The Templar Legacy (43 page)

“The prophecy from Exodus. John speaks of it in his Gospel. He said all those things happened so Scripture would be fulfilled.”

“Exodus speaks of Passover restrictions and that none of the meat may be taken outside the house. It had to be eaten within one house with no broken bones. That has nothing to do with Jesus. John’s reference to it was a weak attempt at continuity with the Old Testament. Of course, as I said, the other three Gospels never even mention the lance.”

“I assume your point, then, is that the Gospels are wrong.”

“None of the information contained within them makes sense. They contradict not only themselves, but history, logic, and reason. We’re left to believe that a crucified man, without His legs broken, died within three hours, and was then afforded the honor of being buried. Of course, from a religious standpoint it makes perfect sense. Early theologians were attempting to attract followers. They needed to elevate Jesus from a man to the god Christ. The gospel writers all wrote in Greek and would have known their Hellenic history. Osiris, the consort of the Greek god Isis, died at the hands of evil on a Friday, then was resurrected three days later. Why not Christ, too? Of course, for Christ to physically rise from the dead, there would have to be an identifiable body. No bones picked clean by birds and tossed into a common grave would do. Hence, the burial.”

“This is what Lars Nelle was trying to prove? That Christ did not rise from the dead?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. All I know is that the Templars knew things. Important things. Enough to transform a band of nine obscure knights into an international force. Knowledge was what fueled that expansion. Knowledge that Saunière rediscovered. I want that knowledge.”

“How could there be any proof of anything, one way or another?”

“There must be. You’ve seen Saunière’s church. He left a lot of hints, and they all point in one direction. There must be something out there—enough to convince him to keep the Templars looking.”

“We’re dreaming.”

“Are we?”

He noticed that evening had finally dissolved into darkness, the surrounding hills and forest a mass of silhouette.

“We have company,” she whispered.

He waited for her to explain.

“On the ride, I worked my way up one of the promontories. I spotted two men. One to the north, the other south. Watching. De Roquefort found you quickly.”

“I didn’t think the trick with the transponder would slow him down long. He’d assume we’d come here. And Claridon would show him the way. They spot you?”

“I doubt it. I was careful.”

“This could get dicey.”

“De Roquefort is a man in a hurry. He’s impatient, particularly if he feels cheated.”

“You mean the journal?”

She nodded. “Claridon will know it’s riddled with mistakes.”

“But de Roquefort found us. We’re within his sights.”

“He must know precious little. Otherwise, why bother? He’d simply use his resources and search himself. No, he needs us.”

Her words made sense, as had everything else she’d said. “You rode out expecting them, didn’t you?”

“I thought we were being watched.”

“You always so suspicious?”

She faced him. “Only when people mean to hurt me.”

“I assume you’ve considered a course of action?”

“Oh, yes. I have a plan.”

ABBEY DES FONTAINES MONDAY, JUNE 26 12:40 AM

DEROQUEFORT SAT BEFORE THE ALTAR IN THE MAIN CHAPEL, dressed once more in his formal white cassock. The brothers filled the pews before him, chanting words that dated back to the Beginning. Claridon was in the archives, poring through documents. He’d instructed the archivist to allow the impish fool access to whatever he requested—but also to keep a close watch over him. The report from Givors was that Cassiopeia Vitt’s château seemed down for the night. One brother watched the front, another the rear. So while little else could be done, he decided to tend to his duties.

A new soul was about to be welcomed into the Order.

Seven hundred years ago, any initiate would have been of legitimate birth, free of debt, and physically fit to wage war. Most were celibates, but married men had been allowed honorary status. Criminals were not a problem, nor were excommunicates. Both were allowed redemption. Every master’s duty had been to ensure that the brotherhood grew. Rule made clear, If any secular knight, or other man, wishes to leave the mass of perdition and abandon this century, do not deny him entry. But it was St. Paul’s words that had formed the modern standard for induction. Approve the spirit if it comes from God. And the candidate kneeling before him represented his first attempt to implement that dictate. It disgusted him that such a glorious ceremony was forced to take place in the dead of night behind locked gates. But such was the way of the Order. His legacy—what he wanted noted in the Chronicles long after his death—would be a return to the light.

