Unfortunately, the penalty of a challenge was more symbolic than punitive. The master’s tenure would still be noted within the Chronicles, his failures and accomplishments duly recorded, but a notation would proclaim that his brothers had deemed him unworthy of memory.

In recent weeks his lieutenants had made sure the requisite two-thirds percent would vote and send a message to the seneschal. That undeserving fool needed to know how difficult the fight ahead was going to be. True, the insult of being challenged mattered not to the master. He would be entombed with his predecessors no matter what. No, the denial was more a way to deflate the supposed successor—and to motivate allies. It was an ancient tool, created by Rule, from a time when honor and memory meant something. But one he’d successfully resurrected as the opening salvo in a war that should be over by sunset.

He was going to be the next master.

The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon had existed, unbroken, since 1118. Philip IV of France, who’d borne the despicable misnomer of Philip the Fair, had tried in 1307 to exterminate them. But like the seneschal, he’d also underestimated his opponent, and managed only to send the Order underground.

Once, tens of thousands of brothers manned commanderies, farms, temples, and castles on nine thousand estates scattered across Europe and the Holy Land. Just the sight of a brother knight clad in white and wearing the red cross patee brought fear to enemies. Brothers were granted immunity from excommunication and were not required to pay feudal duties. The Order was allowed to keep all its spoils from war. Subject only to the pope, the Knights Templar was a nation unto itself.

But no battles had been fought for seven hundred years. Instead, the Order had retreated to a Pyrenean abbey and cloaked itself as a simple monastic community. Connections to the bishops in Toulouse and Perpignan were maintained, and all of the required duties were performed for the Roman Church. Nothing occurred that would draw attention, set the abbey apart, or cause people to question what may be happening within its walls. All brothers took two vows. One to the Church, which was done for necessity. The other to the brotherhood, which meant everything. The ancient rites were still conducted, though now under cover of darkness, behind thick ramparts, with the abbey gates bolted.

And all for the Great Devise.

The paradoxical futility of that duty disgusted him. The Order existed to guard the Devise, but the Devise would not exist but for the Order.

A quandary, for sure.

But still a duty.

His entire life had been only the preamble to the next few hours. Born to unknown parents, he was raised by the Jesuits at a church school near Bordeaux. In the Beginning, brothers were mainly repentant criminals, disappointed lovers, outcasts. Today they came from all walks. The secular world spawned the most recruits, but religious society produced its true leaders. The past ten masters all claimed a cloistered education. His had begun at the university in Paris, then been completed at the seminary in Avignon. He’d stayed on there and taught for three years before the Order approached him. Then he’d embraced Rule with an unfettered enthusiasm.

During his fifty-six years he’d never known the flesh of a woman, nor had he been tempted by a man. Being elevated to marshal, he knew, had been a way for the former master to placate his ambition, perhaps even a trap whereby he might generate enough enemies that further advancement would be impossible. But he’d used his position wisely, making friends, building loyalties, accumulating favors. Monastic life suited him. For the past decade he’d pored through the Chronicles and was now versed in every aspect—good and bad—of the Order’s history. He would not repeat the mistakes of the past. He fervently believed that, in the Beginning, the brotherhood’s self-imposed isolation was what hastened its downfall. Secrecy bred both an aura and suspicion—a simple step from there to recrimination. So it must end. Seven hundred years of silence needed to be broken.

His time had come.

Rule was clear.

It is to be holden that when anything shall be enjoined by the master, there be no hesitation, but the thing must be done without delay, as though it had been enjoined from heaven.

The phone on his desk gave a low trill and he lifted the receiver.

“Our two brothers in Rennes-le-Château,” he was told by his under-marshal, “have reported that Stephanie Nelle and Malone are now there. As you predicted, she went straight to the cemetery and found Ernst Scoville’s grave.”

Good to know one’s enemy. “Have our brothers merely observe, but be ready to act.”

“On the other matter you asked us to investigate. We still have no idea who assaulted the brothers in Copenhagen.”

He hated to hear about failure. “Is everything prepared for this evening?”

“We will be ready.”

“How many accompanied the seneschal to the Hall of Fathers?”

“Thirty-four.”

“All identified?”

“Every one.”

“They shall each be given an opportunity to join us. If not, deal with them. Let’s make sure, though, that most join us. Which should not pose a problem. Few like to be part of a losing cause.”

“The consistory starts at six PM.”

At least the seneschal was discharging his duty, calling the brothers into session before nightfall. The consistory was the one variable in the equation—a procedure specially designed to prevent manipulation—but one he’d long studied and anticipated.

“Be ready,” he said. “The seneschal will use speed to generate confusion. That’s how his master managed election.”

“He will not take defeat lightly.”

“Nor would I expect him to. Which is why I have a surprise waiting for him.”

 

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU
1:30 PM

MALONE AND STEPHANIE MADE THEIR WAY ACROSS THE CROWDED hamlet. Another bus churned up the central rue, easing its way toward the car park. Halfway down the street Stephanie entered a restaurant and spoke with the proprietor. Malone eyed some delicious-looking fish the diners were enjoying, but realized food would have to wait.

He was angry that Stephanie had lied to him. Either she didn’t appreciate or didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Determined men, willing to die and kill, were after something. He’d seen their likes many times, and the more information he possessed the better the chances of success. Hard enough dealing with the enemy, but worrying about an ally simply compounded the situation.

Leaving the restaurant, Stephanie said, “Ernst Scoville was hit by a car last week while he took his daily walk outside the walls. He was well liked. He’d lived here a long time.”

“Any leads on the car?”

“No witnesses. Nothing to go on.”

“Did you actually know Scoville?”

She nodded. “But he didn’t care for me. He and I spoke rarely. He took Lars’s side in our debate.”

“Then why did you call him?”

“He was the only one I could think of to ask about Lars’s journal. He was civil, considering we hadn’t spoken in years. He wanted to see the journal. So I planned on making amends while I was here.”

He wondered about her. Bad blood with her husband, her son, and friends of her husband. The source of her guilt was clear, but what she planned to do about it remained cloudy.

She motioned for them to walk. “I want to check Ernst’s house. He owned quite a library. I’d like to see if his books are still there.”

“He have a wife?”

She shook her head. “A loner. Would have made a great hermit.”

They headed down one of the side alleys between more rows of buildings that all seemed built for patrons long dead.

“Do you really believe there’s a treasure hidden around here somewhere?” he asked.

“Hard to say, Cotton. Lars used to say that ninety percent of Saunière’s story is fiction. I’d chastise him for wasting his time on something so foolish. But he always countered with the ten percent of truth. That’s what captivated him and, to a large degree, Mark. Strange things apparently happened here a hundred years ago.”

“You referring to Saunière again?”

She nodded.

“Help me understand.”

“I actually need help with that, too. But I can tell you more of what I know about Bérenger Saunière.”

“I cannot leave a parish where my interests keep me,” Saunière told the bishop as he stood before the older man in the episcopal palace at Carcassonne, twenty miles north of Rennes-le-Château.

He’d avoided the meeting for months with statements from his doctor that he was unable to travel because of illness. But the bishop was persistent, and the last request for an audience had been delivered by a constable who’d been instructed to personally accompany him back.

“Your existence is far grander than mine,” the bishop said. “I wish to have a statement as to the origin of your monetary resources, which seem so sudden and important.”

“Alas, Monseigneur, you ask of me the only thing I am not able to reveal. Deep sinners to whom, with the aid of God, I have shown the way of penitence have given these considerable amounts to me. I do not wish to betray the secrets of the confessional by giving you their names.”

The bishop seemed to consider his argument. It was a good one, and just might work.

“Then let us talk of your lifestyle. That is not protected by the secrets of the confessional.”

He feigned innocence. “My lifestyle is quite modest.”

“That is not what I am told.”

“Your information must be faulty.”

“Let us see.” The bishop parted the cover of a thick book that lay before him. “I had an inventory performed, which was quite interesting.”

Saunière did not like the sound of that. His relationship with the former bishop had been loose and cordial, and he’d enjoyed great freedom. This new bishop was another matter.

“In 1891 you started renovations on the parish church. At that time you replaced the windows, built a porch, installed a new altar and pulpit, and repaired the roof. Cost, approximately twenty-two hundred francs. The following year the exterior walls were tended to and the interior floor replaced. Then came a new confessional, seven hundred francs, statuary and stations of the cross, all hewn in Toulouse by Giscard, thirty-two hundred francs. In 1898 a collecting trunk was added, four hundred francs. Then in 1900 a bas-relief of St. Mary Magdalen, quite elaborate I’m told, was placed before the altar.”

Saunière simply listened. Clearly, the bishop was privy to parish records. The former treasurer had resigned a few years ago, stating that he’d found his duties contrary to his beliefs. Someone had obviously tracked him down.

“I came here in 1902,” the bishop said. “For the past eight years I have tried—in vain, I might add—to have you appear before me to answer my concerns. But during that time, you managed to build the Villa Béthanie adjacent to the church. It is, I am told, of bourgeois construction, a pastiche of styles, all from cut stone. There are stained-glass windows, a dining salon, sitting room, and bedrooms for guests. Quite a few guests, I hear. It is where you entertain.”

The comment was surely designed to elicit a response, but he said nothing.

“Then there is the Tour Magdala, your folly of a library that overlooks the valley. Some of the finest woodwork around, it is reported. This is in addition to your stamp and postcard collections, which are enormous, and even some exotic animals. All costing many thousands of francs.” The bishop closed the book. “Your parish income is no more than two hundred fifty francs per year. How was it possible to amass all this?”

“As I have said, Monseigneur, I have been the recipient of many private donations from souls who want to see my parish prosper.”

“You have been trafficking in masses,” the bishop declared. “Selling the sacraments. Your crime is simony.”

He’d been warned this was the charge to be leveled. “Why do you reproach me? My parish, when I first arrived, was in a lamentable state. It is, after all, the duty of my superiors to ensure for Rennes-le-Château a church worthy of the faithful and a decent dwelling for the pastor. But for a quarter century I have worked and rebuilt and beautified the church without asking a centime from the diocese. It seems to me that I deserve your congratulations rather than accusations.”

“What do you say was spent on all those improvements?”

He decided to answer. “One hundred ninety-three thousand francs.”

The bishop laughed. “Abbé, that would not have bought the furniture, statues, and stained glass. To my calculation you have spent more than seven hundred thousand francs.”

“I am not familiar with accounting practices, so I cannot say what the costs were. All I know is that the people of Rennes love their church.”

“Officials state that you receive one hundred to one hundred fifty postal orders a day. They come from Belgium, Italy, the Rhineland, Switzerland, and all over France. They range from five to forty francs each. You frequent the bank in Couiza, where they are converted to cash. How do you explain that?”

“All my correspondence is handled by my housekeeper. She both opens and answers any inquiries. That question should be directed to her.”

“You are the one who appears at the bank.”

He kept to his story. “You should ask her.”

“Unfortunately, she is not subject to my authority.”

He shrugged.

“Abbé, you are trafficking in masses. It is clear, at least to me, that those envelopes coming to your parish are not notes from well-wishers. But there is something else even more disturbing.”

He stood silent.

“I performed a calculation. Unless you are being paid exorbitant sums per mass—and last I knew, the standard rate among offenders was fifty centimes—you would have to say mass twenty-four hours a day for some three hundred years to accumulate the wealth you have spent. No, Abbé, the trafficking in masses is a front, one you concocted, to mask the true source of your good fortune.”

This man was far smarter than he appeared to be.

“Any response?”

“No, Monseigneur.”

“Then you are hereby relieved of your duties at Rennes and you will report immediately to the parish in Coustouge. In addition, you are suspended, with no right to say the mass or administer the sacraments in church, until further notice.”

“And how long is this suspension to last?” he calmly asked.

“Until the Ecclesiastical Court can hear your appeal, which I am sure you will forthwith file.”

“Saunière did appeal,” Stephanie said, “all the way to the Vatican, but he died in 1917 before being vindicated. What he did, though, was resign from the Church and never left Rennes. He just started saying mass in the Villa Béthanie. The locals loved him, so they boycotted the new abbé. Remember, all the land around the church, including the villa, belonged to Saunière’s mistress—he was clever there—so the Church couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Malone wanted to know, “So how did he pay for all those improvements?”

She smiled. “That’s a question many have tried to answer, including my husband.”

They navigated another of the winding alleyways, bordered by more melancholy houses, the stones the color of dead wood stripped of bark.

“Ernst lived up ahead,” she said.

They approached an olden building warmed by pastel roses climbing a wrought-iron pergola. Up three stone stairs stood a recessed door. Malone climbed, peered in through glass in the door, and saw no evidence of neglect. “The place looks good.”

“Ernst was obsessive.”

He tested the knob. Locked.

“I’d like to get in there,” she said from the street.

He glanced around. Twenty feet to their left, the lane ended at the outer wall. Beyond loomed a blue sky dotted with billowy clouds. No one was in sight. He turned back and, with his elbow, popped the glass pane. He then reached inside and released the lock.

Stephanie stepped up behind him.

“After you,” he said.

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES
2:00 PM

THE SENESCHAL SWUNG THE IRON GRILLE INWARD AND LED THE cortège of mourners through the ancient archway. The entrance into the subterranean Hall of Fathers was located within the abbey walls, at the end of a long passageway where one of the oldest buildings butted rock. Fifteen hundred years ago monks first occupied the caverns beyond, living in the sullen recesses. As more and more penitents arrived, buildings were erected. Abbeys tended to either dramatically grow or dwindle, and this one had erupted with a burst of construction that had lasted centuries, continued by the Knights Templar, who quietly took ownership in the late thirteenth century. The Order’s mother house—maison chèvetaine, as Rule labeled it—had first been located in Jerusalem, then Acre, then Cyprus, finally ending here after the Purge. Eventually, the complex was surrounded with battlement walls and towers and the abbey grew to become one of Europe’s largest, set high among the Pyrénées, secluded by both geography and Rule. Its name came from the nearby river, the falls, and an abundance of groundwater. Abbey des Fontaines: abbey of the fountains.

He made his way down narrow steps chipped from rock. The soles of his canvas sandals were slippery on the moist stone. Where oil torches once provided light, electric sconces now lit the way. Behind him came the thirty-four brothers who’d decided to join him. At the bottom of the stairs, he padded forward until the tunnel opened into a vaulted room. A stone pillar rose from the center, like the trunk of an aging tree.

