The Templar Legacy

by Steve Berry

  "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-Chateau. 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 chateau stands nearby and she personally oversees the rebuilding project, calling herself l'Ingenieur. 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 Sauniere 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 Gravees 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 abbe 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-Chateau. That information was later found by Sauniere, 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 Sauniere."

  "We're all ears."

  "When Sauniere 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 Noel Corbu. The mistress died six years later. The so-called tale of Sauniere, about his great treasure find, first appeared in print in 1956. A local newspaper, La Depeche 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. Sauniere 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 Sauniere's story a lie?"

  Claridon nodded. "The modern rendition is mainly false. Most of the books written also link Sauniere to the paintings of Nicolas Poussin, particularly The Shepherds of Arcadia. Supposedly, Sauniere 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 Sauniere."

  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 Noel Corbu one of Sauniere'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 building
s 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-Chateau. 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."

  ABBEY DES FONTAINES

  2:05 PM

  DE ROQUEFORT OPENED HIS EYES. THE SIDE OF HIS HEAD pounded and he swore that brother Geoffrey would pay for his assault. He pushed himself up from the floor and tried to clear the fog. He heard frantic cries from outside the door. He dabbed the side of his head with his sleeve and the cassock came away stained with blood. He stepped into the bathroom and doused a rag with water, cleaning the wound.