by Steve Berry
DE ROQUEFORT RUSHED UP THE STAIRS THAT LED TO THE BELVEDERE. He heard a woman scream and saw excitement as people flocked to the wall. He moved close and asked, “What happened?”
“A man fell off the edge. Rolled a long way.”
He elbowed his way to the wall. As in the parish close, the stone was nearly a meter wide, making it impossible to see down to the base of the outer wall.
“Where did he fall?” he asked.
“There,” a man said, pointing.
He followed the outstretched finger and saw a figure in a dark jacket with light trousers far down the barren slope, lying still. He knew who it was. Damn. He planted his palms on the rough stone and pushed himself up onto the wall. Pivoting on his stomach, he cocked his head left and saw Mark Nelle and Cotton Malone making their way toward a short incline that led up to the car park.
He dropped back down and retreated to the steps.
He pressed the SEND button on the radio clipped to his waist and whispered into the lapel mike, “They’re coming your way, at the wall’s edge. Contain them.”
STEPHANIE HEARD A GUNSHOT. THE POP APPEARED TO HAVE COME from the other side of the wall. But that made no sense. Why would anyone be out there? She and Geoffrey were a hundred feet shy of the car park—which, she noticed, was filled with vehicles, including four buses nestled close to the stone water tower.
They slowed their advance. Geoffrey shielded the gun behind his thigh as they calmly walked ahead.
“There,” Geoffrey whispered.
She saw the man, too. Standing at the far end, blocking the alley down to the church. She turned back and saw another short-hair strolling up the lane behind them.
Then she spotted Mark and Malone as they ran up from the other side of the wall and hopped over the knee-high stone.
She trotted toward them and asked, “Where have you two been?”
“Out for a stroll,” Malone said.
“I heard shooting.”
“Not now,” Malone said.
“We have company,” she made clear, pointing to the two men.
Mark scanned the scene. “De Roquefort is orchestrating this whole thing. Time to leave. But I don’t have the keys to our car.”
“I have mine,” Malone said.
Geoffrey handed over the knapsack.
“Good job,” Mark said. “Let’s go.”
DE ROQUEFORT HUSTLED PAST THE VILLA BÉTHANIE AND IGNORED the many visitors making their way toward the Tour Magdala, the tree garden, and the belvedere.
He turned right at the church.
“They’re attempting to leave by car,” a voice said in his ear.
“Allow them,” he said.
MALONE BACKED FROM HIS PARKING SPOT AND THREADED HIS way around the other cars to the alley leading to the main rue. He noticed that the short-hairs made no attempt to stop them.
That worried him.
They were being herded.
But to where?
He crept through the alley, past the souvenir kiosks, and turned right onto the main rue, allowing the car to coast down the incline toward the town gate.
Past the restaurant, the crowd thinned and the street cleared.
Ahead, he spotted Raymond de Roquefort, standing in the middle of the lane, blocking the gate.
“He means to challenge you,” Mark said from the rear seat.
“Good, because I can play chicken with the best of them.”
He gently rested his foot atop the accelerator.
A couple of hundred feet and closing.
De Roquefort stayed rooted.
Malone saw no weapon. Apparently the master had concluded his presence alone might stop them. Beyond, Malone saw the road was clear, but a sharp curve lay just outside the gate and he hoped no one decided to come around it in the next few seconds.
He rammed his foot to the floorboard.
Tires grabbed pavement and, with a lurch, the car shot forward.
A hundred feet.
“You plan to kill him,” Stephanie said.
“If I have to.”
Fifty feet.
Malone kept the wheel steady and stared straight at de Roquefort as the man’s form grew larger in the windshield. He braced himself for the body’s impact and willed his hands to hold tight.
A hurried form leaped from the right and shoved de Roquefort out of the car’s path.
They roared out through the gate.
DE ROQUEFORT REALIZED WHAT HAD HAPPENED AND WAS NOT happy. He’d fully prepared himself to challenge his adversary, ready for whatever would come, and he resented the intrusion.
Then he saw who’d saved him.
Royce Claridon.
“That car would have killed you,” Claridon said.