The brothers slowly gathered around the oak coffin, which had already been brought inside and laid on a stone plinth. Through clouds of incense came melancholy chants.

The seneschal stepped forward and the chanting stopped. “We have come to honor him. Let us pray,” he said in French.

They did, then a hymn was sung.

“Our master led us well. You, who are loyal to his memory, take heart. He would have been proud.”

A few moments of silence passed.

“What lies ahead?” one of the brothers quietly asked.

Caucusing was not proper in the Hall of Fathers, but with apprehension looming he allowed a bending of Rule.

“Uncertainty,” he declared. “Brother de Roquefort is ready to take charge. Those of you who are selected for the conclave will have to work hard to stop him.”

“He will be our downfall,” another brother muttered.

“I agree,” the seneschal said. “He believes that we can somehow avenge seven-hundred-year-old sins. Even if we could, why? We survived.”

“His followers have been pressing hard. Those who oppose him will be punished.”

The seneschal knew that this was why so few had come to the hall. “Our ancestors faced many enemies. In the Holy Land they stood before the Saracens and died with honor. Here, they endured torture from the Inquisition. Our master, de Molay, was burned at the stake. Our job is to stay faithful.” Weak words, he knew, but they had to be said.

“De Roquefort wants to war with our enemies. One of his followers told me that he even intends to take back the shroud.”

He winced. Other radical thinkers had proposed that show of defiance before, but every master had quelled the act. “We must stop him in conclave. Luckily, he cannot control the selection process.”

“He frightens me,” a brother said, and the quiet that followed signaled that the others agreed.

After an hour of prayer the seneschal gave the signal. Four bearers, each dressed in a crimson robe, hoisted the master’s coffin.

He turned and approached two columns of red porphyry between which stood the Door of Gold. The name came not from its composition, but from what was once stored behind it.

Forty-three masters lay in their own locoli, beneath a rock ceiling, polished smooth and painted a deep blue, upon which gold stars spangled in the light. The bodies had long ago turned to dust. Only bones remained, encased within ossuaries each bearing a master’s name and dates of service. To his right were empty niches, one of which would cradle his master’s body for the next year. Only then would a brother return and transfer the bones to an ossuary. The burial practice, which the Order had long employed, belonged to the Jews in the Holy Land at the time of Christ.

The bearers deposited the coffin into the assigned cavity. A deep tranquility filled the semi-darkness.

Thoughts of his friend flashed through the seneschal’s mind. The master was the youngest son of a wealthy Belgian merchant. He’d gravitated to the Church for no clear reason—simply something he felt compelled to do. He’d been recruited by one of the Order’s many journeymen, brothers stationed around the globe, blessed with an eye for recruits. Monastic life had agreed with the master. And though not of high office, in the conclave after his predecessor died the brothers had all cried, “Let him be master.” And so he took the oath. I offer myself to the omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul and so shall I remain in this holy life all my days until my final breath. The seneschal had made the same pledge.

He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the Order’s beginning—the battle cries of war, groans of brothers wounded and dying, the anguished moans born of burying those who’d not survived the conflict. That had been the way of the Templars. First in, last to leave. Raymond de Roquefort longed for that time. But why? That futility had been proven when Church and State turned on the Templars at the time of the Purge, showing no regard for two hundred years of loyal service. Brothers were burned at the stake, others tortured and maimed for life, and all for simple greed. To the modern world, the Knights Templar were legends. A long-ago memory. No one cared if they existed, so righting any injustice seemed hopeless.

The dead must stay dead.

He again glanced around at the stone chests, then dismissed the brothers—save one. His assistant. He needed to speak with him alone. The younger man approached.

“Tell me, Geoffrey,” the seneschal said. “Were you and the master plotting?”

The man’s dark eyes flashed surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Did the master ask you to do something for him recently? Come now, don’t lie to me. He’s gone, and I’m here.” He thought pulling rank would make it easier for him to learn the truth.

“Yes, Seneschal. I mailed two parcels for the master.”

“Tell me of the first.”

“Thick and heavy, like a book. I posted it while I was in Avignon, more than a month ago.”

“The second?”

“Sent Monday, from Perpignan. A letter.”

“Who was the letter sent to?”

“Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Château.”

The younger man quickly crossed himself, and the seneschal spied puzzlement and suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

“The master said you would ask those questions.”

The information grabbed his attention.

“He said that when you did, I should tell you the truth. But he also said for you to be warned. Those who have gone down the path you are about to take have been many, but never has anyone succeeded. He said to wish you well and Godspeed.”

His mentor was a brilliant man who clearly knew far more than he’d ever said.

“He also said that you must finish the quest. It’s your destiny. Whether you realize that or not.”

He’d heard enough. The empty wooden box from the armoire in the master’s chamber was now explained. The book he’d sought inside was gone. The master had sent it away. With a gentle wave of his hand he dismissed the aide. Geoffrey bowed, then hustled toward the Door of Gold.

Something occurred to him. “Wait. You never said where the first package, the book, was sent.”

Geoffrey stopped and turned but said nothing.

“Why don’t you answer?”

“It is not right that we speak of this. Not here. With him so near.” The young man’s gaze darted to the coffin.

“You said he wanted me to know.”

Anxiety swirled in the eyes staring back at him.

“Tell me where the book was sent.” Though he already knew, he needed to hear the words.

“To America. A woman named Stephanie Nelle.”

 

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU
2:30 PM

MALONE SURVEYED THE INSIDE OF ERNST SCOVILLE’S MODEST house. The décor was an eclectic collection of British antiques, twelfth-century Spanish art, and unremarkable French paintings. He estimated that a thousand books surrounded him, most yellowed paperbacks and aged hardcovers, each shelf fronting an exterior wall and meticulously arranged by subject and size. Old newspapers were stacked by year, in chronological order. The same was true for periodicals. Everything dealt with Rennes, Saunière, French history, the Church, Templars, and Jesus Christ.

“Seems Scoville was a Bible connoisseur,” he said, pointing to rows of analysis.

“He spent his life studying the New Testament. He was Lars’s biblical source.”

“Doesn’t seem anyone has searched this house.”

“It could have been done carefully.”

“True. But what were they looking for? What are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. All I know is I talked to Scoville, then two weeks later he’s dead.”

“What would he have known that was worth killing for?”

She shrugged. “Our conversation was pleasant. I honestly thought he was the one who’d sent the journal. He and Lars worked closely. But he knew nothing of the journal being sent to me, though he wanted to read it.” She stopped her perusal. “Look at all this stuff. He was obsessed.” She shook her head. “Lars and I argued about this very thing for years. I always thought he was wasting his academic abilities. He was a good historian. He should have been making a decent salary at a university, publishing credible research. Instead, he traipsed around the world, chasing shadows.”

“He was a bestselling author.”

“Only his first book. Money was another of our constant debates.”

“You sound like a woman with a lot of regrets.”

“Don’t you have some? I recall you taking the divorce from Pam hard.”

“Nobody likes to fail.”

“At least your spouse didn’t kill herself.”

She had a point.

“You said on the way over here that Lars believed Saunière discovered a message inside that glass vial found in the column. Who was the message from?”

“In his notebook, Lars wrote that it was probably from one of Saunière’s predecessors, Antoine Bigou, who served as the parish priest for Rennes in the latter part of the eighteenth century, during the time of the French Revolution. I mentioned him in the car. He was the priest to whom Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort told her family secret before dying.”

“So Lars thought the family secret was recorded in the vial?”

“It’s not that simple. There’s more to the story. Marie d’Hautpoul married the last marquis de Blanchefort in 1732. The de Blanchefort line has a French history all the way back to the time of the Templars. The family took part in both the Crusades and the Albigensian wars. One ancestor was even master of the Templars in the middle of the twelfth century, and the family controlled the Rennes township and surrounding land for centuries. When the Templars were arrested in 1307, the de Blancheforts sheltered many fugitives from Philip IV’s men. It’s said, though no one knows for sure, that members of the de Blanchefort family were always part of the Templars after that.”

“You sound like Henrik. Do you actually think the Templars are still out there?”

“I have no idea. But something the man in the cathedral said keeps coming back. He quoted St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the twelfth-century monk who was instrumental in the Templars’ rise to power. I acted like I didn’t know what he was talking about. But Lars wrote a lot about him.”

Malone also recalled the name from the book he’d read in Copenhagen. Bernard de Fontaines was a Cistercian monk who founded a monastery at Clairvaux in the twelfth century. He was a leading thinker and exerted great influence within the Church, becoming a close adviser to Pope Innocent II. His uncle was one of the nine original Templars, and it was Bernard who convinced Innocent II to grant the Templars their unprecedented Rule.

“The man in the cathedral knew Lars,” Stephanie said. “Even intimated that he’d spoken to him about the journal, and that Lars challenged him. The man from the Round Tower also worked for him—he wanted me to know that—and that man screamed the Templar battle cry before jumping.”

“Could all be a bluff to rattle you.”

“I’m starting to doubt it.”

He agreed, especially with what he’d noticed on the way over from the cemetery. But for the moment he kept that to himself.

“Lars wrote in his journal about the de Blancheforts’ secret, one supposedly dating from 1307, the time of the Templars’ arrest. He found plenty of references to this supposed family duty in documents from the period, but never any details. Apparently he spent a lot of time in the local monasteries poring through writings. It’s Marie’s grave, though, the one drawn in the book Thorvaldsen bought, that seems to be the key. Marie died in 1781, but it wasn’t until 1791 that Abbè Bigou erected a headstone and marker over her remains. Remember the time. The French Revolution was brewing, and Catholic churches were being destroyed. Bigou was anti-republic, so he fled into Spain in 1793 and died there two years later, never returning to Rennes-le-Château.”

“And what did Lars think Bigou hid inside that glass vial?”

“Probably not the actual de Blanchefort secret, but rather a method for learning it. In the notebook, Lars wrote that he firmly believed Marie’s grave held the key to the secret.”

He was beginning to understand. “Which is why the book was so important.”

She nodded. “Saunière stripped many of the graves in the churchyard, digging up the bones and placing them in a communal ossuary that still stands behind the church. That explains, as Lars wrote, why there are no graves there now dated prior to 1885. The locals raised a loud ruckus about what he was doing, so he was ordered by the town councilors to stop. Marie de Blanchefort’s grave was not exhumed, but all of the letters and symbols were chipped away by Saunière. Unbeknownst to him, there was a sketch of the marker that survived, drawn by a local mayor, Eugène Stüblein. Lars learned of that drawing but could never find a copy of the book.”

“How did Lars know Saunière defaced the grave?”

“There’s a record of Maria’s grave being vandalized during that time. No one attached any special significance to the act, yet who else but Saunière could have done it?”

“And Lars thought all this leads to a treasure?”

“He wrote in his journal that he believed Saunière deciphered the message Abbé Bigou left behind and that he found the Templar hiding place, telling only his mistress, and she died without telling anyone.”

“So what were you going to do? Use the notebook and the book to look for it again?”

“I don’t know what I would have done. I can only say that something told me to come, buy the book, and look around.” She paused. “It also gave me an excuse to come, stay in his house for a while, and remember.”

That he understood. “Why involve Peter Hansen? Why not just buy the book yourself?”

“I still work for the U.S. government. I thought Hansen would be insulation. That way my name appears nowhere. Of course, I had no idea all of this was involved.”

He considered what she’d said. “So Lars was following Saunière’s tracks, just as Saunière followed Bigou.”

She nodded. “And it seems someone else is also following those same tracks.”

He surveyed the room again. “We’ll need to go through all this carefully to even have a hope of learning anything.”

Something at the front door caught his attention. When they’d entered a stack of mail scattered on the floor had been swept close to the wall, apparently dropped in through the door slot. He walked over and lifted half a dozen envelopes.

Stephanie came close.

“Let me see that one,” she said.

He handed her a taupe-colored envelope with black script.

“The note included with Lars’s journal was on that color paper and the writing looks similar.” She found the page in her shoulder bag and they compared the script.

“It’s identical,” she said.

“I’m sure Scoville won’t mind.” He tore open the envelope.

Nine sheets of paper came out. On one was a penned message, the ink and writing the same as Stephanie had received.

She will come. Be forgiving. You have long searched and deserve to see. Together, it may be possible. In Avignon find Claridan. He can point the way. But prend garde l’Ingénieur

He read the last line again—prend garde l’Ingénieur. “Beware the engineer. What does that mean?”

“Good question.”

“No mention in the journal of any engineer?”

“Not a word.”

“Be forgiving. Apparently the sender knew you and Scoville didn’t care for one another.”

“That’s unnerving. I wasn’t aware anyone knew that.”

He examined the eight other pieces of paper. “These are from Lars’s journal. The missing pages.” He checked the postmark on the envelope. From Perpignan, on the French coast. Five days ago. “Scoville never received this. It came too late.”

“Ernst was murdered, Cotton. There’s no doubt now.”

He concurred, but something else bothered him. He crept to one of the windows and carefully peered past the sheers.

“We need to go to Avignon,” she said.

He agreed, but as he focused out at the empty street and caught a glimpse of what he knew would be there, he said, “After we tend to one other matter.”

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES
6:00 PM

DE ROQUEFORT FACED THE GATHERING. RARELY DID THE BROTHERS don vestments. Rule required that, for the most part, they dress without any superfluity and ostentation. But a conclave demanded formality and each member was expected to wear his garment of rank.

The sight was impressive. Brother knights sported white woolen mantles atop short white cassocks trimmed with crimson orphrey. Silver stockings sheathed their legs. A white hood covered each head. The red cross patee of four equal arms, wide at the ends, adorned every chest. A crimson belt wrapped the waist, and where once a sword hung now only a sash distinguished knights from artisans, farmers, craftsmen, clerks, priests, and aides, who wore a similar ensemble but in varying shades of green, brown, and black, the clerics distinguished by their white gloves.

Once a consistory convened Rule required that the marshal chair the proceeding. It was a way to balance the influence of any seneschal who, as second in command, could easily dominate the assembly.

“My brothers,” de Roquefort called out.

The room drained of noise.

“This is our time of renewal. We must choose a master. Before we begin, let us ask the Lord for His guidance in the hours ahead.”

