The Templar Legacy (12 page)

“So what does the book you bought tonight have to do with this?” Malone asked.

“Eugène Stüblein was the mayor of Fa, a village close to Rennes. He was highly educated, a musician, and an amateur astronomer. He first penned a travel book about the region, then wrote Pierres Gravées du Languedoc.Inscribed Stones of the Languedoc. An unusual volume that depicts gravestones in and around Rennes. A strange interest, granted, but not uncommon—the south of France is noted for unique tombs. In the book is a sketch of a headstone that caught Stüblein’s eye. That drawing is important because the tombstone no longer exists.”

“Could I see what you’re talking about?” Malone asked.

Thorvaldsen pushed himself up from the chair and lumbered over to a server table. He came back with the book from the auction. “Delivered an hour ago.”

Malone parted the binding to a marked page and studied the drawing.

“Assuming Stüblein’s sketch is accurate, Lars believed the gravestone was a clue that pointed the way to the treasure. Lars searched for that book for many years. One should be in Paris, as the Bibliothèque Nationale maintains a copy of every printing in France. But, though one is cataloged, no copy is there.”

“Was Lars the only one who knew about this book?” Malone asked.

“I have no idea. Most believe the book does not exist.”

“Where was this one found?”

“I spoke with the auction. A railway engineer who built the line from Carcassonne south to the Pyrénées owned it. The engineer retired in 1927 and died in 1946. The book was among his daughter’s possessions when she recently died. The grandson placed it for auction. The engineer had been interested in the Languedoc, especially Rennes, and kept an inventory of tombstone rubbings himself.”

Malone wasn’t satisfied with his explanation. “So who alerted Stephanie to the auction?”

“Now, that is the question of the night,” Thorvaldsen said.

Malone faced Stephanie. “Back at the hotel, you said a note came with the journal. You have it?”

She reached into her bag and retrieved a tattered leather notebook. Tucked within its pages was a folded sheet of taupe-colored paper. She handed the paper to Malone and he read the French.

On the 22nd of June in Roskilde a copy ofPierres Gravées du Languedoc will be offered at auction. Your husband searched for this volume. Here is an opportunity for you to succeed where he failed. Le bon Dieu soit loué.

Malone silently translated the last line. God be praised. He gazed across the table at Stephanie. “Where did you think this note came from?”

“One of Lars’s associates. I just thought one of his cronies wanted me to have the journal and thought I’d be interested in the book.”

“After eleven years?”

“I agree, it seems odd. But three weeks ago I thought little about it. Like I said before, I always believed Lars’s quests were harmless.”

“So why did you come?” Thorvaldsen asked.

“As you say, Henrik, I have regrets.”

“And I do not want to aggravate those. I don’t know you, but I did know Lars. He was a good man and his quest was, as you say, harmless. But it was nonetheless important. His death saddened me. I always questioned whether it was suicide.”

“So did I,” she said in a whisper. “I tried to place blame everywhere to rationalize it, but in my gut I never accepted that Lars killed himself.”

“Which explains, more than anything, why you’re here,” Henrik said.

Malone could tell she was uncomfortable, so he offered her emotions a way out. “Let me see the journal?”

She handed him the book and he thumbed through the hundred or so pages, seeing lots of numbers, sketches, symbols, and pages of handwritten text. He then examined the binding with a bibliophile’s trained eye and something caught his attention. “Pages are missing.”

“What do you mean?”

He showed her the top edge. “Look here. See those tiny spaces.” He parted the binding to one. Only a sliver of the original paper remained where it had once adhered to the binding. “Slit with a razor. I watch for this all the time. Nothing destroys the value of a book like missing pages.” He restudied the top and bottom and determined that eight pages were gone.

“I never noticed,” she said.

“A lot slipped by you.”

A hectic flush came to her face. “I’m willing to concede that I screwed up.”

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “this whole endeavor could mean much more. The Templar archives could well be part of any find. The Order’s original archives were kept in Jerusalem, then moved to Acre, and finally to Cyprus. History says that after 1312 the archives passed to the Knights Hospitallers, but there’s no proof that ever occurred. From 1307 to 1314 Philip IV searched for the archives, but he found nothing. Many say that reserve was one of the medieval world’s greatest collections. Imagine what locating those writings would mean.”

“Could be the greatest book find ever made.”

“Manuscripts no one has seen since the fourteenth century, many surely unknown to us. The prospect of finding such a cache, however remote, is worth exploring.”

Malone agreed.

Thorvaldsen turned to Stephanie. “How about a truce? For Lars. I’m sure your agency works with many ‘persons of interest’ to achieve a mutually beneficial goal. How about we do that here?”

“I want to see those letters between you and Lars.”

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.”

DEROQUEFORT FOUGHT TO RESTRAIN HIMSELF. HIS SUSPICIONSwere 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.

ABBEY DES FONTAINES 8:00 AM

THE SENESCHAL STOOD BEFORE THE ALTAR AND STARED AT THEoak 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. Confidence 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.”