Gabriel would have cut the man in half. Simon did what Joan would have done, and used only the flat of the blade. The agent had not been expecting a swordfight and Simon’s blow was a strong one.
But the fourth agent had his hand up, and for an instant Simon saw the stairwell light glinting off the barrel of a gun. Then he was gone, up to another level as his pursuers struggled to rise and continue the hunt.
The skirmish had bought him precious time, and Simon didn’t waste it. One more flight and there it was, the final door, the one that opened onto the roof. He slammed his shoulder into it, and kept going.
The cold night air was a shock to his heated face and heaving lungs. Simon kept running, his feet flying over first the concrete pathway, then the manicured grass of the rooftop’s park; he was running out of rooftop.
Why did I come up here? he thought, wildly and far too late. I’m a bloody rat in a trap.
He had delayed the Templars, but had not stopped them, and they charged out of the stairway behind him. On the other side of the roof, a light pierced the darkness as a door was flung open. The second team of his pursuers had made it. Both groups were charging toward him, one ahead of Simon, one behind. They knew, as he did, that, other than the lift that they’d shut down and the two staircases from which they now emerged with grim and silent purpose, there was no way off this building.
Think. Think!
Thinking had saved Simon before, many a time. He’d always relied on logic, on rationality, on analysis, to solve every predicament that life in all its sadistic whimsy had thrown him, but now it was of no use to him at all.
The deadly percussion of gunfire exploded behind him. Trees, his rational mind shouted, and the logic saved him. He altered his path, zigzagging to make himself an unpredictable target, careening erratically like a drunken man toward the trees and shrubberies and now-shuttered snack and beverage stalls that would shield him from the hail of bullets.
But it would only delay the inevitable.
Simon knew very well what his fellow Templars were capable of. And he knew what they wanted. They were not coming to question him, or capture him. Despite the words in the stairwell, there had also been gunfire. They were intent on killing him, and therefore, very, very soon, he would be dead.
There was only one way out, and it would be a bloody miracle if it worked.
His heart was slamming against his chest, his lungs heaving, his body taxed to its limit because in the end, he was only human, wasn’t he, no matter what kind of training he had, no matter what sort of DNA was floating about in his blood. And he didn’t slow, couldn’t slow, couldn’t allow that logical, analytical, rational brain of his to interrupt the signals from the deep primal instinct of survival. Couldn’t let his brain overrule his body.
Because his body knew what was called for. And it knew how to do it.
A tree branch exploded right beside him. Splinters grazed his face, drawing blood. Anaya’s voice was in his ear, shouting something, he couldn’t make out what.
The fate offered by the Templars behind him was one of heartless certainty. The stone wall that encircled the edge of the rooftop garden of the London office of Abstergo Industries offered a wild, desperate chance.
If he had the faith to take it.
Simon Hathaway didn’t slow. He surged forward, summoning an extra burst of speed, clearing it like runner would a hurdle, his long legs pedaling in the air as he arched his back, spread his arms—
—and leaped.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
“It’s a shame, really,” Alan Rikkin was saying as he opened the door into the Inner Sanctum’s private meeting room. Less than ten days ago, Simon Hathaway had stood here, in front of a white board, talking in an earnest voice about knowledge for knowledge’s sake. “To have to start the process all over again. Can’t believe Simon didn’t even last a week in his role.”
“Do we know what happened?” asked Laetitia England.
“Yes, we do,” Simon replied calmly, standing at the far end of the room. “Well, I do.”
Rikkin froze. Simon did not think he had ever seen pure hatred in anyone’s eyes before this moment, but there it was, smoldering in the depths of Alan Rikkin’s dark orbs.
“Simon. What a surprise,” Rikkin said. His voice was cold and flat, belying the intensity of his gaze. “I can honestly say you are the very last person I expected to discover in this room.”