The chanting stopped.

He stood from the oak chair that had served since the Beginning as the master’s perch.

“Good brother,” he said to the candidate, who knelt before him, hands on a Bible. “You ask a great thing. Of our Order, you see only the facade. We live in this resplendent abbey, we eat and drink well. We have clothes, medicine, education, and spiritual fulfillment. But we live under harsh commandments. It is hard to make yourself the serf to another. If you wish to sleep, you may be awakened. If you are wakeful, you may be ordered to lie down. You may not want to go where directed, but you must. You will hardly do anything that you wish. Can you suffer well these hardships?”

The man, probably in his late twenties, his hair already cropped short, his pale face clean-shaven, looked up and said, “I will suffer all that is pleasing to God.”

He knew that the candidate was typical. He’d been found at university several years ago, and one of the Order’s precepts had monitored the man’s progress while learning the family tree and personal history. The fewer attachments, the better, and thankfully the world abounded with drifting souls. Eventually, direct contact was made and, being receptive, the initiate was slowly schooled in Rule and asked the questions candidates had been asked for centuries. Was he married? Engaged? Had he ever made a vow or pledge to another religious society? Any debts he could not pay? Any hidden illnesses? Was he beholden to a man or woman for any reason?

“Good brother,” he said to the candidate, “in our company, you must not seek riches, nor honor, nor bodily ease. Instead, you must seek three things. First, renounce and reject the sins of this world. Second, do the service of our Lord. And third, be poor and penitent. Will you promise to God and our Lady that all the days of your life you will obey the master of this Temple? That you will live in chastity, without personal property? That you will uphold the customs of this house? That you will never leave this Order, neither through strength nor weakness, in worse times nor better?”

Those words had been used since the Beginning, and de Roquefort recalled when they’d been uttered to him, thirty years ago. He still felt the flame that had been ignited within him—a fire that now burned with a raging intensity. To be a Templar was important. It meant something. And he was determined to ensure every candidate who donned the robe during his tenure understood that devotion.

He faced the kneeling man.

“What do you say, brother?”

“De par dieu.”For God’s sake, I will do it.

“Do you understand that your life may be required?” And after what had happened the past few days, this inquiry seemed even more important.

“Without question.”

“And why would you offer your life for us?”

“Because my master ordered it.”

The correct answer. “And you would do so without challenge?”

“To challenge would be to violate Rule. My task is to obey.”

He motioned to the draper, who produced from a wooden chest a long twill cloth.

“Stand,” he said to the candidate.

The young man came to his feet, dressed in a black wool robe that covered his thin frame from shoulder to bare feet.

“Remove your garment,” he said, and the robe was lifted over his head. Beneath, the candidate was dressed in a white shirt and black trousers.

The draper approached with the cloth and stood off to one side.

“You have removed the shroud of the material world,” de Roquefort made clear. “Now we embrace you with the cloth of our membership and we celebrate your rebirth as a brother in our Order.”

He motioned and the draper came forward and wrapped the cloth around the candidate. De Roquefort had seen many a grown man cry at this moment. He himself had fought to suppress his own emotions when the same cloth had been wrapped around him. No one knew how old this particular shroud was, but one had reverently remained in the initiation chest since the Beginning. He well knew the tale of one of the early cloths. Used to wrap Jacques de Molay after the master had been nailed to a door in the Paris Temple. De Molay had lain within the linen for two days, unable to move from his wounds, too weak to even rise. While he had, bacteria and chemicals from his body had stained the fibers and generated an image that fifty years later began to be venerated by gullible Christians as the body of Christ.

He’d always thought that fitting.

The master of the Knights Templar—the head of a supposed heretical order—became the mold from which all subsequent artists fashioned Christ’s face.

