The Templar Legacy: A Novel

by Steve Berry

  A good idea, but unfortunately—contrary to what he’d led the Order to believe—he knew precious little. He’d been counting on the master leaving the requisite message for his successor, in which the most coveted information was always passed from leader to leader, as had been done from the time of de Molay. “You’ll get that opportunity. But first we must take care of this.”

  He thought again of the two dead brothers. Their deaths would be seen by the collective as an omen. For a religious society heaped in discipline, the Order was astoundingly superstitious. And violent death was not common—yet two had occurred in a matter of days. His leadership could now well be questioned. Too much, too fast would be the cry. And he’d be forced to listen to all objections since he’d openly challenged the last master’s legacy, in part because that man had ignored the brothers’ wishes.

  He asked the driver for an interpretation of the GPS readout. “How far to their vehicle?”

  “Twelve kilometers.”

  He gazed out beyond the car windows at the French countryside. Once, no stretch of sky had been true to the eye unless a tower rose on the horizon. By the twelfth century Templars had populated this land with well over a third of their total estates. The entire Languedoc should have become a Templar state. He’d read of plans in the Chronicles. How fortresses, outposts, supply depots, farms, and monasteries had all been strategically established, each connected by a series of maintained roads. For two hundred years the brotherhood’s strength had been carefully preserved, and when the Order failed to establish a fiefdom in the Holy Land, eventually surrendering Jerusalem back to the Muslims, the aim had been to succeed in the Languedoc. All was well under way when Philip IV struck his death blow. Interestingly, Rennes-le-Château was never mentioned in the Chronicles. The town, in all of its previous incarnations, played no role in Templar history. There’d been Templar fortifications in other parts of the Aude Valley, but nothing at Rhedae, as the occupied summit was then called. Yet now the tiny village seemed an epicenter, and all because of an ambitious priest and an inquisitive American academician.

  “We’re approaching the car,” the driver said.

  He’d already instructed caution. The other three brothers he’d brought to Rennes were returning to the abbey, one with a flesh wound to his thigh after Geoffrey shot at him. That made three wounded men, along with two dead. He’d sent word that he wanted a council with his officers when he returned to the abbey, which should quell any discontent, but first he needed to know where his quarry had gone.

  “Up ahead,” the driver said. “Fifty meters.”

  He stared out the window and wondered about Malone and company’s choice of refuge. Odd that they would come here.

  The driver stopped the car, and they climbed out.

  Parked cars surrounded them.

  “Bring the handheld unit.”

  They walked and, twenty meters later, the man holding the portable receiver stopped. “Here.”

  De Roquefort stared at the vehicle. “That’s not the car they left Rennes in.”

  “The signal is strong.”

  He motioned. The other brother searched beneath and found the magnetic transponder.

  He shook his head and stared at the walls of Carcassonne, which stretched skyward ten meters away. The grassy area before him had once formed the town moat. Now it served as a car park for the thousands of visitors who came each day to see one of the last existing walled cities from the Middle Ages. The time-tanned stones had stood when Templars roamed the surrounding land. They’d borne witness to the Albigensian Crusade and the many wars thereafter. And never once were they breached—truly a monument to strength.

  But they said something about cleverness, too.

  He knew the local myth, from when Muslims controlled the town for a short time in the eighth century. Eventually, Franks came from the north to reclaim the site and, true to their way, laid a long siege. During a sally the Moorish king was killed, which left the task of defending the walls to his daughter. She was the clever one, creating an illusion of greater numbers by sending the few troops she possessed running from tower to tower and stuffing the clothing of the dead with straw. Food and water eventually ran out for both sides. Finally, the daughter ordered the last sow be caught and fed the final bushel of corn. She then hurled the pig out over the walls. The animal smashed into the earth and its belly burst forth with grain. The Franks were shocked. After such a long siege, apparently the infidels still possessed enough food to feed their pigs. So they withdrew.

  A myth, he was sure, but an interesting tale of ingenuity.