In the glow from the bronze chandeliers, de Roquefort watched as 488 brothers bowed their heads. The call had gone out just after dawn, and most of those who served outside the abbey had made the journey home. They’d assembled in the upper hall of the palais, an enormous round citadel that dated from the sixteenth century, built a hundred feet high, seventy feet in diameter, with walls a dozen feet thick. It once had served as the abbey’s last line of defense in case of attack, but it had evolved into an elaborate ceremonial center. Arrow slits were now filled with stained glass, the yellow stucco coated with images of St. Martin, Charlemagne, and the Virgin Mary. The circular room, with two railed galleries above, easily accommodated the nearly five hundred men and was blessed with nearly perfect acoustics.

De Roquefort raised his head and made eye contact with the other four officers. The commander, who was both the quartermaster and treasurer, was a friend. De Roquefort had spent years cultivating a relationship with that distant man and hoped those efforts would soon reap rewards. The draper, who oversaw the Order’s clothes and dress, was clearly ready to champion the marshal’s cause. The chaplain, though, who supervised all spiritual aspects, was a problem. De Roquefort had never been able to secure anything tangible from the Venetian besides vague generalizations of the obvious. Then there was the seneschal, who stood holding the beauseant, the Order’s revered black-and-white banner. He looked comfortable in his white tunic and cape, the embroidered patch on his left shoulder indicating his high office. The sight turned de Roquefort’s stomach. The man had no right to be wearing those precious garments.

“Brothers, the consistory is convened. It is time to nominate the conclave.”

The procedure was deceptively simply. One name was chosen from a cauldron that contained all of the brothers’ names. Then that man looked out among the assembled and freely choose another. Back to the cauldron for the next name, then another open selection, with the random pattern continuing until ten were designated. The system melded an element of chance coupled with personal involvement, diminishing greatly any opportunity for organized bias. De Roquefort, as marshal, and the seneschal were automatically included, making twelve. A two-thirds vote was needed to achieve election.

De Roquefort watched as the selections were made. When finished, four knights, one priest, a clerk, a farmer, two artisans, and a laborer had been chosen. Many were his followers. Yet the cursed randomness had allowed several to be included whose allegiance was, at best, questionable.

The ten men stepped forward and fanned out in a semi-circle.

“We have a conclave,” de Roquefort declared. “The consistory is over. Let us begin.”

Every brother shoved back his hood, signaling that the debate could now start. The conclave was not a secret affair. Instead, the nomination, the discussion, and the vote would take place before the entire brotherhood. But Rule mandated that not a sound was to be uttered by the spectators.

De Roquefort and the seneschal took their place with the others. De Roquefort was no longer the chair—in the conclave each brother was equal. One of the twelve, an older knight with a thick gray beard, said, “Our marshal, a man who has guarded this Order for many years, should be our next master. I place him in contention.”

Two more gave their consent. With the required three, the nominee was accepted.

Another of the twelve, one of the artisans, a gunsmith, stepped forward. “I disagreed with what was done to the master. He was a good man who loved this Order. He should not have been challenged. I place the seneschal in contention.”

Two more nodded their assent.

De Roquefort stood rigid. The battle lines were drawn.

Let the war begin.

 

The debate was entering its second hour. Rule set no time limit on the conclave, but required that all in attendance must stand, the idea being that the length of the proceeding could well be a factor of the participants’ endurance. No vote had yet been called. Any of the twelve possessed the right, but no one wanted to lose a tally—that was a sign of weakness—so votes were called only when two-thirds seemed assured.

“I’m not impressed with what you plan,” one of the conclave members, the priest, said to the seneschal.

“I was not aware that I possessed a plan.”

“You will continue the ways of the master. The ways of the past. True or not true?”

“I will remain faithful to my oath, as you should, brother.”

“My oath said nothing about weakness,” the priest said. “It does not require that I be complacent to a world that languishes in ignorance.”

“We have guarded our knowledge for centuries. Why would you have us change?”

Another conclave member stepped forward. “I’m tired of the hypocrisy. It sickens me. We were nearly extinguished by greed and ignorance. It’s time we return the favor.”

“To what end?” the seneschal asked. “What would be gained?”

“Justice,” cried another knight, and several other conclave members agreed.

De Roquefort decided it was time to join in. “The Gospels say, Let one who seeks not stop seeking until one finds. When one finds, one will be disturbed. When one is disturbed, one will be amazed and will reign over all.”

The seneschal faced him. “Thomas also said, If your leaders say to you, behold, the kingdom is in the sky, then the birds in the sky will get there before you. If they say to you, it is in the sea, then the fish will get there before you.”

“We will never go anywhere if we stay the present course,” de Roquefort said. Heads bobbed in agreement, but not enough to call for a vote.

The seneschal hesitated a moment, then said, “I ask you, Marshal. What are your plans if you achieve election? Can you tell us? Or do you do as Jesus, disclosing your mysteries only to those worthy of the mysteries, never letting the left hand know what the right is doing?”

He welcomed the opportunity to tell the brotherhood what he envisioned. “Jesus also said, There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed.”

“Then what would you have us do?”

He surveyed the room, his eyes traveling from floor to gallery. This was his moment. “Think back. To the Beginning. When thousands of brothers took the oath. These were brave men, who conquered the Holy Land. In the Chronicles, a tale is told of one garrison who lost out to the Saracens. After the battle, two hundred of those knights were offered their lives if they would simply abandon Christ and join Islam. Each one chose to kneel before the Muslims and lose his head. That is our heritage. The Crusades were our crusade.”

He hesitated a moment for effect.

“Which is what makes Friday, October 13, 1307—a day so infamous, so despicable, that Western civilization continues to label it with bad luck—so difficult to accept. Thousands of our brothers were wrongfully arrested. One day they were the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the epitome of everything good, willing to die for their Church, their pope, their God. The next day they were accused heretics. And to what charge? That they spat upon the Cross, exchanged obscene kisses, held secret meetings, adored a cat, practiced sodomy, venerated some bearded male head.” He paused. “Not a word of truth to any of it, yet our brothers were tortured and many succumbed, confessing to falsehoods. One hundred and twenty burned at the stake.”

He paused again.

“Our legacy is one of shame, and we are recorded in history with nothing but suspicion.”

“And what would you tell the world?” the seneschal asked in a calm tone.

“The truth.”

“And why would they believe you?”

“They will have no choice,” he said.

“And why is that?”

“I will have proof.”

“Have you located our Great Devise?”

The seneschal was pressing his one weak point, but he could not show any weakness. “It’s within my grasp.”

Gasps came from the gallery.

The seneschal’s face remained rigid. “You’re saying that you have found our lost archives after seven centuries. Have you also found our treasury that eluded Philip the Fair?”

“That, too, is within my grasp.”

“Bold words, Marshal.”

He stared out at the brothers. “I’ve been searching for a decade. The clues are difficult, but I’ll soon possess proof the world cannot deny. Whether any minds change is irrelevant. Rather, the victory is gained by proving that our brothers were not heretics. Instead, each and every one of them was a saint.”

Applause erupted from the crowd. De Roquefort seized the moment. “The Roman Church disbanded us, claimed we were idol worshipers, but the Church itself venerates its own idols with great pageantry.” He paused, then in a loud voice he said, “I will take back the shroud.”

More applause. Louder. Sustained. A violation of Rule, but no one seemed to care.

“The Church has no right to our shroud,” de Roquefort yelled over the clapping. “Our master, Jacques de Molay, was tortured, brutalized, then burned at the stake. And his crime? Being a loyal servant to his God and his pope. His legacy is not their legacy. It’s our legacy. We have the means to accomplish that goal. So shall it be, under my tenure.”

The seneschal handed the beauseant to the man beside him, stepped close to de Roquefort, and waited for the applause to subside. “What of those who do not believe as you do?”

“Whoever seeks will find, whoever knocks will be let in.”

“And for those who choose not to?”

“The Gospel is clear on that, too. Woe to you on whom the evil demons act.”

“You are a dangerous man.”

“No, Seneschal, you are the danger. You came to us late and with a weak heart. You have no conception of our needs, only what you and your master thought to be our needs. I have given my life to this Order. No one save you has ever challenged my ability. I have always adhered to the ideal that I would rather break than bend.” He turned from his opponent and motioned out to the conclave. “Enough. I call for a vote.”

Rule dictated that debate was over.

“I shall vote first,” de Roquefort said. “For myself. All those who agree, so say.”

He watched as the ten remaining men considered their decision. They’d stayed silent during his confrontation with the seneschal, but each member had listened with an intensity that signaled comprehension. Dr. Roquefort’s eyes strafed the group and zeroed tight on the few he thought absolutely loyal.

Hands started to rise.

One. Three. Four. Six.

Seven.

He had his two-thirds, but he wanted more, so he waited before declaring victory.

All ten voted for him.

The room erupted in cheer.

In ancient times he would have been swept off his feet and carried to the chapel, where a mass would be said in his honor. A celebration would later occur, one of the rare times the Order engaged in merriment. But that happened no longer. Instead, men began to chant his name and brothers, who otherwise existed in a world devoid of emotion, showed their approval by clapping. The applause turned into beauseant—and the word reverberated throughout the hall.

Be glorious.

As the chant continued he stared at the seneschal, who still stood beside him. Their eyes met and, through his gaze, he made it known that not only had the master’s chosen successor lost the fight, but the loser was now in mortal danger.

 

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU
9:30 PM

STEPHANIE WANDERED AROUNDHER DEAD HUSBAND’S HOUSE.

The look was typical for the region. Sturdy timber floors, beam ceilings, stone fireplace, simple pine furniture. Not much space, but enough with two bedrooms, a den, a bath, kitchen, and a workshop. Lars had loved wood turning and earlier she’d noticed that his lathes, skews, chisels, and gouges were all still there, each tool hanging from a Peg-Board and frosted with a thin layer of dust. He’d been talented with the lathe. She still possessed bowls, boxes, and candlesticks he’d crafted from the local trees.

During their marriage she’d visited only a few times. She and Mark lived in Washington, then Atlanta. Lars stayed mainly in Europe, the last decade here in Rennes. Neither of them ever violated the other’s space without permission. Though they may not have agreed on most things, they were always civil. Maybe too much so, she’d many times thought.

She’d always believed Lars had bought the house with royalties earned from his first book, but now she knew that Henrik Thorvaldsen had aided in the purchase. Which was so like Lars. He’d possessed little regard for money, spending all of what he earned on travel and his obsessions, the task of making sure the family bills were paid left to her. She’d only recently satisfied a loan used to finance Mark’s college and graduate school. Her son had several times offered to assume the debt, especially once they were estranged, but she’d always refused. A parent’s job was to educate their child, and she took her job seriously. Perhaps too much, she’d come to believe.

She and Lars had not spoken at all in the months before his death. Their last encounter was a bad one, another argument about money, responsibility, family. Her attempt at defending him yesterday with Henrik Thorvaldsen had sounded hollow, but she never realized that anyone knew the truth about her marital estrangement. Apparently, though, Thorvaldsen did. Perhaps he and Lars had been close. Unfortunately, she’d never know. That was the thing about suicide—ending one person’s suffering only prolonged the agony of those left behind. She so wished to be rid of the sick feeling rooted in the pit of her stomach. The pain of failure, a writer once called it. And she agreed.

She finished her tour and entered the den, taking a seat across from Malone, who’d had been reading Lars’s journal since dinner.

“Your husband was a meticulous researcher,” he said.

“A lot of it is cryptic—much like the man.”

He seemed to catch her frustration. “You want to tell me why you feel responsible for his suicide?”

She decided to allow his intrusion. She needed to talk about it. “I don’t feel responsible, I just feel part of it. Both of us were proud. Stubborn, too. I was with Justice, Mark was grown, and there was talk of giving me my own division, so I focused on what I thought was important. Lars did the same. Unfortunately, neither one of us appreciated the other.”

“Easy to see that now, years later. Impossible to know then.”

“But that’s the problem, Cotton. I’m here. He’s not.” She was ill at ease talking about herself, but things needed to be said. “Lars was a gifted writer and a good researcher. All that stuff I told you earlier about Saunière and this town? How interesting it is? If I had paid it any mind while he was alive, maybe he’d still be here.” She hesitated. “He was such a calm man. Never raised his voice. Never a bad word. Silence was his weapon. He could go weeks and never say a word. It infuriated me.”

“Now, that I understand.” And he added a smile.

“I know. My quick temper. Lars could never deal with it, either. Finally he and I decided that the best thing was for him to live his life and me mine. Neither of us wanted to divorce.”

“Which says a lot about what he thought of you. Deep down.”

“I never saw that. All I saw was Mark in the middle. He was drawn to Lars. I have a hard time with emotion. Lars wasn’t like that. And Mark possessed his father’s religious curiosity. They were so much alike. My son chose his father over me, but I forced that choice. Thorvaldsen was right. For someone so careful with work, I was inept at handling my own life. Before Mark was killed, I hadn’t spoken to him in three years.” The pain from that reality rocked her soul. “Can you imagine, Cotton? My son and I went three years without saying a word.”

“What caused the split?”

“He took his father’s side, so I went my way and they went theirs. Mark lived here in France. I stayed in America. After a while it became easy to ignore him. Don’t ever let that happen to you and Gary. Do whatever you have to, but never let that happen.”

“I just moved four thousand miles away.”

“But your son adores you. Those miles mean little.”

“I’ve wondered plenty if I did the right thing.”

“You have to live your life, Cotton. Your way. Your son seems to respect that, even though he’s young. Mine was much older and far tougher on me.”

He glanced at his watch. “Sun’s been down twenty minutes. Almost time.”

“When did you first notice we were being tailed?”

“Right after we arrived. Two men. Both similar to those from the cathedral. They followed us to the cemetery, then around town. They’re outside, right now.”

“No danger they’ll come in?”

He shook his head. “They’re here to watch.”

“I understand now why you got out of the Billet. The anxiety. It’s tough. You can never let your guard down. You were right back in Copenhagen. I’m no field agent.”

“The trouble for me came when I started to like the rush. That’s what’ll get you killed.”

“We all live a relatively safe existence. But to have people tracing your every move, intent on killing you? I can see how that would wear on you. Eventually, you have to escape from it.”

“Training helps with the apprehension. You learn how to deal with uncertainty. But you were never trained.” He smiled. “You’re just in charge.”

“I hope you know that I never intended involving you.”

“You made that point quite clear.”

“But I’m glad you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

She smiled. “You were the best agent I ever had.”

“I was just the luckiest. And I had enough sense to say when.”

“Peter Hansen and Ernst Scoville were both murdered.” She paused and finally voiced what she’d come to believe. “Maybe Lars, too. The man in the cathedral wanted me to know that. His way of sending a message.”

