The Templar Legacy (48 page)

“I think we also need to stay tonight,” Cassiopeia said. “The nearest inn is in Elne, thirty miles away. We should camp here.”

“We have supplies?” Malone asked.

“We can get them,” she said. “Elne is a fairly good-sized town. We can buy what we need there without drawing any attention. But I don’t want to leave.”

He could see that none of the others wanted to go, either. An excitement was stirring. He could feel it, too. The riddle was no longer some abstract concept, impossible to understand. Instead, the answer lay somewhere around them. And contrary to what he’d told Cassiopeia yesterday, he wanted to find it.

“I’ll go,” Geoffrey said. “Each of you needs to stay and decide what we do next. It’s for you, not me.”

“We appreciate that,” Thorvaldsen said.

Cassiopeia reached into her pocket and produced a wad of euros. “You’ll need money.”

Geoffrey took the funds and smiled. “Just give me a list and I’ll be back by nightfall.”

MALONE RAKED THE FLASHLIGHT’S BEAM ACROSS THE INSIDE OFthe church, searching the rock walls for more clues. They’d off-loaded all of the equipment Cassiopeia had brought and hauled it into the abbey. Stephanie and Cassiopeia were outside, fashioning a camp. Henrik had volunteered to locate firewood. He and Mark had come back inside to see if there was anything they’d missed.

“This church has been empty a long time,” Mark said. “Three hundred years, the priest in town said.”

“Must have been remarkable in its day.”

“This type of construction isn’t unusual. There are subterranean churches all over the Languedoc. At Vals, up near Carcassonne, is one of the most famous. It’s in good shape. Still has frescoes. All the churches in this region were painted. That was the style. Unfortunately, little of that art has survived anywhere thanks to the Revolution.”

“Must have been a tough life up here.”

“Monastics were a rare breed. They had no newspapers, radio, television, music, theater. Only a few books and the frescoes in church as intoxicants.”

Malone continued to survey the almost theatrical darkness that surrounded him, broken only by a chalky fading light that colored the few details as though snow lay heavy inside.

“We have to assume the cryptogram in the marshal’s report is authentic,” Mark said. “There’s no reason to think it’s not.”

“Except the marshal disappeared shortly after he filed the report.”

“I always believed that particular marshal was driven like de Roquefort. I think he went after the treasure. He must have known the story of the de Blanchefort family secret. That information, and the fact that Abbé Bigou may have known the secret, has been a part of our Chronicles for centuries. He could have assumed that Bigou left both cryptograms and that they led to the Great Devise. Being an ambitious man, he went to get it himself.”

“Then why record the cryptogram?”

“What did it matter? He had the solution, which the Abbé Gélis gave him. No one else even had a clue as to what it meant. So why not file the report and show your master that you’ve been working?”

“Using that line of thinking, the marshal could have killed Gélis and simply gone back and recorded what happened afterward as a way to cover his tracks.”

“That’s entirely possible.”

Malone stepped close to the letters—PRIER EN VENIR—scratched in the wall. “Nothing else survived in here,” he muttered.

“That’s true. Which is a shame. There are lots of niches, and those would have all contained statues. Combined with the frescoes, this would have once been a decorated place.”

“So how did those three words manage to survive?”

“They barely have.”

“Just enough,” he said, thinking maybe Bigou had made sure.

He thought again of Marie de Blanchefort’s gravestone. The double-sided arrow andPRÆ-CUM. Pray to come. He stared at the floor and the seven–nine arrangement. “Pews would have once been in here, right?”

“Sure. Wooden. Long gone.”

“If Saunière learned the solution to the cryptogram from Gélis or solved it himself—”

“The marshal said in his report that Gélis didn’t trust Saunière.”

Malone shook his head. “Could be more misdirection by the marshal. Saunière clearly deduced something, unbeknownst to the marshal. So let’s assume he found the Great Devise. From everything we know, Saunière returned to it many times. You were telling me back in Rennes about how he and his mistress would leave town, then return with rocks for the grotto he was building. He could have come here to make a withdrawal from his private bank.”

