by Steve Berry
He nodded. “You may have them.”
Stephanie’s gaze caught his. “You’re right, Cotton, I do need some help. I’m sorry about my tone earlier. I thought I could do this on my own. But since we’re all asshole buddies now, let’s you and I go to France and see what’s in Lars’s house. I haven’t been there in some time. There’s also a few people in Rennes-le-Château we can talk with. People who worked with Lars. Then we’ll go from there.”
“Your shadows might come, too,” he said.
She smiled. “Lucky for me I have you.”
“I’d like to come,” Thorvaldsen said.
Malone was surprised. Henrik rarely traveled from Denmark. “And the purpose of you gracing us with your company?”
“I know a bit about what Lars sought. That knowledge might prove useful.”
He shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“Okay, Henrik,” Stephanie said. “It’ll give us time to come to know one another. Apparently, as you say, I have some things to learn.”
“As do we all, Stephanie. As do we all.”
De Roquefort fought to restrain himself. His suspicions were now confirmed. Stephanie Nelle was on the trail that her husband had blazed. She also was the custodian of her husband’s notebook, along with a copy of Pierres Gravées du Languedoc, perhaps the only copy still in existence. That was the thing about Lars Nelle. He’d been good. Too good. And now his widow owned his clues. He’d made a mistake trusting Peter Hansen. But at the time, the approach seemed the right one. He would not make that mistake again. Too much was riding on the outcome to trust any aspect to another stranger.
He continued to listen as they finalized what to do once in Rennes-le-Château. Malone and Stephanie would travel there tomorrow. Thorvaldsen would come in a few days. When he’d heard enough, de Roquefort freed the microphone from the window and withdrew with his two associates to the safety of a thick stand of trees.
There’d be no more killing tonight.
Pages are missing.
He would need that missing information from Lars Nelle’s journal. The sender of the notebook had been smart. Dividing the spoils prevented rash acts. Clearly, there was more to this intricate puzzle than he knew—and he was playing catch-up.
But no matter. Once all of the players were in France, he could easily deal with them.
PART TWO
FIFTEEN
ABBEY DES FONTAINES
8:00 AM
The seneschal stood before the altar and stared at the oak coffin. The brothers were entering the chapel, marching in solemn order, their sonorous voices chanting in unison. The melody was ancient, sung at every master’s funeral since the Beginning. The Latin lyrics spoke of loss, sorrow, and pain. Renewal would not be discussed until later in the day, when the conclave would convene to choose a successor. Rule was clear. Two suns could not set without a master and, as seneschal, he must ensure that Rule was maintained.
He watched as the brothers completed their entrance and positioned themselves before polished oak pews. Each man was cloaked in a plain russet frock, a cowl concealing his head, only his hands visible, folded in prayer.
The church was formed as a Latin cross with a single nave and two aisles. Little decoration existed, nothing to distract the mind from considering heaven’s mysteries, but it was nonetheless majestic, the capitals and columns projecting an impressive energy. The brothers had first gathered here after the Purge in 1307—those who’d managed to escape Philip IV’s grasp, retreating to the countryside and stealthily migrating south. Eventually they’d convened here, safe within a mountain fortress, and dissolved into the fabric of religious society, making plans, pledging commitments, always remembering.
He closed his eyes and allowed the music to fill him. No tinkling accompaniment, no organ, nothing. Just the human voice, swelling and breaking. He sapped strength from the melody and steeled himself for the hours ahead.
The chanting stopped. He allowed a minute of silence to pass, then stepped close to the coffin.
“Our most exalted and reverent master has left this life. He hath ruled this Order with wisdom and justice, pursuant to Rule, for twenty-eight years. A place for him is now set within the Chronicles.”
One man shoved back his cowl. “On that I challenge.”
A shudder swept over the seneschal. Rule granted any brother the right to challenge. He’d expected a battle later, in conclave, but not during the funeral. The seneschal turned to the first row of pews and faced the speaker.
Raymond de Roquefort.
A stump of a man with an expressionless face and a personality of which the seneschal had always been wary, he’d been a brother for thirty years and had risen to the rank of marshal, which placed him third in the chain of command. In the Beginning, centuries ago, the marshal was the Order’s military commander, the leader of the knights in battle. Now he was the minister of security, charged with making sure the Order stayed inviolate. De Roquefort had held that post for nearly two decades. He and the brothers who worked under him were allowed the privilege to come and go from the abbey at will, reporting to no one other than the master, and the marshal had made no secret of the contempt he felt for his now dead superior.
“Speak your challenge,” the seneschal said.
“Our departed master weakened this Order. His policies lacked courage. The time has come to move in a different direction.”
De Roquefort’s words carried not a hint of emotion, and the seneschal knew how the marshal could clothe wrongs in eloquent language. De Roquefort was a fanatic. Men like him had kept the Order strong for centuries, but the master had many times counseled that their usefulness was waning. Others disagreed, and two factions had emerged—de Roquefort heading one, the master the other. Most brothers had kept their choice private, as was the Order’s way. But the interregnum was a time of debate. Free discussion was how the collective decided which course it would follow.
