by Steve Berry
That was obvious.
So she would know her enemy.
Piss on the Catholics.
Eight hundred years had passed since the pope declared war on the Cathars, all backed by a hollow promise. Give us forty days’ service and your place in Paradise will be assured. All your sins will be forgiven, and not only those you have committed, but also any that you may now commit.
What a lie.
That war had been something new. Not a fight against infidels. Instead, a campaign of Christians killing Christians.
The Albigensian Crusade.
And for nearly fifty years the people of the Languedoc had been systematically slaughtered.
The main target?
Bons Crestians.
Who’d grown in numbers and influence. A new form of Christianity that stretched across what would later be called northern Spain and southern France, known then as Occitània.
A place of unique cultural identity. Where the races blended to produce strong, determined individuals who respected truth and character. Much more aligned with Aragon and Catalonia than Paris, there were different forms of land ownership, different ways to inherit, even another language, Occitan.
Which had all added up to a threat.
The word Cathar evolved from the Greek katharos, meaning pure. And a simple mandate governed. No one who did not live the teachings of Christ could minister to others. Title meant nothing. Money even less. Only the intrinsic value of the soul counted. No matter a person’s standing in life, noble or the poorest of peasant, the same opportunity to preach was available to all.
Man or woman.
For the Cathars they were equal.
Cathars had no need for a church to intercede with God on their behalf. Instead, Christ was directly accessible. They believed that the earthly world, all the majesty of nature that now surrounded her, was the work of the God of Evil, created as a distraction. The God of Good, the Pure Spirit, was incapable of creating physical matter. The inhabitants of the earth were but spirits, trapped here in physical bodies, in a place of the devil’s creation, until such time as they could transform and ascend to the God of Good.
There were two types of believers.
Simple, who were the vast majority.
And the perfected ones.
The Perfecti.
Good Men and Women who vowed to live an ideal life, in service, ministering to the believers. They swore to take no life of any creature having breath, whether human or animal, and eat no meat. They refrained from carnal activities, from lying, taking oaths, or speaking ill of others. They held close the faith of Christ and his gospel, as the apostles taught, not how a church redefined them. So devoted were they that, among the thousands tortured and killed by the Albigensian crusaders, only one Perfecti ever betrayed the faith.
Piss on his soul.
The Good Ones also despised the Cross. A crucified Christ was an impossibility. Jesus was created by God, a physical man not to be crucified, but a spirit to lead others toward a better existence. They worshipped Christ, the Son of Mary, but not in the same way as Catholics. Incense, oils, statues, churches, and sacraments were all creations of the physical world, inherently evil distractions, which must be avoided.
It all made sense.
And people believed by the thousands.
They abandoned the appalling simony of the Catholic clergy, who extorted tithes, kept mistresses, and sold sacraments. The extreme purity of life and disinterest in wealth won the Cathars respect from the local nobility. Even better the Good Ones represented no threat to temporal power, unlike Rome who continually meddled in politics. The simplicity of dualism outweighed the pope’s heavy hand. And when the Bishop of Toulouse openly censured the Catholic clergy and denounced the Church, things began to come to a head.
Priests were sent to sway the faithful back into the fold.
When that failed, armies came next, doing God’s business, calling themselves pilgrims.
Piss on them too.
So many sieges.
Béziers, Carcassonne, Bram, Lavaur, Lastours, Saissac, Minerve, Termes, Les Cassés, Puivert, Toulouse, Muret, Castelnaudary, Foix, Beaucaire, Marmande.
So many burnings. Torture. Death.
Her heart still hurt for the suffering.
Unlike their fellow Christians, Cathars were pacifists and did not fight back. Instead, the local nobles took up arms for them, trying to repel the invaders. It all ended in 1244 with the fall of Montségur, though Cathars continued to be burned alive for another hundred years.
Piss on the Inquisition.
Although He knew fully and foresaw from eternity the fate of all His angels, His wisdom and providence did not make His angels become demons. They became demons and things of evil by their own will, because they did not wish to remain holy and humble before their Lord, but wickedly puffed themselves up in pride against Him.
The time had come for a rebirth.
The Good Men and Women would live again.
But to accomplish that she needed the Book of Hours. Standing in the woods adjacent to Cassiopeia Vitt’s chateau, she now knew that the God of Good had bestowed a second chance.
The message clear.
Come what may. No matter what it took. She must prevail.
She heard a noise behind her and turned.
A deer emerged from the woods, then meandered off.
She smiled at the wonder.
Death did not scare her. It never scared a Cathar. For it was merely a release from this evil world. A moment of freedom, when the soul would finally ascend to the God of Good’s realm, leaving the devil behind.
That lack of fear gave her an edge.
One she planned to use to full advantage.
Chapter 4
Cassiopeia glanced at the clock.
7:28 a.m.
Yesterday had been a mixed bag. First the unexpected visit of Roland Beláncourt, then the rest of the day spent mulling over the significance of a book from some eight hundred years ago. Last night sleep had been hard to find and, when it finally arrived, it came in fitful bursts. Beláncourt’s parting comment kept echoing through her mind. Please know that my initial offer is always my best offer. From that point on, my negotiations only go down.
