The Templar Legacy (44 page)

The pain jarred his senses.

Blood poured from the wound.

He stammered back, but shot his assailant. The bullet penetrated the dark face, which once again became that of Bérenger Saunière.

“Why did you shoot me?” Saunière calmly asked.

The walls of the church re-formed and the stations of the cross appeared. Malone spotted a violin lying on one of the pews. A metal plate rested on the strings. Saunière floated over and scattered sand on the plate. Then he drew a bow across the strings and, as sharp notes rang out, the sand arranged itself into a distinct pattern.

Saunière smiled. “Where the plate does not vibrate, the sand stands still. Change the vibration and another pattern is created. A different one every time.”

The statue of the grimacing Asmodeus came to life, and the devil-like form left the holy water fount at the front door and drifted toward him.

“Terrible is this place,” the demon said.

“You are not welcome here,” Saunière screamed.

“Then why did you include me?”

Saunière didn’t answer. Another figure emerged from the shadows. The little man in the brown monk’s robe from Reading the Rules of the Caridad. His finger was still to his lips, signaling quiet, and he carried the stool upon which was writtenACABOCE Aº 1681.

The finger came away and the little man said, “I am alpha and omega, the beginning and end.”

Then the little man vanished.

A woman appeared, her face obscured, dressed in dark clothing with no detail. “You know my grave,” she said.

Marie d’Hautpoul de Blanchefort.

“Are you afraid of spiders?” she asked. “They’ll not hurt you.”

Upon her chest Roman numerals appeared, bright like the sun.LIXLIXL. A spider materialized beneath the symbols, the same design from Marie’s tombstone. Between the tentacles were seven dots. Yet the two spaces near the head were bare. With her finger, Marie traced a line from her neck, down her chest, across the blazing letters to the image of the spider. An arrow appeared where her finger had been.

The same two-tipped arrow from the tombstone.

He was floating. Away from the church. Through the walls, out into the courtyard, and into the flower garden where the statue of the Virgin stood upon the Visigoth pillar. The stone was no longer a dingy gray, worn by weather and time. Instead, the wordsPENITENCE, PENITENCE andMISSION 1891 gleamed.

Asmodeus reappeared. The demon said, “By this sign you will conquer him.”

Lying before the Visigoth pillar was Cai Thorvaldsen. A patch of oily asphalt lay beneath him, crimson with blood, his limbs stretched at contorted angles, like Red Jacket from the Round Tower. His eyes were frozen open, alight with shock.

He heard a voice. Sharp, crisp, mechanical. And he saw a television with a mustached man reporting the news, talking about the death of a Mexican lawyer and a Danish diplomat, the reason for the murders unknown.

And the aftermath.

“Seven dead—nine injured.”

Malone came awake.

He’d dreamed of Cai Thorvaldsen’s death before—many times, in fact—but never in relation to Rennes-le-Château. His mind was apparently filled with thoughts he’d found difficult to avoid when he’d tried, two hours ago, to fall asleep. He’d finally managed to drift off, ensconced in one of the many chambers of Cassiopeia Vitt’s château. She’d assured him that their minders outside would be watched and they’d be ready if de Roquefort chose to act during the night. But he agreed with her assessment. They were safe, at least until tomorrow.

So he’d slept.

But his mind had continued to play out the puzzle.

Most of the dream faded away, but he recalled the last portion—the television anchor reporting on the attack in Mexico City. He’d learned later that Cai Thorvaldsen had been dating the Mexican lawyer. She was a tough, gutsy lady investigating a mysterious cartel. The local police learned there’d been threats she’d ignored. Police had been in the area, but curiously none of them were around when the gunmen emerged from a roadster. She and the younger Thorvaldsen had been sitting on a bench, eating their lunch. Malone had been nearby, on his way back to the embassy, in town on assignment. He’d used his automatic to take down two attackers before two others realized he was there. He never saw the third and fourth men, one of whom planted a slug in his left shoulder. Before he lapsed into unconsciousness he’d managed to shoot his attacker, and the final man was taken out by one of the marine guards from the embassy.

But not before a lot of bullets found a lot of people.

Seven dead—nine injured.

