The Templar Legacy

by Steve Berry

  The brother returned from the other side of the cemetery and reported, "Nothing."

  Where could they have gone?

  His gaze settled on the tawny gray wall that lined the outer edge. He stepped to a spot where the wall rose only breast-high. Rennes sat on the backbone of a summit with slopes as steep as pyramids on three sides. Objects in the valley below were lost in a grayish haze that blanketed the colorful earth, like some far-off Lilliputian world, the basin, highways, and towns as if seen on an atlas. The wind from beyond the wall washed over his face and dried his eyes. He planted both hands on top, leveraged himself up, and hinged his body forward. He glanced right. The rocky ledge was barren. Then he looked left and caught a glimpse of Cotton Malone turning from the wall's north side to its west.

  He dropped back down.

  "They're on a ledge moving toward the Tour Magdala. Stop them. I'm going to the belvedere."

  STEPHANIE LED THE WAY AS SHE AND GEOFFREY FLED THE HOUSE. A sunburned lane paralleled the west wall and led northward to the car park and beyond to Sauniere's domain. Geoffrey was clearly alight with anticipation, and for a man who appeared only in his late twenties he'd handled himself with a professional ease.

  Only scattered houses stood in this corner of town. Firs and pines climbed skyward in patches.

  Something whizzed by her right ear and pinged off the limestone of the building just ahead. She whirled to see the short-hair from the house taking aim fifty yards back. She dove behind a parked car that nestled close to the rear of one of the houses. Geoffrey dropped to the ground, rolled, then hinged up and fired two shots from between his outstretched legs. The pop, like a firecracker, was dulled by the howling wind. One of the bullets found its mark and the man cried out in pain, then grabbed at his thigh and fell.

  "Good shot," she said.

  "I couldn't kill him. I gave my word."

  They came to their feet and rushed ahead.

  MALONE FOLLOWED MARK. THE ROCKY ESCARPMENT, LINED BY spikes of brown grass, had narrowed, and the wind, which before was only a nuisance, had now become a hazard, molesting them with gale force, its monotonous murmur masking all other noise.

  They were on the town's west side. The lofty stem of copses from the north slope were gone. Nothing but bare rock plunged downward, gleaming in the fiery afternoon sun, colored by tufts of moss and heather.

  The belvedere Malone had crossed two nights ago, chasing after Cassiopeia Vitt, spanned twenty feet above them. The Tour Magdala stood ahead and he could see people atop the tower admiring the distant valley. He wasn't wild about the view. Heights affected his head like wine--one of those weaknesses that he'd hid from the government psychologists who were once required, from time to time, to evaluate him for duty. He risked one glance down. Scant brushwood dotted the steeply inclined plane for several hundred feet. Then a short ledge leveled, and below that an even steeper drop began.

  Mark was ten feet ahead of him. He saw him glance back, stop, then turn and level his gun, pointing the barrel his way.

  "Was it something I said?" he yelled.

  The wind buffeted Mark's arm and shook the weapon. Another hand came up to steady the aim. Malone caught the glare in the man's eye and turned back to see one of the short-hairs coming straight for them.

  "Far enough, brother," Mark hollered over the wind.

  The man held a Glock 17, similar to the one Mark gripped.

  "If that weapon comes up, I'll shoot you," Mark made clear.

  The man's arm stopped its rise.

  Malone did not like his predicament and pressed himself against the wall to give them room for the duel.

  "This is not your battle, brother. I realize you're simply doing what the master ordered. But if I shoot you, even in the leg, you'll go over the edge. Is it worth it?"

  "I'm bound to follow the master."

  "He's leading you into peril. Have you even considered what you're doing?"

  "That's not my responsibility."

  "Saving your life is," Mark said.

  "Would you shoot me, Seneschal?"

  "Without question."

  "Is what you seek important enough to harm another Christian?"

  Malone watched as Mark pondered the question--and he wondered if the resolve he noted in the eyes was matched with the courage to follow through. He, too, had faced a similar dilemma--several times. Shooting someone never came easy. But sometimes it simply had to be done.

  "No, brother, it's not worth a human life." And Mark lowered his gun.

