by Steve Berry
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. "Sauniere's mistress is buried there."
Malone knew about the mistress from Lars's books. She was sixteen years Sauniere's junior, a mere eighteen when she quit her job as a hatmaker and became the abbe's housekeeper. She stayed by his side for thirty-one years, until his death in 1917. Everything Sauniere 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 Sauniere 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 Sauniere, 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 Bethanie in 1946 to a man named Noel 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 Sauniere'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.
"Sauniere 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. Sauniere 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 BERENGER SAUNIERE
PARISH PRIEST OF RENNES-LE-CHATEAU
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 Sauniere 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 abbe Sauniere 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, ten
s 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-Chateau," 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-CHATEAU
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 Sauniere'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 Sauniere again?"
She nodded.
"Help me understand."
"I actually need help with that, too. But I can tell you more of what I know about Berenger Sauniere."
"I cannot leave a parish where my interests keep me," Sauniere told the bishop as he stood before the older man in the episcopal palace at Carcassonne, twenty miles north of Rennes-le-Chateau.
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 y
our 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."
Sauniere 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."
Sauniere 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 Bethanie 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?"
