by Steve Berry
With whatever it took.
Chapter 17
Cassiopeia had made the decision quickly yesterday. She would involve Simone Forte. If, for nothing else, her presence may irritate Beláncourt and throw him off guard, as clearly there was a history between the two.
Simone had arrived bright and early at the chateau and started working. Viktor had stayed with her, keeping an eye on the book, a precaution that the professor seemed to understand. They’d been ensconced in the lab for the past four hours, the noon hour approaching. A week had gone by since the book had been found and a lot had happened. She’d talked to Cotton several times and he’d advised caution in dealing with Beláncourt. Get the answers before asking the questions.
Good advice.
Which had cinched bringing Simone into the fold.
The legal attack on Terra had not waned, nor had Beláncourt been back in contact. She’d instructed corporate headquarters to sit tight and be patient. She was handling the problem in the most direct way possible.
Simone had brought with her an array of old maps, some dating back to the 13th century. None were hard copy originals. Instead, they were all high-resolution images on a laptop, capable of magnification down to the smallest detail. She’d also brought a chart of symbols, many of which appeared in the various illustrations inside the book, embedded in clever, nearly imperceptible, ways, looking more like art than letters.
“What are these?” she asked Simone.
“The Cathars lived in dangerous times, but they still needed to communicate. So they devised their own language, one that only the Perfecti utilized. We know this because a sort of Rosetta Stone survived that provided a means of interpreting the symbols. It wasn’t found until the early part of the 20th century. This chart was composed from that.”
She studied the odd assortment of scribbles, with little rhyme or reason to their shapes. Which was probably the whole idea.
“To my knowledge,” Simone said, “no one back then ever deciphered them. So the code worked. Thank goodness a means to read it survived.”
Viktor was watching with intense interest. They’d found many artifacts at the construction site, but nothing like this. She’d brought him into her confidence with the condition that everything he saw and heard stayed between them. She did not want a repeat of the leak with Nouvelles de l’art. Shelby had been dismissed, after being non-apologetic at her clear breach of trust. And thank goodness she was gone. With Simone Forte around, the last thing she needed was an untrustworthy, nosey reporter. Also, being Monday, the construction site was closed to visitors. Another fortuitous occurrence.
“Those symbols are here,” Simone said, “on every page of this book. The key, though, is the dove. It’s correct on every page, head facing skyward, wings extended, similar to what you saw yesterday in my lab. Except for the twenty-sixth illustration. There, it’s different. That cannot be a mere mistake.”
The Book of Hours lay open on the table. Not the best way to examine its pages, but the spine was already in poor condition. She studied the page Simone had noted and saw the Cathar dove, reversed, its wings extended but its head down, buried within the margin illustrations. She counted nine birds among the symbols from the chart, all woven together in a rich, artistic pattern. She had lots of questions but did not want to share all of those answers with Viktor.
“Could you wait outside for a few minutes?” she said to him. “I’ll stay with the book.”
He nodded and left the lab. She loved that he never argued nor questioned, just trusted her judgment.
“I appreciate that,” Simone said. “I would prefer to keep this between us.”
“I agree. This is our problem.”
“There may only be three people in the world who can decipher this puzzle,” Simone noted. “Lucky for you, I’m one of those. I first came across The Story of Arnaut while working on my doctoral thesis. It’s fascinated me ever since.”
“I assume your ex-husband knows that?”
Simone nodded. “We often discussed the possibility that this Book of Hours existed, and its possible importance to Cathar history.”
“He told me his involvement here was intensely personal.”
“An understatement. Our marriage did not end well. My ex-husband hates me, and has for a long time.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“I could. But I’m not.”
It seemed no matter which road she took, with either Simone or Beláncourt, it led to a dead end.
“Your ex-husband doesn’t have this book,” she said. “We do. That gives you an advantage. Can you interpret it?”
Simone nodded. “Le Camin de Lutz. The Path to Light. I think I may be able to follow it.”
She was listening, totally intrigued.
Simone pointed at the twenty-sixth page. Drawings filled the right margin, then angled left and spread across the top. Text filled the space framed out by the illustrations. The upside-down dove appeared at intervals, a few centimeters apart, forming a line up the outer edge that stopped about halfway across the top.
“The Cathars lived among their enemies in plain sight. They were there, but not there. I can only assume that the dove being upside down only on this page is representative of that. It’s there, on every page of the book, but different on this one. Look at the illustrations on page twenty-six. The doves stop here and here.”
Simone pointed to one upside-down dove at the upper left, the other a few centimeters away, right before the line of doves angled down the right edge of the page.
“Between the two stops, the symbols are no longer random. Instead they form two words. Lac. Saber.”
She knew her Occitan.
Lake. Learning.
“Then, beneath is three more words. Rosa. Bèstia roja.”
She caught the connection to the other clue Simone mentioned yesterday.
Le menarà al lac del saber.
The rose will lead to the Lake of Learning.
But bèstia roja?
“What is the Red Beast?”
