by Steve Berry
“So why are you here now?” Stephanie asked.
“A long time has passed.” Claridon stepped from the table. “Around us are the palace inventories. It will take me a few minutes to look. Why don’t you sit and let me see if I can find what we want.” He produced a flashlight from his pocket. “From the asylum. I thought we may need it.”
Malone slid out a chair, as did Stephanie. Claridon disappeared into the darkness. They sat and he could hear rummaging, the flashlight beam dancing across the vault overhead.
“This is what my husband did,” she said in a whisper. “Hiding out in a forgotten palace, looking for nonsense.”
He caught the edge in her voice.
“While our marriage slipped away. While I worked twenty hours a day. This was what he did.”
A peal of thunder sent tremors through both him and the room.
“It was important to him,” Malone said, keeping his voice low, too. “And there might even be something to it.”
“Like what, Cotton. Treasure? If Saunière discovered those jewels in the crypt, okay. Luck like that visits people every once in a while. But there’s nothing more. Bigou, Saunière, Lars, Mark, Claridon. They’re all dreamers.”
“Dreamers have many times changed the world.”
“This is a wild goose chase for a goose that doesn’t exist.”
Claridon returned from the darkness and dropped a musty folder on the table. Water stains smeared its outside. Inside was a three-inch stack of black-and-white photographs and pencil drawings. “Within a few feet of where Mark said. Thank heaven the old men who run this place change little about it over time.”
“How did Mark find it?’ Stephanie asked.
“He would hunt for clues on the weekends. He wasn’t as dedicated as his father, but he came to the house in Rennes often and he and I dabbled in the search. At the university in Toulouse he came across some information on the Avignon archives. He linked the clues together and here we have the answer.”
Malone spread the contents out across the table. “What are we looking for?”
“I’ve never seen the painting. We can only hope it’s identified.”
They started sifting through the images.
“There,” Claridon said, excitement in his voice.
Malone focused on one of the lithographs, a black-and-white drawing time-tinged, edges frayed. A handwritten notation across the top read DON MIGUEL DE MAÑARA READING THE RULES OF THE CARIDAD.
The image was of an older man, with the dusting of a beard and a thin mustache, seated at a table, wearing a religious habit. An elaborate emblem was stitched to one sleeve from elbow to shoulder. His left hand touched a book propped upright and his right hand was extended, palm-up, motioning across an elaborately clothed desk to a little man in a monk’s robe perched on a low stool with fingers to his lips, signaling quiet. An open book lay in the little man’s lap. The floor, which extended from one side to the other, was a checkerboard arrangement, like a chessboard, and writing appeared on the stool where the little man sat.
ACABOCE Aº
DE 1687
“Most curious,” Claridon muttered. “Look here.”
Malone followed Claridon’s finger and studied the top left portion of the picture where, in the shadows behind the little man, a table and shelf stood. On top lay a human skull.
“What does all this mean?” Malone asked Claridon.
“Caridad translates to ‘charity,’ which can also be love. The black habit the man at the table wears is from the Order of the Knights of Calatrava, a Spanish religious society devoted to Jesus Christ. I can tell from the design on the sleeve. Acaboce is ‘completion.’ The Aº could be a reference to alpha and omega, the first and last letters in the Greek alphabet—the beginning and end. The skull? I have no idea.”
Malone recalled what Bigou supposedly wrote in the Rennes parish register just before he fled France for Spain. Read the Rules of the Caridad. “What rules are we to read?”
Claridon studied the drawing in the weak light. “Notice something about the little man on the stool. See his shoes. His feet are planted on black squares in the flooring, diagonal to one another.”
“The floor resembles a chessboard,” Stephanie said.
“And the bishop moves diagonally, as the feet indicate.”
“So the little man is a bishop?” Stephanie asked.
“No,” Malone said, understanding. “In French chess, the bishop is the Fool.”
“You are a student of the game?” Claridon asked.
“I’ve played some.”
Claridon rested his finger atop the little man on the stool. “Here is the Wise Fool who apparently has a secret that deals with alpha and omega.”
Malone understood. “Christ has been called that.”
“Oui. And when you add acaboce you have ‘completion of alpha and omega.’ Completion of Christ.”
“But what does that mean?” Stephanie asked.
“Madame, might I see Stüblein’s book?”
She found the volume and handed it to Claridon. “Let’s look at the gravestone again. This and the painting are related. Remember, it was the abbè Bigou who left both clues.” He laid the book flat on the table.
“You have to know the history to understand this gravestone. The d’Hautpoul family dates back to twelfth-century France. Marie married François d’Hautpoul, the last lord, in 1732. One of the d’Hautpoul ancestors penned a will in 1644, which he duly registered and placed with a notary in Espéraza. When that ancestor died, though, that will was not to be found. Then, more than a hundred years after his death, the lost will suddenly reappeared. When François d’Hautpoul went to get it, he was told by the notary that it would not be wise for me to part with a document of such great importance. François died in 1753, and in 1780 the will was finally given to his widow, Marie. Why? No one knows. Perhaps because she was, by then, the only d’Hautpoul left. But she died a year later and it’s said she passed the will, and whatever information it contained, to the abbé Bigou as part of the great family secret.”