Simon looked around the stunned expressions of his fellow Inner Sanctum members. He wondered what they’d been told. He wondered if he’d leave this room alive. “To paraphrase Mark Twain, reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
Agneta Reider smiled first. “Well, I for one am glad,” she said, and there was real pleasure in her voice.
“Simon, what happened to you? Where have you been?” Mitsuko Nakamura asked. Rikkin, his gaze never leaving Simon, was busy activating monitors. In a few seconds, the faces of Otso Berg and Álvaro Gramática appeared, reacting to Simon’s presence with similar stunned expressions.
“How did you get past security?” asked Alfred Stearns suspiciously.
“I’ll answer your questions shortly, Mitsuko. And come now, Alfred. I’m an English Templar historian in London—a city that’s two thousand years old. Who better to know about long-lost underground passages?” He squared his shoulders. “Right. Now that we’re all here—in one form or another—I formally present myself to the judgment of the Inner Sanctum. I have a right to a hearing.”
“He does have that right,” Berg said. That surprised Simon. Otso Berg wasn’t someone he had expected to come to his defense.
“What, exactly, have you done that requires judgment?” England asked.
“I’ve stolen a priceless artifact,” Simon said bluntly. “I’ve also stolen, and destroyed, intellectual property of the Order. But I have returned the Sword of Eden in better condition than it was when I took it, and I will reveal and replace the content of the intellectual property. All that I have done, I have done for what I believe with all my heart is the highest good of the Templar Order.” His pale blue eyes met Rikkin’s.
“Alan, what’s he going on about?” Stearns demanded.
“I’ve absolutely no idea,” said Rikkin.
Liar, thought Simon. “As my employer, Alan, you can fire me and press charges right now,” he said. “But as a member of the Inner Sanctum, you are obliged to permit me to speak. Who will you be today? CEO or Templar?”
A muscle twitched near Rikkin’s eye. “Templar. First, and always.” As Simon had gambled he would, Rikkin chose the path of seeming reasonableness instead of intolerant bullying—at least while he had an audience.
“This should be good,” said David Kilkerman.
“Oh, it will. And I won’t ask you to clap erasers, David.” This time, Kilkerman did not laugh. Simon indicated the two pieces of technology currently on display on the meeting table. One was a 3D monitor. The other was an elongated box.
“The sword’s right there.” Simon nodded toward the box. “Let me briefly recap what we know of its history. It was in the possession of Grand Master Jacques de Molay until the mass arrest of Templars on the thirteenth of October, 1307. It was taken to the Temple on that date for safekeeping, and was buried behind the altar at the church in Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois some point after that. Joan of Arc sent someone to dig it up in 1429. It was lost—”
Simon paused, cleared his throat, and resumed. “Lost at the battle for Paris on the eighth of September, 1429. It was recovered by the Templars sometime after that date and returned to the Temple, where it stayed until François-Thomas Germain located it during the French Revolution. Thenceforth, broken, it was in the possession of Assassin Arno Dorian. It had many more adventures, no doubt, before it ended up in Alan’s office. I’ll return to it later.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and regarded them. “When I stood before you on the date of my entrance into the Inner Sanctum
, I resolved to do two things. One, determine a way to repair this sword. Two, to prove the value of my approach to the tasks of my department—to show you that if you give random chance a seat at the table, it will bring gifts. On this journey, I discovered something that I found shocking, horrifying, and exciting.”
He took a deep breath. Here we go. “I discovered that our Order has been in desperate need of a course correction for at least six centuries. Since that time, we’ve misunderstood or misinterpreted almost everything.”
“How dare you!” Stearns was livid with fury. “You have barely been a member of the Inner Sanctum for a week and you—”
“There is nothing wrong with what we—” England began.
“Heresy.”
The word shut everyone down. It was uttered, of course, by Rikkin, who doubtless thought Simon had done him the favor of shooting himself in the head without any outside aid.
