by Steve Berry
“Stephanie,” he breathed out.
“Here, Cotton.”
He slipped close to her. All he could hear now was the rain. “There must be another way out of here,” she mouthed through the darkness.
He relieved her of the gun. “Somebody left through the door. Probably the woman. I saw only one shadow. The others must have gone after Claridon and left through another exit.”
The door leading out opened again.
“That’s him leaving,” he said.
They stood and rushed back across the archives. At the exit Malone hesitated, heard and saw nothing, then led the way out.
DE ROQUEFORT SPOTTED THE WOMAN RUNNING DOWN THE LONG gallery. She whirled and, not losing a step, fired a shot his way.
He dove to the floor, and she disappeared around a corner.
He came to his feet and bolted after her. Before she’d fired, he’d caught sight of the journal and the book in her grasp.
She had to be stopped.
MALONE SAW A MAN, DRESSED IN BLACK TROUSERS AND A DARK turtleneck, gun in hand, turn a corner fifty feet away.
“This is going to get interesting,” he said.
They both ran.
DE ROQUEFORT KEPT UP HIS PURSUIT. THE WOMAN WAS CERTAINLY attempting to leave the palace, and she seemed to know the geography. Every turn she took was the right one. She’d deftly obtained what she came for, so he had to assume that her escape would not be left to chance.
Through another portal, he entered a rib-vaulted hall. The woman was already at the far end, turning a corner. He trotted over and saw a wide stone staircase leading down. The Great Staircase of Honor. Once, lined with frescoes, broken by iron gates, and sheathed with Persian runners, the stairway had lent itself to the solemn majesty of pontifical ceremonies. Now the risers and walls were bare. The darkness at the bottom, some thirty yards away, was absolute. He knew below were exit doors into a courtyard. He heard the woman’s footsteps as she descended but could not make out her form.
So he just fired.
Ten shots.
MALONE HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A HAMMER REPEATEDLY striking a nail. One sound-suppressed shot after another.
He slowed his approach to a doorway ten feet ahead.
HINGES SQUEALED AT THE BASE OF THE INK-BLACK STAIRWAY. DE Roquefort recognized the sound of a door groaning open. The storm outside grew louder. Apparently his indiscriminate shots had missed. The woman was leaving the palace. He heard footsteps behind him, then spoke into the mike clipped to his shirt.
“Do you have what I wanted?”
“We do,” was the reply through his earphone.
“I’m in the Conclave Gallery. Mr. Malone and Ms. Nelle are behind me. Handle them.”
He rushed down the staircase.
MALONE SAW THE MAN IN THE TURTLENECK LEAVE THE CAVERNOUS hall that stretched out before them. Gun in hand, he ran ahead with Stephanie following.
Three armed men materialized from other portals into the room and blocked their way.
Malone and Stephanie stopped.
“Please toss the gun aside,” one of the men said.
No way he could take them all before either he, Stephanie, or both of them went down. So he allowed the gun to clatter on the floor.
The three men approached.
“What do we do now?” Stephanie asked.
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“There’s nothing for you to do,” another of the short-hairs said.
They stood still.
“Turn around,” came the command.
He stared at Stephanie. He’d been in tight spots before, a few just like the one they were facing. Even if he managed to subdue one or two, there was still the third man, and all were armed.
A thud was followed by a cry from Stephanie and her body collapsed to the floor. Before he could move toward her, the back of Malone’s head was pounded with something hard and everything before him vanished.
DE ROQUEFORT FOLLOWED HIS QUARRY, WHO RUSHED THROUGH the Place du Palais, quickly fleeing the empty plaza and winding a path through Avignon’s deserted streets. The warm rain fell in steady sheets. The heavens suddenly opened, cleft by an immense flash of lightning that momentarily lifted the vault of darkness. Thunder shook the air.
They left buildings behind and came close to the river.
He knew, just ahead, the Pont St. Bénézet stretched out across the Rhône. Through the storm he saw the woman navigate a path straight for the bridge’s entrance. What was she doing? Why go there? No matter, he had to follow. She possessed the rest of what he’d come to retrieve, and he did not plan to leave Avignon without the book and journal. Yet he wondered what the rain was doing to the pages. His hair was matted to his scalp, his clothes pasted to his body.
He saw a flash ten meters ahead of him as the woman fired a shot into the door that led to the bridge’s entrance.
She disappeared inside the building.
He rushed to the door and carefully gazed inside. A ticket counter stood to his right. Souvenirs were displayed in more counters to the left. Three turnstiles led out onto the bridge. The incomplete span had long ago ceased being anything but a tourist attraction.
The woman was twenty meters away, running down the bridge, out onto the river.
Then she disappeared.
He rushed forward and leaped over the turnstiles, racing after her.
A Gothic chapel stood at the end of the second pylon. He knew that it was the Chapelle Saint-Nicholas. The remains of St Bénézet, who was originally responsible for the bridge being built, were once preserved there. But the relics were lost during the Revolution and only the chapel remained—Gothic on top, Romanesque below. Which was where the woman had gone. Down the stone staircase.