He pushed the man off him and rose to his feet. “That remained to be seen.” Then he asked what he really wanted to know. “Was anything learned?”
“They discovered my ruse and I was forced to call for help.”
Anger seethed through him. Again, nothing had gone right. One salvation, though, rang through his brain.
The car they’d left in. Malone’s rental.
Still equipped with an electronic monitor.
At least he’d know exactly where they went.
MALONE DROVE AS FAST AS HE DARED DOWN THE TWISTING INCLINE to ground level. There he turned west for the main highway and half a mile later veered south toward the Pyrénées.
“Where are we going?” Stephanie asked him.
“To see Cassiopeia Vitt. I was going alone, but I think it’s time we all get acquainted.” He needed something to distract him. “Tell me about her,” he said to Mark.
“I don’t know much. I heard that her father was a wealthy Spanish contractor, her mother a Muslim from Tanzania. She’s brilliant. Degrees in history, art, religion. And she’s rich. She inherited lots of the money and has made even more. She and Dad clashed many times.”
“Over what?” Malone wanted to know.
“Proving that Christ did not die on the cross is a mission of hers. Twelve years ago religious fanaticism was viewed much differently. People weren’t all that concerned with the Taliban or al Qaeda. Then, Israel was the hot spot and Cassiopeia resented the way Muslims were always depicted as extremists. She hated the arrogance of Christianity and the presumptiveness of Judaism. Her quest was one of truth, Dad would say. She wanted to strip away the myth and see just how much alike Jesus Christ and Muhammad really were. Common ground—common interests. That kind of thing.”
“Isn’t that exactly what your father wanted to do?”
“Same thing I used to say to him.”
Malone smiled. “How far to her château?”
“Less than an hour. We turn west a few miles ahead.”
Malone studied his rearview mirrors. Still no one was following them. Good. He slowed the car as they entered a town identified as St. Loup. Being Sunday, everything was closed except for a gasoline station and convenience store just to the south. He turned in and came to a stop.
“Wait here,” he said as he climbed out. “I have to tend to something.”
Malone turned off the highway and drove the car down a graveled path, deeper into the thick forest. A sign indicated that GIVORS—A MEDIEVAL ADVENTURE IN THE MODERN WORLD—lay half a mile ahead. The drive from Rennes had taken a little less than fifty minutes. They’d headed west most of the time, passing the ruined Cathar fortress of Montségur, then turning south toward the mountains where rising slopes sheltered river valleys and tall trees.
The two-car-wide avenue was well maintained and roofed by leafy beech trees that cast a dreamy stillness in the lengthening shadows. The entrance opened into a clearing matted in short grass. Cars littered the field. Slender columns of pine and fir lined the perimeter. He stopped and they all climbed out. A placard in French and English announced their location.
GIVORS ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE
WELCOME TO THE PAST. HERE, AT GIVORS, A SITE FIRST OCCUPIED BY LOUIS IX, A CAS
TLE IS BEING CONSTRUCTED USING MATERIALS AND TECHNIQUES ONLY AVAILABLE TO 13TH-CENTURY CRAFTSMEN. A MASONED TOWER WAS THE VERY SYMBOL OF A LORD’S POWER AND THE CASTLE AT GIVORS WAS DESIGNED AS A MILITARY FORTRESS WITH THICK WALLS AND MANY CORNER TOWERS. THE SURROUNDING ENVIRONS PROVIDED AN ABUNDANCE OF WATER, STONE, EARTH, SAND, AND WOOD, WHICH WERE ALL NEEDED FOR ITS CONSTRUCTION. QUARRIERS, STONE HEWERS, MASONS, CARPENTERS, BLACKSMITHS, AND POTTERERS ARE NOW LABORING, LIVING AND DRESSING EXACTLY AS THEY WOULD HAVE SEVEN CENTURIES AGO. THE PROJECT IS PRIVATELY FUNDED AND THE CURRENT ESTIMATE IS 30 YEARS WILL BE NEEDED TO COMPLETE THE CASTLE. ENJOY YOUR TIME IN THE 13TH CENTURY.
“Cassiopeia Vitt funds all this herself?” Malone asked.