“In Saunière’s day, that trip would have been easy by rail.”

“So he would have needed to be able to access the cache, while at the same time keeping the location secret.”

He stared up again at the carving.PRIER EN VENIR. Pray to come.

Then he knelt.

“Makes sense, but what do you see from there that I don’t from here?” Mark asked.

His gaze searched the church. Nothing was left inside save the altar, twenty feet away. The stone top was about three inches thick, supported by a rectangular support fashioned from granite blocks. He counted the blocks in one horizontal row. Nine. Then he counted the number vertically. Seven. He shone the flashlight beam onto the lichen-infested stones. Thick wavy lines of mortar were still there. He traced several of the paths with the light, then brought the beam up toward the underside of the granite top.

And saw it.

Now he knew.

He smiled.

Pray to come.

Clever.

DEROQUEFORT WAS NOT LISTENING TO THE TREASURER’S PRATTLE. Something about the abbey’s budget and overages. The abbey was funded with an endowment that totaled in the millions of euros, funds long ago acquired and religiously maintained so as to ensure that the Order would never suffer financially. The abbey was nearly self-supporting. Its fields, farms, and bakery produced the majority of its needs. Its winery and dairy generated much of their drink. And water was in such abundance that it was piped down to the valley, where it was bottled and sold all across France. Of course, a lot of what was needed to supplement meals and maintenance had to be purchased. But income from wine and water sales, along with visitors’ fees, more than provided the necessary sources. So what was all this about overages?

“Are we in need of money?” he interrupted and asked.

“Not at all, Master.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

“The master must be informed of all monetary decisions.”

The idiot was right. But he didn’t want to be bothered. Still, the treasurer might be helpful. “Have you studied our financial history?”

The question seem to catch the man off guard. “Of course, Master. It’s required of all who become treasurer. I’m presently teaching those below me.”

“At the time of the Purge, what was our wealth?”

“Incalculable. The Order held over nine thousand land estates, and it’s impossible to value that acreage.”

“Our liquid wealth?”

“Again, hard to say. There would have been gold dinars, Byzantine coins, gold florins, drachmas, marks, along with unminted silver and gold. De Molay came to France in 1306 with twelve pack horses loaded with unminted silver, which was never accounted for. Then there is the matter of the items we held for safekeeping.”

He knew what the man was referring to. The Order had pioneered the concept of safe depositories, holding wills and precious documents for men of means, along with jewels and other personal items. Its reputation for trustworthiness had been impeccable, which allowed the service to flourish throughout Christendom—all, of course, at a fee.

“The items being held,” the treasurer said, “were lost at the Purge. The inventories were with our archives, which disappeared, too. So there’s no way to even estimate what was being held. But it’s safe to say that the total wealth would be in the billions of euros today.”

He knew about hay carts hauled south by four chosen brothers and their leader, Gilbert de Blanchefort, who’d been instructed first to tell no one of his hiding place, and second to assure that what he knew was passed to others in an appropriate manner.De Blanchefort performed his job well. Seven hundred years had passed, and still the location was a secret.

What was so precious that Jacques de Molay ordered its secretion with such elaborate precautions?

He’d wondered about the answer to that inquiry for thirty years.

The phone in his cassock vibrated, which startled him.

Finally.

“What is it, Master?” the treasurer asked.

He caught hold of himself. “Leave me, now.”

The man stood from the table, bowed, then withdrew. De Roquefort flipped open the phone and said, “I hope this is not a waste of my time.”

“How can the truth ever be a waste of time?”

He instantly recognized the voice.

Geoffrey.

“And why would I believe a word you say?” he asked.

“Because you’re my master.”

“Your loyalty was to my predecessor.”

“While he breathed, that’s true. But after his death, my oath to the brotherhood commands that I be loyal to whoever wears the white cassock—”

“Even if you don’t care for that man.”

“I believe you did the same for many years.”

“And assaulting your master is part of your loyalty?” He’d not forgotten the slap to the temple from a gun butt before Geoffrey and Mark Nelle escaped the abbey.

“A necessary demonstration for the seneschal’s benefit.”