  And Cotton Malone had shown ingenuity, too, transferring the electronic tag to another vehicle.

  “What is it?” Claridon asked.

  “We’ve been led astray.”

  “This is not their car?”

  “No, monsieur.” He turned and started back for their vehicle. Where had they gone? Then a thought occurred to him. He stopped. “Would Mark Nelle know of Cassiopeia Vitt?”

  “Oui,” Claridon said. “He and his father discussed her.”

  Is it possible that was where they’d gone? Vitt had interfered three times of late, and always on Malone’s side. Maybe he sensed an ally there.

  “Come.” And he started for the car again.

  “What do we do now?” Claridon wanted to know.

  “We pray.”

  Claridon still had not moved. “For what?”

  “That my instincts are accurate.”

  MALONE WAS FURIOUS. HENRIK THORVALDSEN HAD KNOWN FAR more about everything and had said absolutely nothing. He pointed at Cassiopeia. “She one of your friends?”

  “I’ve known her a long time.”

  “When Lars Nelle was alive. You know her then?”

  Thorvaldsen nodded.

  “And did Lars know of your relationship?”

  “No.”

  “So you played him for a fool, too.” Anger punctuated his voice.

  The Dane seemed forced to submerge his defensiveness. After all, he was cornered. “Cotton, I understand your irritation. But one can’t always be forthcoming. Multiple angles have to be explored. I’m sure that when you worked for the U.S. government you did the same thing.”

  He did not rise to the bait.

  “Cassiopeia kept watch on Lars. He knew of her, and in his eyes, she was a nuisance. But her real chore was to protect him.”

  “Why not just tell him?”

  “Lars was a stubborn man. It was simpler for Cassiopeia to watch him quietly. Unfortunately, she could not protect him from himself.”

  Stephanie stepped forward, her face set for combat. “This is what his profile warned about. Questionable motives, shifting allegiances, deceit.”

  “I resent that.” Thorvaldsen glared at her. “Especially since Cassiopeia looked after you two, as well.”

  On that point Malone could not argue. “You should have told us.”

  “To what end? As I recall, you both were intent on coming to France—especially you, Stephanie. So what would have been gained? Instead, I made sure Cassiopeia was there, in case you needed her.”

  Malone wasn’t going to accept that hollow explanation. “For one thing, Henrik, you could have provided us with background on Raymond de Roquefort, whom you both obviously know. Instead, we went in blind.”

  “There’s little to tell,” Cassiopeia said. “When Lars was alive all the brothers did was watch him, too. I never made actual contact with de Roquefort. That’s only happened during the past couple of days. I know as much about him as you do.”

  “Then how did you anticipate his moves in Copenhagen?”

  “I didn’t. I simply followed you.”

  “I never sensed you there.”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “You weren’t so good in Avignon. I spotted you at the café.”

  “And your trick with the napkin, dropping it so you could see if I was following? I wanted you to know I was there. Once I saw
Claridon, I knew de Roquefort would not be far behind. He’s watched Royce for years.”

  “Claridon told us about you,” Malone said, “but he didn’t recognize you in Avignon.”

  “He’s never seen me. What he knows is only what Lars Nelle told him.”

  “Claridon never mentioned that fact,” Stephanie said.

  “There’s a lot I’m sure Royce failed to mention. Lars never realized, but Claridon was far more of a problem for him than I ever was.”

  “My father hated you,” Mark said, disdain in his tone.

  Cassiopeia appraised him with a cool countenance. “Your father was a brilliant man, but he was not schooled in human nature. His was a simplistic view of the world. The conspiracies he sought, the ones you explored after he died, are far more complicated than either of you could imagine. This is a quest for knowledge that men have died seeking.”

  “Mark,” Thorvaldsen said, “what Cassiopeia says about your father is true, as I’m sure you realize.”

  “He was a good man who believed in what he did.”