“Is that the extent of your challenge?” the seneschal asked.
“For too long the brothers have been excluded from the decision process. We have not been consulted, nor has the counsel we offered been heeded.”
“This is not a democracy,” the seneschal said.
“Nor would I want it to be. But it is a brotherhood. One based on common needs and community goals. Each of us has pledged his life and possessions. We do not deserve to be ignored.”
De Roquefort’s voice had a calculating and deflationary effect. The seneschal noted that none of the others stirred the solemnity of the challenge and, for an instant, the sanctity that had for so long loomed within the chapel seemed tainted. He felt as if he was surrounded by men of a different mind and purpose. One word kept ringing through his mind.
Revolt.
“What would you have us do?” the seneschal asked.
“Our master does not deserve the usual respect.”
He stayed rigid and made the required inquiry, “Do you call for a vote?”
“I do.”
Rule required a vote, when demanded, on all issues during the interregnum. With no master, they governed as a whole. To the remaining brothers, whose faces he could not see, he said, “A show of hands as to who would deny our master his rightful place in the Chronicles.”
Some arms went up immediately. Others hesitated. He gave them the full two minutes that Rule required to make their decision. Then he counted.
Two hundred ninety-one arms pointed to heaven.
“Greater than the required seventy percent are in favor of the challenge.” He repressed his anger. “Our master shall be denied in the Chronicles.” He could not believe he’d said the words. May his old friend forgive him. He stepped away from the coffin, back toward the altar. “Since you have no respect for our departed leader, you are dismissed. For those who wish to participate, I will proceed to the Hall of Fathers in one hour.”
The brothers filed out in silence until only de Roquefort remained. The Frenchman approached the coffin. Confidenc
e showed on his rugged face. “It is the price he pays for cowardice.”
No need for appearances existed any longer. “You will regret what you just did.”
“The student thinks himself master? I look forward to the conclave.”
“You will destroy us.”
“I will resurrect us. The world needs to know the truth. What happened all those centuries ago was wrong, and it is time to right that wrong.”
The seneschal didn’t disagree with that conclusion, but there was another point. “There was no need to desecrate a good man.”
“Good to who? You? I was treated with contempt.”
“Which is far more than you deserved.”
A grim smile spread across de Roquefort’s pale face. “Your protector is no more. It’s now just you and me.”
“I look forward to the battle.”
“As do I.” De Roquefort paused. “Thirty percent of the brotherhood did not support me, so I will leave it to you and them to say goodbye to our master.”
His enemy turned and paraded from the chapel. The seneschal waited until the doors had closed, then laid a trembling hand on the coffin. A network of hate, treachery, and fanaticism was closing around him. He heard again his words to the master from yesterday.
I respect the power of our adversaries.
He’d just sparred with his adversary and lost.
Which did not bode well for the hours ahead.
SIXTEEN
RENNES-LE-CHTEAU, FRANCE
11:30 AM
Malone turned the rental car east off the main highway, just outside Couiza, and started up a twisting incline. The rising road offered stunning vistas of nearby tawny hillsides thick with summer rock roses, lavender, and thyme. The lofty ruins of a fortress, its charred walls standing like gaunt fingers, rose in the distance. The land, as far as the eye could see, oozed the romance of history when marauding knights swooped like eagles from the fortified heights to prey on their foe.
He and Stephanie had left Copenhagen around four AM and flown to Paris, where they caught the first Air France shuttle of the day south for Toulouse. An hour later they were on the ground and motoring southwest into the region known as the Languedoc.
On the way Stephanie told him about the village that stood fifteen hundred feet atop the bleak mound they were now climbing. Gauls were the first to inhabit the hilltop, drawn by the prospect of being able to see for miles across the expansive Aude River valley. But it was the Visigoths in the fifth century who built a citadel and adopted the ancient Celtic name for the location—Rhedae, which meant “chariot”—eventually developing the place into a trading center. Two hundred years later, when the Visigoths were driven south into Spain, the Franks converted Rhedae into a royal city. By the thirteenth century, though, the town’s status had declined, and toward the end of the Albigensian Crusade it was razed. Ownership passed through several wealthy houses of both France and Spain, eventually resting with one of Simon de Montfort’s lieutenants, who founded a barony. The family built themselves a château, around which a tiny hamlet sprouted, and the name eventually changed from Rhedae to Rennes-le-Château. Their issue ruled the land and the town until 1781, when the last heir, Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort, died.
“Before her death, it was said that she passed on a great secret,” Stephanie had said, “one that her family kept for centuries. She was childless and her husband died before her, so with no one left, she told the secret to her confessor, the abbé Antoine Bigou, who was the parish priest for Rennes.”
Now, as Malone stared ahead at the last bend in the narrow road, he imagined what it must have been like to live then in such a remote place. The isolated valleys formed a perfect repository for both fleeing fugitives and restless pilgrims. Easy to see why the region had become a theme park for the imagination, a mecca for mystery buffs and new agers, a place where writers with a unique vision could forge a reputation.
Like Lars Nelle.
The town came into view. He slowed the car and eased through a gate framed by limestone pillars. A sign warned FOUILLES INTERDITES. Excavating prohibited.
