by Steve Berry
"So how did those three words manage to survive?"
"They barely have."
"Just enough," he said, thinking maybe Bigou had made sure.
He thought again of Marie de Blanchefort's gravestone. The double-sided arrow and PRAE-CUM. Pray to come. He stared at the floor and the seven-nine arrangement. "Pews would have once been in here, right?"
"Sure. Wooden. Long gone."
"If Sauniere learned the solution to the cryptogram from Gelis or solved it himself--"
"The marshal said in his report that Gelis didn't trust Sauniere."
Malone shook his head. "Could be more misdirection by the marshal. Sauniere clearly deduced something, unbeknownst to the marshal. So let's assume he found the Great Devise. From everything we know, Sauniere returned to it many times. You were telling me back in Rennes about how he and his mistress would leave town, then return with rocks for the grotto he was building. He could have come here to make a withdrawal from his private bank."
"In Sauniere's day, that trip would have been easy by rail."
"So he would have needed to be able to access the cache, while at the same time keeping the location secret."
He stared up again at the carving. PRIER EN VENIR. Pray to come.
Then he knelt.
"Makes sense, but what do you see from there that I don't from here?" Mark asked.
His gaze searched the church. Nothing was left inside save the altar, twenty feet away. The stone top was about three inches thick, supported by a rectangular support fashioned from granite blocks. He counted the blocks in one horizontal row. Nine. Then he counted the number vertically. Seven. He shone the flashlight beam onto the lichen-infested stones. Thick wavy lines of mortar were still there. He traced several of the paths with the light, then brought the beam up toward the underside of the granite top.
And saw it.
Now he knew.
He smiled.
Pray to come.
Clever.
DE ROQUEFORT WAS NOT LISTENING TO THE TREASURER'S PRATTLE. Something about the abbey's budget and overages. The abbey was funded with an endowment that totaled in the millions of euros, funds long ago acquired and religiously maintained so as to ensure that the Order would never suffer financially. The abbey was nearly self-supporting. Its fields, farms, and bakery produced the majority of its needs. Its winery and dairy generated much of their drink. And water was in such abundance that it was piped down to the valley, where it was bottled and sold all across France. Of course, a lot of what was needed to supplement meals and maintenance had to be purchased. But income from wine and water sales, along with visitors' fees, more than provided the necessary sources. So what was all this about overages?
"Are we in need of money?" he interrupted and asked.
"Not at all, Master."
"Then why are you bothering me?"
"The master must be informed of all monetary decisions."
The idiot was right. But he didn't want to be bothered. Still, the treasurer might be helpful. "Have you studied our financial history?"
The question seem to catch the man off guard. "Of course, Master. It's required of all who become treasurer. I'm presently teaching those below me."
"At the time of the Purge, what was our wealth?"
"Incalculable. The Order held over nine thousand land estates, and it's impossible to value that acreage."
"Our liquid wealth?"
"Again, hard to say. There would have been gold dinars, Byzantine coins, gold florins, drachmas, marks, along with unminted silver and gold. De Molay came to France in 1306 with twelve pack horses loaded with unminted silver, which was never accounted for. Then there is the matter of the items we held for safekeeping."
He knew what the man was referring to. The Order had pioneered the concept of safe depositories, holding wills and precious documents for men of means, along with jewels and other personal items. Its reputation for trustworthiness had been impeccable, which allowed the service to flourish throughout Christendom--all, of course, at a fee.
"The items being held," the treasurer said, "were lost at the Purge. The inventories were with our archives, which disappeared, too. So there's no way to even estimate what was being held. But it's safe to say that the total wealth would be in the billions of euros today."
He knew about hay carts hauled south by four chosen brothers and their leader, Gilbert de Blanchefort, who'd been instructed first to tell no one of his hiding place, and second to assure that what he knew was passed to others in an appropriate manner. De Blanchefort performed his job well. Seven hundred years had passed, and still the location was a secret.
