by Steve Berry
“The heart of Christianity is the resurrection of physical bodies. It’s the fulfillment of the Old Testament promise. If Christians will not one day be resurrected, then their faith is useless. No resurrection means the Gospels are all a lie—the Christian faith is only for this life—there’s no more after. It’s the resurrection that makes everything performed for Christ worthwhile. Other religions preach about paradise and the afterlife. But only Christianity offers a God who became man, died for His followers, then rose from the dead to rule forever.
“Think about it,” his father had said. “Christians can have a lot of different beliefs on a lot of subjects. But they all agree on the resurrection. It’s their universal constant. Jesus rose from the dead for them alone. Death was conquered for them alone. Christ is alive and working toward their redemption. The kingdom of heaven is waiting for them, as they, too, will be raised from the dead to live forever with the Lord. There’s meaning in every tragedy, since the resurrection gives hope for a future.”
Then his father asked the question that had floated in his memory ever since.
“What if that never happened? What if Christ simply died, dust to dust?”
Indeed, what if?
“Think of all the millions who were slaughtered in the name of the risen Christ. During the Albigensian Crusade alone fifteen thousand men, women, and children were burned to death for simply denying the teachings of the crucifixion. The Inquisition murdered millions more. The Holy Land Crusades cost hundreds of thousands of lives. All for the so-called risen Christ. Popes for centuries have used Christ’s sacrifice as a way to motivate warriors. If the resurrection never happened, so there’s no promise of an afterlife, how many of those men do you think would have faced death?”
The answer was simple. Not a single one.
What if the resurrection had never happened?
Mark had just spent five years searching for an answer to that question within an Order the world thought eradicated seven hundred years ago. Yet he’d come away as perplexed as when he was first brought to the abbey.
What had been gained?
More important, what had been lost?
He shook the confusion from his mind and refocused on his father’s tombstone. He’d commissioned the slab and watched while it had been laid in place one dreary May afternoon. His father had been found a week earlier, hanging from a bridge half an hour to the south of Rennes. Mark had been at home in Toulouse when the call came from the police. He remembered his father’s face when he identified the body—the ashen skin, a gaping mouth, dead eyes. A grotesque image he feared would never leave him.
His mother had returned to Georgia right after the funeral. They’d spoken little during the three days she was in France. He was twenty-seven years old, just starting at the university in Toulouse as a graduate assistant, ill prepared for life. But he wondered now, eleven years later, if he was any more prepared. Yesterday he would have killed Raymond de Roquefort. What happened to all that he’d been taught? Where was the discipline he thought he’d acquired? De Roquefort’s failings were easy to understand—a false sense of duty powered by ego—but his own weaknesses were perplexing. In the span of three days, he’d gone from seneschal to fugitive. From security to chaos. From purpose to wandering.
And for what?
He felt the press of the gun beneath his jacket. The reassurance it offered was troubling—just one more new and strange sensation that brought him comfort.
He stepped from his father’s grave and crept across to Ernst Scoville’s resting place. He’d known the reclusive Belgian and had liked him. The master had apparently known of him, too, since he’d sent Scoville a letter only last week. What had de Roquefort said yesterday about the two mailings? I’ve tended to one of the receivers. Apparently so. But what else had he said? And will shortly tend to the other. His mother was in danger. They all were. But there was little that could be done. Go to the police? No one would believe them. The abbey was well respected, and not a single brother would speak out against the Order. All that would be found was a quiet monastery devoted to God. Plans existed for the secretion of all things related to the brotherhood, and not one of the men inside the abbey would fail.
Of that he was sure.
No, they were on their own.
MALONE WAITED IN THE CALVARY GARDEN FOR MARK TO RETURN from the cemetery. He’d not wanted to intrude on something so personal since he fully understood the unsettling emotions the man was surely experiencing. He was only ten when his father died, but the sorrow he’d felt at knowing that he would never see his dad again had never faded. Unlike with Mark, there was no cemetery for him to visit. His father’s grave had been at the bottom of the North Atlantic inside the crushed hulk of a sunken submarine. He’d tried once to find out the details of what happened, but the entire incident remained classified.
His father had loved the Navy and the United States—he’d been a patriot who willingly gave his life for his country. And that realization always made Malone proud. Mark Nelle had been lucky. He’d shared many years with his father. They’d grown to know one another and shared life. But in a lot of ways he and Mark were similar. Both of their dads had been committed to their work. Both were gone. Neither death possessed a good explanation.
He stood by the Calvary and watched as more visitors streamed in and out of the cemetery. Finally, he spotted Mark following a Japanese group out through the gate.
“That was tough,” Mark said as he approached. “I miss him.”
He decided to pick up where they’d left off. “You and your mother are going to have to come to terms.”
“There’s a lot of bad feelings there, and seeing his grave just brought them into focus again.”