  In the corner of his eye, Malone saw movement. He turned to see the other man take advantage of Mark's concession. The Glock started to rise as the man's other hand whipped across to meet the weapon, surely to help steady the shot he was about to take.

  But he never fired.

  A pop muffled by the wind came from Malone's left and the short-hair was thrown back as a bullet sank into his chest. He couldn't tell if the man was wearing a protective vest or not, but it didn't matter. The close shot scrambled his balance and the man's stocky frame teetered. Malone rushed toward him, trying to prevent a fall, and caught sight of two tranquil eyes. He recalled the look from Red Jacket atop the Round Tower. Two more steps was all he needed to reach him, but the wind swept the brother off the promontory and the body rolled downward like a log.

  He heard a scream from above. Some of the visitors on the belvedere had apparently witnessed the man's fate. He watched as the body continued to roll, finally settling on a ledge far below.

  He turned to Mark, who still held the gun level.

  "You okay?"

  Mark lowered the weapon. "Not really. But we need to go."

  He agreed.

  They turned and scampered down the stony track.

  DE ROQUEFORT RUSHED UP THE STAIRS THAT LED TO THE BELVEDERE. He heard a woman scream and saw excitement as people flocked to the wall. He moved close and asked, "What happened?"

  "A man fell off the edge. Rolled a long way."

  He elbowed his way to the wall. As in the parish close, the stone was nearly a meter wide, making it impossible to see down to the base of the outer wall.

  "Where did he fall?" he asked.

  "There," a man said, pointing.

  He followed the outstretched finger and saw a figure in a dark jacket with light trousers far down the barren slope, lying still. He knew who it was. Damn. He planted his palms on the rough stone and pushed himself up onto the wall. Pivoting on his stomach, he cocked his head left and saw Mark Nelle and Cotton Malone making their way toward a short incline that led up to the car park.

  He dropped back down and retreated to the steps.

  He pressed the SEND button on the radio clipped to his waist and whispered into the lapel mike, "They're coming your way, at the wall's edge. Contain them."

  STEPHANIE HEARD A GUNSHOT. THE POP APPEARED TO HAVE COME from the other side of the wall. But that made no sense. Why would anyone be out there? She and Geoffrey were a hundred feet shy of the car park--which, she noticed, was filled with vehicles, including four buses nestled close to the stone water tower.

  They slowed their advance. Geoffrey shielded the gun behind his thigh as they calmly walked ahead.

  "There," Geoffrey whispered.

  She saw the man, too. Standing at the far end, blocking the alley down to the church. She turned back and saw another short-hair strolling up the lane behind them.

  Then she spotted Mark and Malone as they ran up from the other side of the wall and hopped over the knee-high stone.

  She trotted toward them and asked, "Where have you two been?"

  "Out for a stroll," Malone said.

  "I heard shooting."

  "Not now," Malone said.

  "We have company," she made clear, pointing to the two men.

  Mark scanned the scene. "De Roquefort is orchestrating this whole thing. Time to leave. But I don't have the keys to our car."

  "I have mine," Malone said.

  Geoffrey handed over the kna
psack.

  "Good job," Mark said. "Let's go."

  DE ROQUEFORT HUSTLED PAST THE VILLA BETHANIE AND IGNORED the many visitors making their way toward the Tour Magdala, the tree garden, and the belvedere.

  He turned right at the church.

  "They're attempting to leave by car," a voice said in his ear.

  "Allow them," he said.

  MALONE BACKED FROM HIS PARKING SPOT AND THREADED HIS way around the other cars to the alley leading to the main rue. He noticed that the short-hairs made no attempt to stop them.

  That worried him.

  They were being herded.

  But to where?

  He crept through the alley, past the souvenir kiosks, and turned right onto the main rue, allowing the car to coast down the incline toward the town gate.

  Past the restaurant, the crowd thinned and the street cleared.

  Ahead, he spotted Raymond de Roquefort, standing in the middle of the lane, blocking the gate.

  "He means to challenge you," Mark said from the rear seat.

  "Good, because I can play chicken with the best of them."

  He gently rested his foot atop the accelerator.

  A couple of hundred feet and closing.

  De Roquefort stayed rooted.

