The Templar Legacy (4 page)

ABBEY DES FONTAINES FRENCH PYRÉNÉES 5:00 PM

THE SENESCHAL KNELT BESIDE THE BED TO COMFORT HIS DYINGmaster. For weeks he’d prayed that this moment would not come. But soon, after ruling the Order wisely for twenty-eight years, the old man lying on the bed would achieve a well-earned peace and join his predecessors in heaven. Unfortunately for the seneschal, the tumult of the physical world would continue, and he dreaded that prospect.

The room was spacious, the ancient stone-and-wood walls free of decay, only the pine-hammered ceiling beams blackened by age. A solitary window, like a somber eye, broke the exterior wall and framed the beauty of a waterfall matted by a stark gray mountain. A growing dusk thickened the room’s corners.

The seneschal reached for the old man’s hand. The grip was cold and clammy. “Can you hear me, Master?” he asked in French.

The tired eyes opened. “I am not gone as yet. But soon.”

He’d heard others in their final hour make similar statements and wondered if the body simply did exhaust itself, lacking the energy to compel lungs to breath or a heart to beat, death finally conquering where life had once flourished. He gripped the hand tighter. “I’ll miss you.”

A smile came to the thin lips. “You have served me well, as I knew you would. That’s why I chose you.”

“There will be much conflict in the days ahead.”

“You are ready. I have seen to it.”

He was the seneschal, second only to the master. He’d risen fast through the ranks, too fast for some, and only the master’s firm leadership had quelled the discontent. But death would soon claim his protector and he feared open revolt might follow.

“There is no guarantee I’ll succeed you.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“I respect the power of our adversaries.”

A silence washed over them, allowing the larks and blackbirds beyond the window to announce their presence. He stared down at his master. The old man wore an azure smock besprinkled with golden stars. Though the facial features were sharpened by his approaching death, there remained a vigor to the old man’s lean form. A gray beard hung long and unkempt, the hands and feet constricted with arthritis, but the eyes continued to glisten. He knew twenty-eight years of leadership had taught the old warrior much. Perhaps the most vital lesson was how to project, even in the face of death, a mask of civility.

The doctor had confirmed the cancer months ago. As required by Rule, the disease was allowed to run its course, the natural consequences of God’s action accepted. Thousands of brothers through the centuries had endured the same end, and it was unthinkable that the master would soil their tradition.

“I wish I could smell the water’s spray,” the old man whispered.

The seneschal glanced toward the window. Its sixteenth-century panes were swung open, allowing the sweet aroma of wet stone and verdant greens to seep into his nostrils. The distant water roared in a bubbly tenor. “Your room offers the perfect venue.”

“One of the reasons I wanted to be master.”

He smiled, knowing the old man was being facetious. He’d read the Chronicles and knew that his mentor had ascended by being able to grasp each turn of fortune with the adaptiveness of a genius. His tenure had been one of peace, but all that would soon change.

“I should pray for your soul,” the seneschal said.

“Time for that later. Instead, you must prepare.”

“For what?”

“The conclave. Gather your votes. Be ready. Do not allow your enemies time to rally. Remember all I taught you.” The hoarse voice cracked with infirmity, but there was a firmness in the tone’s foundation.

“I’m not sure that I want to be master.”

“You do.”

His friend knew him well. Modesty required that he shun the mantle, but more than anything he wanted to be the next master.

He felt the hand within his shiver. A few shallow breaths were needed for the old man to steady himself.

“I have prepared the message. It is there, on the desk.”

He knew it would be the next master’s duty to study that testament.

“The duty must be done,” the master said. “As it has been done since the Beginning.”

The seneschal did not want to hear about duty. He was more concerned with emotion. He looked around the room, which contained only the bed, a prie-dieu that faced a wooden crucifix, three chairs protected by an old tapestried cushion, a writing desk, and two aged marble statues standing in wall niches. There was a time when the chamber would have been filled with Spanish leather, Delft porcelain, English furniture. But audacity had long been purged from the Order’s character.

As from his own.

The old man gasped for air.