“She has a heart. It’s encased in iron, I know, but it’s still there.”
Mark smiled. “Appears you know her.”
“I’ve had some experience.”
“At the moment, we need to concentrate on whatever the master has concocted.”
“You two dodge the issue well.”
Mark smiled again. “Comes with the genes.”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven thirty. I need to head out. I want to pay a visit to Cassiopeia Vitt before nightfall.”
“I’ll draw you a map. It’s not a long drive from here.”
They left the Calvary garden and turned toward the main rue. A hundred feet away Malone spotted a short, rugged-looking man, hands stuffed into the pockets of a leather jacket, marching straight for the church.
He grabbed Mark’s shoulder. “We’ve got company.”
Mark followed his gaze and saw de Roquefort, too.
Malone quickly assessed their options as he spotted three more short-hairs. Two stood ahead at the Villa Béthanie. Another blocked the alley that led up to the car park.
“Any suggestions?” Malone said.
Mark stepped toward the church. “Follow me.”
STEPHANIE OPENED THE DOOR AND ROYCE CLARIDON ENTERED the house. “Where did you come from?” she asked, motioning for Geoffrey to lower his weapon.
“They took me from the palace last night and drove me here. They kept me in a flat two streets over, but I managed to slip away a few minutes ago.”
“How many brothers are in the village?” Geoffrey asked Claridon.
“Who are you?”
“His name is Geoffrey,” Stephanie said, hoping her compatriot understood to offer precious little.
“How many brothers are here?” Geoffrey asked again.
“Four.”
Stephanie stepped toward the kitchen window and gazed out at the street. The cobbles were deserted in both directions. But she was concerned about Mark and Malone. “Where are those brothers?”
“I don’t know. I heard them say you were in Lars’s house, so I came straight here.”
She didn’t like that response. “We couldn’t help you last night. We had no idea where they’d taken you. We were knocked unconscious trying t
o catch de Roquefort and the woman. By the time we woke up, everyone was gone.”
The Frenchman held up his palms. “It is all right, madame, I understand. There was nothing you could do.”
“Is de Roquefort here?” Geoffrey asked.
“Who?”
“The master. Is he here?”
“No names were given.” Claridon faced her. “But I heard them say that Mark is alive. Is that true?”
She nodded. “He and Cotton walked to the church, but they should be back shortly.”
“A miracle. I thought he was gone forever.”
“You and me both.”
His gaze raked the room. “I’ve not been inside this house in some time. Lars and I spent a lot of time here.”
She offered him a seat at the table. Geoffrey positioned himself near the window, and she noticed an edge to his otherwise cool demeanor.
“What happened to you?” she asked Claridon.
“I was bound until this morning. They untied me so I could relieve myself. In the bathroom, I climbed out the window and came straight here. They will surely be looking for me, but there was nowhere else to go. Getting out of this town is quite difficult, since there is but one way in and out.” Claridon fidgeted in the chair. “Might I trouble you for some water?”
She stood and filled a glass from the tap. Claridon downed it in one swallow. She refilled the glass.
“I was terrified of them,” Claridon said.
“What do they want?” she asked.
“They seek their Great Devise, as Lars did.”
“And what did you tell them?” Geoffrey asked, with a hint of scorn in his tone.
“I told them nothing, but they asked precious little. I was told that my questioning would be later today, after they tended to something else. But they failed to say what that was.” Claridon stared at her. “Do you know what they want from you?”
“They have Lars’s journal, the book from the auction, and the lithograph of the painting. What more could they want?”
“I think it’s Mark.”
The words visibly stiffened Geoffrey.
She wanted to know, “What do they want with him?”
“I have no clue, madame. But I wonder if any of this is worth bloodshed.”
“Brothers have died for nearly nine hundred years for what they believed,” Geoffrey said. “This is no different.”
“You talk as though you’re of the Order.”
“I’m only quoting history.”
Claridon drank his water. “Lars Nelle and I studied the Order for many years. I have read that history you speak of.”
“What did you read?” Geoffrey asked, amazement in his voice. “Books written by people who know nothing. They write of heresy and idol worship, of kissing each other on the mouth, of sodomy, and of the denial of Jesus Christ. Not a word of which is true. All lies designed to destroy the Order and take its wealth.”
“Now you truly speak like a Templar.”
“I speak like a man who cherishes justice.”
“Is that not a Templar?”
“Should that not be all men?”
Stephanie smiled. Geoffrey was quick.
MALONE FOLLOWED MARK BACK INTO THE CHURCH OF MARY Magdalene. They hustled down the center aisle, past nine rows of pews and gawkers, toward the altar. There Mark veered right and entered a small anteroom through an open doorway. Three camera-toting visitors stood inside.
“Could you excuse us?” Mark said to them in English. “I’m with the museum and we need this room for a few moments.”