“I have no idea. It’s new information.”
“What now?” she asked.
“I need some more time with this.”
Two hours later Cassiopeia returned to the lab, having been summoned by Viktor, who’d returned inside to babysit their visitor.
She entered the door to see a smile on his face.
“She’s got it.”
Simone seemed excited too. “I was able to link some of the words from the book to points on the ground. They correspond to a crude map of Occitania that has survived, which was what this whole region of modern France was called in the 13th century.”
That she knew. The land of rebels and troubadours.
Simone directed her attention to the old map on the screen. “Here, where the River Valarties joins the Garonne, near Arties, right on the French-Spanish border, there was once a lake. It’s there on the map.”
She saw its outline among what appeared to be mountains and high terrain, delineated with squiggly lines. “What’s that in the middle?”
“An island is my guess. Lots of lakes in the Pyrenees have small islands, high spots that weren’t flooded by the water coming down from the hills. Look what the lake is called.”
She’d already noticed. Rosa.
Rose Lake.
“It’s not there anymore,” Simone said, changing the image to a modern map of the same region, which showed no body of water. “It dried up. That’s happened all over, as rivers alter course and glaciers in the Pyrenees shift. That may have also helped, over time, shield the location from anyone looking. But that doesn’t mean there’s not something there to find.”
Cassiopeia smiled. “There’s only one way to find out.”
Beláncourt steered the powerboat down the River Garonne, keeping a respectable speed, but taking each turn smooth and gentle. Nina St. Clair stood toward the stern and cheered as her ten-year-old son held his own on the skis. Six months ag
o the boy could hardly stand on them. Now he handled himself with ease. Next step? Losing one of them and trying slalom.
But not quite yet.
He came to a straightaway and glanced back, checking the boy’s posture. Everything looked great. Straight spine. High shoulders. Arms extended. Knees flexing. The river seemed a bit malevolent today, increasing in strength, dragging and lunging at the boat.
“He’s doing great,” he shouted over the motor to Nina.
She smiled back at him and mouthed, “Thank you for this.”
He shook his head. “He’s a terrific kid, and I love being here.”
Nina was in town for the week. She lived in Italy but visited often, many times bringing young Georges along. He’d blocked off his Monday schedule and rented the boat so they could spend some fun time together. He and Nina had dated for nearly three years. Was it going anywhere? Probably not. His self-confidence, which he knew attracted her, was more an illusion, a wafer-thin puncturable envelope around him, always threatened by the past. He fought hard to resist its effects, but there was no denying their power over him. He enjoyed her company, though, and was keeping an open mind, especially when it came to Georges. But no matter how much time he spent with the boy, how close they became, one fact was clear.
He’d never be his father.
An ex-husband would always hold that position.
Georges had been seven when they first met. Nina had introduced them and the young man had quickly extended his hand to shake, saying nice to meet you. He’d been immediately touched by the courtesy and the two of them had hit it off. They’d gone mountain hiking, snow skiing, and, of course, flying. Georges seemed to love planes, showing a real interest in aviation. He’d taken him through the manufacturing plant and they’d spent hours talking about flying.
The dock was rapidly approaching.
He waved for Georges to let go and swung the boat around to retrieve the boy from the river. Fifteen minutes later they were all seated on the terrace at L’Emulation Nautique, staring out at the river. The restaurant was a local favorite, heavy with rural ambiance. Georges enjoyed a burger and fries. Beláncourt chose the tuna tartar and Nina ordered grilled langoustines.
“Can I ski some more after lunch?” Georges asked, still high from the activity.
“If Roland has the time to take you,” she said, providing an out.
Which he did not take. “We have nothing but time. Sure. I rented the boat for the entire day. I might even try the water myself.”
“Does that mean I can drive?” Georges asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “With your mother’s help.”
They enjoyed the meal, and he savored his time with them both. He’d built some of the world’s great planes, but a family was the one thing he’d never been able to create. Fate and circumstances had combined to deprive him of a child of his own. Adoption had certainly always been an option, as was a stepchild like Georges, but he’d wanted one from blood. For the Beláncourt genes to continue on.
But that would never be.
And all because of Simone.
Seeing her on Sunday had refueled his bitterness and reminded him once again that the future he wanted was absent, only the present existed.
And it was not pleasant.
They finished lunch.
He was walking back to the dock when his cell phone buzzed. He’d left specific instructions with his office that he not be bothered unless absolutely necessary. He checked the display. Not the office. Something else.
Important.
“I’ll meet you at the boat,” he said to Nina.
She nodded and smiled, then she and Georges headed off.
He drifted to a quiet spot near the riverbank and answered the call. “What do you have?”
“Your ex-wife came straight to Vitt’s chateau this morning. She’s been here ever since.”
“Were you able to see or hear anything?”
“Both. The parabolic mic worked great, even though they were inside the site’s field lab the whole time.”
He waited.
“Simone deciphered something within the Book of Hours and determined a possible location for what she called ‘the truth.’”
The exact words he’d wanted to hear.