He stared down at the man lying in an uneasy slumber of disease. The master gathered his wind, blinked a few times, then said, “Not yet, old friend. But soon.”

ROSKILDE
6:15 PM

MALONE WAITED UNTIL AFTER THE AUCTION STARTED BEFOREslipping into the hall. He was familiar with the setup and knew bidding would not begin before six twenty, as there were preliminary matters of buyer registration and seller agreements that had to be verified before any money began changing hands.

Roskilde
was an ancient town nestled beside a slender saltwater fjord. Founded by Vikings, it had served as Denmark
’s capital until the fifteenth century and continued to exude a regal grace. The auction was held downtown, near the Domkirke, in a building off Skomagergade, where shoemakers had once dominated. Bookselling was an art form in Denmark
. There was a nationwide appreciation for the written word—one Malone, as a lifelong bibliophile, had come to admire. Where once books were simply a hobby, a diversion from the pressures of his risky career, now they were his life.

Spotting Peter Hansen and Stephanie near the front, he stayed toward the rear, behind one of the stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. He had no intention of bidding, so it mattered not if the auctioneer could see him.

Books came and went, some for respectable numbers of kroner. But he noticed Peter Hansen perk up as the next item was displayed.

“ Pierres Gravées du Languedoc,by Eugène Stüblein. Copyright 1887,” the auctioneer announced. “A local history, quite common for the time, printed in only a few hundred copies. This is part of an estate we recently acquired. This book is very fine, leather-bound, no marks, with some extraordinary prints—one is reproduced in the catalog. Not something we normally bother with, but the volume is quite lovely, so we thought there may be some interest. An opening bid, please.”

Three came fast, all low, the last at four hundred kroner. Malone did the math. Sixty dollars. Hansen then weighed in at eight hundred. No more bids came from the other potential buyers until one of the representatives who worked phones for those unable to attend called out a bid of one thousand kroner.

Hansen seemed perturbed by the unexpected challenge, especially from a long-distance bidder, and upped his offer to 1,050. Phone Man retaliated with two thousand. A third bidder joined the fray. Shouts continued until the bid soared to nine thousand kroner. Others appeared to sense there might be something more to the book. Another minute of intense bidding ended with Hansen’s offer of twenty-four thousand kroner.

More than four thousand dollars.

Malone knew Stephanie was a salaried civil servant, somewhere in the seventy- to eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year range. Her husband had died years ago and left her with some assets, but she was not wealthy and certainly not a book collector, so he wondered why she was willing to pay so much for an unknown travel log. People brought them into his shop by the box, many from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a time when personal accounts of faraway places were popular. Most sported purple prose and were, by and large, worthless.

This one clearly seemed an exception.

“Fifty thousand kroner,” the representative for Phone Man called out.

More than double Hansen’s last bid.

Heads turned and Malone retreated behind the pillar as Stephanie whirled to face the phone bank. He peered around the edge and watched as Stephanie and Hansen conversed, then returned their attention to the auctioneer. A moment of silence passed while Hansen seemed to consider his next move, but he was clearly taking his cue from Stephanie.

She shook her head.

“Item is sold to the telephone bidder for fifty thousand kroner.”

The auctioneer retrieved the book from the display stand and a fifteen-minute break was announced. Malone knew the house was going to take a look at Pierres Gravées du Languedoc to see what made it worth more than eight thousand dollars. He knew the Roskilde dealers were astute and unaccustomed to treasures slipping past them. But apparently, something had this time.

He continued to hug the pillar while Stephanie and Hansen remained near their seats. A number of familiar faces filled the hall and he hoped no one called out his name. Most were idling toward the other corner where refreshments were being offered. He noticed two men approach Stephanie and introduce themselves. Both were stocky, with short hair, dressed in chinos and crew-necked shirts beneath loose-fitting tan jackets. As one bent to shake Stephanie’s hand, Malone noticed the distinctive bulge of a weapon nestled against his spine.

After some discussion, the men withdrew. The conversation had appeared friendly, and while Hansen drifted toward the free beer, Stephanie approached one of the attendants, spoke a moment, then left the hall through a side door.