Another greenish bolt of lightning flashed overhead.
He shook the rain from his eyes and stopped at the top riser.
Then he saw her.
Not below, but back on top, racing toward the end of the fourth span, which would take her halfway out into the Rhône with nowhere to go, since the spans to the other side of the river had washed away three hundred years ago. She’d obviously used the stairs to dip beneath the chapel as a way to block any shot he may have wanted to take.
He dashed after her, rounding the chapel.
He didn’t want to shoot. He needed her alive. Even more important, he needed what she carried. So he sent a bullet to her left, at her feet.
She stopped and turned to face him.
He rushed forward, gun leveled.
She stood at the end of the fourth span, nothing but darkness and water behind her. A clap of thunder violated the air. Wind came in wild gusts. Rain poured across his face.
“Who are you?” he asked.
She wore a black bodysuit that matched her dark skin. She was lean and muscular, her head sheathed in a tight hood, only her face visible. She carried a gun in the left hand, a plastic shopping bag in the other. She extended the shopping back out over the edge.
“Let’s not get hasty,” she said.
“I could simply shoot you.”
“Two reasons why you won’t do that.”
“I’m listening.”
“One, the bag will drop into the river and what you really want will be lost. And two, I’m a Christian. You don’t kill Christians.”
“How do you know what I do?”
“You are a knight of the Templars, as are the others. You took an oath not to harm Christians.”
“I have no idea whether you’re a Christian.”
“So let’s stick with reason one. Shoot me, the books swim in the Rhône. The swift current will take them away.”
“Apparently we seek the same thing.”
“You’re a quick one.”
Her arm stayed extended out over the edge and he contemplated where best to shoot her, but she was right—the bag would be gone long before he could traverse the ten feet that separated them.
“Looks like we have a standoff,
” he said.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
She released her grip and the bag disappeared into the blackness. She then used his moment of surprise to raise her gun and fire, but de Roquefort pivoted left and dropped to the wet stones. When he shook the rain from his eyes, he saw the woman leap over the edge. He stood and rushed over, expecting to see the churning Rhône sweeping by, but instead below him was a stone platform, about eight feet down, part of a pylon that supported the outer arch. He saw the woman yank up the bag and disappear beneath the bridge.
He hesitated only an instant, then jumped, landing on his feet. His middle-aged ankles rattled from the impact.
An engine roared and he saw a motorboat shoot out from under the far side of the bridge and speed away, toward the north. He raised his gun to fire, but a muzzle flash signaled she was firing, too.
He lunged flat to more wet stone.
The boat dissolved out of range.
Who was that vixen? Clearly, she knew what he was, though not who he was since she’d not identified him. She also apparently understood the significance of the book and the journal. Most important, she knew his every move.
He came to his feet and stepped beneath the bridge, out of the rain, where the boat had been moored. She’d also planned a clever escape. He was about to climb back up, using an iron ladder affixed to the bridge’s exterior, when something in the darkness caught his attention.
He bent down.
A book lay on the soaked stone beneath the overpass.
He brought it close to his eyes, straining to see what the damp pages contained, and read a few of the words.
Lars Nelle’s notebook.
She’d lost it during her hasty retreat.
He smiled.
He now possessed part of the puzzle—not all, but maybe enough—and he knew precisely how to learn the rest.
MALONE OPENED HIS EYES, TESTED HIS SORE NECK, AND DETERMINED nothing seemed broken. He massaged the swollen muscles with his open palm and shook off the effects of being unconscious. He glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty PM. He’d been out about an hour.
Stephanie lay a few feet away. He crawled toward her, lifted her head, and gently shook her. She blinked her eyes and tried to focus on him.
“That hurt,” she muttered.
“Tell me about it.” He stared around the expansive hall. Outside, the rain had slackened. “We need to get out of here.”
“What about our friends?”
“If they wanted us dead, we would be. I think they’re through with us. They have the notebook, the journal, and Claridon. We’re unnecessary.” He noticed the gun lying nearby and motioned. “That’s what kind of threat they think we are.”
Stephanie rubbed her head. “This was a bad idea, Cotton. I should have never reacted after that notebook was sent to me. If I hadn’t called Ernst Scoville, he’d probably still be alive. And I should have never involved you.”
“I believe I insisted.” He slowly came to his feet. “We need to leave. At some point cleaning personnel have to come through here. And I don’t feel like answering any police questions.”
He helped Stephanie up.
“Thanks, Cotton. For everything. I appreciate all that you did.”
“You make it sound like this is over.”
“It is for me. Whatever Lars and Mark were looking for will just have to be found by somebody else. I’m going home.”
“What about Claridon?”
“What can we do? We have no idea who took him or where he might be. And what would we tell the police? The Knights Templar have kidnapped an inmate from a local asylum? Get real. I’m afraid he’s on his own.”
“We know the woman’s name,” he said. “Claridon mentioned it was Cassiopeia Vitt. He told us where she is. Givors. We could find her.”