Simone was smart. As was Vitt. Together, they’d make a formidable team. That was why he’d sent his man to follow Simone, which had led his eyes and ears straight to Cassiopeia Vitt.
“Tell me everything.”
He listened to more of what Simone and Vitt had discussed.
“They’re planning to travel south tomorrow to take a look,” his man said.
“Do you have an exact location?”
His man gave him more of the details he’d heard.
“Do you want me to follow them tomorrow?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll handle that myself.”
Chapter 18
Cassiopeia climbed from the vehicle and admired the epic wilderness. The Pyrenees extended from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, a line of rust-stained, limestone peaks along the French and Spanish border, forming a four hundred and fifty kilometer natural wall. Pot-holed with lakes, many were secreted in high, inhospitable places with little vegetation. Springs bubbled out of nearly every hole, forming torrents and waterfalls that people came from all over the globe to enjoy.
Legend clung to these mountains. Other ranges outstripped them in height, but none in beauty and romance. Everywhere, virgin summits gleamed against the blue sky. She knew that crumbling villages lurked among the hills, many castle-topped and breathing the atmosphere of vanished centuries. The manners and customs of lost ages colored their inhabitants. Among the valleys lived tales of Charlemagne, Franks, Visigoths, Saracens, Moors.
And Cathars.
They were deep inside a French national park, the land having been publicly preserved since the 1950s. Nearly five hundred square kilometers of pristine mountainous landscape, all the way to the Spanish border. To save time, they’d flown south from Lyon in a helicopter. She’d dispatched one of her employees last evening to drive the five hundred kilometers in one of her Range Rovers, the vehicle waiting for them when they landed. That had also allowed her to send along the proper equipment they might need, based on Simone’s recommendations.
Her newfound ally had spent the night at the chateau and they’d had a lovely evening, talking history and France. She seemed like an intelligent woman. The only subject that remained off limits was Roland Beláncourt. And she’d respected Simone’s reluctance hoping that, at some point, she would open up about what had happened between them.
Simone stepped out into the crisp morning air.
They’d driven into the park and followed a twisting, rising road that meandered through the foothills, climbing ever steadily toward peaks that were not all that far away. Little human expression was in sight, save for the asphalt road, the view from the car park out across a long valley, flanked by protecting hills.
“I’ve long suspected that this area was the place,” Simone said. “Where exactly? I had no idea. But I thought somewhere in these mountains would have been the perfect spot for the Cathars to hide their most precious object. What we are looking at, this particular valley, was once underwater. An alpine lake, high in the Pyrenees, called Rose.”
Cassiopeia admired the high valley, rock-strewn and wild, its floor overgrown with briers, scrub oak, heather, and lavender. Towering walls of naked limestone, streaked with blue shadows, rose on three sides, the rock face bare with few cracks, crevices, or protrusions. Sure, there’d been centuries of weather and erosion, but the clear outline of what could have held a lake remained.
“Look there,” Simone said, pointing. “Off to the right. The terrain rises sharply, levels off, then falls on every side. That had to be the island in Rose Lake we saw on the map.”
“Have you been here before?”
Simone shook her head. “Not here. But other spots a few miles away.”
> They’d spent hours last night studying the illustrated manuscript, taking pictures of the pages and analyzing the maps. Simone had brought her notes from previous study, along with photos of symbols carved into rocks she’d located all across southern France. The book itself remained back at the chateau, locked in the safe, under Viktor’s guard.
Their perch offered an excellent view of the magnificent scenery. No other visitors were in sight, Tuesday apparently not a busy day in this park. She allowed Simone time with her thoughts, practicing what Cotton loved to say.
Those in a hurry usually get fooled.
“Let’s get our gear,” she finally said.
Beláncourt lowered his binoculars.
He’d traveled south last evening after finishing his day with Nina and Georges. He’d enjoyed himself, relishing, if only for a few hours, in the joy of a family. Thoughts of marriage had again crept into his mind. But though he liked Nina, and he worshipped Georges, he did not love her. It had been so long since he last loved anyone that he’d simply forgotten how. Simone was right. Hate had consumed him, and every time he thought himself past it, he discovered that it was not the case. Luckily, he remained rational enough to know that loving Nina’s child would not substitute for loving her. He’d keep seeing her, keep spending time with Georges, but the relationship would eventually end. A shame. But inevitable.
That’s what came from a shattered heart.
One that nothing could put back together.
Earlier, he’d stopped all speculation and allowed his emotions to subside, his mind to stop questioning, resolving that the time had come to act. He stood on a ridge, about five hundred meters away from Simone and Vitt, hidden by the trees. He’d been waiting at the national park for them to arrive, his spot already staked out thanks to what his man had learned yesterday, since they’d continued to electronically monitor the conversations into the night. Now he knew that eight centuries ago the valley below him had been underwater, everything submerged save for an island in the northwest corner. That high ground remained and, somewhere near there or perhaps on it, lay the greatest treasure of the Cathar religion.