“And that was what Saunière found in the crypt? Along with the gold coins and the jewels?”
Claridon nodded. “But the crypt was concealed. So Lars always believed the false grave of Marie in the cemetery held the actual clue. Bigou must have felt that the secret he knew was too great not to pass on. He was fleeing the country, never to return, so he left a puzzle that pointed the way. In the car, when you first showed me this gravestone drawing, many things occurred to me.” He reached for a blank pad and pen that lay on the table. “Now I know this carving is full of information.”
Malone studied the letters and symbols on the gravestones.
“The stone on the right lay flat on Marie’s grave and does not contain the sort of inscription normally found on graves. Its left side is written in Latin.” Claridon wrote ET IN PAX on the pad. “This translates to ‘and in peace,’ but it has problems. Pax is the nominative case of peace and is grammatically incorrect after the preposition in. The right-hand column is written in Greek and is gibberish. But I’ve been thinking about that, and the solution finally came to me. The inscription is actually all Latin, written in the Greek alphabet. When you translate into Roman, the E, T, I, N, and A are fine. But the P is an R, the X becomes a K, and—”
Claridon scribbled on the pad, then wrote his completed translation across the bottom.
ET IN ARCADIA EGO
“And in Arcadia I,” Malone said, translating the Latin. “That makes no sense.”
“Precisely,” Claridon noted. “Which would lead one to conclude that the words are concealing something else.”
Malone understood. “An anagram?”
“Quite common in Bigou’s time. After all, it’s doubtful Bigou would have left a message that easy to decipher.”
“What about the words in the center?”
Claridon jotted them onto the pad.
REDDIS RÉGIS CÉLLIS ARCIS
/> “Reddis means ‘to give back, to restore something previously taken.’ But it’s also Latin for ‘Rennes.’ Regis derives from rex, which is ‘king.’ Cella refers to a storeroom. Arcis stems from arx—a stronghold, fortress, citadel. A lot can be made of each, but together they make no sense. Then there’s the arrow that connects p-s at the top with præ-cum. I have no idea what the p-s means. The præ-cum translates as ‘pray to come.’ ”
“What is that symbol at the bottom?” Stephanie asked. “Looks like an octopus.”
Claridon shook his head. “A spider, madame. But its significance escapes me.”
“What about the other stone?” Malone asked.
“The left one stood upright over the grave and was the most visible. Remember, Bigou served Marie d’Hautpoul for many years. He was extraordinarily loyal to her and took two years to produce this headstone, yet almost every line in it contains an error. Masons of that day were prone to mistakes, but this many? No way the abbé would have allowed them to remain.”
“So the errors are part of the message?” Malone asked.
“It would seem. Look here. Her name is wrong. She was not Marie de Negre d’Arles dame d’Haupoul. She was Marie de Negri d’Ables d’Hautpoul. Many of the other words are also truncated. Letters are raised and dropped for no reason. But look at the date.”
Malone studied the Roman numerals.
MDCOLXXXI
“Supposedly her date of death. 1681. And that’s discounting the O, since there is no zero in the Roman numeral system, and no number was denoted by the letter O. Yet here it is. And Marie died in 1781, not 1681. Is the O there to make clear that Bigou knew the date was wrong? And her age is wrong, too. She was sixty-eight, not sixty-seven, as noted, when she died.”
Malone pointed to the sketch of the right stone and the Roman numerals in the bottom corner. LIXLIXL. “Fifty. Nine. Fifty. Nine. Fifty.”
“Most peculiar,” Claridon said.
Malone glanced back at the lithograph. “I don’t see where this painting figures in?”
“It’s a puzzle, monsieur. One that has no easy solution.”
“But the answer is something I’d like to know,” a deep male voice said, out of the darkness.
MALONE HAD BEEN EXPECTING CONTACT FROM THE WOMAN, BUT this voice was not hers. He reached for his gun.
“Stand still, Mr. Malone. Weapons are trained on you.”
“It’s the man from the cathedral,” Stephanie said.
“I told you we’d meet again. And you, monsieur Claridon. You weren’t that convincing in the asylum. Insane? Hardly.”
Malone searched the darkness. The sheer size of the chamber produced a confusion of noise. But he spotted human forms standing above them, before the upper row of shelving at the wooden railing.
He counted four.
“I am, though, impressed by your knowledge, monsieur Claridon. Your deductions about the headstone seem logical. I always believed there was much to be learned from that marker. I, too, have been here before, rummaging through these shelves. Such a difficult endeavor. So much to explore. I do appreciate you narrowing the search. Reading the Rules of Caridad. Who would have thought?”
Claridon made the sign of the cross and Malone spotted fear in the man’s eyes. “May God protect us.”
“Come now, monsieur Claridon,” the disembodied voice said. “Do we need to involve heaven?”
“You are His warriors.” Claridon’s voice trembled.
“And what brings you to that conclusion?”
“Who else could you be?”
“Perhaps we are the police? No. You wouldn’t believe that. Maybe we’re adventurers—searchers—like you. But no. So, let’s say for the sake of simplicity that we are His warriors. How can you three aid our cause?”