“That’s a big leap in logic.”

“I know. No proof. But I have a feeling, and though I may not be a field agent, I’ve come to trust my feelings. Still, like I used to tell you, no conclusions based on assumptions. Get the facts. This whole thing is bizarre.”

“Tell me about it. Knights Templars. Secrets on gravestones. Priests finding lost treasure.”

She glanced over at a photo of Mark on the side table, taken a few months before he died. Lars was everywhere in the young man’s vibrant face. The same cleft chin, bright eyes, and swarthy skin. Why had she let things become so bad?

“Strange that’s here,” Malone said, seeing her interest.

“I set it there the last time I came. Five years ago. Just after the avalanche.” Hard to believe her only child had been dead five years. Children shouldn’t die thinking their parents had not loved them. Unlike with her estranged husband who possessed a grave, Mark lay buried under tons of Pyrenean snow thirty miles to the south. “I have to finish this,” she muttered to the picture, her voice faltering.

“I’m still not sure what this is.”

Neither was she.

Malone gestured with the journal. “At least we know where to find Claridon in Avignon, as the letter to Ernst Scoville instructed. He’s Royce Claridon. There’s a notation and address in the journal. Lars and he were friends.”

“I was wondering when you’d find that.”

“Anything else I missed?”

“Hard to say what’s important. There’s a lot in there.”

“You have to stop lying to me.”

She’d been waiting for the scolding. “I know.”

“I can’t help if you hold back.”

She understood. “What about the missing pages sent to Scoville? Anything there?”

“You tell me.” And he handed her the eight sheets.

She decided a little thinking would take her mind off Lars and Mark, so she scanned the handwritten paragraphs. Most of it was meaningless, but there were parts that ripped at her heart.

. . . Saunière obviously cared for his mistress. She came to him when her family moved to Rennes. Her father and brother were skilled artisans and her mother maintained the parish presbytery. This was in 1892, a year after much was found by Saunière. When her family moved from Rennes to take jobs in a nearby factory, she stayed with Saunière and remained with him until he died, two decades later. At some point he titled every single thing he acquired in her name, which shows the unquestioning trust he placed in her. She was totally devoted to him, keeping his secrets for 36 years after he died. I envy Saunière. He was a man who knew the unconditional love of a woman and returned that love with unconditional trust and respect. He was by all accounts a difficult man to please, a man driven to accomplish something for which people would remember him. His garish creation in the Church of Mary Magdalene seems his legacy. There is no record of his lover ever once voicing any opposition to what he was doing. All accounts say she was a devoted woman who supported her benefactor in all that he did. Surely there were some disagreements but, in the end, she stood by Saunière until the day he died and then after, for nearly four decades. There is much to be said for devotion. A man can accomplish much when the woman he loves supports him, even if she believes that what he does is foolishness. Surely, Saunière’s mistress must have shook her head more than once at the absurdity of his creations. Both the Villa Béthanie and the Tour Magdala are ridiculous for their time. But she never let a drop of water fall on his fire. She cared for him enough to let him be what he needed to be, and that result is being seen today by the thousands who come to Rennes each year. Such is Saunière’s legacy. Hers is that his still exists.

“Why did you give me this to read?” she said to Malone when she finished.

“You needed to.”

Where had all these ghosts come from? Rennes-le-Château might hold no treasure, but this place harbored demons intent on tormenting her.

“When I received that journal in the mail and read it, I realized that I had not been fair to Lars or Mark. They believed in what they sought, just as I believed in my job. Mark would say I was nothing but negative.” She paused, hoping the spirits were listening. “I knew when I saw that notebook again I’d been wrong. Whatever Lars was after was important to him, so it should have been important to me. That’s really why I came, Cotton. I owe it to them.” She looked over at him with tired eyes. “God knows I owed it to them. I just never realized the stakes were so high.”

He glanced at his watch again, then stared toward the blackened windows. “Time to find out just how high. You going to be all right here?”

She grabbed hold of herself and nodded. “I’ll keep mine occupied. You handle the other.”

 

MALONE LEFT THE HOUSE THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, MAKING no attempt to hide his departure. The two men he’d noticed earlier were stationed at the far end of the street, around a corner near the town wall where they could see Lars Nelle’s residence. Their problem was, in order to follow him, they would have to traverse the same deserted street. Amateurs. Professionals would have split up. One at each end, ready to move in any direction. Just like in Roskilde, this conclusion lessened his apprehension. But he remained on edge, his senses alert, wondering who was so interested in what Stephanie was doing.

Could it really be the modern-day Knights Templar?

Back inside, Stephanie’s lamenting had made him think of Gary. The death of a child seemed unspeakable. He could not imagine her grief. Maybe after he retired he should have stayed in Georgia, but Gary would not hear of that. Don’t worry about me, his son had said. I’ll come see you. Fourteen years old and the boy possessed such a level head. Still, the decision haunted him, especially now that he was once again risking his neck for somebody else’s cause. His own father, though, had been the same way—dying when the submarine he commanded sank in the North Atlantic during a training exercise. Malone was ten and he remembered his mother taking the death hard. At the memorial service, she’d even refused the folded flag offered her by the honor guard. But he’d accepted it and, ever since, the red, white, and blue bundle had stayed with him. With no grave to visit, that flag was his only physical reminder of the man he barely knew.

He came to the end of the street. He didn’t have to glance back to know that one of the men was following him, the other staying with Stephanie at the house.

He turned left and headed toward Saunière’s domain.

Rennes was clearly not a night place. Bolted doors and shuttered windows lined the way. The restaurant, bookstore, and kiosks were all closed. Darkness sheathed the lane in deep shadow. The wind murmured beyond the walls like a soul in pain. The scene was like something from Dumas, as if life here spoke only in whispers.

He paraded up the incline toward the church. The Villa Béthanie and presbytery were shut tight, the tree garden beyond illuminated by a half-moon broken by clouds racing past overhead.

The gate to the churchyard remained open, as Stephanie said it would be. He headed straight for it, knowing that his tail would come, too. Just inside, he used the thickening darkness to slip behind a huge elm. He peered back and saw his pursuer enter the cemetery, the pace quickening. As the man passed the tree, Malone pounced and jammed a fist into the other man’s abdomen. He was relieved to feel no body armor. He pounded another blow across the jaw, sending his pursuer to the ground, then yanked him up.

The younger man was short, muscular, and clean-shaven with close-cropped light hair. He was dazed as Malone patted him down, quickly finding the bulge of a weapon. He reached beneath the man’s jacket and withdrew a pistol. A Beretta Bobcat. Italian made. A tiny semi-automatic, designed as a last-resort backup. He’d once carried one himself. He brought the barrel to the man’s neck and pressed his opponent firm against the tree.

“The name of your employer, please.”

No response.

“You understand English?”

The man shook his head, as he continued to suck air and orient himself.

“Since you understood my question, do you comprehend this?” He cocked the hammer on the gun.

A stiffening signaled that the younger man registered the message.

“Your employer.”

A shot rang out and a bullet thudded into the tree trunk just above their heads. Malone whirled to see a silhouetted figure standing a hundred feet away, perched where the belvedere met the cemetery wall, rifle in hand.

Another shot and a bullet skipped off the ground within inches of his feet. He released his hold and his original pursuer bolted out of the parish close.

But he was more concerned now with the shooter.

He saw the figure abandon the terrace, disappearing back onto the belvedere. A new energy swept through him. Gun in hand, he fled the cemetery and ran toward a narrow passageway between the Villa Béthanie and the church. He recalled the geography from earlier. The tree garden lay beyond, enclosed by an elevated belvedere that wrapped U-shaped toward the Tour Magdala.

He rushed into the garden and saw the figure running across the belvedere. The only way up was a stone staircase. He raced for it and skipped up three steps at a time. On top the thin air slashed his lungs and the stiff wind attacked him without interference, molesting his body and slowing his progress.

He saw his assailant head straight for the Tour Magdala. He thought about trying a shot, but a sudden gust snatched at him, as if warning against it. He wondered where the attacker was headed. No other staircase led down, and the Magdala was surely locked for the night. To his left stretched a wrought-iron railing, beyond which were trees and a ten-foot drop to the garden. To his right, beyond a low stone wall, was a fifteen-hundred-foot drop. At some point, he was going to come face-to-face with whomever.

He rounded the terrace, passed through an iron glasshouse, and saw the form enter the Tour Magdala.

He stopped.

He’d not expected that.

He recalled what Stephanie had said about the building’s geometry. About eighteen feet square, with a round turret that housed a winding staircase leading up to a crenellated rooftop. Saunière had once housed his private library inside.

He decided he had no choice. He trotted to the door, saw it was cocked open, and positioned himself to one side. He kicked the heavy wooden slab inward and waited for a shot.

Nothing came.

He risked a glance and saw that the room was empty. Windows filled two walls. No furniture. No books. Only bare wooden cases and two upholstered benches. A brick fireplace sat dark. Then he realized.

The roof.

He approached the stone staircase. The steps were short and narrow. He climbed the clockwise spiral to a steel door and tested it. No movement. He pushed harder. The portal was locked from the outside.

The door below slammed shut.

He descended the staircase and discovered that the only other exit was now locked from the outside, too. He stepped to a pair of fixed-pane windows that overlooked the tree garden and saw the black form leap from the terrace, grab hold of a thick limb, then drop to the ground with a surprising agility. The figure ran through the trees and headed for the car park about thirty yards away, the same one where he’d left the Peugeot earlier.

He stepped back and fired three bullets into the left side of the double windows. The leaded glass shattered, then broke away. He rushed forward and used the gun to clear away the shards. He hopped onto the bench below the sill and squeezed himself through the opening. The drop down was only about six feet. He jumped, then ran toward the car park.

Exiting the garden, he heard the rev of an engine and saw the black form atop a motorcycle. The driver whipped the cycle around and avoided the only street leading out of the car park, roaring down one of the side passages toward the houses.

He quickly decided to use the village’s compactness to his advantage and bolted left, rushing down a short lane and turning at the main rue. A downward incline helped, and he heard the motorcycle approaching from his right. There would be but one opportunity, so he raised the gun and slowed his pace.

As the cyclist popped out of the alley, he fired twice.

One shot missed, but the other caught the frame in a burst of spark, then ricocheted off.

The motorcycle roared out the town’s gate.

Lights began to spring on. Gunshots were surely a strange sound here. He stuffed the gun under his jacket, retreated down another alley, and made his way back toward Lars Nelle’s house. He could hear voices behind him. People were coming out to investigate. In a few moments he would be back inside and safe. He doubted that the other two men were still around—or if they were, that they’d be a problem.

But one thing nagged at him.

He’d caught a suggestion of it as he’d watched the form leap from the terrace, then race away. Something in the movement.

Hard to tell for sure, but enough.

His assailant had been a woman.

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES
10:00 PM

THE SENESCHAL FOUND GEOFFREY. HE’D BEEN LOOKING FOR HIS assistant since the conclave dissolved and finally learned that the younger man had retired to one of the minor chapels in the north wing, beyond the library, one of many places of repose the abbey offered.

He entered the room lit only by candles and saw Geoffrey lying on the floor. Brothers many times laid themselves before the altar of God. During induction the act showed humility, a demonstration of insignificance in the face of heaven, and its continued use served as a reminder.

“We need to talk,” he quietly said.

His young associate remained still for a few moments, then slowly came to his knees, crossed himself, and stood.

“Tell me precisely what you and the master were doing.” He was not in the mood for coyness, and thankfully Geoffrey seemed calmer than earlier in the Hall of Fathers.

“He wanted to make sure those two parcels were posted in the mail.”

“He say why?”

“Why would he? He was the master. I’m but a minor brother.”

“He apparently trusted you enough to enlist your aid.”

“He said you would resent that.”

“I’m not that petty.” He could sense that the man knew more. “Tell me.”

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“The master instructed me to answer the question about the mailings. But I am not to say anything further . . . until more happens.”

“Geoffrey, what more needs to happen? De Roquefort is in charge. You and I are practically alone. Brothers are aligning themselves with de Roquefort. What else needs to occur?”

“That’s not for me to decide.”

“De Roquefort cannot succeed without the Great Devise. You heard the reaction in the conclave. The brothers will desert him if he fails to deliver. Is that what you and the master were plotting about? Did the master know more than he said to me?”

Geoffrey went silent, and the seneschal suddenly detected a maturity in his aide that he’d never noticed before. “I’m ashamed to say that the master told me the marshal would defeat you in the conclave.”

“What else did he say?”

“Nothing I can reveal at the moment.”

The evasiveness was irritating. “Our master was brilliant. As you say, he foresaw what happened. He apparently thought ahead enough to make you his oracle. Tell me, what am I to do?” The plea in his voice could not be disguised.

“He said for me to answer that inquiry with what Jesus said. Whoever does not hate their father and mother as I do cannot be my disciple.”

The words were from the Gospel of Thomas. But what did they mean in this context? He thought of what else Thomas wrote. Whoever does not love their father and mother as I do cannot be my disciple.

“He also wanted me to remind you that Jesus said, Let one who seeks not stop seeking until one finds—”

“When one finds, one will be disturbed. When one is disturbed, one will be amazed, and will reign over all,” he quickly finished. “Was everything he said a riddle?”

Geoffrey did not answer. The younger man was of a much lesser degree than the seneschal, his path to knowledge only just beginning. Order membership was a steady progression toward full Gnosticism—a journey that would normally require three years. Geoffrey had only come to the abbey eighteen months ago from the Jesuit home in Normandy, abandoned as a child and raised by the monks. The master had immediately noticed him and requested that he be included on the executive staff. The seneschal had wondered about that hasty decision, but the old man had merely smiled and said, “No different than I did with you.”

He placed a hand on his aide’s shoulder. “For the master to enlist your help, he surely thought highly of your abilities.”

A resolute look came to the pale face. “And I will not fail him.”

Brothers took differing paths. Some veered toward administration. Others became artisans. Many were associated with the abbey’s self-sufficiency as craftsmen or farmers. A few devoted themselves solely to religion. Only about a third were selected as knights. Geoffrey was in line to become a knight sometime within the next five years, depending on his progress. He’d already served his apprenticeship and completed the required elementary training. A year of Scriptures lay ahead before the first fidelity oath could be administered. Such a shame, the seneschal thought, that he could well lose all he’d worked to achieve.