  Malone saw no weapon. Apparently the master had concluded his presence alone might stop them. Beyond, Malone saw the road was clear, but a sharp curve lay just outside the gate and he hoped no one decided to come around it in the next few seconds.

  He rammed his foot to the floorboard.

  Tires grabbed pavement and, with a lurch, the car shot forward.

  A hundred feet.

  "You plan to kill him," Stephanie said.

  "If I have to."

  Fifty feet.

  Malone kept the wheel steady and stared straight at de Roquefort as the man's form grew larger in the windshield. He braced himself for the body's impact and willed his hands to hold tight.

  A hurried form leaped from the right and shoved de Roquefort out of the car's path.

  They roared out through the gate.

  DE ROQUEFORT REALIZED WHAT HAD HAPPENED AND WAS NOT happy. He'd fully prepared himself to challenge his adversary, ready for whatever would come, and he resented the intrusion.

  Then he saw who'd saved him.

  Royce Claridon.

  "That car would have killed you," Claridon said.

  He pushed the man off him and rose to his feet. "That remained to be seen." Then he asked what he really wanted to know. "Was anything learned?"

  "They discovered my ruse and I was forced to call for help."

  Anger seethed through him. Again, nothing had gone right. One salvation, though, rang through his brain.

  The car they'd left in. Malone's rental.

  Still equipped with an electronic monitor.

  At least he'd know exactly where they went.

  MALONE DROVE AS FAST AS HE DARED DOWN THE TWISTING INCLINE to ground level. There he turned west for the main highway and half a mile later veered south toward the Pyrenees.

  "Where are we going?" Stephanie asked him.

  "To see Cassiopeia Vitt. I was going alone, but I think it's time we all get acquainted." He needed something to distract him. "Tell me about her," he said to Mark.

  "I don't know much. I heard that her father was a wealthy Spanish contractor, her mother a Muslim from Tanzania. She's brilliant. Degrees in history, art, religion. And she's rich. She inherited lots of the money and has made even more. She and Dad clashed many times."

  "Over what?" Malone wanted to know.

  "Proving that Christ did not die on the cross is a mission of hers. Twelve years ago religious fanaticism was viewed much differently. People weren't all that concerned with the Taliban or al Qaeda. Then, Israel was the hot spot and Cassiopeia resented the way Muslims were always depicted as extremists. She hated the arrogance of Christianity and the presumptiveness of Judaism. Her quest was one of truth, Dad would say. She wanted to strip away the myth and see just how much alike Jesus Christ and Muhammad really were. Common ground--common interests. That kind of thing."

  "Isn't that exactly what your father wanted to do?"

  "Same thing I used to say to him."

  Malone smiled. "How far to her chateau?"

  "Less than an hour. We turn west a few miles ahead."

  Malone studied his rearview mirrors. Still no one was following them. Good. He slowed the car as they entered a town identified as St. Loup. Being Sunday, everything was closed except for a gasoline station and convenience store just to the south. He turned in and came to a stop.

  "Wait here," he said as he climbed out. "I have to tend to something."

  Malone turned off the highway and drove the car down a graveled path, deeper into the thick forest. A sign indicated that GIVORS--A MEDIEVAL ADVENTURE IN THE MODERN WORLD--lay half a mile ahead. The drive from Rennes had taken a little less than fifty minutes. They'd headed west most of the time, passing the ruined Cathar fortress of Montsegur, then turning south toward the mountains where rising slopes sheltered river valleys and tall trees.

  The two-car-wide avenue was well maintained and roofed by leafy beech trees that cast a dreamy stillness in the lengthening shadows. The entrance opened into a clearing matted in short grass. Cars littered the field. Slender columns of pine and fir lined the perimeter. He stopped and they all climbed out. A placard in French and English announced their location.