No one answered him.
“Ms. Nelle possesses her husband’s journal and the book from the auction. She’ll contribute those.”
“Screw you,” she spat out.
A pop, like a balloon bursting, sounded over the rain and a bullet careened off the table a few inches from Stephanie.
“Bad answer,” the voice said.
“Give them to him,” Malone said.
Stephanie glared at him.
“He’ll shoot you next.”
“How did you know?” the voice asked.
“That’s what I’d do.”
A chuckle. “I like you, Mr. Malone. You’re a professional.”
Stephanie reached into her shoulder bag and removed the book and journal.
“Toss them toward the door, between the shelves,” the voice said.
She did as instructed.
A form appeared and retrieved them.
Malone silently added one more man to the list. At least five were now in the archive. He felt the gun wedged at his waist beneath his jacket. Unfortunately, there was no way to retrieve it before at least one of them was shot. And only three bullets remained in the magazine.
“Your husband, Ms. Nelle, managed to piece together many of the facts, and his deductions as to missing elements were generally correct. He was a remarkable intellect.”
“What is it you’re after?” Malone asked. “I only joined this party a couple of days ago.”
“We seek justice, Mr. Malone.”
“And it’s necessary to run down an old man in Rennes-le-Château to achieve justice?” He thought he’d jostle the barrel and see what spilled out.
“And who would that be?”
“Ernst Scoville. He worked with Lars Nelle. Surely you knew of him?”
“Mr. Malone, perhaps a year of retirement has dulled your skills. I’d hope that you were better at interrogating when you were working full time.”
“Since you have the journal and the notebook, don’t you have to be going?”
“I need that lithograph. Monsieur Claridon, please be so kind as to take it to my associate, there, beyond the table.”
Claridon clearly did not want to do it.
Another slap from a sound-suppressed weapon and a bullet thudded into the tabletop. “I hate repeating myself.”
Malone lifted the drawing and handed it to Claridon. “Do it.”
The sheet was accepted in a hand that trembled. Claridon took a few steps beyond the spill of the weak lamp. Thunder pounded the air and rattled the walls. Rain continued to burst forth with fury.
Then a new noise erupted.
Gunfire.
And the lamp exploded in a burst of sparks.
DE ROQUEFORT HEARD THE GUNSHOT AND SAW THE MUZZLE flash from near the archive’s exit. Damn. Somebody else was here.
The room was plunged into darkness.
“Move,” he screamed to his men on the second-floor catwalk, and he hoped they knew what to do.
MALONE REALIZED SOMEBODY HAD SHOT OUT THE LIGHT. THE woman. She’d found another way in.
As darkness overtook them, he grabbed Stephanie and they dropped to the floor. He was hoping the men above him had been likewise caught off guard.
He brought out the gun from beneath his jacket.
Two more shots exploded from below, and the bullets sent the men above scurrying. Footsteps pounded on the wooden platform. He was more concerned about the man on the ground floor, but he’d heard nothing from the direction where he’d last seen him, nor had he heard anything from Claridon.
The running stopped.
“Whoever you are,” the man’s voice said, “must you interfere?”
“I could ask you the same question,” the woman said in a languid tone.
“This is not your business.”
“I disagree.”
“You assaulted two of my brothers in Copenhagen.”
“Let’s say I ended your attack.”
“There will be retribution.”
“Come and get me.”
“Stop her,” the man yelled.
Black shapes rushed across overhead. Malone’s eyes had adjusted and he made out a staircase at the far end of the catwal
k.
He handed Stephanie the gun. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To repay a favor.”
He crouched down and hustled forward, weaving through the shelves. He waited, then tackled one of the men as he leaped from the last tread. The size and shape of the man was reminiscent of Red Jacket, but this time Malone was ready. He brought a knee into the man’s stomach, then pounded a fist to the back of the neck.
The man went still.
Malone surveyed the darkness and heard running a few aisles over.
“No. Please leave me be.”
Claridon.
DE ROQUEFORT HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOR THAT LED OUT of the archives. He’d descended from the ramparts and knew the woman would want to make a hasty retreat, but her choices were limited. There was only the exit to the hall and one other, through the curator’s office. But his man stationed there had just reported through the radio that all was quiet.
He now knew she was the same person who’d interfered in Copenhagen and probably the same one from last night in Rennes-le-Château. And that realization spurred him on. He must learn her identity.
The door leading out of the archives opened, then closed. In the wedge of light that splashed in from the hall he spied two legs lying prone on the floor between the shelves. He darted over and discovered one of his subordinates unconscious, a small dart planted in the neck. This brother had been stationed on the ground floor and had retrieved the notebook, journal, and lithograph.
Which were nowhere to be seen.
Damn her.
“Do as I instructed,” he called out to his remaining men.
He raced for the door.
MALONE HEARD THE MAN’S COMMAND AND DECIDED TO HEAD back to Stephanie. He had no idea what the men had been commanded to do, but he assumed it included them and wasn’t good.
He crouched down and eased his way through the shelves, toward the table.