“And do what? Thank her for saving our hides? I think she’s on her own, too, and more than capable of handling herself. Like you say, we’re not deemed important any longer.”
She was right.
“We need to go home, Cotton. There’s nothing here for either of us.”
Right again.
They found their way out of the palace and returned to the rental car. After losing the first tail outside Rennes, Malone knew they’d not been followed to Avignon, so he assumed either men were already waiting in the city, which was unlikely, or some sort of electronic surveillance had been employed. Which meant the chase and shots before he managed to send the Renault into the mud was a dog-and-pony show designed to rock him to sleep.
Which worked.
But they were no longer deemed players in whatever game was unfolding, so he decided they would head back to Rennes-le-Château and spend the night there.
The drive took nearly two hours and they passed through the village’s main gate just before two AM. A fresh wind raked the summit and the Milky Way streaked overhead as they walked from the car park. Not a light burned within the walls. The streets were still damp from yesterday’s weather.
Malone was tired. “Let’s get a little rest and we’ll leave out around noontime. I’m sure there’s a flight you can catch from Paris to Atlanta.”
At the door, Stephanie opened the lock. Inside, Malone flipped on a lamp in the den and immediately noticed a rucksack tossed into a chair that neither he nor Stephanie had brought.
He reached for the gun at his belt.
Movement from the bedroom caught his eye. A man appeared in the doorway and leveled a Glock at him.
Malone brought his weapon up. “Who the hell are you?”
The man was young, maybe early thirties, with the same short hair and stocky build that he’d seen in abundance over the past few days. The face, though handsome, was set for combat—the eyes like black marbles—and he handled the weapon with assurance. But Malone sensed a hesitancy, as if the other man was unsure of friend or foe.
“I asked who you are.”
“Lower the gun, Geoffrey,” came a voice from inside the bedroom.
“Are you sure?”
“Please.”
The weapon came down. Malone lowered his, too.
Another man stepped from the shadows.
He was long-limbed and squarely built with close-cropped auburn hair. He, too, held a pistol and it took Malone only an instant to register the familiar cleft, swarthy skin, and gentle eyes from the photo that still angled on the table to his left.
He heard the breath leave Stephanie.
“My God in heaven,” she whispered.
He was shocked, too.
Standing before him was Mark Nelle.
STEPHANIE’S BODY SHOOK. HER HEART POUNDED. FOR A MOMENT she had to tell herself to breathe.
Her only child was standing across the room.
She wanted to rush to him, to tell him how sorry she was for all their differences, how glad she was to see him. But her muscles would not respond.
“Mother,” Mark said. “Your son is back from the grave.”
She caught the coolness in his tone and instantly sensed that his heart was still hard. “Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story.”
No shade of compassion tempered his stare. She waited for him to explain, but he said nothing.
Malone came toward her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and broke the awkward pause. “Why don’t you sit.”
She felt disconnected from her life, a jumble of confusion violating her thoughts, and she was having a hard time settling her anxiety. But dammit, she was the head of one of the most highly specialized units within the U.S. government. She dealt with crises on a daily basis. True, none was as personal as the one now facing her from across the room, but if Mark wanted their first reception to be a chilly one, then so be it, she’d not give any of them the satisfaction of thinking emotion ruled her.
So she sat and said, “Okay, Mark. Tell us your long story.”
Mark Nelle opened his eyes. He was no longer eight thousand feet high in the French Pyrénées,
wearing spike shoes and carrying a pick, hiking a rough trail in search of Bérenger Saunière’s cache. He was inside a room of stone and wood with a blackened beamed ceiling. The man standing over him was tall and gaunt with gray fuzz for hair and a silver beard as thick as fleece. The man’s eyes were a peculiar shade of violet that he could not recall ever having seen before.
“Careful,” the man said in English. “You’re still weak.”
“Where am I?”
“A place that has been for centuries one of safety.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Abbey des Fontaines.”
“That’s miles from where I was.”
“Two of my subordinates were following and made rescue when the snow began to engulf you. I’m told the avalanche was quite intense.”
He could still feel the mountain as it shook, its summit disintegrating like a great cathedral falling apart. An entire ridge had shattered above him and snow had poured down as blood would from an open wound. The chill still gripped his bones. Then he recalled tumbling downward. But had he heard the man standing over him right?
“Men were following me?”
“I ordered it. As with your father before you sometimes.”
“You knew my father?”
“His theories always interested me. So I made a point to know both him and what he knew.”
He tried to sit up from the bed, but his right side jarred with electric pain. He winced and clutched at his stomach.
“You have broken ribs. I, too, in youth, broke mine once. It hurts.”
He lay back down. “I was brought here?”
The old man nodded. “My brothers are trained to be resourceful.”
He’d noticed the white cassock and rope sandals. “This a monastery?”
“It’s the place you’ve been seeking.”
He was unsure how to respond.
“I am master of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. We are the Templars. Your father sought us for decades. You, too, have sought us. So I decided the time was finally right.”