What was so precious that Jacques de Molay ordered its secretion with such elaborate precautions?
He'd wondered about the answer to that inquiry for thirty years.
The phone in his cassock vibrated, which startled him.
Finally.
"What is it, Master?" the treasurer asked.
He caught hold of himself. "Leave me, now."
The man stood from the table, bowed, then withdrew. De Roquefort flipped open the phone and said, "I hope this is not a waste of my time."
"How can the truth ever be a waste of time?"
He instantly recognized the voice.
Geoffrey.
"And why would I believe a word you say?" he asked.
"Because you're my master."
"Your loyalty was to my predecessor."
"While he breathed, that's true. But after his death, my oath to the brotherhood commands that I be loyal to whoever wears the white cassock--"
"Even if you don't care for that man."
"I believe you did the same for many years."
"And assaulting your master is part of your loyalty?" He'd not forgotten the slap to the temple from a gun butt before Geoffrey and Mark Nelle escaped the abbey.
"A necessary demonstration for the seneschal's benefit."
"Where did you obtain this phone?"
"The former master gave it to me. It was to be of use during our excursion beyond the walls. But I decided on a different use."
"You and the master planned well."
"It was important to him that we succeed. That's why he sent the journal to Stephanie Nelle. To involve her."
"That journal is worthless."
"So I am told. But that was new information to me. I only learned yesterday."
He asked what he wanted to know. "Have they solved the cryptogram? The one in the marshal's report?"
"Indeed, they have."
"So tell me, brother. Where are you?"
"St. Agulous. At the ruined abbey just to the north of the village. Not far from you."
"And our Great Devise is there?"
"This is where all clues lead. They are, at this moment, working to locate the hiding place. I was sent to Elne for supplies."
He was beginning to believe the man on the other end of the phone. But he wondered if that was from desperation or good judgment. "Brother, I'll kill you if this is a lie."
"I don't doubt that declaration. You've killed before."
He knew he shouldn't, but he had to ask, "And who have I killed?"
"Surely you were responsible for Ernst Scoville's death. Lars Nelle? That's more difficult to determine, at least from what the former master told me."
He wanted to probe further but knew that any interest he showed would be nothing but a tacit admission, so he simply said, "You are a dreamer, brother."
"I've been called worse."
"What's your motive?"
"I want to be a knight. You're the one who makes that determination. In the chapel, a few nights ago, when you arrested the seneschal, you made clear that that wasn't going to happen. I determined then that I'd be taking a different course--one the former master would not like. So I went along. Learned what I could. And waited until I could offer what you really want. In return, I seek only forgiveness."
"If what you say is true, you shall have it."
"I'll be returning to the ruin shortly. They plan to camp there through the night. You've already seen how resourceful they are, both individually and collectively. Though I'd never presume to substitute my judgment for yours, I'd recommend decisive action."
"I assure you, brother, my response will be most decisive."
MALONE STOOD AND MARCHED TOWARD THE ALTAR. IN THE BEAM of his flashlight he'd noticed that there was no mortar joint beneath the top slab. The seven-nine arrangement of the support stones had drawn his attention, and kneeling had allowed him to see the crack.
At the altar he bent down and shone the light closer. "This top is not attached."
"I wouldn't expect it to be," Mark said. "Gravity held them in place. Look at it. The thing's what? Three inches thick and six feet long?"
"Bigou hid his cryptogram in the altar column in Rennes. I wondered why he chose that particular hiding place. Unique, wouldn't you say? To get to it, he had to lift the slab enough to free the locking pin, then slide the glass vial into the niche. Shift the top back and you have a great hiding place. But there's more to it. Bigou was sending a message by that selection." He set the flashlight down. "We need to move this."
Mark walked to one end and Malone positioned himself at the other. Grasping each side with his hands, he tested to see if the stone would move.
It did, ever so slightly.