He sat up from the bed.

He’d just solved the Rennes riddle.

ABBEY DES FONTAINES 1:30 AM

DEROQUEFORT SWIPED THE MAGNETIC CARD ACROSS THE SENSORpad and the electronic bolt released. He entered the brightly lit archives and threaded his way through the restricted shelves to where Royce Claridon sat. On the table before Claridon were stacks of writings. The archivist sat to one side, watching patiently as he’d been ordered to do. He motioned for the man to withdraw.

“What have you learned?” he asked Claridon.

“The materials you pointed me to are interesting. I never realized the extent of this Order’s existence after the 1307 Purge.”

“There’s much to our history.”

“I found an account of when Jacques de Molay was burned at the stake. Many brothers apparently watched that spectacle in Paris.”

“He walked to the stake on March 13, 1314, with his head held high and told the crowd, It is only right that at so solemn a moment, when my life has so little time to run, I should reveal the deception that has been practiced and speak up for the truth. ”

“You memorized his words?”

“He’s a man to know.”

“Many historians blame de Molay for the Order’s demise. He was said to be weak and complacent.”

“And what do the accounts you’ve read say about him?”

“He seemed strong and determined and planned ahead before he traveled from Cyprus to France in the summer of 1307. He actually anticipated what Philip IV had planned.”

“Our wealth and knowledge were safeguarded. De Molay made sure of that.”

“That Great Devise.” Claridon shook his head.

“The brothers made sure it survived. De Molay made sure.”

Claridon’s eyes looked weary. Though the hour was late, de Roquefort functioned best at night. “Did you read de Molay’s final words?”

Claridon nodded. “God will avenge our death. Woe will come ere long to those who condemned us.”

“He was referring to Philip IV and Clement V, who conspired against him and our Order. The pope died less than a month later, and Philip succumbed seven months after that. None of Philip’s heirs produced a male son, so the Capetian royal line extinguished itself. Four hundred and fifty years later, during the Revolution, the French royal family was imprisoned, just like de Molay, in the Paris Temple. When the guillotine finally severed the head of Louis XVI, a man plunged his hand into the dead king’s blood and flicked it into the crowd, shouting, Jacques de Molay, thou art avenged. ”

“One of yours?”

He nodded. “A brother—caught up in the moment. There to watch the French monarchy be eliminated.”

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

He wasn’t particularly interested in sharing his feelings with this stranger, but he wanted to make clear, “I’m master.”

“No. There’s more here. More to this.”

“Is analysis part of your specialty, too?”

“You stood in front of a speeding car, challenging Malone to run you down. Then you would have roasted the flesh from my feet with no remorse.”

“Monsieur Claridon, thousands of my brothers were arrested—all for the greed of a king. Several hundred were burned at the stake. Ironically, only lies would have liberated them. The truth was their death sentence, since the Order was guilty on none of the charges leveled against it. Yes. This is intensely personal.”

Claridon reached for Lars Nelle’s journal. “I’ve some bad news. I’ve read a good part of Lars’s notes and something is wrong.”

He did not like the sound of that statement.

“There are errors. Dates are wrong. Locations differ. Sources incorrectly noted. Subtle changes, but to a trained eye they’re obvious.”

Unfortunately, de Roquefort was not knowledgeable enough to know the difference. He was actually hoping the journal would increase his awareness. “Are they merely entry errors?”

“At first I thought so. Then, as I noticed more and more, I came to doubt that. Lars was a careful man. A lot of the information in the journal I helped accumulate. These are intentional.”

De Roquefort reached for the journal and paged through until he found the cryptogram. “What of this? Correct?”

“I would have no way of knowing. Lars never told me if he learned the mathematical sequence that unravels it.”

He was concerned. “Are you saying the journal is useless?”

“What I’m saying is that there are errors. Even some of the entries from Saunière’s personal diary are wrong. I read some of those myself long ago.”

De Roquefort was confused. What was happening here? He thought back to the last day of Lars Nelle’s life, to what the American had said to him.

“You couldn’t find anything, even if it were right before your eyes.”

