The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  Geoffrey reached beneath his frock and produced two pistols. “The armory attendant is our friend, too. We may need these.”

  The seneschal was trained in firearms, all part of the basic education every brother received. He grabbed the weapon. “We’re leaving the abbey?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “It is required to accomplish our task.”

  “Our task.”

  “Yes, Seneschal. I’ve been training for this a long time.”

  He heard the eagerness and, though he was almost ten years older than Geoffrey, he suddenly felt inadequate. This supposed junior brother was far more than he appeared. “As I said yesterday, the master chose well in you.”

  Geoffrey smiled. “I think he did in both of us.”

  He found a knapsack and quickly stuffed a few toiletries, some personal items, and the two books he’d taken from the library inside. “I have no other clothes but for a cassock.”

  “We can buy some once we’re gone.”

  “You have money?

  “The master was a thorough man.”

  Geoffrey crept to the doorway and checked both ways. “The brothers will all be in Sext. The way out should be clear.”

  Before following Geoffrey into the hall, the seneschal took one last look around his quarters. Some of the best times of his life had been spent here, and he was sad to leave those memories behind. But another part of his psyche urged him forward, to the unknown, outside, toward whatever truth the master so obviously knew.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON

  12:30 PM

  Malone studied Royce Claridon. The man was dressed in loose-fitting corduroy trousers smeared with what looked like turquoise paint. A colorful sports jersey covered the man’s thin chest. He was probably in his late fifties, gangly as a praying mantis, with a comely face full of tight features. Dark eyes were sunk deep into his head, no longer bright with the power of intellect, but nonetheless piercing. His feet were bare and dirty, his fingernails unkempt, his graying hair and beard tangled. The attendant had warned them that Claridon was delusional but generally harmless, and almost everyone at the institution avoided him.

  “Who be you?” Claridon asked in French, appraising them with a distant, perplexed gaze.

  The sanatorium filled an enormous château that a placard out front announced had been owned by the French government since the Revolution. Wings jutted from the main building at odd angles. Many of the former salons were now converted into patient rooms. They stood in a solarium, surrounded by a broad embrasure of floor-to-ceiling windows that framed out the countryside. Gathering clouds veiled the midday sun. One of the attendants had said Claridon spent most of his days here.

  “Are you from the commandery?” Claridon asked. “Did the master send you? I have much information to pass to him.”

  Malone decided to play along. “We are from the master. He sent us to speak with you.”

  “Ah, finally. I have been waiting so long.” The words carried excitement.

  Malone motioned and Stephanie backed off. This man obviously thought himself a Templar and women were not part of that brotherhood. “Tell me, brother, what have you to say. Tell me all.”

  Claridon fidgeted in his chair, then sprang to his feet, shifting his spare frame back and forth on bare feet. “Awful,” he said. “So awful. We were surrounded on all quarters. Enemies as far as the eye could see. We were down to our last few arrows, the food spoiled from heat, the water gone. Many had succumbed to disease. None of us was going to live long.”

  “Sounds a challenge. What did you do?”

  “The strangest thing we saw. A white banner was raised from beyond the walls. We all stared at one another—saying with our puzzled expressions the words each of us was thinking. They want to talk.”

  Malone knew his medieval history. Parlays were common during the Crusades. Armies in a stalemate would many times work out terms whereby each could retreat and both claim victory.

  “Did you gather?” Malone asked.

  The older man nodded and held up four soiled fingers. “Each time we rode from the wall, out among their horde, they received us warmly and the discussions were not without progress. In the end, we came to terms.”

  “So tell me. What is your message the master needs to know?”

  Claridon offered a look of annoyance. “You’re an insolent one.”

  “What do you mean? I have much respect for you, brother. That’s why I’m here. Brother Lars Nelle told me you were a man to be trusted.”

  The inquiry seemed to tax the older man’s brain. Then recognition came to Claridon’s face. “I recall him. A courageous warrior. Fought with much honor. Yes. Yes. I do recall him. Brother Lars Nelle. God rest his soul.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You haven’t heard?” There was incredulousness in the tone. “He died in battle.”

  “Where?”

  Claridon shook his head. “That I don’t know, only that he now dwells with the Lord. We said a mass for him and offered many prayers.”

  “Did you break bread with brother Nelle?”

  “Many times.”

  “He ever speak of his quest?”