“They had to post a notice about digging?” he asked.
Stephanie nodded. “Years ago, people were shoveling dirt in every corner looking for treasure. Even dynamiting. It had to be regulated.”
Daylight dimmed beyond the town gate. The limestone buildings were packed tight, like books on a shelf, many with pitched roofs, thick doors, and rusted iron verandas. A narrow and flinty grand rue wound up a short incline. People with backpacks and Michelin Green Guides hugged the walls on either side, parading single-file back and forth. Malone saw a couple of stores, a bookshop, and a restaurant. Alleys led off the main rue to nests of buildings, but not many. The entire town was less than five hundred yards across.
“Only about a hundred people live here full time,” Stephanie said. “Though fifty thousand visit each year.”
“Lars had quite an effect.”
“More than I ever realized.”
She pointed ahead and directed him to turn left. They eased past kiosks peddling rosaries, medals, pictures, and souvenirs to more camera-toting visitors.
“They come by the busload,” she said. “Wanting to believe in the impossible.”
Up another incline and he parked the Peugeot in a sandy lot. Two buses were already there, their drivers milling about smoking. A water tower rose to one side, its tattered stone adorned with a zodiac sign.
“The crowds come early,” Stephanie said as they climbed out. “Here to see the domaine d’Abbé Saunière. The priest’s domain—what he built with all that mysterious treasure he supposedly found.”
Malone stepped close to a waist-high rock wall. The panorama below, a patchwork of field, forest, valley, and rock, stretched for miles. The silver-green hills were dotted with chestnut and oak. He checked his bearings. The great bulk of the snowcapped Pyrénées blocked the southern horizon. A stiff wind howled from the west, thankfully warmed by the summer sun.
He glanced to the right. A hundred feet away the neo-Gothic tower, with its crenellated roof and single round turret, had graced the cover of many a book and tourist brochure. It stood on the edge of a cliff, grim and defiant, seemingly clinging to rock. A long belvedere stretched from its far side and rounded back toward an iron glasshouse, then to another cluster of olden stone buildings, each topped with orange-tiled roofs. People milled back and forth on the ramparts, cameras in hand, admiring the valleys below.
“The tower is the Tour Magdala. Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Stephanie asked.
“Seems out of place.”
“That’s what I always thought, too.”
To the right of the Magdala rose an ornamental garden that led to a compact Renaissance-style building that also seemed from another locale.
“The Villa Béthanie,” she said. “Saunière built it, too.”
He noted the name. Bethany. “That’s biblical. In the Holy Land. It meant ‘house with an answer.’ ”
She nodded. “Saunière was clever with names.” She pointed to more buildings behind them. “Lars’s house is down that alley. Before we head there, I have to do something. As we walk, let me tell you about what happened here in 1891. What I read about last week. What brought this place back from obscurity.”
The abbé Bérenger Saunière pondered the daunting task before him. The Church of Mary Magdalene had been built upon Visigoth ruins and consecrated in 1059. Now, eight centuries later, the inside was in ruin, thanks to a roof that leaked as if it weren’t there. The walls themselves were crumbling, the foundations slipping away. It would take both patience and stamina to repair the damage, but he thought himself up to the task.
He was a husky man, muscular, broad-shouldered, with a head of close-cropped black hair. His one endearing feature, which he used to his advantage, was the cleft in his chin. It added a whimsical air to the stiff countenance of his black eyes and thick eyebrows. Born and raised a few miles away, in the
village of Montazels, he knew the geography of the Corbières well. From childhood he’d been familiar with Rennes-le-Château. Its church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, had been in limited use for decades, and he’d never imagined that one day its many problems would be his.
“A mess,” the man known as Rousset said to him.
He glanced at the mason. “I agree.”
Another mason, Babou, was busy shoring up one of the walls. The region’s state architect had recently recommended that the building be razed, but Saunière would never allow that to happen. Something about the old church demanded that it be saved.
“It will take much money to complete the repairs,” Rousset said.
“Enormous amounts of money.” He added a smile to let the older man know that he understood the challenge. “But we shall make this house worthy of the Lord.”
What he did not say was that he’d already secured a fair amount of funds. A bequest from one of his predecessors had left six hundred francs especially for repairs. He’d also managed to convince the town council to loan him another fourteen hundred francs. But the bulk of his money had come in secret five years ago. Three thousand francs had been donated by the countess of Chambord, the widow of Henri, the last Bourbon claimant to the defunct French throne. At the time Saunière had managed to bring a great deal of attention to himself with anti-republican sermons, ones that stirred monarchist feelings in his parishioners. The government reeled from the comments, withdrawing his yearly stipend and demanding that he be fired. Instead the bishop suspended him for nine months, but his actions caught the attention of the countess, who’d made contact through an intermediary.
“Where do we start?” Rousset asked.
He’d given that matter a great deal of thought. The stained-glass windows had already been replaced and a new porch, outside the main entrance, would be completed shortly. Certainly the north wall, where Babou was working, must be mended, a new pulpit installed, and the roof replaced. But he knew where they must start.
