The Templar Legacy (33 page)

A tear streaked down her cheek. A strange feeling, crying. One she could not remember since childhood. She was highly educated and possessed the experience that decades of working in the top levels of the intelligence business offered. Her career had been spent handling one difficult situation after another. She’d made life-and-death decisions many times. But none of that applied here. She’d somehow left the world of good and bad, right and wrong, black and white, and entered a realm where her innermost thoughts were not only known, but actually understood. This master, a man to whom she’d never spoken a word, seemed to precisely comprehend her pain.

But he was right.

Mark’s return was a resurrection. A glorious miracle with endless possibilities.

“Do the words sadden you?”

She looked up. Geoffrey stood in the doorway. She swiped the tears away. “In one way. But in another they bring happiness.”

“The master was like that. He knew both joy and pain. Much pain, though, in his final days.”

“How did he die?”

“Cancer took him two nights ago.”

“You miss him?”

“I was raised alone, without the benefit of family. Monks and nuns taught me about life. They were good to me, but none ever loved me. So hard to grow up without the love of a parent.”

The admission struck her heart.

“The master showed me great kindness, perhaps even love, but most of all he placed his trust in me.”

“Then don’t fail him.”

“I won’t.”

She motioned with the paper. “Is this mine to keep?”

He nodded. “I was only the deliveryman.”

She grabbed hold of herself. “Why did Mark and Cotton go to the church?”

“I sensed that the seneschal wanted to talk to Mr. Malone.”

She stood from the chair. “Perhaps we, too, should—”

A knock came at the front door. She tensed as her gaze darted to the unlocked latch. Cotton and Mark would have simply walked in. She saw Geoffrey likewise come alert and a gun appeared in his hand. She stepped toward the door and peered through the glass.

A familiar face stared back.

Royce Claridon.

DEROQUEFORT WAS FURIOUS. FOUR HOURS AGO HE’D BEEN INFORMEDthat, on the night the master died, the archival security system had recorded a visit at eleven fifty-onePM. The seneschal had stayed inside twelve minutes, then left with two books. The electronic identification tags affixed to every volume identified the two missing tomes as a thirteenth-century codex he knew well and a marshal’s report filed in the latter part of the nineteenth century, which he’d also read.

When he’d interrogated Royce Claridon a few hours ago, he’d not made known his familiarity with the cryptogram contained in Lars Nelle’s journal. But one was included in the prior marshal’s report along with the location where the puzzle had been found—in the abbé Gélis’s church located in Coustausa, not far from Rennes-le-Château. He recalled from his reading that the marshal had spoken to Gélis shortly before the priest was murdered and learned that Saunière had also found a cryptogram in his church. When compared, the two were identical. Gélis apparently solved the puzzle and the marshal was told the results, but the solution was not recorded and was never found after Gélis’s death. Both the local police and the marshal suspected that the murderer was after something in Gélis’s briefcase. Surely, Gélis’s decipher. But was the murderer Saunière? Hard to say. The crime was never solved. Still, given what de Roquefort knew, the priest from Rennes would have to be included on any suspect list.

Now the marshal’s report was gone. Which might not be all bad since he possessed Lars Nelle’s journal, which contained Saunière’s cryptogram. Yet was it, as the marshal reported, the same as Gélis’s? No way to know without the marshal’s report, which was certainly removed from the archives for a reason.

Five minutes ago, while he’d listened through a microphone stuck to a side windowpane as Stephanie Nelle and brother Geoffrey bonded, he’d learned Mark Nelle and Cotton Malone had walked to the church. Stephanie Nelle had even cried after reading what the former master had written. How touching. The master had clearly planned ahead and this whole matter was rapidly spinning out of control. He needed to yank the reins tight and slow the momentum down. So while Royce Claridon dealt with the occupants at Lars Nelle’s house, he was going to see about the other two.

The transponder still attached to Malone’s rental car had revealed that Malone and Stephanie Nelle returned to Rennes from Avignon in the wee hours. Mark Nelle must have come straight here from the abbey, which was not surprising.