  Claridon moved to his right, but kept his gaze on Malone. “Why do you ask that of me?”

  The fidgety little man started to circle him, like a cat. He decided to up the ante in whatever game the man’s loose mind envisioned. He grabbed Claridon by the jersey, lifting the wiry little man off the floor. Stephanie took a step forward, but he urged her back with a quick glance.

  “The master is displeased,” he said. “Most displeased.”

  “In what way?” Claridon’s face was suffused with a deep blush of shame.

  “With you.”

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  “You will not answer my question.”

  “What is it you wish?” More astonishment.

  “Tell me of brother Nelle’s quest.”

  Claridon shook his head. “I know nothing. The brother did not confide in me.”

  Fear crept into the eyes staring back at him, accented by utter confusion. He released his grip. Claridon shrank away toward the glass wall and snatched up a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle. He doused the panes and began cleaning glass that displayed not a speck of anything.

  He turned to Stephanie. “We’re wasting our time here.”

  “What tipped you off?”

  “I had to try.” He recalled the note sent to Ernst Scoville and decided to make one last attempt. He fished the paper from his pocket and approached Claridon. Beyond the glass, a few miles west, rose the pale gray walls of Villeneuve-les-Avignon.

  “The cardinals live there,” Claridon said, never stopping his cleaning. “Insolent princes, all of them.”

  Malone knew that cardinals once flocked to the hills outside Avignon’s town walls and erected country retreats as a way to escape the town’s congestion and the pope’s constant eye. Those livrées were all gone, but the ancient city remained, still quiet, countrified and crumbling.

  “We are the cardinals’ protectors,” Malone said, keeping up the pretense.

  Claridon spat on the floor. “The pox to them all.”

  “Read this.”

  The little man took the paper and raked his gaze over the words. A look of astonishment filled the man’s wide eyes. “I’ve stolen nothing from the Order. That I swear.” The voice was rising. “This accusation is false. I would gladly pledge an oath to my God. I’ve stolen nothing.”

  The man was seeing on the page only what he wanted. Malone took back the paper.

  “This is a waste of time, Cotton,” Stephanie said.

  Claridon drew close to him. “Who is this vixen? Why is she here?”

  He nearly smiled. “She is brother Nelle’s widow.”

  “I was not aware that the brother had been married.”

  He recalled some of what he’d read from the Templar book two nights before. “As you know,
many brothers were once married. But she was an unfaithful one, so the bond was dissolved and she was banished to a convent.”

  Claridon shook his head. “She looks difficult. What is she doing here?”

  “She seeks the truth about her husband.”

  Claridon faced Stephanie and pointed with one of his stubby fingers. “You are evil,” the man shouted. “Brother Nelle sought penance with the brotherhood because of your sins. Shame on you.”

  Stephanie had the good sense to simply bow her head. “I seek nothing but forgiveness.”

  Claridon’s face softened at her humility. “And you shall have mine, sister. Go in peace.”

  Malone motioned and they headed for the door. Claridon retreated to his chair.

  “So sad,” she said. “And frightening. Losing one’s mind is terrifying. Lars often spoke of the malady and feared it.”

  “Don’t we all.” He was still holding the note found at Ernst Scoville’s house. He looked at the writing again and read the last three lines:

  In Avignon find Claridon. He can point the way. But prend garde l’Ingénieur

  “I wonder why the sender thought Claridon could point the way to anywhere?” he asked. “We have zero to go on. This trail may be at a dead end.”

  “Not true.”

  The words were spoken in English and came from across the solarium.

  Malone turned as Royce Claridon stood from the chair. All confusion was gone from the man’s bearded face. “I can provide that direction. And the advice given in that note should be heeded. You must beware the engineer. She, and others, are the reason I’m hiding here.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ABBEY DES FONTAINES

  The seneschal followed Geoffrey through the warren of vaulted corridors. He hoped Geoffrey’s assessment was correct and that all of the brothers were in the chapel for noontime prayers.

  So far they’d seen no one.

  They made their way to the palais that housed the upper hall, administrative offices, and public rooms. When, in times past, the abbey had been sealed from outside contact, no one not of the Order was allowed beyond its ground-floor entrance hall. But when tourism blossomed in the twentieth century, as other abbeys opened their doors, so as not to arouse suspicions the Abbey des Fontaines followed suit, offering visits and informational sessions, many of which occurred in the palais.