Definitely a warning.
Luckily, it took a lot more than that to scare her.
In her bathrobe, she stood in the kitchen and waited at the espresso machine as it delivered its magical elixir into a tiny Limoges cup. During her remodeling the original 17th century kitchen had been removed and the room restored to somewhat of its original appearance from three hundred years ago, save for the addition of modern appliances, most sheathed with veneers that matched the wainscoting on the walls. Clever and imaginative. But also functional. The interior designer she’d employed from Marseille had done an excellent job.
Her parents had instilled in her a sense of purpose, responsibility, and independence. From that came confidence. Her training in martial arts and in the use of firearms had further boosted her self-esteem.
Yes, she knew fear.
But she also knew how to control it.
She carried her espresso from the kitchen and navigated a labyrinthine set of hallways to her private study. The cozy space had originally been a smoking room that the Duc of Givors had utilized after building the first chateau. Dark dreary rooms, no matter how well lit, depressed her. So she’d stripped the walls and replaced the paneling with a light, airy plaster, keeping the rich moldings and intricate parquet floor. Two walls were fronted by bookshelves that, unlike the library where it was all collectibles, were her personal books, on subjects like architecture, history and mythology. Her Roentgen writing desk faced the east wall, where French doors led out to a stone terrace edging a rose garden.
She opened the doors and allowed in the morning breeze. Clumps of laurel and honeysuckle bloomed. As did the roses. While breeding roses to be infection-resistant, scientists had sacrificed smell for hardiness. She’d searched ou
t the older breeds like Cécile Brünner, Marie Pavié, and the Fairy, which retained their intoxicating waft. True, they were much more work and a bit fragile, but worth it.
Like so much in life.
She sat at her desk, opened the laptop, and switched on the music. Her morning fare consisted of Gregorian chants, and the sonorous otherworldly tones of the Benedictine Monks filled the room. She loved the sounds, which reached deep into her soul and soothed her psyche. The power of music healed. No question. She’d seen that happen with animals, children, the sick, and the elderly. There was something unexplained about its unfelt power. Not God. Not magic. Just a tonic for the soul.
She sipped her coffee and enjoyed the moment.
She loved her parents for leaving her a life of such freedom and choice. Had she been the best daughter? Hard to say. But they’d been wonderful parents.
She laid the cup down and clicked on the email icon, perusing the list to see what, if anything, required immediate attention. Those from Terra corporate headquarters would have to be read. But later. As the sole shareholder and owner, she was kept informed of major decisions. Not micro-management, as that was not her style, but enough for her to be informed.
She forwarded three emails with subject interview request to the publicist she kept on retainer, the same one who’d recommended Shelby. Like Cotton would say, she and Shelby would have to take a trip to the woodshed. Nothing the young woman had done had been good. She saw a response to a note, with images, she’d sent the day before to an illuminated manuscript scholar at Paris’ Collège de France asking for help with her find. The professor expressed an interest in working with her.
The laptop dinged.
A new e-mail.
From Cotton.
She clicked off the music, opened it, and saw only a link. She shook her head and smiled. A romantic he was not. And while he rarely spoke of matters of the heart, she never doubted how he felt about her.
She clicked on the link, which sent her to a video about a Russian oligarch who they’d dealt with a few years ago. The oligarch’s wife had supposedly committed suicide, but the Russian internal police had arrested the oligarch for murder. Unusual, to say the least. Money bought power in Russia. But, apparently, their former nemesis had fallen out of favor. She agreed with the short note Cotton had typed above the link. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
A shout arose outside.
She sprang from the chair and rushed out the open French doors. On the lawn, just beyond the rose garden, Viktor and Shelby chased a hooded figure, yelling for the person to stop.
What was going on?
The figure was fast, with a solid head start, disappearing into the trees just as Shelby fell hard to the ground. Viktor kept going, but Cassiopeia rushed to see if Shelby was all right. Joining the pursuit seemed impractical in a bathrobe, considering she had little on underneath.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“The…book,” Shelby said, panting hard. “Get…the book.”
“Someone has the manuscript?”
Shelby nodded, fighting to catch her breath. “I’m…okay. The bitch whacked me…in the head with a…metal tray. My head is…spinning. Get…the book.”
“No need,” Viktor said as he ran up.
His face was scratched and there was a thin stream of blood trickling down his right cheek. He was holding the plastic container with the Book of Hours.
“I got it. Hopefully unharmed.”
He handed it to her.
“Which is more than I can say for your face,” Cassiopeia said.
He waved away the injury. “I ran through the orchard. I managed to tackle whoever it was, but she kicked me in the gut and got away.” He pointed. “She left that behind.”
This was a first. A full-fledged theft attempt. Dogs patrolled the construction site at night, there to chase off deer and boar who made a mess of things. But they’d never employed anything grander.
“We’re too lax around here about security,” Viktor said. “Maybe it’s time to institute some new protocols.”
Maybe so. “But I don’t want to start living like I’m in a prison.”
Still—
That made two people interested in the manuscript.
Or, maybe only one, making two different attempts.
From that point on, my negotiations only go down.