After what happened last night with the woman on the bridge, he’d thought Malone and Stephanie Nelle were no longer important, which was why his men had been instructed only to subdue them. Killing a current and a former American operative would surely bring attention. He’d traveled to Avignon to discover what secrets the palace archives held and to capture Claridon, not to attract the interest of the entire American intelligence community. He’d accomplished all three objectives and managed to obtain Lars Nelle’s journal as a bonus. All in all, not a bad night’s work. He’d even been willing to let Mark Nelle and Geoffrey go, since away from the abbey they were a far lesser threat. But after learning about the two missing books, that strategy had changed.

“We’re in place,” a voice said in his ear.

“Stay still until I call for you,” he whispered into the lapel mike.

He’d brought six brothers with him and they were now scattered around the village, blending in with the growing Sunday crowd. The day was bright, sunny, and characteristically windy. While the Aude River’s valleys were warm and calm, the summits surrounding them were perpetually raked by mountain winds.

He strolled up the main rue toward the Church of Mary Magdalene, making no effort to mask his approach.

He wanted Mark Nelle to know he was there.

MARK STOOD AT HIS FATHER’S GRAVE. THE MEMORIAL WAS INgood condition, as were all the graves, since the cemetery now seemed an integral part of the town’s growing tourist industry.

For the first six years after his father died, he’d personally tended to the grave, visiting nearly every weekend. He’d also tended to the house. His father had been popular with Rennes’ residents since he’d treated the village with kindness and Saunière’s memory with respect. That was, perhaps, one reason why his father had included so much fiction about Rennes in his books. The embellished mystery was a money machine for the entire region, and writers who trashed that mystique were not appreciated. Since precious little was known for sure about any aspect of the tale, lots of room for improvisation existed. It also helped that his father was regarded as the man who brought the story to the world’s attention, though Mark knew that a relatively unknown French book by Gérard de Sède, Le Trésor Maudit, published in the late 1960s, was what first ignited his father’s curiosity. He’d always thought the title—The Accursed Treasure—apt, especially after his father suddenly died. Mark had been a teenager when he’d first read his father’s book, but it had been years later, while he was in graduate school, honing his knowledge of medieval history and religious philosophy, that his father told him what was really at stake.

“The heart of Christianity is the resurrection of physical bodies. It’s the fulfillment of the Old Testament promise. If Christians will not one day be resurrected, then their faith is useless. No resurrection means the Gospels are all a lie—the Christian faith is only for this life—there’s no more after. It’s the resurrection that makes everything performed for Christ worthwhile. Other religions preach about paradise and the afterlife. But only Christianity offers a God who became man, died for His followers, then rose from the dead to rule forever.

“Think about it,” his father had said. “Christians can have a lot of different beliefs on a lot of subjects. But they all agree on the resurrection. It’s their universal constant. Jesus rose from the dead for them alone. Death was conquered for them alone. Christ is alive and working toward their redemption. The kingdom of heaven is waiting for them, as they, too, will be raised from the dead to live forever with the Lord. There’s meaning in every tragedy, since the resurrection gives hope for a future.”

Then his father asked the question that had floated in his memory ever since.

“What if that never happened? What if Christ simply died, dust to dust?”

Indeed, what if?

“Think of all the millions who were slaughtered in the name of the risen Christ. During the Albigensian Crusade alone fifteen thousand men, women, and children were burned to death for simply denying the teachings of the crucifixion. The Inquisition murdered millions more. The Holy Land Crusades cost hundreds of thousands of lives. All for the so-called risen Christ. Popes for centuries have used Christ’s sacrifice as a way to motivate warriors. If the resurrection never happened, so there’s no promise of an afterlife, how many of those men do you think would have faced death?”

The answer was simple. Not a single one.

What if the resurrection had never happened?

Mark had just spent five years searching for an answer to that question within an Order the world thought eradicated seven hundred years ago. Yet he’d come away as perplexed as when he was first brought to the abbey.

What had been gained?