“Where did you obtain this phone?”

“The former master gave it to me. It was to be of use during our excursion beyond the walls. But I decided on a different use.”

“You and the master planned well.”

“It was important to him that we succeed. That’s why he sent the journal to Stephanie Nelle. To involve her.”

“That journal is worthless.”

“So I am told. But that was new information to me. I only learned yesterday.”

He asked what he wanted to know. “Have they solved the cryptogram? The one in the marshal’s report?”

“Indeed, they have.”

“So tell me, brother. Where are you?”

“St. Agulous. At the ruined abbey just to the north of the village. Not far from you.”

“And our Great Devise is there?”

“This is where all clues lead. They are, at this moment, working to locate the hiding place. I was sent to Elne for supplies.”

He was beginning to believe the man on the other end of the phone. But he wondered if that was from desperation or good judgment. “Brother, I’ll kill you if this is a lie.”

“I don’t doubt that declaration. You’ve killed before.”

He knew he shouldn’t, but he had to ask, “And who have I killed?”

“Surely you were responsible for Ernst Scoville’s death. Lars Nelle? That’s more difficult to determine, at least from what the former master told me.”

He wanted to probe further but knew that any interest he showed would be nothing but a tacit admission, so he simply said, “You are a dreamer, brother.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“What’s your motive?”

“I want to be a knight. You’re the one who makes that determination. In the chapel, a few nights ago, when you arrested the seneschal, you made clear that that wasn’t going to happen. I determined then that I’d be taking a different course—one the former master would not like. So I went along. Learned what I could. And waited until I could offer what you really want. In return, I seek only forgiveness.”

“If what you say is true, you shall have it.”

“I’ll be returning to the ruin shortly. They plan to camp there through the night. You’ve already seen how resourceful they are, both individually and collectively. Though I’d never presume to substitute my judgment for yours, I’d recommend decisive action.”

“I assure you, brother, my response will be most decisive.”

MALONE STOOD AND MARCHED TOWARD THE ALTAR. IN THE BEAMof his flashlight he’d noticed that there was no mortar joint beneath the top slab. The seven–nine arrangement of the support stones had drawn his attention, and kneeling had allowed him to see the crack.

At the altar he bent down and shone the light closer. “This top is not attached.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be,” Mark said. “Gravity held them in place. Look at it. The thing’s what? Three inches thick and six feet long?”

“Bigou hid his cryptogram in the altar column in Rennes. I wondered why he chose that particular hiding place. Unique, wouldn’t you say? To get to it, he had to lift the slab enough to free the locking pin, then slide the glass vial into the niche. Shift the top back and you have a great hiding place. But there’s more to it. Bigou was sending a message by that selection.” He set the flashlight down. “We need to move this.”

Mark walked to one end and Malone positioned himself at the other. Grasping each side with his hands, he tested to see if the stone would move.

It did, ever so slightly.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s just sitting there. I don’t see any reason for niceties. Shove it off.”

Together, they waddled the stone left and right, then worked it enough so that gravity allowed it to crash to the floor.

Malone stared into the rectangular opening they’d exposed and saw loosely packed stones.

“The thing is full of rocks,” Mark said.

Malone smiled. “Sure is. Let’s get ’em out.”

“For what?”

“If you were Saunière and didn’t want anyone to follow your tracks, that stone top is a good deterrent. But these rocks would be even better. Like you told me yesterday. We need to think like folks thought a hundred years ago. Look around. Nobody would have come here looking for treasure. This was nothing but a ruin. And who would have disassembled this altar? The thing has been standing here for centuries unmolested. But if someone did do all that, why not another layer of defense.”

The rectangular support stood about three feet off the floor, and they quickly tossed the stones aside. Ten minutes later the support was empty. Dirt filled the bottom.

Malone hopped inside and thought he detected a gentle vibration. He bent down and probed with his fingers. The parched soil possessed the consistency of desert sand. Mark shone the light while he scooped the earth away with a cupped hand. Six inches deep he hit something. With both hands he cleared away a foot-wide crater and saw wooden planks.