“Seneschal, what of the Great Devise? Can it be found, as the marshal said?”

“That’s our one salvation. De Roquefort does not have it, but probably thinks we know. Do we?”

“The master spoke of it.” The words came quickly, as if they were not to be said.

He waited for more.

“He told me that a man named Lars Nelle came the closest. He said Nelle’s path was the right one.” Geoffrey’s pallid face worked with a nervous excitement.

He and the master had many times discussed the Great Devise. Its origins were from a time before 1307, but its hiding place after the Purge was a way to deprive Philip IV of the Templars’ wealth and knowledge. In the months prior to October 13, Jacques de Molay hid all that the Order cherished. Unfortunately, no mention of its location was recorded, and the Black Death eventually wiped out every soul who knew anything of its whereabouts. The only clue came from a passage noted in the Chronicles for June 4, 1307. Where is it best to hide a pebble? Subsequent masters tried to answer that inquiry and searched until the effort was deemed pointless. But only in the nineteenth century had new clues come to light—not from the Order, but from two parish priests in Rennes-le-Château. Abbés Antoine Bigou and Bérenger Saunière. The seneschal knew that Lars Nelle had resurrected their astonishing tale, writing a book in the 1970s that told the world about the tiny French village and its supposed ancient mystic. Now to learn that he came the closest, that his was the right path, seemed almost surreal.

The seneschal was about to inquire further when footfalls sounded. He turned as four brother knights, men he knew, marched into the chapel. De Roquefort followed them inside, now dressed in the master’s white cassock.

“Plotting, Seneschal?” de Roquefort asked, the eyes beaming.

“Not anymore.” He wondered about the show of force. “Need an audience?”

“They’re here for your benefit. Though I am hoping this can be done in a civilized manner. You are under arrest.”

“And the charge?” he asked, showing not a hint of concern.

“Violation of your oath.”

“You intend to explain yourself?”

“In the proper forum. These brothers shall accompany you to your chambers, where you will stay the night. Tomorrow, I will find more appropriate accommodations. Your replacement will, by then, need your chamber.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“I thought so. But be happy. A penitent cell would have been your home long ago.”

He knew about them. Nothing more than boxes of iron, too small for standing or lying. Instead, the prisoner had to crouch, and no food or water only added to the agony. “You plan to resurrect the cell’s use?”

He saw de Roquefort did not appreciate the challenge, but the Frenchman only smiled. Seldom had this demon ever relaxed into a grin. “My followers, unlike yours, are loyal to their oaths. There’s no need for such measures.”

“I almost think you believe that.”

“You see, that insolence is the very reason I opposed you. Those of us trained in the discipline of our devotion would never speak to one another in such a disrespectful manner. But men, like you, who come from the secular world think arrogance appropriate.”

“And denying our master his due accord was showing respect?”

“That was the price paid for his arrogance.”

“He was raised like you.”

“Which shows we, too, are capable of error.”

He was tiring of de Roquefort, so he collected himself and said, “I demand my right to a tribunal.”

“Which you shall have. In the meantime you will be confined.”

De Roquefort motioned. The four brothers stepped forward, and though he was frightened he decided to go with dignity.

He left the chapel, surrounded by his guards, but at the doorway he hesitated a moment and glanced back, catching a final glimpse of Geoffrey. The younger man had stood silent as he and de Roquefort sparred. The new master was characteristically unconcerned with someone so junior. It would be many years before Geoffrey could pose any threat. Yet the seneschal wondered.

Not a hint of fear, shame, or apprehension clouded Geoffrey’s face.

Instead, the look was one of intense resolve.

 

RENNES-LE-CHÂTEAU
SATURDAY, JUNE 24
9:30 AM

MALONE SQUEEZED HIS TALL FRAME INTO THE PEUGEOT. STEPHANIE was already inside the car.

“See anybody?” she asked.

“Our two friends from last night are back. Resilient suckers.”

“No sign of motorcycle girl?”

He’d told Stephanie about his suspicions. “I wouldn’t expect that.”

“Where are the two amigos?”

“In a crimson Renault at the far end, beyond the water tower. Don’t turn your head. Let’s not spook ’em.”

He adjusted the outside mirror so he could see the Renault. Already tour buses and about a dozen cars filled the sandy car park. The clear weather from yesterday was gone, the sky now smeared with pewter storm clouds. Rain was on the way, and soon. They were headed to Avignon, about ninety miles away, to find Royce Claridon. Malone had already checked the map and decided on the best route to lose any tail.

He cranked the car, and they cruised out of the village. Once beyond the city gate and on the winding path down to ground level, he noticed the Renault staying a discreet distance back.

“How do you plan to lose them?”

He smiled. “The old-fashioned way.”

“Always plan ahead, right?”

“Somebody I once worked for taught me that.”

They found highway D118 and headed north. The map indicated a distance of twenty miles to A61, the tolled superhighway just south of Carcassonne that led northeast to Avignon. About six miles ahead, at Limoux, the highway forked, one route crossing the Aude River into Limoux, the other continuing north. He decided that would be his opportunity.

Rain started to fall. Light at first, then heavy.

He flipped on the front and rear wipers. The road ahead on both sides was clear of cars. Saturday morning had apparently kept traffic at home.

The Renault, its fog lamps piercing the rain, matched his speed and then some. He watched in his rearview mirror as the Renault passed the car directly behind him, then sped ahead, paralleling the Peugeot in the opposite lane.

The passenger window descended and a gun appeared.

“Hold on,” he told Stephanie.

He floored the accelerator and whipped the car tight around a curve. The Renault lost speed and fell in behind.

“Seems there’s been a change in plan. Our shadows have turned aggressive. Why don’t you stay down on the floorboard.”

“I’m a big girl. Just drive.”

He slid around another curve and the Renault closed distance. Holding the tires to the highway was tough. The pavement was coated in a thick veil of condensation and becoming wetter by the second. No yellow lines defined anything and the asphalt’s edge was partially obscured by puddles that could easily hydroplane the car.

A bullet shattered the rear windshield.

The tempered glass did not explode, but he doubted if it could take another hit. He started zigzagging, guessing where the pavement ended on each side. He spotted a car approaching in the opposite lane and returned to his own.

“Can you fire a gun?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Where is it?”

“Under the seat. I took it off the guy last night. There’s a full clip. Make ’em count. I need a little space from those guys behind us.”

She found the pistol and lowered her window. He saw her reach out, aim toward the rear, and fire five rounds.

The shots had the desired effect. The Renault backed off, but did not abort its pursuit. He fishtailed around another curve, working the brake and accelerator as years ago he’d been trained to do.

Enough of being the fox.

He swerved into the southbound lane and slammed on brakes. Tires grabbed the wet pavement with a screech. The Renault shot past in the northbound lane. He released the brake, downshifted to second, then plunged the accelerator to the mat.

The tires spun, then shot the car forward.

He wound the gearshift through to fifth.

The Renault was now ahead of him. He sent more gas to the engine. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy miles an hour. The whole thing was curiously invigorating. He hadn’t seen this kind of action in a while.

He swerved into the southbound lane and came parallel to the Renault.

Both cars were now doing seventy-five miles an hour on a relatively straight part of highway. Suddenly they crested a knoll and arched off the pavement, tires slamming hard as rubber re-found the soaked asphalt. His body jerked forward then back, rattling his brain, his shoulder harness holding him in place.

“That was fun,” Stephanie said.

To their left and right stretched green fields, the countryside a sea of lavender, asparagus, and grapes. The Renault roared up beside him. He stole another glance to his right. One of the short-hairs was climbing out of the passenger-side window, curling himself up and over the roof for a clear shot.

“Shoot the tires,” he told Stephanie.

She was preparing to fire when he saw a transport truck ahead, filling the Renault’s northbound lane. He’d driven enough of Europe’s two-laned highways to know that, unlike in America where trucks drove with reckless abandon, here they moved at a snail’s pace. He’d been hoping to find one closer to Limoux, but opportunities had to be taken when offered. The truck was no more than a couple of hundred yards ahead. They would be on it in a moment, and luckily his lane ahead was clear.

“Wait,” he said to her.

He kept his car parallel and did not allow the Renault a way out. The other driver would have to either brake, crash into the truck, or veer right into the open field. He hoped the truck stayed put in the northbound lane, otherwise he’d have no choice but to find a field himself.

The other driver apparently realized his three options and veered off the pavement.

He sped past the truck down the open road. A glance in his mirror confirmed that the Renault was mired in the tawny mud.

He swerved back into the northbound lane, relaxed a bit, but kept his speed, eventually leaving the main highway, as planned, at Limoux.

 

They arrived in Avignon a little after eleven AM. The rain had stopped fifty miles back and bright sunshine flooded the wooded terrain, the rolling hills green and gold, like a page from an old manuscript. A turreted medieval wall enclosed the city, which had once served as the capital of Christendom for nearly a hundred years. Malone maneuvered the Peugeot through a maze of narrow streets into an underground parking lot.

They climbed stairs to ground level and he immediately noticed Romanesque churches, framed by sunbaked dwellings, the roofs and walls all the tint of dirty sand, the feel clearly Italian. Being the weekend tourists were out by the thousands, the colorful awnings and plane trees in the Place de l’Horloge shading a boisterous lunch crowd.

The address from Lars Nelle’s notebook led them down one of the many rues. As they walked Malone thought of the fourteenth century, when popes exchanged Rome’s Tiber River for the French Rhône and occupied the huge palace on the hill. Avignon became an asylum for heretics. Jews bought tolerance with a modest tax, criminals lived unscathed, gaming houses and brothels flourished. Policing was lax and roaming after dark could be life threatening. What had Petrarch written? An abode of sorrows, everything breathes lies. He hoped things had changed in six hundred years.

Royce Claridon’s address was an antiques shop—books and furniture—the front window filled with Jules Verne volumes from the early part of the twentieth century. Malone was familiar with the colorful editions. The front door was locked, but a note taped to the glass stated that business was being conducted today on the Cours Jean Jaurès, part of a monthly book fair.

They learned directions to the market, which sat adjacent to a main boulevard. Rickety metal tables dotted the treed square. Plastic crates held French books as well as a smattering of English titles, mostly movie and television picture volumes. The fair seemed to draw a different type of patron. Lots of trimmed hair, glasses, skirts, ties, and beards—not a Nikon or camcorder in sight.

Buses lumbered past with tourists on the way to the papal palace, the groaning diesels drowning out the beat of a steel band playing across the street. A Coke can clattered across the pavement and startled Malone. He was on edge.

“Something wrong?”

“Too many distractions.”

They strolled though the market, his bibliophilic eye studying the wares. The good stuff was all wrapped in plastic. A card on top identified a book’s provenance and price, which he noticed was high for the low quality. He learned from one of the vendors the location for Royce Claridon’s booth, and they found it on the far side, away from the street. The woman tending the tables was short and stout, with bottle-blond hair tied in a bun. She wore sunglasses and any attractiveness was tempered by a cigarette stuck between her lips. Smoking was not something Malone had ever found appealing.

They examined her books, everything displayed on a tattered home entertainment center, most of the clothbound volumes in ratty condition. He was amazed anyone would buy them.

He introduced himself and Stephanie. The woman didn’t offer her name, she just kept smoking.

“We went by your shop,” he said in French.

“Closed for the day.” The clipped tone made clear that she did not want to be bothered.

“We’re not interested in anything there,” he made clear.

“Then, by all means, enjoy these wonderful books.”

“Business that bad?”

She sucked another drag. “It stinks.”

“Why are you here then? Why not out in the country for the day?”

She appraised him with a suspicious eye. “I don’t like questions. Especially from Americans who speak bad French.”

“I thought mine was fair.”

“It’s not.”

He decided to get to the point. “We’re looking for Royce Claridon.”

She laughed. “Who isn’t?”

“Care to enlighten us on who else is?” This bitch was getting on his nerves.

She did not immediately answer. Instead, her gaze shifted to a couple of people examining her stock. The steel band from across the street struck up another tune. Her potential patrons wandered off.

“Have to watch them all,” she muttered. “They will steal anything.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll buy a whole crate if you’ll answer one question.”

The proposal seemed to interest her. “What do you want to know?”

“Where is Royce Claridon?”

“I haven’t seen him in five years.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“He’s gone.”

“Where did he go?’

“That’s all the answers one crate of books will buy.”

They clearly were not going to learn anything from her, and he had no intention of giving her any more money. So he tossed a fifty-euro note onto the table and grabbed his crate of books. “Your answer sucked, but I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

He walked over to an open trash bin, turned the container upside down, and dumped the contents inside. Then he tossed the crate back on the table.

“Let’s go,” he said to Stephanie. They walked off.

“Hey, American.”

He stopped and turned back.

The woman rose from her chair. “I liked that.”

He waited.

“Lots of creditors are looking for Royce, but he’s easy to find. Check out the sanatorium in Villeneuve-les-Avignon.” She twirled an extended index finger at her temple. “Loony, that’s Royce.”

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES
11:30 AM

THE SENESCHAL SAT IN HIS CHAMBERS. HE’D SLEPT LITTLE LAST night as he pondered his dilemma. Two brothers guarded his door and no one was allowed inside except to bring him food. He didn’t like being caged—albeit, at least for now, in a comfortable prison. His quarters were not the size of the master’s or the marshal’s, but they were private, with a bath and a window. Little danger existed that he’d climb through the window, the drop beyond the sill was several hundred feet down a sheer mass of gray rock.

But his fortunes were sure to change today, as de Roquefort was not going to allow him to roam the abbey at will. He’d probably be held in one of the underground rooms, places long used for cool storage, the perfect spot to keep an enemy isolated. His ultimate fate was anybody’s guess.

He’d come a long way since his induction.

Rule was clear. If any man wished to leave the mass of perdition and abandon that secular life and choose communal life, do not consent to receive him immediately, for thus said Saint Paul: Test the soul to see if it comes from God. If the company of the brotherhood is granted, let the Rule be read to him, and if he wishes to obey the commandments of the Rule, let the brothers receive him, let him reveal his wish and desire before all of the brothers and let him make his request with a pure heart.

All of that had happened and he’d been received. He’d willingly taken the oath and gladly served. Now he was a prisoner. Accused of false charges leveled by an ambitious politico. Not unlike his ancient brethren, who’d fallen victim to the despicable Philip the Fair. He’d always thought the label odd. In truth, the Fair had nothing to do with the monarch’s temperament, since the French king was a cold, secretive man who wanted to rule the Catholic Church. Instead, it referred to his light hair and blue eyes. One thing on the outside, something altogether different on the inside—a lot like himself, he thought.