“Medieval history is one of her passions,” Mark said. “They knew her well at the university in Toulouse.”
Malone had decided that the direct approach would be best. Surely Vitt anticipated that he’d eventually locate her.
“Where does she live?”
Mark pointed east, where the branches of oaks and elms, closed like a cloister, shaded another lane. “The château is that way.”
“These cars for visitors?” he asked.
Mark nodded. “They give tours of the construction site to raise revenue. I took it once, years ago, right after the work began. It’s impressive what she’s doing.”
He started off toward the lane leading to the château. “Let’s go say hello to our hostess.”
They walked in silence. In the distance, on the steep side of a rising slope, he spied the dreary ruin of a stone tower, its layers yellowed with moss. The dry air was warm and still. Purple heather, broom, and wildflowers carpeted the low earth on both sides of the lane. Malone imagined the clash of arms and shouts of battle that centuries ago would have echoed through the valley as men fought for its dominance. Overhead, a murder of screaming crows flew past.
A hundred or so yards down the lane he saw the château. It filled a sheltered hollow that provided a clear measure of seclusion. Dark red brick and stone were arranged in symmetrical patterns over four stories, flanked by two ivy-crowned towers and topped with slanting slate roofs. Greenery spread out across the façade like rust on metal. Traces of a moat, now filled with grass and leaves, surrounded three sides. Slender trees rose in the rear and hedges of clipped yew guarded its base.
“Some house,” Malone said.
“Sixteenth century,” Mark noted. “I was told that she bought the château and the surrounding archaeological site. She calls the place Royal Champagne, after one of Louis XV’s cavalry regiments.”
Two cars were parked out front. A late-model Bentley Continental GT—about $160,000, Malone recalled—and a Porsche Roadster, cheap by comparison. There was also a motorcycle. Malone approached the cycle and examined the left rear tire and muffler. The shiny chrome was scarred.
And he knew precisely how that had happened.
“That’s where I shot.”
“Quite right, Mr. Malone.”
He turned. The cultured voice had come from the portico. Standing outside the open front door was a tall woman, lean as a jackal, with shoulder-length auburn hair. Her features reflected a leonine beauty reminiscent of an Egyptian goddess—thin brows, brooding cheeks, blunt nose. The skin was the color of mahogany, and she was dressed in a tasteful V-neck tank that exposed her toned shoulders and capped a knee-length, safari-print silk skirt. Leather sandals sheathed her feet. The ensemble was casual but elegant, as if she were off to stroll the Champs-Élysées.
She threw him a smile. “I’ve been expecting you.” Her gaze caught his and he registered determination in the deep pools of her dark eyes.
“That’s interesting, because I only decided to come see you an hour ago.”
“Oh, Mr. Malone, I’m sure I’ve been high on your priority list since at least two nights ago, when you shot my cycle in Rennes.”
He was curious. “Why lock me in the Tour Magdala?”
“I was hoping to use the time to leave quietly. But you extricated yourself much too quickly.”
“Why shoot at me in the first place?”
“Nothing would have been learned from talking to the man you assaulted.”
He noticed the melodious tone of her voice, surely designed to be disarming. “Or perhaps you didn’t want me to talk to him? Anyway, thanks for saving my hide in Copenhagen.”
She brushed his gratitude away. “You would have found a way out on your own. I just hastened the process.”
He saw her glance over his shoulder. “Mark Nelle. I am pleased to finally meet you. Glad to see you didn’t die in that avalanche.”
“I see you still like to interfere in other people’s business.”
“I don’t consider it interfering. Merely monitoring the progress of those who interest me. Like your father.” Cassiopeia stepped past Malone and extended a hand to Stephanie. “And I’m pleased to meet you. I knew your husband well.”
“From what I hear, you and Lars were not the best of friends.”
“I can’t believe anyone would say that.” Cassiopeia looked at Mark with clear mischief. “Did you tell your mother such a thing.”
“No. He didn’t,” Stephanie said. “Royce Claridon told me.”
“Now, he’s a man to watch. Placing your trust in that one will bring nothing but trouble. I warned Lars about him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“On that we agree,” Stephanie said.