"You're right," he said. "It's just sitting there. I don't see any reason for niceties. Shove it off."
Together, they waddled the stone left and right, then worked it enough so that gravity allowed it to crash to the floor.
Malone stared into the rectangular opening they'd exposed and saw loosely packed stones.
"The thing is full of rocks," Mark said.
Malone smiled. "Sure is. Let's get 'em out."
"For what?"
"If you were Sauniere and didn't want anyone to follow your tracks, that stone top is a good deterrent. But these rocks would be even better. Like you told me yesterday. We need to think like folks thought a hundred years ago. Look around. Nobody would have come here looking for treasure. This was nothing but a ruin. And who would have disassembled this altar? The thing has been standing here for centuries unmolested. But if someone did do all that, why not another layer of defense."
The rectangular support stood about three feet off the floor, and they quickly tossed the stones aside. Ten minutes later the support was empty. Dirt filled the bottom.
Malone hopped inside and thought he detected a gentle vibration. He bent down and probed with his fingers. The parched soil possessed the consistency of desert sand. Mark shone the light while he scooped the earth away with a cupped hand. Six inches deep he hit something. With both hands he cleared away a foot-wide crater and saw wooden planks.
He looked up and grinned. "Ain't it nice to be right."
DE ROQUEFORT STORMED INTO THE ROOM AND FACED HIS COUNCIL. He'd hastily ordered an assemblage of the Order's officers after finishing his telephone conversation with Geoffrey.
"The Great Devise has been found," he said.
Astonishment crossed the assembled faces.
"The former seneschal and his allies have located the hiding place. I have a brother embedded with them as a spy. He's reported their success. It's time to reclaim our heritage."
"What do you propose?" one of them asked.
"We shall take a contingent of knights and seize them."
"More bloodshed?" the chaplain asked.
"Not if the action is handled with care."
The chaplain seemed unimpressed. "The former seneschal and Geoffrey, who apparently is your ally since we know of no other brother in league with them, have already shot two brothers. There's no reason to suggest that they would not shoot more."
He'd heard enough. "Chaplain, this is not a matter of faith. Your guidance is not needed."
"The safety of the members of this Order is all our responsibility."
"And you dare to say that I don't have the safety of this Order in mind?" He allowed his voice to rise. "Do you question my authority? Are you challenging my decision? Tell me, Chaplain, I want to know."
If the Venetian was intimidated, nothing in his countenance betrayed fear. Instead, the man simply said, "You're my master. I owe you allegiance . . . no matter what."
He did not like the insolent tone.
"But, Master," the chaplain continued, "was it not you who said that we should all be a part of decisions of this magnitude?" A few of the other officers nodded. "Did you not tell the brotherhood in conclave that you would chart a new course?"
"Chaplain, we are about to embark on the greatest mission this Order has undertaken in centuries. I have not the time to debate with you."
"I thought giving praise to our Lord and God was our greatest mission. And that is a matter of faith, to which I am qualified to speak."
He'd had enough. "You are dismissed."
The chaplain did not move. None of the others said a word.
"If you do not leave immediately, I'll have you seized and brought before me later for punishment." He paused a moment. "Which will not be pleasant."
The chaplain stood and tipped his head. "I will go. As you command."
"And we shall talk later, I assure you."
He waited until the chaplain left then said to the others, "We have searched for our Great Devise a long time. It's now within our grasp. What that repository contains does not belong to anyone but us. Our heritage is there. I, for one, intend to claim what is ours. Twelve knights will assist me. I will leave it to you to select those men. Have your choices fully armed and assembled in the gymnasium in one hour."
MALONE CALLED OUT FOR STEPHANIE AND CASSIOPEIA AND TOLD them to bring the shovel they'd off-loaded from Cassiopeia's Rover. They appeared with Henrik, and as they entered the church, Malone explained what he and Mark had found.
"Pretty smart," Cassiopeia said to him.
"I have my moments."