Malone moved straight for the same attendant, Gregos, a thin Dane whom he knew well.

“Cotton, so good to see you.”

“Always on the lookout for a bargain.”

Gregos smiled. “Tough to find those here.”

“Looked like that last item was a shock.”

“I thought it would fetch maybe five hundred kroner. But fifty thousand? Amazing.”

“Any idea why?”

Gregos shook his head. “Beyond me.”

Malone motioned toward the side door. “The woman you were just talking to. Where was she headed?”

The attendant gave him a knowing look. “You interested in her?”

“Not like that. But I am interested.”

Malone had been a favorite of the auction house since a few months back when he helped find a wayward seller who’d offered three volumes of Jane Eyre, circa 1847, that turned out to be stolen. When the police seized the books from the new buyer, the auction house had to refund every krone, but the seller had already cashed the house check. As a favor, Malone found the man in England and retrieved the money. In the process, he’d made some grateful friends in his new home.

“She was asking about the Domkirke, where it is located. Particularly the chapel of Christian IV.”

“She say why?”

Gregos shook his head. “Only that she was going to walk over.”

He reached out and shook the man’s hand. In his grasp lay a folded thousand-krone note. He saw that Gregos appreciated the offering and casually slipped the money into his pocket. Gratuities were frowned upon by the auction house.

“One more thing,” he said. “Who was the high bidder on the phone for that book?”

“As you know, Cotton, that information is strictly confidential.”

“As you know, I hate rules. Do I know the bidder?”

“He owns the building that you rent in Copenhagen.”

He nearly smiled. Henrik Thorvaldsen. He should have known.

The auction was reconvening. As buyers retook their seats, he made his way toward the entrance and noticed Peter Hansen sitting down. Outside, he stepped into a cool Danish evening, and though nearly eightPM the summer sky remained backlit with bars of dull crimson from a slowly setting sun. Several blocks away loomed the redbrick cathedral, the Domkirke, where Danish royalty had been buried since the thirteenth century.

What was Stephanie doing there?

He was just about to head that way when two men approached. One pressed something hard into his back.

“Nice and still, Mr. Malone, or I will shoot you here and now,” the voice whispered in his ear.

He glanced left and right.

The two men who’d been talking to Stephanie in the hall flanked him. And in their features he saw the same anxious look he’d seen a few hours ago on Red Jacket’s face.

STEPHANIE ENTERED THEDOMKIRKE. THE MAN AT THE AUCTIONhad said the building was easy to find and he’d been right. The monstrous brick edifice, far too big for the town around it, dominated the evening sky.

Inside the grandiose building she found extensions, chapels, and porches, all topped by a high vaulted ceiling and towering stained-glass windows that lent the ancient walls a celestial air. She could tell the cathedral was no longer Catholic—Lutheran from the décor, if she was not mistaken—with architecture that cast a distinctively French air.

She was angry that she’d lost the book. She’d thought it would sell for no more than three hundred kroner, fifty dollars or so. Instead, some anonymous buyer paid more than eight thousand dollars for an innocuous account of southern France written over a hundred years ago.

Again, somebody knew her business.

Maybe it was the person waiting for her? The two men who’d approached her after the bidding had said all would be explained if she would simply walk to the cathedral and find Christian IV’s chapel. She’d thought the trip foolish, but what choice did she have? She had a limited amount of time in which to do a great deal.

She followed the directions provided to her and circled the vestibule. A service was being held in the nave to her right, before the main altar. About fifty people knelt in the pews. Music from a pipe organ banged through the interior with a metallic vibration. She found Christian IV’s chapel and entered through an elaborate iron grille.

Waiting for her was a short man with wispy, iron-gray hair that lay flat upon his head like a cap. He had a rugged, clean-shaven face and wore light-colored cotton trousers beneath an open collar shirt. A leather jacket covered his thick chest, and as she drew closer, she noticed that his dark eyes cast a look she immediately thought cold and suspicious. Perhaps he sensed her apprehension because his expression softened and he threw her a disarming grin.