None questioned his obvious authority and Mark gently closed the door behind them. Malone looked around. The space was naturally illuminated by the light from a stained-glass window. A row of empty cupboards dominated one wall. The other three were all of wood. No furniture was inside.
“This was the sacristy,” Mark said.
De Roquefort was no more than a minute from being upon them, so he wanted to know, “I assume you have something in mind?”
Mark stepped toward the cupboard and searched with his fingertips above the top shelf. “Like I told you, when Saunière built the Calvary garden, he constructed the grotto. He and his mistress would go down into the valley and collect stones.” Mark continued to search for something. “They’d come back with hods full of rocks. There.”
Mark withdrew his hand and grabbed hold of the cupboard, which swung open to reveal a windowless space beyond. “This was Saunière’s hiding place. Whatever else he brought back with those rocks was stored here. Few know of this addition. Saunière created it during the church remodeling. Plans for this building, prior to 1891, show it as an open room.”
Mark withdrew an automatic pistol from beneath his jacket. “We’ll wait in here and see what happens.”
“Does de Roquefort know of this room?”
“We’ll find out shortly.”
DE ROQUEFORT STOPPED OUTSIDE THE CHURCH. ODD THAT HIS targets had fled inside. But no matter. He was going to personally tend to Mark Nelle. His patience was at an end. He’d taken the precaution of consulting with his officers before leaving the abbey. He wasn’t going to repeat the former master’s mistakes. His tenure would at least carry the appearance of a democracy. Thankfully, yesterday’s escape and the two shootings had galvanized the brotherhood onto a singular path. All agreed that the former seneschal and his ally must be returned for punishment.
And he intended to deliver.
He surveyed the street.
The crowd was growing. A warm day had brought out the tours. He turned to the brother standing beside him. “Go inside and assess the situation.”
A nod and the man walked off.
He knew the church’s geography. Only one way in and out. The stained-glass windows were all fixed, so they would have to shatter one to escape. He saw no policemen, which was normal for Rennes. Little ever happened here except the spending of money. The commercialization sickened him. If it was his decision, all tours of the abbey would be stopped. He realized the bishop would question that move, but he’d already decided to limit access to only a few hours on Saturdays, citing the brothers’ need for more solitude. That the bishop would understand. He fully intended on restoring many of the old ways, practices that had long been abandoned, rituals that once separated the Templars from all other religious orders. And for that he would need the abbey’s gates locked far more than they were open.
The brother he’d sent inside exited the church and walked his way.
“They’re not there,” the man said as he drew close.
“What do you mean?”
“I searched the nave, the sacristy, the confessionals. They’re not inside.”
He did not want to hear that. “There’s no other exit.”
“Master, they’re not there.”
His gaze locked on the church. His mind swirled with possibilities.
Then the answer was clear.
“Come,” he said. “I know precisely where they are.”
STEPHANIE WAS LISTENING TO ROYCE CLARIDON, NOT AS A WIFE and mother on a mission important to her family, but as the head of a covert government agency that dealt routinely in espionage and counterespionage. Something was out of place. Claridon’s sudden appearance was too convenient. She knew little about Raymond de Roquefort, but she knew enough to realize that either Claridon had been allowed to escape or, worse, the prickly little man sitting across from her was in league with the enemy. Either way she had to watch what she said. Geoffrey, too, had apparently sensed something since he was offering precious little to the Frenchman’s many questions—too many inquiries for a man who’d just survived a life-and-death experience.
“Was the woman last night in the palace Cassiopeia Vitt, the Ingénieur mentioned in the letter to Ernst Scoville?” she asked.
“I would assume. A she-devil.”
“She may have saved us all.”
“How? She interfered, as she did with Lars.”
“You
’re alive right now thanks to her interference.”
“No, madame. I am alive because they want information.”
“What I wonder is why you’re even here,” Geoffrey said from his position by the window. “Escaping from de Roquefort is not easy.”
“You did.”
“And how would you know that?”
“They spoke of you and Mark. Apparently there was shooting. Brothers were hurt. They’re angry.”
“Did they mention attempting to kill us?”
A moment of uneasy silence passed.
“Royce,” Stephanie said. “What else might they be after?”
“I only know that two books are missing from their archive. There was a mention of that.”
“You just said a moment ago that you possessed no clue as to why they wanted Madame Nelle’s son.” Suspicion laced Geoffrey’s declaration.
“And I don’t. But I know they want the two missing books.”
Stephanie glanced at Geoffrey and saw not a hint of acquiescence in the younger man’s expression. If indeed he and Mark possessed the books de Roquefort sought, no admission came from his eyes.
“Yesterday,” Claridon said, “you showed me Lars’s journal and the book—”
“Which de Roquefort has.”
“No. Cassiopeia Vitt stole both from him last night.”