Malone introduced Geoffrey.
“You’re of the brotherhood?” Cassiopeia asked.
Geoffrey said nothing.
“No, I wouldn’t expect you to answer. Still, you are the first Templar I’ve met civilly.”
“Not true,” Geoffrey said, pointing to Mark. “The seneschal is of the brotherhood and you met him first.”
Malone wondered about the volunteered information. So far, the young man had been tight-lipped.
“Seneschal? I’m sure there’s quite a story there,” Cassiopeia said. “Why don’t you come inside. My lunch was being prepared, but when I saw you I told the chamberlain to set more plates. They should be about finished with that.”
“Great,” Malone said. “I’m starving.”
“Then let’s eat. We have much to discuss.”
They followed her inside and Malone took in the expensive Italian chests, rare armored knights, Spanish torch holders, Beauvais tapestries, and Flemish paintings. Everything seemed a cavalcade for the connoisseur.
They followed her into a spacious dining room lined with gilded leather. Sunlight poured in through casement windows draped with elaborate lambrequin and doused the white-clothed table and marble floor in verdant shades. A twelve-branched electrified candelabrum hung unlit. Attendants were laying out gleaming silverware at each place setting.
The ambience was impressive, but what caught Malone’s undivided attention was the man sitting at the far end of the table.
Forbes Europe ranked him the eighth-wealthiest person on the Continent, his power and influence in direct proportion to his billions of euros. Heads of state and royalty knew him well. The queen of Denmark called him a personal friend. Worldwide charities counted on him as a generous benefactor. For the past year Malone had spent at least three days a week visiting with him—talking books, politics, the world, how life sucks. He came and went from the man’s estate as if he were part of the family and, in many respects, Malone felt that he was.
But now he seriously questioned all that.
He actually felt like a fool.
But all Henrik Thorvaldsen could do was smile. “About time, Cotton. I’ve been waiting two days.”
DE ROQUEFORT SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND CONCENTRATED on the GPS screen. The transponder attached to Malone’s rental car was working perfectly, the tracking signal transmitting strongly. One brother drove while Claridon and another brother occupied the rear seat. De Roquefort was still irritated with Claridon’s interference back in Rennes. He had no intention of dying and would have eventually leaped out of the
way, but he’d truly wanted to see if Cotton Malone possessed the resolve to drive through him.
The brother who’d fallen down the rocky incline had died, shot in the chest before he fell. A Kevlar vest had prevented the bullet from doing any damage, but the fall had broken the man’s neck. Thankfully, none of them carried identification, but the vest was a problem. Equipment like that signaled sophistication, but nothing linked the dead man to the abbey. All the brothers knew Rule. If any of them were killed outside the abbey, their bodies would go unidentified. Like the brother who’d leaped from the Round Tower, Renne’s casualty would end up in a regional morgue, his remains eventually consigned to a pauper’s grave. But before that happened, procedure called for the master to dispatch a clergyman, who would claim the remains in the name of the Church, offering to provide a Christian burial at no cost to the state. Never had that offer been refused. And while arousing no suspicion, the gesture ensured that a brother received his proper internment.
He’d not rushed leaving Rennes, first searching Lars Nelle’s and Ernst Scoville’s houses and finding nothing. His men had reported that Geoffrey had carried a rucksack, which was handed over to Mark Nelle in the car park. Surely it contained the two stolen books.
“Any idea where they went?” Claridon asked from the backseat.
He pointed to the screen. “We’ll know shortly.”
After questioning the injured brother who’d eavesdropped on Claridon’s conversation inside Lars Nelle’s house, he’d learned that Geoffrey had said precious little, obviously suspicious of Claridon’s motivations. Sending Claridon in there had been a mistake. “You assured me you could find those books.”
“Why do we need them? We have the journal. We should be concentrating on deciphering what we have.”
Maybe, but it bothered him that Mark Nelle had chosen those two volumes from the thousands in the archives. “What if they contain information different from the journal?”
“Do you know how many versions of the same information I’ve come across? The entire Rennes story is a series of contradictions stacked atop one another. Let me explore your archives. Tell me what you know and let’s see what, together, we have.”