Time for her to pay Roland Beláncourt a visit.
Chapter 5
The Perfecti’s leg ached.
Her escape from Cassiopeia Vitt’s chateau had aggravated an old injury. But what hurt more was that the God of Evil had prevailed.
It behooves us of necessity to confess that there is another principle, one of evil, who works most wickedly against the true God and His creation, and this principle seems to move God against His own creation and the creation against its God.
The God of Good wanted her to have the manuscript. Why else had she been sent here? That certainty had become even clearer when she found no obstacles to walking right across the grounds without anyone noticing. She’d watched yesterday as Cassiopeia Vitt had taken the Book of Hours from the chateau to an out-building labeled Laboratoire. When Vitt departed empty-handed she’d known the prize had been left inside. She’d wanted to make her retrieval last night, but the worksite was patrolled by dogs who kept a steady watch, never abandoning their post. The animals had not been taken away until a little after seven a.m.
That’s when she made her move.
Only a handful of people had been around, so she’d hustled across the site, using the various waste piles and work sheds for cover, her head sheathed in a black hood. At the lab she’d forced the door open, which was restricted only by a simple door lock. Inside, she’d found the book, tucked safe inside a plastic bin. She’d opened the container, seen the worn leather cover and rose window, then caressed the exterior with her fingertips, feeling the glory that God washed through her. She’d replaced the lid and was preparing to leave when the devil interfered.
“What are you doing?” a female voice asked.
She’d whirled to see a woman at the lab’s door, who advanced her way.
Take unto you the armor of God that you may be able to resist in the evil day, and to stand in all things perfect, wherewith you may be able to extinguish all the fiery darts of the most wicked one.
The threat had to be dealt with.
She’d grabbed a stainless steel tray and slammed it into the woman’s head, stunning, but not disabling her. The woman lunged. They both went down and she brought a knee into her attacker’s stomach. Which allowed her to roll to her feet, grab the plastic bin, and rush from the lab. She’d abandoned caution and raced across the open grass, past the chateau, toward the trees. Someone yelled stop. A quick glance back and she saw the woman from the lab and a man about fifty meters behind. But racing her way. The woman had fallen in her pursuit, but the man kept coming.
Her throat had burned from heavy breathing, her knees ached.
But she’d kept running.
Then something slammed into her from behind. Her legs folded beneath her, head snapped back, air squirted from her lungs as she hit the ground hard, two arms wrapped around her waist. The grip relaxed and she used that instant to wrench herself free and kick the man in the chest. He rolled to one side, the breath leaving him, and she sprang to her feet.
He ignored her and grabbed the plastic bin.
Could she take him?
Probably not.
So she’d fled, finding her car and driving away.
How awful.
She’d searched for so long, the better part of the past decade devoted to the quest, one clue leading the way. Not in the preferred Occitan. But in French.
Le livre de roses conduira au lac de l'apprentissage mènerae.
The rose book will lead to the Lake of Learning.
She’d studied every existing treatise and text, which weren’t many. Examined every carving, sculpture, and artifact that
was, in any way, tied to Cathar history. She’d long lived in southern France. Breathed air that contained particles of the same dust that her ancestors had inhaled. She might well have been one of them centuries ago, her soul reborn over and over into envelopes of sinful flesh. Going through cycles of life, searching, wanting, seeking a final release.
She had to find the Lake of Learning.
Yet she’d failed.
Again.
Tears formed in her eyes.
What to do next? More important, what would Vitt do next? Everything she’d read suggested Cassiopeia Vitt was highly intelligent and rational. A collector, but not a fanatic. An historian and architect. Clearly a risk taker. The fact that someone had tried to steal the book would not be taken lightly. Would she blame Beláncourt? Possibly. No, probably. So maybe the way to possess the Book of Hours was to take it after Beláncourt managed to obtain it?
Allowing him do the heavy lifting first.
Her car kept heading for Toulouse and she turned over the options in her mind. Vitt would go to Beláncourt and confront the man whom she believed had attempted the robbery. When? Today? Tomorrow?
Hard to say.
But she would go.
The drive west took five hours, which included one stop for the bathroom, some hot coffee, and an apple. The pain in her knee continued to throb. She drove straight to Beláncourt Aerospace and parked in the visitor’s lot, her car blending with the hundreds already there. The facility’s main entrance sat across the street and she told herself to be mindful of the cameras that surely watched every square centimeter.
What was the saying?
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Roland Beláncourt, the papist, was perhaps her greatest enemy. She knew his habits and haunts. His likes and dislikes. His wants and desires. The time was approaching 1:30 p.m., so he was just finishing lunch. He liked to take his midday meal at Emile’s on Saint-Georges Square, later than most people. Right on cue, at 1:45 his chauffeured Rolls Royce motored through the gate without stopping for the guard. Later, he would leave the office at 6 p.m. Dinner was always at home, in his chateau that sat a few kilometers out of town. The only exception came if he had a meeting or an event, which was rare, as he liked to end his work day early. He was in bed by nine and up at five a.m. Nothing mattered now but the book and the possibility that, after so many centuries, its secrets may finally be within reach. Her first attempt had been dismal. She could not fail this time.