Standing in the trees, he’d resented Nelle’s attitude but admired the man’s courage—considering a rope was wrapped around the older man’s neck. A few minutes earlier he’d watched as the American fastened the rope to a bridge support, then looped the noose. Nelle had then hopped onto the stone wall and stared out into the dark river below.

He’d followed Nelle all day, wondering what he was doing in the high Pyrénées. The village nearby possessed no connection to either Rennes-le-Château or any of Lars Nelle’s known research. Now it was nearing midnight and blackness enveloped the world around them. Only the gurgle of water running beneath the bridge disturbed the mountain stillness.

He stepped from the foliage onto the road and approached the bridge.

“I wondered if you were going to show yourself,” Nelle said with his back to him. “I assumed an insult would draw you out.”

“You knew I was there?”

“I’m accustomed to brothers following me.” Nelle finally turned toward him and pointed at the rope around his neck. “If you don’t mind, I was just about to kill myself.”

“Death apparently doesn’t frighten you.”

“I died a long time ago.”

“You fear not your God? He does not allow suicide.”

“What God? Dust to dust, that’s our fate.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

“And what of your quest?”

“It’s brought nothing but misery. And why does my soul concern you?”

“It doesn’t. But your quest is another matter.”

“You’ve watched me a long time. Your master has even spoken to me himself. Too bad the Order will have to continue the quest—without me leading the way.”

“You’re aware we were watching?”

“Of course. Brothers have tried for months to obtain my journal.”

“I was told you’re a strange man.”

“I’m a miserable man who simply doesn’t want to live any longer. A part of me regrets this. For my son, whom I love. And for my wife, who loves me in her own way. But I have no desire to live any longer.”

“Are there not quicker ways to die?”

Nelle shrugged. “I detest guns, and something about poison seems offensive. Bleeding to death wasn’t appealing, so I opted for hanging.”

He shrugged. “Seems selfish.”

“Selfish? I’ll tell you what’s selfish. What people have done to me. They believe that Rennes hides everything from the reincarnated French monarchy to aliens from space. How many searchers have visited with their equipment to desecrate the land? Walls have been torn out, holes dug, tunnels excavated. Even graves opened and corpses exhumed. Writers have postulated every conceivable wild theory—all designed to make money.”

He wondered about the strange suicide speech.

“I’ve watched while mediums held séances and clairvoyants carried on conversations with the dead. So much has been fabricated, the truth is now actually boring. They forced me to write that gibberish. I had to embrace their fanaticism in order to sell books. People wanted to read drivel. It’s ridiculous. I even laugh at myself. Selfish? All those morons are the ones who should be given that label.”

“And what is the truth about Rennes?” he calmly asked.

“I’m sure you’d love to know.”

He decided to try another approach. “You realize that you’re the one person who may be able to solve Saunière’s puzzle.”

“May be able? I did solve it.”

He recalled the cryptogram he’d seen in the marshal’s report filed in the abbey’s archives, the one abbés Gélis and Saunière found in their churches, the one Gélis may have perhaps died solving.

“Can’t you tell me?” There was almost a plea to his question, one he did not like.

“You’re like all the rest—in search of easy answers. Where’s the challenge in that? It took me years to decipher that combination.”

“And I assume you wrote little down?”

“That’s for you to discover.”

“You’re an arrogant man.”

“No, I’m a screwed-up man. There’s a difference. You see, all those opportunists, who came for themselves and left with nothing, taught me something.”

He waited for an explanation.

“There’s absolutely nothing to find.”

“You’re lying.”

Nelle shrugged. “Maybe? Maybe not.”

He decided to leave Lars Nelle to his task. “May you find your peace.” He turned and walked away.

“Templar,” Nelle called out.

He stopped and turned back.

“I’m going to do you a favor. You don’t deserve it, because all you brothers did was cause me aggravation. But your Order didn’t deserve what happened to it, either. So I’ll give you a clue. Something to help you along. It’s not written down anywhere. Not even in the journal. Only you’ll have it and, if you’re smart, you might even solve the puzzle. You have a paper and pencil?”

He came back close to the wall, fished into his pocket, and produced a small note pad and pen, which he handed to Nelle. The older man scribbled something, then tossed the pen and pad to him.