“I don’t believe it is,” Simon replied steadily. “I intend to prove to you that we have deviated from what de Molay intended for the Order, and we’ve been doing a great deal wrong since he was martyred. I am allowed to present my case. If you deem me a heretic after that, then I’ll submit to your judgment, as I’ve said.”
“I am finding all this quite entertaining,” exclaimed Gramática. “Simon, I thought you so dull, but clearly I was wrong.”
Before Rikkin could shut him down again, Simon continued. “The intellectual properties I stole were memories of my ancestor, Gabriel Laxart. I took them because I did not wish them, ah, tampered with before I had a chance to present my findings to you. But here they are, intact.”
Simon clicked the remote control. The 3D monitor, which always struck him as looking like a very technical aquarium, came to life. The roiling mists of the so-familiar Memory Corridor blossomed and swirled, like ink dropped into water.
After a moment, the swirls took form. “Right now, you’re looking at carvings—graffiti—left by Jacques de Molay and some of his knights, while they were imprisoned in Chinon Castle.”
Even as Simon spoke, the voice of Jean de Metz floated from the monitor. “There’s got to be some kind of message. Templars wouldn’t waste their energy just to make some entertaining drawings.”
“These carvings are famous,” scoffed Rikkin. “You’re wasting time, Simon. Morgenstern over in Cryptography could talk your ear off—”
“Interesting, then, isn’t it, that Morgenstern over in Cryptography never received this when Dr. Bibeau sent it to him.” Simon watched keenly as that registered with the rest of the Inner Sanctum members, but did not look directly at Rikkin. “Look in particular at this one—a sort of inverted tear-drop of a sun, shining on the upturned face of a Templar. Look at the many instances of hands reaching upward, and hearts drawn in several places. And this line in Latin. It says, ‘If the heart is strong, it will not break.’”
“Why are you showing us this?” Berg, as usual, blunt.
“You’ll understand later. Just remember these.” The scene reverted to mist, then reformed into Joan’s face.
Simon felt like he’d been punched in the gut at the sight. He gritted his teeth and forced his voice to be calm as he looked at her, holding the pouch and smiling. “I keep the ring they gave me in here, always close to my heart, along with a few other things that are special to me,” she said.
Simon closed his eyes briefly, then continued. “Gabriel could sense power in the sword, but it was just as inert when he touched it as it was when you gave it to me to research, Alan. Dead. Colorless. But watch.”
Again, he saw the bittersweet image of Joan’s face, her blue eyes wide, the pouch around her neck slipping forward as she leaned toward the sword and slid off the red velvet sheath, gasping as she saw the golden glow.
Simon allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as more than a few of his audience inhaled swiftly when Joan grasped the sword. The golden hue of the sword increased, and the lines of ancient technology flared to life as well.
“Jhesu Maria,” whispered Joan of Arc, and lifted the sword high. Her face was alight, and so was the sword, a corona of tamed, white lightning enveloping it.
“You can tell the sword is now active. What you can’t tell is how Gabriel felt right at this moment,” Simon said. “He felt joy, and contentment, and peace….” Simon frowned, knowing his words were inadequate. “He felt that there was nothing to fear. That no one would suffer. Cruelty or anger no longer needed to exist. When Joan held the sword, there was only peace and calmness.”
“For the Templars?” England wanted to clarify.
“For everyone.” A montage of scenes appeared, showing Joan in action with the sword: holding it aloft, fighting with only the flat of the blade, defending herself with its lightning, shattering the blade of her enemy into fragments.
“Remarkable.” The comment came from Berg. Emotions seemed to be warring on his face—doubt in what he saw, and a strange… wistfulness was the only word for it. Reider had her chin propped up in her hands, watching raptly.
“We saw none of this with Germain,” said Gramática.
“No,” Simon said. “We didn’t. Remember this, too.”
Now, Gabriel Laxart was in a Rouen tavern. Simon remembered his anger. The boy had come here to kill, but in the end, what he saw had so disgusted him that he had decided to let the drunken wretch live.