  “He was, indeed. But he likewise kept many things to himself. You never knew he and I were close friends, and I regret you and I never came to know one another. But your father wanted our contacts confidential, and I respected his desire even after his death.”

  “You could have told me,” Stephanie said.

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Then why are you talking to us now?”

  “When you and Cotton left Copenhagen, I came straight here. I realized you would eventually find Cassiopeia. That’s precisely why she was in Rennes two nights ago—to draw you in her direction. Originally, I was to stay in the background and you were not to know of our connection, but I changed my mind. This has gone too far. You need to know the truth, so I’m here to tell it to you.”

  “So good of you,” Stephanie said.

  Malone stared at the older man’s hooded eyes. Thorvaldsen was right. He’d played both ends against the middle many times. Stephanie had, too. “Henrik, I haven’t been a player in this kind of game in more than a year. I got out because I didn’t want to play anymore. Lousy rules, bad odds. But at the moment I’m hungry and, I have to say, curious. So let’s eat, and you tell us all about that truth we need to know.”

  Lunch was a roasted rabbit seasoned with parsley, thyme, and marjoram, along with fresh asparagus, a salad, and a currant dessert topped with vanilla cream. While he ate, Malone tried to assess the situation. Their hostess seemed the most at ease, but he was unimpressed with her cordiality.

  “You specifically challenged de Roquefort last night in the palace,” he said to her. “Where’d you learn your craft?”

  “Self-taught. My father passed to me his boldness, and my mother blessed me with an insight into the male mind.”

  Malone smiled. “One day you may guess wrong.”

  “I’m glad you care about my future. Did you ever guess wrong as an American agent?”

  “Many times, and folks died from it occasionally.”

  “Henrik’s son on that list?”

  He resented the jab, particularly considering she knew nothing of what happened. “Like here, people were given bad information. Bad information leads to bad decisions.”

  “The young man died.”

  “Cai Thorvaldsen was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Stephanie made clear.

  “Cotton is right,” Henrik said as he stopped eating. “My son died because he was not alerted to the danger around him. Cotton was there and did what he could.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that he was to blame,” Cassiopeia said. “It was only that he seemed anxious to tell me how to run my business. I simply wondered if he could run his own. After all, he did quit.”

  Thorvaldsen sighed. “You have to forgive her, Cotton. She’s brilliant, artistic, a cognoscenta in music, a collector of antiques. But she inherited her father’s lack of manners. Her mother, God rest her precious soul, was more refined.”

  “Henrik fancies himself my surrogate father.”

  “You’re lucky,” Malone said, scrutinizing her carefully, “that I didn’t shoot you off that motorcycle in Rennes.”

  “I didn’t expect you to escape the Tour Magdala so quickly. I’m sure the domain operators are quite upset about the loss of that casement window. It was an original, I believe.”

  “I’m waiting to hear that truth you spoke about,” Stephanie said to Thorvaldsen. “You asked me in Denmark to keep an open mind about you and what Lars thought important. Now we see that your involvement is far more than any of us realized. Surely, you can understand how we’d be suspicious.”

  Thorvaldsen laid down his fork. “All right. What’s the extent of your knowledge about the New Testament?”

  An odd question, Malone thought. But he knew Stephanie was a practicing Catholic.

  “Among other things, it contains the four Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—which tell us about Jesus Christ.”

  Thorvaldsen nodded. “History is clear that the New Testament, as we know it, was formulated during the first four centuries after Christ as a way to universalize the emerging Christian message. After all, that’s what catholic means—‘universal.’ Remember, unlike today, in the ancient world politics and religion were one and the same. As paganism declined, and Judaism retreated within itself, people began searching for something new. The followers of Jesus, who were merely Jews embracing a different perspective, formed their own version of the Word, but so did the Carpocratians, the Essenes, the Naassenes, the Gnostics, and a hundred other emerging sects. The main reason the Catholic version survived, while others faltered, was its ability to impose its belief universally. They grafted onto the Scriptures so much authority that eventually no one could question their validity without being deemed a heretic. But there are many problems with the New Testament.”