He stood from his desk and paced, a habit acquired in college. Moving helped him think. On the desk lay the two books he’d taken from the library two nights ago. He realized that the next few hours might be his last opportunity to scan their pages. Surely, once they turned up missing, theft of Order property would be added to the list of charges. Its punishment—banishment—would actually be welcome, but he knew his nemesis was never going to allow him off that easily.

He reached for the codex from the fifteenth century, a treasure any museum would pay dearly to display. The pages were scripted in the curvy lettering he knew as rotunda, common for the time, used in learned manuscripts. Little punctuation existed, just long lines of text filling every page from top to bottom, edge to edge. A scribe had labored weeks producing it, holed up in the abbey’s scriptorium before a writing desk, quill in hand, slowly inking each letter onto parchment. Burn marks marred the binding and droplets of wax dotted many of the pages, but the codex was in remarkably good shape. One of the Order’s great missions had been to preserve knowledge, and he’d been lucky to stumble across this reservoir amid the thousands of volumes the library contained.

You must finish the quest. It is your destiny. Whether you realize that or not. That’s what the master had told Geoffrey. But he’d also said, Those who have followed the path you are about to take have been many, and never has anyone succeeded.

But did they know what he knew? Surely not.

He reached for the other volume. Its text was also handwritten. But not by scribes. Instead, the words had been penned in November 1897 by the Order’s then marshal, a man who’d been in direct contact with Abbé Jean-Antoine-Maurice Gélis, the parish priest for the village of Coustausa, which also lay in the Aude River Valley, not far from Rennes-le-Château. Theirs had been a fortuitous encounter, for the marshal had learned vital information.

He sat and again thumbed through the report.

A few passages caught his attention, words he’d first read with interest three years ago. He stood and stepped to the window with the book.

I was distressed to learn that the abbé Gélis was murdered on All Saints’ Day. He was found fully dressed, wearing his clerical hat, lying in his own blood upon his kitchen floor. His watch had stopped at 12:15 AM, but the time of death was determined to be between 3 and 4 AM. Posing as the bishop’s representative, I spoke with villagers and the local constable. Gélis was a nervous sort, known to keep windows closed and shutters drawn, even in summer. He never opened the presbytery’s door to strangers, and since there was no sign of forced intrusion, officials concluded that the abbé had known his attacker.

Gélis died at age seventy-one. He was beaten over the head with fire tongs then hacked with an ax. Blood was copious, splatters on the floor and ceiling were found, but not one footprint lay among the various pools. This baffled the constable. The body was intentionally laid out on its back, arms crossed on the chest, in the common pose for the dead. Six hundred and three francs in gold and notes, along with another one hundred and six francs, were found in the house. Robbery was clearly not the motive. The only item that could be considered evidence was a pack of cigarette papers. Penned on one was “Viva Angelina.” This was significant since Gélis was not a smoker and detested even the smell of cigarettes.

In my opinion, the true motive for the crime was found in the priest’s bedroom. There, the assailant had pried open a briefcase. Papers remained inside but it was impossible to know if anything had been removed. Drops of blood were found in and around the briefcase. The constable concluded that the murderer was searching for something and I may know what that could be.

Two weeks prior to his murder, I met with Abbé Gélis. A month before that, Gélis had communicated with the bishop in Carcassonne. I appeared at Gélis’s home, posing as the bishop’s representative, and we discussed at length what troubled him. He eventually requested that I hear his confession. Since in truth I am not a priest, and therefore not bound by any oath of the confessional, I can report what was told me.

Sometime in the summer of 1896, Gélis discovered a glass vial in his church. The railing for the choir had required replacing and, when the wood was removed, a hiding place was found that contained a wax-sealed vial holding a single sliver of paper, upon which was the following:

This cryptogram was a common coding device popular during the last century. He told me that six years earlier the abbé Saunière, from Rennes-le-Château, found a cryptogram in his church, too. When compared, they were identical. Sauniére believed that both vials had been left by the abbè Bigou, who served at Rennes-le-Château during the French Revolution. In Bigou’s time, the church in Coustausa was also served by the priest from Rennes. So Bigou would have been a frequent visitor to Gélis’s present parish. Saunière also thought there was a connection between the cryptograms and the tomb of Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, who died in 1781. Abbé Bigou had been her confessor and commissioned her headstone and marker, having an assortment of unique words and symbols inscribed thereon. Unfortunately, Saunière had not been able to decipher anything, but after a year of work Gélis solved the cryptogram. He told me that he was not entirely truthful with Saunière, thinking his fellow abbé’s motives unpure. So he withheld from his colleague the solution he had determined.

Abbé Gélis wanted the bishop to know the complete solution and believed he was accomplishing that act by telling me.

Unfortunately, the marshal did not record what Gélis said. Perhaps he thought the information too important to write down, or maybe he was another schemer, like de Roquefort. Strangely, the Chronicles reported that the marshal himself disappeared a year later, in 1898. He left one day on abbey business and never returned. A search yielded nothing. But thank the Lord he recorded the cryptogram.

The bells for Sext began to ring, signaling the brothers’ noontime gathering. All, except the kitchen staff, would gather in the chapel for Psalm readings, hymns, and prayers until one PM. He decided to have his own time of meditation, but was interrupted by a soft rap at the door. He turned as Geoffrey stepped inside, carrying a tray of food and drink.

“I volunteered to deliver this,” the younger man said. “I was told you skipped breakfast. You must be hungry.” Geoffrey’s tone was strangely buoyant.

The door remained open and he could see the two guards standing outside.

“I brought them some drink, too,” Geoffrey said, motioning outside.

“You’re in a generous mood today.”

“Jesus said the first aspect of the Word is faith, the second is love, the third is good works, and from these come life.”

He smiled. “That’s right, my friend.” He kept his tone lively for the two pairs of ears just a few feet away.

“Are you well?” Geoffrey asked.

“As well as can be expected.” He accepted the tray and laid it on the desk.

“I have prayed for you, Seneschal.”

“I daresay that I no longer possess that title. Surely, a new one was appointed by de Roquefort.”

Geoffrey nodded. “His chief lieutenant.”

“Woe be unto us—”

He saw one of the men outside the door collapse. A second later, the other man’s body went limp and joined his partner’s on the floor. Two goblets clattered across the flagstones.

“Took long enough,” Geoffrey said.

“What did you do?”

“A sedative. The physician provided it to me. Tasteless, odorless, but fast. The healer is our friend. He wishes you Godspeed. Now we must go. The master made provisions, and it’s my duty to see they’re accomplished.”

Geoffrey reached beneath his frock and produced two pistols. “The armory attendant is our friend, too. We may need these.”

The seneschal was trained in firearms, all part of the basic education every brother received. He grabbed the weapon. “We’re leaving the abbey?”

Geoffrey nodded. “It is required to accomplish our task.”

“Our task.”

“Yes, Seneschal. I’ve been training for this a long time.”

He heard the eagerness and, though he was almost ten years older than Geoffrey, he suddenly felt inadequate. This supposed junior brother was far more than he appeared. “As I said yesterday, the master chose well in you.”

Geoffrey smiled. “I think he did in both of us.”

He found a knapsack and quickly stuffed a few toiletries, some personal items, and the two books he’d taken from the library inside. “I have no other clothes but for a cassock.”

“We can buy some once we’re gone.”

“You have money?

“The master was a thorough man.”

Geoffrey crept to the doorway and checked both ways. “The brothers will all be in Sext. The way out should be clear.”

Before following Geoffrey into the hall, the seneschal took one last look around his quarters. Some of the best times of his life had been spent here, and he was sad to leave those memories behind. But another part of his psyche urged him forward, to the unknown, outside, toward whatever truth the master so obviously knew.

 

VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON
12:30 PM

MALONE STUDIED ROYCE CLARIDON. THE MAN WAS DRESSED IN loose-fitting corduroy trousers smeared with what looked like turquoise paint. A colorful sports jersey covered the man’s thin chest. He was probably in his late fifties, gangly as a praying mantis, with a comely face full of tight features. Dark eyes were sunk deep into his head, no longer bright with the power of intellect, but nonetheless piercing. His feet were bare and dirty, his fingernails unkempt, his graying hair and beard tangled. The attendant had warned them that Claridon was delusional but generally harmless, and almost everyone at the institution avoided him.

“Who be you?” Claridon asked in French, appraising them with a distant, perplexed gaze.

The sanatorium filled an enormous château that a placard out front announced had been owned by the French government since the Revolution. Wings jutted from the main building at odd angles. Many of the former salons were now converted into patient rooms. They stood in a solarium, surrounded by a broad embrasure of floor-to-ceiling windows that framed out the countryside. Gathering clouds veiled the midday sun. One of the attendants had said Claridon spent most of his days here.

“Are you from the commandery?” Claridon asked. “Did the master send you? I have much information to pass to him.”

Malone decided to play along. “We are from the master. He sent us to speak with you.”

“Ah, finally. I have been waiting so long.” The words carried excitement.

Malone motioned and Stephanie backed off. This man obviously thought himself a Templar and women were not part of that brotherhood. “Tell me, brother, what have you to say. Tell me all.”

Claridon fidgeted in his chair, then sprang to his feet, shifting his spare frame back and forth on bare feet. “Awful,” he said. “So awful. We were surrounded on all quarters. Enemies as far as the eye could see. We were down to our last few arrows, the food spoiled from heat, the water gone. Many had succumbed to disease. None of us was going to live long.”

“Sounds a challenge. What did you do?”

“The strangest thing we saw. A white banner was raised from beyond the walls. We all stared at one another—saying with our puzzled expressions the words each of us was thinking. They want to talk.”

Malone knew his medieval history. Parlays were common during the Crusades. Armies in a stalemate would many times work out terms whereby each could retreat and both claim victory.

“Did you gather?” Malone asked.

The older man nodded and held up four soiled fingers. “Each time we rode from the wall, out among their horde, they received us warmly and the discussions were not without progress. In the end, we came to terms.”

“So tell me. What is your message the master needs to know?”

Claridon offered a look of annoyance. “You’re an insolent one.”

“What do you mean? I have much respect for you, brother. That’s why I’m here. Brother Lars Nelle told me you were a man to be trusted.”

The inquiry seemed to tax the older man’s brain. Then recognition came to Claridon’s face. “I recall him. A courageous warrior. Fought with much honor. Yes. Yes. I do recall him. Brother Lars Nelle. God rest his soul.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You haven’t heard?” There was incredulousness in the tone. “He died in battle.”

“Where?”

Claridon shook his head. “That I don’t know, only that he now dwells with the Lord. We said a mass for him and offered many prayers.”

“Did you break bread with brother Nelle?”

“Many times.”

“He ever speak of his quest?”

Claridon moved to his right, but kept his gaze on Malone. “Why do you ask that of me?”

The fidgety little man started to circle him, like a cat. He decided to up the ante in whatever game the man’s loose mind envisioned. He grabbed Claridon by the jersey, lifting the wiry little man off the floor. Stephanie took a step forward, but he urged her back with a quick glance.

“The master is displeased,” he said. “Most displeased.”

“In what way?” Claridon’s face was suffused with a deep blush of shame.

“With you.”

“I’ve done nothing.”

“You will not answer my question.”

“What is it you wish?” More astonishment.

“Tell me of brother Nelle’s quest.”

Claridon shook his head. “I know nothing. The brother did not confide in me.”

Fear crept into the eyes staring back at him, accented by utter confusion. He released his grip. Claridon shrank away toward the glass wall and snatched up a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle. He doused the panes and began cleaning glass that displayed not a speck of anything.

He turned to Stephanie. “We’re wasting our time here.”

“What tipped you off?”

“I had to try.” He recalled the note sent to Ernst Scoville and decided to make one last attempt. He fished the paper from his pocket and approached Claridon. Beyond the glass, a few miles west, rose the pale gray walls of Villeneuve-les-Avignon.

“The cardinals live there,” Claridon said, never stopping his cleaning. “Insolent princes, all of them.”

Malone knew that cardinals once flocked to the hills outside Avignon’s town walls and erected country retreats as a way to escape the town’s congestion and the pope’s constant eye. Those livrées were all gone, but the ancient city remained, still quiet, countrified and crumbling.

“We are the cardinals’ protectors,” Malone said, keeping up the pretense.

Claridon spat on the floor. “The pox to them all.”

“Read this.”

The little man took the paper and raked his gaze over the words. A look of astonishment filled the man’s wide eyes. “I’ve stolen nothing from the Order. That I swear.” The voice was rising. “This accusation is false. I would gladly pledge an oath to my God. I’ve stolen nothing.”

The man was seeing on the page only what he wanted. Malone took back the paper.

“This is a waste of time, Cotton,” Stephanie said.

Claridon drew close to him. “Who is this vixen? Why is she here?”

He nearly smiled. “She is brother Nelle’s widow.”

“I was not aware that the brother had been married.”

He recalled some of what he’d read from the Templar book two nights before. “As you know, many brothers were once married. But she was an unfaithful one, so the bond was dissolved and she was banished to a convent.”

Claridon shook his head. “She looks difficult. What is she doing here?”

“She seeks the truth about her husband.”

Claridon faced Stephanie and pointed with one of his stubby fingers. “You are evil,” the man shouted. “Brother Nelle sought penance with the brotherhood because of your sins. Shame on you.”

Stephanie had the good sense to simply bow her head. “I seek nothing but forgiveness.”

Claridon’s face softened at her humility. “And you shall have mine, sister. Go in peace.”

Malone motioned and they headed for the door. Claridon retreated to his chair.

“So sad,” she said. “And frightening. Losing one’s mind is terrifying. Lars often spoke of the malady and feared it.”

“Don’t we all.” He was still holding the note found at Ernst Scoville’s house. He looked at the writing again and read the last three lines:

In Avignon find Claridan. He can point the way. But prend garde l’Ingénieur

“I wonder why the sender thought Claridon could point the way to anywhere?” he asked. “We have zero to go on. This trail may be at a dead end.”

“Not true.”

The words were spoken in English and came from across the solarium.

Malone turned as Royce Claridon stood from the chair. All confusion was gone from the man’s bearded face. “I can provide that direction. And the advice given in that note should be heeded. You must beware the engineer. She, and others, are the reason I’m hiding here.”