More important, what had been lost?

He shook the confusion from his mind and refocused on his father’s tombstone. He’d commissioned the slab and watched while it had been laid in place one dreary May afternoon. His father had been found a week earlier, hanging from a bridge half an hour to the south of Rennes. Mark had been at home in Toulouse when the call came from the police. He remembered his father’s face when he identified the body—the ashen skin, a gaping mouth, dead eyes. A grotesque image he feared would never leave him.

His mother had returned to Georgia right after the funeral. They’d spoken little during the three days she was in France. He was twenty-seven years old, just starting at the university in Toulouse as a graduate assistant, ill prepared for life. But he wondered now, eleven years later, if he was any more prepared. Yesterday he would have killed Raymond de Roquefort. What happened to all that he’d been taught? Where was the discipline he thought he’d acquired? De Roquefort’s failings were easy to understand—a false sense of duty powered by ego—but his own weaknesses were perplexing. In the span of three days, he’d gone from seneschal to fugitive. From security to chaos. From purpose to wandering.

And for what?

He felt the press of the gun beneath his jacket. The reassurance it offered was troubling—just one more new and strange sensation that brought him comfort.

He stepped from his father’s grave and crept across to Ernst Scoville’s resting place. He’d known the reclusive Belgian and had liked him. The master had apparently known of him, too, since he’d sent Scoville a letter only last week. What had de Roquefort said yesterday about the two mailings? I’ve tended to one of the receivers.Apparently so. But what else had he said? And will shortly tend to the other. His mother was in danger. They all were. But there was little that could be done. Go to the police? No one would believe them. The abbey was well respected, and not a single brother would speak out against the Order. All that would be found was a quiet monastery devoted to God. Plans existed for the secretion of all things related to the brotherhood, and not one of the men inside the abbey would fail.

Of that he was sure.

No, they were on their own.

MALONE WAITED IN THECALVARY GARDEN FORMARK TO RETURNfrom the cemetery. He’d not wanted to intrude on something so personal since he fully understood the unsettling emotions the man was surely experiencing. He was only ten when his father died, but the sorrow he’d felt at knowing that he would never see his dad again had never faded. Unlike with Mark, there was no cemetery for him to visit. His father’s grave had been at the bottom of the North Atlantic inside the crushed hulk of a sunken submarine. He’d tried once to find out the details of what happened, but the entire incident remained classified.

His father had loved the Navy and the United States—he’d been a patriot who willingly gave his life for his country. And that realization always made Malone proud. Mark Nelle had been lucky. He’d shared many years with his father. They’d grown to know one another and shared life. But in a lot of ways he and Mark were similar. Both of their dads had been committed to their work. Both were gone. Neither death possessed a good explanation.

He stood by the Calvary and watched as more visitors streamed in and out of the cemetery. Finally, he spotted Mark following a Japanese group out through the gate.

“That was tough,” Mark said as he approached. “I miss him.”

He decided to pick up where they’d left off. “You and your mother are going to have to come to terms.”

“There’s a lot of bad feelings there, and seeing his grave just brought them into focus again.”

“She has a heart. It’s encased in iron, I know, but it’s still there.”

Mark smiled. “Appears you know her.”

“I’ve had some experience.”

“At the moment, we need to concentrate on whatever the master has concocted.”

“You two dodge the issue well.”

Mark smiled again. “Comes with the genes.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty. I need to head out. I want to pay a visit to Cassiopeia Vitt before nightfall.”

“I’ll draw you a map. It’s not a long drive from here.”

They left the Calvary garden and turned toward the main rue. A hundred feet away Malone spotted a short, rugged-looking man, hands stuffed into the pockets of a leather jacket, marching straight for the church.

He grabbed Mark’s shoulder. “We’ve got company.”

Mark followed his gaze and saw de Roquefort, too.

Malone quickly assessed their options as he spotted three more short-hairs. Two stood ahead at the Villa Béthanie. Another blocked the alley that led up to the car park.

“Any suggestions?” Malone said.