  The Bible was a favorite of Malone’s. He’d read it and much historical analysis and knew all about its inconsistencies. Each Gospel was a murky mixture of fact, rumor, legend, and myth that had been subjected to countless translations, edits, and redactions.

  “Remember, the emerging Christian Church existed in the Roman world,” Cassiopeia was saying. “In order to attract followers, the Church fathers had to compete not only with a variety of pagan beliefs, but also their own Jewish beliefs. They also needed to set themselves apart. Jesus had to be more than a mere prophet.”

  Malone was becoming impatient. “What does this have to do with what’s happening here?”

  “Think what finding the bones of Christ would mean for Christianity,” Cassiopeia said. “That religion revolves around Christ dying on the cross, resurrecting, and ascending into heaven.”

  “That belief is a matter of faith,” Geoffrey quietly said.

  “He’s right,” Stephanie said. “Faith, not fact, defines it.”

  Thorvaldsen shook his head. “Let’s remove that element from the equation for a moment, since faith also eliminates logic. Think about this. If a man named Jesus existed, how would the chroniclers of the New Testament know anything about His life? Just consider the language dilemma. The Old Testament was written in Hebrew. The New was penned in Greek, and any source materials, if they even existed, would have been in Aramaic. Then there’s the issue of the sources themselves.

  “Matthew and Luke tell of Christ’s temptation in the wilderness, but Jesus was alone when that occurred. And Jesus’s prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. Luke says He uttered it after leaving Peter, James, and John a stone’s throw away. When Jesus returned He found the disciples asleep and was immediately arrested, then crucified. There’s absolutely no mention of Jesus ever saying a word about the prayer in the garden or the temptation in the wilderness. Yet we know its every detail. How?

  “All of the Gospels speak of the disciples fleeing at Jesus’s arrest—so none of them was there—yet detailed accounts of the crucifixion are recorded in all four. Where did these details come from? What the Roma
n soldiers did, what Pilate and Simon did. How would the Gospel writers know any of that? The faithful would say the information came from God’s inspiration. But the four Gospels, these so-called Words of God, conflict with each other far more than they agree. Why would God offer only confusion?”

  “Maybe that’s not for us to question,” Stephanie said.

  “Come now,” Thorvaldsen said. “There are too many examples of contradictions for us to simply dismiss them as intentional. Let’s look at it in generalities. John’s Gospel mentions much that the other three—the so-called synoptic Gospels—completely ignore. The tone in John is also different, the message more refined. John’s is like an entirely different testimony. But some of the more precise inconsistencies start with Matthew and Luke. Those are the only two that say anything of Jesus’s birth and ancestry, and even they conflict. Matthew says Jesus was an aristocrat, descended from David, in line to be king. Luke agrees with the David connection, but points to a lesser class. Mark went an entirely different direction and spawned the image of a poor carpenter.

  “Jesus’s birth is likewise told from differing perspectives. Luke says shepherds visited. Matthew called them wise men. Luke said the holy family lived in Nazareth and journeyed to Bethlehem for a birth in a manger. Matthew says the family was well off and lived in Bethlehem, where Jesus was born—not in a manger, but in a house.

  “But the crucifixion is where the greatest inconsistencies exist. The Gospels don’t even agree on the date. John says the day before Passover, the other three say the day after. Luke described Jesus as meek. A lamb. Matthew goes the other way—for him Jesus brings not peace, but the sword. Even the Savior’s final words varied. Matthew and Mark say it was, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Luke says, Father, into your hands I commit my spirit. John is even simpler. It is finished.”

  Thorvaldsen paused and sipped his wine.

  “And the tale of the resurrection itself is completely riddled with contradictions. Each Gospel has a different version of who went to the tomb, what was found there—even the days of the week are unclear. And as to Jesus’s appearances after the resurrection—none of the accounts agree on any point. Would you not think that God would have at least been reasonably consistent with His Word?”