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES

THE SENESCHAL FOLLOWED GEOFFREY THROUGH THE WARREN OF vaulted corridors. He hoped Geoffrey’s assessment was correct and that all of the brothers were in the chapel for noontime prayers.

So far they’d seen no one.

They made their way to the palais that housed the upper hall, administrative offices, and public rooms. When, in times past, the abbey had been sealed from outside contact, no one not of the Order was allowed beyond its ground-floor entrance hall. But when tourism blossomed in the twentieth century, as other abbeys opened their doors, so as not to arouse suspicions the Abbey des Fontaines followed suit, offering visits and informational sessions, many of which occurred in the palais.

They entered the expansive foyer. Windows filled with coarse greenish glass cast dull shafts of sunlight onto a checkered tile floor. A mammoth wooden crucifix dominated one wall, a tapestry another.

At the entrance to another passageway, a hundred feet across the lofty expanse, stood Raymond de Roquefort, five brothers behind him, all armed with handguns.

“Leaving?” de Roquefort asked.

The seneschal froze, but Geoffrey raised his weapon and fired twice. The men on the other side dove for the floor as bullets pinged off the wall.

“That way,” Geoffrey said, motioning left to another passageway.

Two shots screamed past them.

Geoffrey sent another bullet across the foyer and they assumed a defensive position just inside the corridor, near a parlor where merchants once brought their wares for display.

“All right,” de Roquefort called out. “You have my attention. Is bloodshed necessary?”

“That’s entirely up to you,” the seneschal said.

“I thought your oath was precious. Is it not your duty to obey your master? I commanded you to stay in your quarters.”

“Did you? I forgot that part.”

“Interesting how one set of rules apply to you, and another governs the rest of us. Even so, can we not be reasonable?”

He wondered about the show of civility. “What do you propose?”

“I assumed you would attempt an escape. Sext seemed the best time, so I was waiting. You see, I know you well. Your ally, though, surprises me. There is courage and loyalty there. I would like you both to join my cause.”

“And do what?”

“Help us reclaim our destiny, instead of hindering the effort.”

Something was wrong. De Roquefort was posturing. Then it hit him. To buy time.

He whirled around.

An armed man rounded the corner, fifty feet away. Geoffrey saw him, too. The seneschal fired one shot into the lower part of the man’s cassock. He heard the smack of metal tearing flesh and a shriek as the man dropped to the flagstones. May God forgive him. Rule forbid the harming of another Christian. But there was no choice. He had to escape this prison.

“Come on,” he said.

Geoffrey took the lead and they bolted forward, leaping over the brother who writhed in pain.

They turned the corner and kept moving.

Footsteps could be heard behind them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said to Geoffrey.

They rounded another neck in the passageway. Geoffrey stopped at a partially open door and they slipped inside, closing it gently behind them. A second later men ran past, their footfalls fading.

“The route ends at the gymnasium. It won’t take them long to see we’re not there,” he said.

They slipped back out, breathless with excitement, and headed toward the gym, but instead of heading right at an intersection they went left, toward the dining hall.

He was wondering why the gunshots had not aroused more brothers. But the music in the chapel was always loud, making it hard to hear anything beyond the walls. Still, if de Roquefort expected him to flee, it would be reasonable to assume that more brothers were waiting around the abbey.

The long tables and benches in the dining hall were empty. Smells of stewed tomatoes and okra wafted from the kitchen. In the speaker’s niche carved three feet up one wall, a robed brother stood, rifle in hand.

The seneschal dove under a table, using his knapsack for cushion, and Geoffrey sought refuge beneath another table.

A bullet burrowed into the thick oak top.

Geoffrey scampered out and ticked off two shots, one of which found the attacker. The man in the alcove teetered, then dropped to the floor.

“You kill him?” the seneschal asked.

“I hope not. I think I got his shoulder.”

“This is getting out of hand.”

“Too late now.”

They came to their feet. Men bolted from the kitchen, all dressed in food-stained aprons. The cooking staff. Not a threat.

“Back inside, now,” the seneschal screamed, and none disobeyed.

“Seneschal,” Geoffrey said, anticipation in his tone.

“Lead on.”

They left the dining hall through another passageway. Voices were heard behind them, accompanied by the rapid sound of leather soles slapping stone. The shooting of two brothers would motivate even the meekest among their pursuers. The seneschal was angry that he’d fallen into the snare de Roquefort had laid for him. Any credibility he once possessed had vanished. No one would follow him any longer, and he cursed his foolishness.

They entered the dormitory wing. A door at the far end of the corridor was closed. Geoffrey ran ahead and tested the latch. Locked.

“Seems our options are limited,” the seneschal said.

“Come,” Geoffrey said.

They sprinted into the dormitory, a large oblong chamber with bunk beds standing perpendicular, in military style, beneath a row of lancet windows.

A shout came from the hallway. More voices. Excited. People were headed their way.

“There’s no other way out of here,” he said.

They stood halfway down the row of empty beds. Behind them was the entrance, about to be filled with adversaries. Ahead, lavatories.

“Into the bathrooms,” he said. “Let’s hope they move on.”

Geoffrey ran to the far end where two doors led into separate facilities. “In here.”

“No. Let’s split up. You go into one. Hide in a stall and stand on a toilet. I’ll take the other. If we’re quiet, we might get lucky. Besides—” He hesitated, not liking the reality. “—it’s our only play.”

DE ROQUEFORT EXAMINED THE BULLET WOUND. THE MAN’S shoulder was bleeding, the brother in agony, but he was showing remarkable control, fighting hard not to go into shock. He’d stationed the shooter in the dining hall thinking the seneschal might eventually make his way there. And he’d been right. What he’d underestimated was his opponents’ resolve. Brothers took an oath never to harm another brother. He’d thought the seneschal enough of an idealist that he’d stay true to that oath. Yet two men were now headed to the infirmary. He hoped neither would have to be taken to the hospital in Perpignan or Mont Louis. That might lead to questions. The abbey’s healer was a qualified surgeon and possessed a well-equipped operating room, one that had been used many times in years past, but there were limits to its effectiveness.

“Take him to the physician and tell him to mend them here,” he ordered a lieutenant. He checked his watch. Forty minutes before prayers at Sext ended.

Another brother approached. “The door at the far end, beyond the dorm entrance, is still locked, as you ordered.”

He knew they’d not come back through the dining hall. The wounded brother had made no such report. Which left only one alternative. He reached for the man’s revolver.

“Stay here. Allow no one to pass. I’ll handle this myself.”

THE SENESCHAL ENTERED THE BRIGHTLY LIT BATHROOM. ROWS OF toilet stalls, urinals, and stainless-steel sinks encased by marble counters filled the space. He heard Geoffrey in the adjacent room, positioning himself in a stall. He stood rigid and tried to calm his nerves. He’d never been in a situation like this before. He snatched a few deep breaths then turned back and grasped the door handle, easing it open half an inch and peering through the crack.

The dormitory was still empty.

Perhaps the search had moved on. The abbey was lined like an ant mound with corridors. All they would need was a few precious minutes to make an escape. He cursed himself again for weakness. His years of careful thought and deliberate intent had all been wasted. He was now a fugitive with more than four hundred brothers about to be his enemy. I simply respect the power of our adversaries. That’s what he’d told his master just a day ago. He shook his head. Some respect he’d shown. So far, he’d done nothing smart.

The door leading from the dormitory swung open and Raymond de Roquefort stepped inside.

His adversary locked the ponderous bolt on the door.

Any hope the seneschal may have possessed vanished.

The showdown was to be here and now.

De Roquefort held a revolver and studied the room, surely wondering where his prey might be. They’d not fooled him. But the seneschal had no intention of risking Geoffrey’s life. He needed to draw his pursuer’s attention. So he released his grip on the handle and allowed the door to close with a soft thud.

DE ROQUEFORT CAUGHT A FRACTION OF MOVEMENT AND HEARD the sound of a door, hydraulically hinged, gently nudge a metal frame. His gaze shot to the back of the dormitory and one of the lavatory doors.

He’d been right.

They were here.

Time to end this problem.

THE SENESCHAL SURVEYED THE BATHROOM. FLUORESCENT LIGHT illuminated everything in a daylight glow. A long wall mirror above the sink counter made the room appear even larger. The floor was tile, the toilets separated by marble partitions. Everything had been built with care and designed to last.

He ducked into the second stall and closed the swinging door. He hopped onto the toilet and folded himself over the partition until he could close and lock the doors to the first and third stalls. He then shrunk back, still standing on the toilet, and hoped de Roquefort took the bait.

He needed something to draw attention. So he freed the toilet paper from its holder.

Air rushed out as the bathroom’s door swung open.

Soles swept across the floor.

He stood on the toilet, gun in hand, and told himself to breathe slow.

DE ROQUEFORT POINTED THE SHORT-BARRELED AUTOMATIC toward the stalls. The seneschal was here. He knew it. But where? Did he dare take a moment to bend down and examine the gap at the bottom? Three doors were closed, three cocked open.

No.

He decided to fire.

THE SENESCHAL REASONED IT WOULD TAKE ONLY A MOMENT BEFORE de Roquefort started shooting, so he flipped the toilet paper holder beneath the partition, into the first stall.

Metal found tile with a clank.

DE ROQUEFORT FIRED A BURST INTO THE FIRST STALL AND KICKED the door inward with his sandal. Marble dust clouded the air. He unleashed another round that obliterated the toilet and the plaster on the wall.

Water flooded out.

But the cubicle was empty.

IN THE INSTANT BEFORE DE ROQUEFORT REALIZED HIS MISTAKE, the seneschal fired over the stalls, sending two slugs into his enemy’s chest. The gunshots reverberated off the walls, the sound waves racking his brain.

He watched as de Roquefort fell back across the marble counter and bucked as though punched in the chest. But he noticed no blood flowed from the wounds. The man seemed more dazed than anything. Then he spotted a blue-gray surface beneath tears in the white cassock.

A bulletproof vest.

He readjusted his aim and fired for the head.

DE ROQUEFORT SAW A SHOT COMING AND MUSTERED THE strength to roll off the counter just as the bullet left the barrel. His body skidded across the wet floor, through the puddled water, toward the outer door.

Bits of porcelain and stone crunched beneath him. The mirror exploded, shattering in a clangor then pulverizing onto the counter. The confines of the washroom were tight and his opponent was unexpectedly brave. So he retreated toward the door and slipped out just as a second shot careened off the wall behind him.

THE SENESCHAL JUMPED FROM THE TOILET AND BURST FROM THE stall. He crept toward the door and prepared himself for an exit. De Roquefort would surely be waiting. But he wasn’t going to shy away. Not now. He owed this fight to his master. The Gospels were clear. Jesus came not to bring peace, but a sword. And so did he.

He steeled himself, readied the gun, and yanked open the door.

The first thing he saw was Raymond de Roquefort. The next was Geoffrey, his gun firmly nestled to the master’s neck, de Roquefort’s weapon lying on the floor.

 

VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON

MALONE STARED AT ROYCE CLARIDON AND SAID, “YOU’RE GOOD.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” Claridon looked at Stephanie. “You are Lars’s wife?”

She nodded.

“He was a friend and a great man. So smart. Yet also naïve. He underestimated those who opposed him.”

They were still alone in the solarium and Claridon seemed to notice Malone’s interest in the door leading out.

“No one will disturb us. Not a soul wants to listen to my ramblings. I made a point to become quite a nuisance. They all look forward to my retreat here each day.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five years.”

Malone was astonished. “Why?”

Claridon paced slowly among the bushy potted plants. Beyond the outer glass, black clouds girted the western horizon, the sun blazing through crevices like fire from the mouth of a furnace. “There are those who seek what Lars sought. Not openly, or with attention drawn to their quest, but they deal severely with those who stand in their way. So I came here and feigned illness. They feed you well, care for your needs, and, most important, ask no questions. I’ve not spoken rationally, other than to myself, in five years. And I can assure you, talking to yourself is not satisfying.”

“Why are you talking to us?” Stephanie asked.

“You’re Lars’s widow. For him, I would do anything.” Claridon pointed. “And that note. Sent by someone with knowledge. Perhaps even by those people I mentioned who don’t allow anyone to stand in their way.”

“Did Lars stand in their way?” Stephanie asked.

Claridon nodded. “Many wanted to know what he learned.”

“What was your connection to him?” Stephanie asked.

“I had access to the book trade. He required many obscure materials.”

Malone knew that secondhand-book stores were the haunts of both collectors and researchers.

“We eventually became friends and I started to share his passion. This region is my home. My family has been here since medieval times. Some of my ancestors were Cathars, burned to death by the Catholics. But then, Lars died. So sad. Others after him also perished. So I came here.”

“What others?”

“A book dealer in Seville. A librarian in Marseille. A student in Rome. Not to mention Mark.”

“Ernst Scoville is also dead,” Stephanie said. “Run down by a car last week, just after I spoke to him.”

Claridon quickly crossed himself. “Those who seek are indeed made to pay. Tell me, dear lady, do you know anything?”

“I have Lars’s journal.”

A look of concern swept across the man’s face. “Then you are in mortal danger.”

“How so?” Malone asked.

“This is terrible,” Claridon said, the words coming fast. “So terrible. It’s not right that you be involved. You lost your husband and your son—”

“What do you know of Mark?”

“It was just after his death that I came here.”

“My son died in an avalanche.”

“Not true. He was killed. Just like the others I mentioned.”

Malone and Stephanie stood in silence, waiting for the odd little man to explain.

“Mark was following leads his father had discovered years before. He was not as passionate as Lars, and it took him years to decipher Lars’s notes, but he finally made some sense of them. He traveled south into the mountains to look but never returned. Just like his father.”

“My husband hung himself from a bridge.”

“I know, dear woman. But I always wondered what truly happened.”

Stephanie said nothing, but her silence signaled that at least part of her wondered, too.

“You said you came here to escape them. Who’s them?” Malone asked. “The Knights Templar?”

Claridon nodded. “I came face-to-face with them on two occasions. Not pleasant.”

Malone decided to let that notion simmer a moment. He was still holding the note that had been sent to Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Château. He motioned with the paper. “How can you lead the way? Where are we to go? And who is this engineer we’re supposed to be watching out for?”

“She, too, seeks what Lars coveted. Her name is Cassiopeia Vitt.”

“She good with a rifle?”