"We need to get the rest of that dirt out of there," Stephanie said.
"Hand me the shovel."
He bailed out the loose soil. A few minutes later three blackened wooden planks were revealed. Half were bound together with metal straps. The other half formed a hinged door that opened upward.
He bent down and lightly caressed the metal. "The iron's corroded. These hinges are gone. A hundred years of exposure has worked on them." He stood and used the shovel to chip away their remnants.
"What do you mean, a hundred years?" Stephanie asked.
"Sauniere built that door," Cassiopeia said. "The wood is in fairly good shape, certainly not centuries old. And it appears to have been planed to a smooth finish, which is not something you would see in medieval lumber. Sauniere had to have an easy way in and out. So when he found this entrance, he rebuilt the door."
"I agree," Malone said. "Which explains how he handled that heavy stone top. He just slid it halfway off, took out the rocks over the door, climbed down, then put everything back when he was through. From everything I've heard about him, he was in good shape. Damn clever, too."
He wedged the shovel into the gap at the door's edge and fulcrumed the door upward. Mark reached in and grabbed hold. Malone tossed the shovel aside and together they freed the hatch from its frame, exposing a gaping orifice.
Thorvaldsen stared into the void. "Amazing. This might actually be the place."
Stephanie shone a flashlight into the opening. A ladder stood against one of the stone walls. "What do you think? Will it hold?"
"One way to find out."
Malone extended a leg and gently applied weight to the first rung. The ladder was fashioned out of thick lumber, which he hoped was still bound with nails. He could see a few rusted heads. He pressed harder, holding on to the top of the altar support just in case something gave way. But the rung held. He placed his other foot on the ladder and tested more.
"I think it'll hold."
"I'm lighter," Cassiopeia said. "I'd be g
lad to go first."
He smiled. "If you don't mind, I'd like the honor."
"You see, I was right," she said. "You do want this."
Yes, he did. What lay below was beckoning him, like the search for rare books through obscure shelves. You never knew what might be found.
Still gripping the edge of the altar support, he lowered himself to the second rung. They were about eighteen inches apart. He quickly transferred his hands to the top of the ladder and descended one more rung.
"Feels okay," he said.
He kept heading down, careful to test each rung. Above him, Stephanie and Cassiopeia were searching the darkness with their lights. In the halo of their combined beams he saw that he'd come to the bottom of the ladder. The ground was the next step. Everything was covered with a fine gravel and stones the size of fists and skulls.
"Toss me a flashlight," he said.
Thorvaldsen dropped one of the torches to him. He caught it and focused the beam around him. The ladder rose about fifteen feet from floor to ceiling. He saw that the exit stood in the center of a natural corridor, one that millions of years of rain and melting snow had forged through the limestone. He knew the Pyrenees were riddled with caves and tunnels.
"Why don't you jump off?" Cassiopeia asked.
"It's too easy." He was alert to a chill that had settled in the hollow of his back, one that did not come solely from the cold air. "I'm going to swing around to the back side of the ladder. Drop one of those stones straight down." He positioned himself out of the way.
"You clear?" Stephanie asked.
"Fire away."
The rock plunged through the opening. He followed its path and watched as it struck the ground, then kept going.
Light beams probed the impact site.
"You were right," Cassiopeia said. "That hole was just under the surface, ready for someone to leap off the ladder."
"Drop some more rocks around it and find solid ground."
Four more rained down and thudded onto hard earth. He knew where to leap, so he dropped off the ladder and used the flashlight to examine the booby trap. The cavity was about three feet square and at least three feet deep. He reached inside and retrieved some of the wood that had been laid loosely across the top. The edges were tongue-and-grooved, the boards thin enough to shatter away at the weight of a man, but thick enough to shoulder a layer of silt and gravel. At the bottom of the hole were metal pyramids, sharpened to a point, wide at the base, waiting to snare an unsuspecting intruder. Time had dulled their patina, but not their effectiveness.