“Geoffroy Thérage,” Simon said solemnly. “The ancestor of your predecessor, David. Warren Vidic.”
Thérage looked every inch the terrifying executioner. He was over six feet tall, a giant in that era, and strongly built. He had dark hair and a thick black beard. And at the moment, he was hunched over an ale, his eyes wide, glassy, and red-rimmed as he muttered to a companion, an older man, better dressed, whose face was slack and gray with shock.
“Twenty-five years I’ve done this,” Thérage muttered. “I’ve seen ‘em beg, and weep, and snarl, and soil themselves, and pray to and damn God. But this….”
He took another long pull on his drink as the young man who planned on taking his life watched from another table. “It was my duty to kill them. Never thought twice about it. But I’m going to burn in hell for this one. I’ve killed a holy woman, and God’s seen it.” Thérage’s huge frame shuddered. “Her heart… three times we burned her. Three damned times. Oil, sulphur, carbon I put on it. It wouldn’t burn.” He ran a trembling hand over his face. “In the end I threw it all in the Seine.”
“We’ve burned a saint,” murmured the other man. “God have mercy on our souls.”
“The insistence that her heart didn’t burn is part of the folklore surrounding Joan of Arc,” Simon said. “But it seems as though this tall tale is true. We have it directly from the man who tried to destroy it three times and failed.”
“Thérage is drunk,” said England dismissively. “He’s imagining things.”
“Isn’t that the official line we Templars like to trot out, when ordinary people run across things they can’t explain?” Simon challenged. “Remember this moment, too. It’s important.”
The scene changed again. “By now, you recognize Gabriel. This elegant man he’s speaking with is Jean, Duke of Alençon, recorded in history as Joan of Arc’s best friend. What history doesn’t record is that, like Gabriel, Alençon was in training to become an Assassin. He was also a lifelong friend of King Charles. So why, then, would a man like this take part in a revolt against Charles eight years after Joan’s death? Why would he become a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece, an order founded by Philip, Duke of Burgundy—a Templar?”
“He turned his coat,” murmured Stearns approvingly.
“Yes,” confirmed Simon, “but historians have been wondering for centuries just what drove him to do so. But we know… now.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
“A Templar?” Gabriel said, in horrified tones. Alençon had looked so old to him, Simon remembered; so very worn. But Gabriel, too, was no longer a youth.
“The Assassins could have rescued Jeanne at any point,” Alençon said bitterly. “They chose not to. I pressed de Metz and Yolande, but they would not tell me why.”
“‘I fear nothing, except treachery,’ Jeanne said once.”
The duke’s dark eyes regarded the younger man sadly. “There’s something I must tell you. You will find it difficult to believe, but—the Duke of Burgundy never wanted, let alone ordered, Joan’s death.”
Gabriel scoffed, both irritated and offended at the suggestion. Alençon lifted a placating hand. “Please, old friend, just hear me out. Of course he wanted to stop her. She was threatening the Templar plan. They hadn’t counted on a girl with her blood showing up, let alone that she’d find a Sword of Eden. It was Philip’s man, John of Luxembourg, the count of Ligny, who took her prisoner. Don’t you remember how long he held her?”
“Months,” Gabriel recalled. “And,” he added, grudgingly, “she was well treated. But he sold her to the English!”
“The Templars had to discredit Charles,” Alençon said. “Jeanne was strongly linked to him. If she were ruled a heretic, it would reflect badly on Charles. So the Templars—the Burgundians and the English—agreed to try and convict her of heresy.”
“A trial,” sneered Gabriel, still angry. “With the outcome predetermined.”
“Yes,” said Alençon, “her trial, her conviction—her chance to recant and then be freed in three, maybe four years—you’re right. That was all planned. Gabriel… all they wanted to do, all they needed to do, was to defang her. Charles was already turning his back on Jeanne, and the world would have, too.” Gently, he said, “She could have returned to Domrémy. Married. Had a family. That was the plan.”
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