“She has many talents. Shooting, I’m sure, is one. She lives at Givors, an ancient citadel site. She’s a woman of color, a Muslim, who possesses great wealth. She labors in the forest to rebuild a castle using only thirteenth-century techniques. Her château stands nearby and she personally oversees the rebuilding project, calling herself l’Ingénieur. The engineer. Have you met her?”

“I think she saved my hide in Copenhagen. Which makes me wonder why someone would warn us to beware of her.”

“Her motives are suspect. She seeks what Lars sought, but for different reasons.”

“And what is it she seeks?” Malone asked, tired of riddles.

“What the brothers of the Temple of Solomon left behind long ago. Their Great Devise. What the priest Saunière discovered. What the brothers have been searching for all these centuries.”

Malone didn’t believe a word of it, but motioned again with the paper. “So point us in the right direction.”

“It’s not that the simple. The trail has been made difficult.”

“Do you even know where to start?”

“If you have Lars’s notebook, you have more knowledge than I possess. He often spoke of the journal, but I was never allowed to see it.”

“We also have a copy of Pierres Gravées du Languedoc,” Stephanie said.

Claridon gasped. “I never believed that book existed.”

She reached into her bag and showed him the volume. “It’s real.”

“Might I see the gravestone?”

She opened to the page and showed him the drawing. Claridon studied it with interest. The older man smiled. “Lars would have been pleased. The drawing is a good one.”

“Care to explain?” Malone asked.

“The abbè Bigou learned a secret from Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, just before she died. When he fled France in 1793, Bigou realized that he would never return, so he hid what he knew in the church at Rennes-le-Château. That information was later found by Saunière, in 1891, within a glass vial.”

“We know all that,” Malone said. “What we don’t know is Bigou’s secret.”

“Ah, but you do,” Claridon said. “Let me see Lars’s notebook.”

Stephanie handed him the journal. He anxiously shuffled through it and showed them a page.

“This cryptogram was supposedly inside the glass vial.”

“How do you know?” Malone asked.

“To know that, you must understand Saunière.”

“We’re all ears.”

“When Saunière was alive, not a word was ever written about the money he spent on the church or the other buildings. No one outside of Rennes even knew any of that existed. When he died in 1917, he was totally forgotten. His papers and belongings were either stolen or destroyed. In 1947 his mistress sold the entire estate to a man named Noël Corbu. The mistress died six years later. The so-called tale of Saunière, about his great treasure find, first appeared in print in 1956. A local newspaper, La Dépêche du Midi, published three installments that supposedly told the true story. But the source for that material was Corbu.”

“I know this,” Stephanie said. “He embellished everything, adding to the story, changing it all around. Afterward, more press accounts came and the story gradually became even more fantastic.”

Claridon nodded. “Fiction completely took over fact.”

“You talking about the parchments?” Malone asked.

“An excellent example. Saunière never found parchments in the altar pillar. Never. Corbu, and the others, added that detail. Not one person has ever seen those parchments, yet their texts have been printed in countless books, each one supposedly hiding some sort of coded message. It’s nonsense, all of it, and Lars knew that.”

“But Lars published the texts of the parchments in his books,” Malone said.

“He and I spoke of that. All he would say is, People love a mystery. But I know it bothered him to do it.”

Malone was confused. “So is Saunière’s story a lie?”

Claridon nodded. “The modern rendition is mainly false. Most of the books written also link Saunière to the paintings of Nicolas Poussin, particularly The Shepherds of Arcadia. Supposedly, Saunière took the two parchments he found to Paris in 1893 for deciphering and, while there, purchased a copy of that painting, and two more, at the Louvre. They are reported to contain hidden messages. The problem with that is the Louvre did not sell copies of paintings at that time, and there is no record that The Shepherds of Arcadia was even stored at the Louvre in 1893. But the men who promulgated that fiction worried little about errors. They just assumed no one would check the facts, and for a while they were right.”

Malone motioned to the cryptogram. “Where did Lars find this?”

“Corbu penned a manuscript all about Saunière.”

Some of the words from the eight pages sent to Ernst Scoville swept through his mind. What Lars had written about the mistress. At one point she did reveal to Nöel Corbu one of Saunière’s hiding places. Corbu wrote of this in his manuscript I managed to find.

“While Corbu spent a great deal of time telling reporters the fiction of Rennes, in his manuscript he did a credible job of detailing the true story, as he learned it from the mistress.”

More of what Lars had written ran through Malone’s mind. What Corbu found, if anything, is never revealed by him. But the wealth of information contained within his manuscript makes one wonder where he could have learned all that he wrote about.

“Corbu, of course, let no one see the manuscript, since the truth was not nearly as captivating as the fiction. He died in the late sixties from a car crash and his manuscript disappeared. But Lars found it.”

Malone studied the rows of letters and symbols on the cryptogram. “So what is this? Some type of code?”

“One quite common for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Random letters and symbols, arranged in a grid. Somewhere in all that chaos is a message. Basic, simple, and, for its time, quite difficult to decipher. Still so even today, without the key.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some numeric sequence is needed to find the right letters to assemble the message. Sometimes, to confuse the matter further, the starting point on the grid was random, too.”

“Did Lars ever decipher it?” Stephanie asked.

Claridon shook his head. “He was unable. And it frustrated him. Then, in the weeks before he died, he thought he came across a new clue.”

Malone’s patience was wearing thin. “I assume he didn’t tell you what that was.”

“No, monsieur. That was his way.”

“So where do we go from here? Point the way, like you’re supposed to.”

“Return here at five PM, on the road just beyond the main building and wait. I’ll come to you.”

“How can you leave?”

“No one here will be sad to see me go.”

Malone and Stephanie shared a glance. She was surely debating, as he was, if following Claridon’s directions would be smart. So far this whole endeavor had been littered with either dangerous or paranoid personalities, not to mention wild speculation. But something was going on, and if he wanted to learn more he was going to have to play by the rules the odd man standing across from him was setting.

Still, he wanted to know, “Where are we going?”

Claridon turned to the window and pointed eastward. In the far distance, miles away, on a hilltop overlooking Avignon, stood a palace stronghold with an Oriental appearance, like something from Arabia. Its golden luminosity stood out against the eastern sky with a fugitive brightness and cast the appearance of several buildings piled onto one another, each rising from the bedrock, standing in clear defiance. Just as its occupants had done for nearly a hundred years, when seven French popes ruled Christendom from within the fortress walls.

“To the palais des popes,” Claridon said.

The palace of the popes.

 

ABBEY DES FONTAINES

THE SENESCHAL STARED INTO GEOFFREY’S EYES AND SAW HATRED. He’d never seen that emotion there before.

“I’ve told our new master,” Geoffrey said, nudging the gun deeper into de Roquefort’s throat, “to stand still or I will shoot him.”

The seneschal stepped close and poked a finger beneath the white mantle, into the protective vest. “If we’d not started the gunfire, you would have, right? The idea was for us to be killed while escaping. That way, your problem is solved. I’m eliminated and you’re the Order’s savior.”

De Roquefort said nothing.

“That’s why you came here alone. To finish the job yourself. I saw you lock the dormitory door. You wanted no witnesses.”

“We must go,” Geoffrey said.

He realized the danger that endeavor would entail, but doubted if any of the brothers would risk the master’s life. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll show you.”

Keeping the gun cocked at de Roquefort’s neck, Geoffrey led his hostage across the dormitory. The seneschal kept his own gun ready and, at the door, released the latch. In the hall stood five armed men. At the sight of their leader in peril, they raised their guns, ready to fire.

“Lower your aim,” de Roquefort ordered.

The guns stayed pointed.

“I command you to lower your weapons. I want no more bloodshed.”

The gallant gesture stimulated the desired effect.

“Stand away,” Geoffrey said.

The brothers took a few steps backward.

Geoffrey motioned with the gun and he and de Roquefort stepped out into the hall. The seneschal followed. Bells rang in the distance, signaling one PM. Sext prayers would be ending shortly, and the corridors would once again be filled with robed men.

“We need to move quickly,” the seneschal made clear.

With his hostage, Geoffrey led the way down the passageway. The seneschal followed, creeping backward, keeping his attention trained on the five brothers.

“Stay there,” the seneschal made clear to them.

“Do as he says,” de Roquefort called out, as they turned the corner.

DE ROQUEFORT WAS CURIOUS. HOW DID THEY EXPECT TO FLEE the abbey? What had Geoffrey said? I’ll show you. He decided the only way to discover anything was to go with them, which was why he’d ordered his men to stand down.

The seneschal had twice shot him. If he’d not been quick, a third bullet would have found his skull. The stakes had clearly been raised. His captors were on a mission, something he believed involved his predecessor and a subject that he desperately needed to know more about. The Denmark excursion had been less than productive. So far nothing had been learned in Rennes-le-Château. And though he’d managed to discredit the former master in death, the old man might have reserved the last laugh.

He also did not like the fact that two men had been wounded. Not the best way to start off his tenure. Brothers strived for order. Chaos was seen as weakness. The last time violence had invaded the abbey’s walls was when angry mobs tried to gain entrance during the French Revolution—but after several died in the attempt, they’d retreated. The abbey was a place of tranquility and refuge. Violence was taught—and sometimes used—but tempered with discipline. The seneschal had demonstrated a total lack of discipline. Stragglers who may have harbored some fleeting loyalty to him would now be won over by his grievous violations to Rule.

But still, where were these two headed?

They continued down the hallways, passing workshops, the library, more empty corridors. He could hear footfalls behind them, the five brothers following, ready to act when the opportunity arose. But there’d be hell to pay if any of them interfered until he said so.

They stopped before a doorway with carved capitals and a simple iron handle.

The master’s quarters.

His chambers.

“In there,” Geoffrey said.

“Why?” the seneschal asked. “We’ll be trapped.”

“Please, go inside.”

The seneschal pushed open the door, then engaged the latch after they entered.

De Roquefort was amazed.

And curious.

THE SENESCHAL WAS CONCERNED. THEY WERE NOW IMPRISONED within the master’s chamber, the only exit a solitary bull’s-eye window that opened to nothing but air. Drops of sweat pebbled his forehead and he swiped the salty moisture from his eyes.

“Sit,” Geoffrey ordered de Roquefort, and the man took a seat at the desk.

The seneschal surveyed the room. “I see you’ve already changed things.”

A few more upholstered chairs hugged the walls. A table now stood where there had been nothing before. The bed coverings were different, as were items on the tables and desk.

“This is my home now,” de Roquefort said.

He noticed the single sheet of paper on the desk, penned in his mentor’s hand. The successor’s message, left as required by Rule. He lifted the typewritten page and read.

Do you think that what you judge to be imperishable will not perish? You base your hope upon the world, and your god is this life. You do not realize that you will be destroyed. You live in darkness and death, drunk with fire, and full of bitterness. Your mind is deranged because of the smoldering fire within you and you are delighted by the poisoning and beating of your enemies. Darkness has risen over you like the light, for you have exchanged your freedom for slavery. You will fail, that is clear.

“Your master thought passages from the Gospel of Thomas relevant,” de Roquefort said. “And he apparently believed that I, not you, would wear the white mantle once he was gone. Surely those words were not meant for his chosen one.”

No, they weren’t. He wondered why his mentor had so little faith in him, especially when, in the hours before he died, he’d encouraged him to seek high office.

“You should listen to him,” he made clear.

“His is the advice of a weak soul.”

Pounding came from the door. “Master? Are you there?” Unless the brothers were prepared to blast their way inside, there existed little danger of the heavy slabs being forced.

De Roquefort stared up at him.

“Answer,” the seneschal said.

“I’m fine. Stand down.”

Geoffrey moved toward the window and stared out at the waterfall across the gorge.

De Roquefort placed one knee over the other and leaned back in the chair. “What do you hope to accomplish? This is foolishness.”

“Shut up.” But the seneschal was wondering the same thing.

“The master left more words,” Geoffrey said from across the room.

He and de Roquefort turned as Geoffrey reached into his cassock and produced an envelope. “This is his true final message.”

“Give that to me,” de Roquefort demanded, rising from the chair.

Geoffrey leveled his gun. “Sit.”

De Roquefort stayed on his feet. Geoffrey cocked the weapon and aimed for the legs. “The vest will do you no good.”

“You would kill me?”

“I’ll cripple you.”

De Roquefort sat. “You have a brave compatriot,” he said to the seneschal.

“He’s a brother of the Temple.”

“A shame he will never achieve the oath.”

If the words were designed to evoke a response in Geoffrey, they failed.

“You’re going nowhere,” de Roquefort told them.

The seneschal watched his ally. Geoffrey was again staring out the window, as if waiting for something.

“I’ll enjoy seeing you both punished,” de Roquefort said.

“I told you to shut up,” the seneschal said.

“Your master thought himself clever. I know he wasn’t.”

He could tell de Roquefort had something more to say. “Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“The Great Devise. It’s what consumed him and all of the masters. Each wanted to find it, but none succeeded. Your master spent a lot of time researching the subject, and your young friend over there helped him.”

The seneschal shot a glance at Geoffrey, but his partner did not turn from the window. He said to de Roquefort, “I thought you were close to finding it. That’s what you told the conclave.”

“I am.”

The seneschal did not believe him.

“Your young friend over there and the late master were quite a team. I’ve learned that recently they scoured our records with a newfound relish—one that piqued my interest.”

Geoffrey turned and stomped across the bedchamber, stuffing the envelope back into his cassock. “You’ll learn nothing.” The voice approached a shout. “What there is to find is not for you.”

“Really?” de Roquefort asked. “And what is there to find?”

“There will be no triumph for the likes of you. The master was right. You are drunk with fire and full of bitterness.”

De Roquefort appraised Geoffrey with a stiff countenance. “You and the master learned something, didn’t you? I know you sent two parcels in the mail, and I even know to whom. I’ve tended to one of the receivers and will shortly tend to the other. Soon I’ll know all that you and he knew.”

Geoffrey’s right arm swung out and the gun he held slammed into de Roquefort’s temple. The master teetered, stunned, then his eyes rolled skyward and he collapsed to the floor.

“Was that necessary?” the seneschal asked.

“He should be glad that I didn’t shoot him. But the master made me promise I wouldn’t harm the fool.”

“You and I need to have a serious talk.”

“First, we have to leave.”

“I don’t think the brothers out in the hall are going to allow that.”

“They’re not our problem.”

He could sense something. “You know the way out of here?”

Geoffrey smiled. “The master was quite clear.”