He stared out at the assembly. “You see before you our newest brother. He wears the shroud that symbolizes rebirth. It’s a moment we’ve all experienced, one that joins us to each other. When chosen as your master I promised a new day, a new Order, a new direction. I told you that no longer would the few know more than the many. I told you that I would find our Great Devise.”

He stepped forward.

“In our archives, at this moment, is a man who possesses knowledge we need. Unfortunately, while our former master did nothing, others, not of this Order, have been searching. I have personally followed their efforts, watched and studied their movements, waiting for a time when we would join that search.” He paused. “That time has come. I have brothers beyond the walls searching at this moment, and more of you will follow.”

As he spoke, he allowed his gaze to drift across the church to the chaplain. He was an Italian with a solemn countenance, the chief prelate, the Order’s highest-ranking ordained cleric. The chaplain headed the priests, about a third of the brothers, men who chose a life devoted solely to Christ. The chaplain’s words carried much weight, particularly given that the man spoke sparingly. Earlier, when the council had convened, the chaplain had voiced his concern about the recent deaths.

“You’re moving too fast,” the chaplain declared.

“I’m doing what the Order desires.”

“You’re doing what you desire.”

“Is there a difference?”

“You sound like the previous master.”

“On that point he was correct. And though I disagreed with him on a great many things, I obeyed him.”

He’d resented the younger man’s directness, especially in front of the council, but he knew that many respected the chaplain.

“What would you have me do?”

“Preserve the brothers’ lives.”

“The brothers know that they may be called upon to lay down their lives.”

“This is not the Middle Ages. We’re not waging a crusade. These men are devoted to God and pledged their obedience to you, as proof of their devotion. You have no right to take their lives.”

“I intend to find our Great Devise.”

“To what end? We’ve endured without it for seven hundred years. It’s unimportant.”

He’d been shocked.

“How can you say such a thing? It’s our heritage.”

“What could it possibly mean today?”

“Our salvation.”

“We’re already saved. The men here all possess good souls.”

“This Order does not deserve banishment.”

“Our banishment is self-imposed. We’re content within it.”

“I’m not.”

“Then this is your fight, not ours.”

His anger had risen.

“I don’t intend to be challenged.”

“Master, less than a week and you’ve already forgotten from whence you came.”

Staring at the chaplain, he tried to read the features on the stiff face. He’d meant what he said earlier. He was not going to be challenged. The Great Devise must be found. And the answers lay with Royce Claridon and the people inside Cassiopoia Vitt’s château.

So he ignored the indifferent look from the chaplain and concentrated on the crowd seated before him.

“My brothers. Let us pray for success.”

1:00 AM

MALONE WAS INRENNES, STROLLING INTO THECHURCH OFMARYMagdalene, and the same garish detail gave him the same uncomfortable feeling. The nave was empty, save for a sol itary man standing before the altar, dressed in a priestly black robe. When the man turned, the face was familiar.

Bérenger Saunière.

“Why are you here?” Saunière asked in a shrill voice. “This is my church. My creation. No one’s but mine.”

“How is it yours?”

“I took the chance. No one but me.”

“Chance of what?”

“Those who challenge the world always face risk.”

Then he noticed a gaping hole in the floor, just before the altar, and steps leading into blackness.

“What’s down there?” he asked.

“The first step along the way to truth. God bless all those who guarded that truth. God bless their generosity.”

The church encasing him suddenly dissolved and he was surrounded by a treed plaza that spread out before the American embassy in Mexico City. People rushed by in all directions, and the sounds of horns blaring, tires squealing, and diesel engines grew loud.

Then gunshots.

Coming from a car that had ground to a stop. Men emerged. Firing at a middle-aged woman and a young Danish diplomat who were enjoying their lunch in the shade. Marines guarding the embassy reacted, but they were too far away.

He reached for his gun and fired.

Bodies dropped to the pavement. Cai Thorvaldsen’s head exploded as bullets meant for the woman found him. He shot two of the men who’d started the mélange, then felt his shoulder tear as a bullet pierced through him.