  GIVORS ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE

  WELCOME TO THE PAST. HERE, AT GIVORS, A SITE FIRST OCCUPIED BY LOUIS IX, A CASTLE IS BEING CONSTRUCTED USING MATERIALS AND TECHNIQUES ONLY AVAILABLE TO 13TH-CENTURY CRAFTSMEN. A MASONED TOWER WAS THE VERY SYMBOL OF A LORD'S POWER AND THE CASTLE AT GIVORS WAS DESIGNED AS A MILITARY FORTRESS WITH THICK WALLS AND MANY CORNER TOWERS. THE SURROUNDING ENVIRONS PROVIDED AN ABUNDANCE OF WATER, STONE, EARTH, SAND, AND WOOD, WHICH WERE ALL NEEDED FOR ITS CONSTRUCTION. QUARRIERS, STONE HEWERS, MASONS, CARPENTERS, BLACKSMITHS, AND POTTERERS ARE NOW LABORING, LIVING AND DRESSING EXACTLY AS THEY WOULD HAVE SEVEN CENTURIES AGO. THE PROJECT IS PRIVATELY FUNDED AND THE CURRENT ESTIMATE IS 30 YEARS WILL BE NEEDED TO COMPLETE THE CASTLE. ENJOY YOUR TIME IN THE 13TH CENTURY.

  "Cassiopeia Vitt funds all this herself?" Malone asked.

  "Medieval history is one of her passions," Mark said. "They knew her well at the university in Toulouse."

  Malone had decided that the direct approach would be best. Surely Vitt anticipated that he'd eventually locate her.

  "Where does she live?"

  Mark pointed east, where the branches of oaks and elms, closed like a cloister, shaded another lane. "The chateau is that way."

  "These cars for visitors?" he asked.

  Mark nodded. "They give tours of the construction site to raise revenue. I took it once, years ago, right after the work began. It's impressive what she's doing."

  He started off toward the lane leading to the chateau. "Let's go say hello to our hostess."

  They walked in silence. In the distance, on the steep side of a rising slope, he spied the dreary ruin of a stone tower, its layers yellowed with moss. The dry air was warm and still. Purple heather, broom, and wildflowers carpeted the low earth on both sides of the lane. Malone imagined the clash of arms and shouts of battle that centuries ago would have echoed through the valley as men fought for its dominance. Overhead, a murder of screaming crows flew past.

  A hundred or so yards down the lane he saw the chateau. It filled a sheltered hollow that provided a clear measure of seclusion. Dark red brick and stone were arranged in symmetrical patterns over four stories, flanked by two ivy-crowned towers and topped with slanting slate roofs. Greenery spread out across the facade like rust on metal. Traces of a moat, now filled with grass and leaves, surrounded three sides. Slender trees rose in the rear and hedges of clipped yew guarded its base.

  "Some house," Malone said.

  "Sixteenth century," Mark noted. "I was told that she bought the chateau and the surrounding archaeological sit
e. She calls the place Royal Champagne, after one of Louis XV's cavalry regiments."

  Two cars were parked out front. A late-model Bentley Continental GT--about $160,000, Malone recalled--and a Porsche Roadster, cheap by comparison. There was also a motorcycle. Malone approached the cycle and examined the left rear tire and muffler. The shiny chrome was scarred.

  And he knew precisely how that had happened.

  "That's where I shot."

  "Quite right, Mr. Malone."

  He turned. The cultured voice had come from the portico. Standing outside the open front door was a tall woman, lean as a jackal, with shoulder-length auburn hair. Her features reflected a leonine beauty reminiscent of an Egyptian goddess--thin brows, brooding cheeks, blunt nose. The skin was the color of mahogany, and she was dressed in a tasteful V-neck tank that exposed her toned shoulders and capped a knee-length, safari-print silk skirt. Leather sandals sheathed her feet. The ensemble was casual but elegant, as if she were off to stroll the Champs-Elysees.

  She threw him a smile. "I've been expecting you." Her gaze caught his and he registered determination in the deep pools of her dark eyes.

  "That's interesting, because I only decided to come see you an hour ago."

  "Oh, Mr. Malone, I'm sure I've been high on your priority list since at least two nights ago, when you shot my cycle in Rennes."

  He was curious. "Why lock me in the Tour Magdala?"

  "I was hoping to use the time to leave quietly. But you extricated yourself much too quickly."

  "Why shoot at me in the first place?"

  "Nothing would have been learned from talking to the man you assaulted."

  He noticed the melodious tone of her voice, surely designed to be disarming. "Or perhaps you didn't want me to talk to him? Anyway, thanks for saving my hide in Copenhagen."