by Steve Berry
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 an
swer. 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-CHTEAU
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.