  They entered the expansive foyer. Windows filled with coarse greenish glass cast dull shafts of sunlight onto a checkered tile floor. A mammoth wooden crucifix dominated one wall, a tapestry another.

  At the entrance to another passageway, a hundred feet across the lofty expanse, stood Raymond de Roquefort, five brothers behind him, all armed with handguns.

  “Leaving?” de Roquefort asked.

  The seneschal froze, but Geoffrey raised his weapon and fired twice. The men on the other side dove for the floor as bullets pinged off the wall.

  “That way,” Geoffrey said, motioning left to another passageway.

  Two shots screamed past them.

  Geoffrey sent another bullet across the foyer and they assumed a defensive position just inside the corridor, near a parlor where merchants once brought their wares for display.

  “All right,” de Roquefort called out. “You have my attention. Is bloodshed necessary?”

  “That’s entirely up to you,” the seneschal said.

  “I thought your oath was precious. Is it not your duty to obey your master? I commanded you to stay in your quarters.”

  “Did you? I forgot that part.”

  “Interesting how one set of rules apply to you, and another governs the rest of us. Even so, can we not be reasonable?”

  He wondered about the show of civility. “What do you propose?”

  “I assumed you would attempt an escape. Sext seemed the best time, so I was waiting. You see, I know you well. Your ally, though, surprises me. There is courage and loyalty there. I would like you both to join my cause.”

  “And do what?”

  “Help us reclaim our destiny, instead of hindering the effort.”

  Something was wrong. De Roquefort was posturing. Then it hit him. To buy time.

  He whirled around.

  An armed man rounded the corner, fifty feet away. Geoffrey saw him, too. The seneschal fired one shot into the lower part of the man’s cassock. He heard the smack of metal tearing flesh and a shriek as the man dropped to the flagstones. May God forgive him. Rule forbid the harming of another Christian. But there was no choice. He had to escape this prison.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Geoffrey took the lead and they bolted forward, leaping over the brother who writhed in pain.

  They turned the corner and kept moving.

  Footsteps could be heard behind them.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said to Geoffrey.

  They rounded another neck in the passageway. Geoffrey stopped at a partially open door and they slipped inside, closing it gently behind them. A second later men ran past, their footfalls fading.

  “The route ends at the gymnasium. It won’t take them long to see we’re not there,” he said.

  They slipped back out, breathless with excitement, and headed toward the gym, but instead of heading right at an intersection they went left, toward the dining hall.

  He was wondering why the gunshots had not aroused more brothers. But the music in the chapel was always loud, making it hard to hear anything beyond the walls. Still, if de Roquefort expected him to flee, it would be reasonable to assume that more brothers were waiting around the abbey.

  The long tables and benches in the dining hall were empty. Smells of stewed tomatoes and okra wafted from the kitchen. In the speaker’s niche carved three feet up one wall, a robed brother stood, rifle in hand.

  The seneschal dove under a table, using his knapsack for cushion, and Geoffrey sought refuge beneath another table.

  A bullet burrowed into the thick oak top.

  Geoffrey scampered out and ticked off two shots, one of which found the attacker. The man in the alcove teetered, then dropped to the floor.

  “You kill him?” the seneschal asked.

  “I hope not. I think I got his shoulder.”

  “This is getting out of hand.”

  “Too late now.”

  They came to their feet. Men bolted from the kitchen, all dressed in food-stained aprons. The cooking staff. Not a threat.

  “Back inside, now,” the seneschal screamed, and none disobeyed.

  “Seneschal,” Geoffrey said, anticipation in his tone.

  “Lead on.”

  They left the dining hall through another passageway. Voices were heard behind them, accompanied by the rapid sound of leather soles slapping stone. The shooting of two brothers would motivate even the meekest among their pursuers. The seneschal was angry that he’d fallen into the snare de Roquefort had laid for him. Any credibility he once possessed had vanished. No one would follow him any longer, and he cursed his foolishness.

  They entered the dormitory wing. A door at the far end of the corridor was closed. Geoffrey ran ahead and tested the latch. Locked.

  “Seems our options are limited,” the seneschal said.

  “Come,” Geoffrey said.

  They sprinted into the dormitory, a large oblong chamber with bunk beds standing perpendicular, in military style, beneath a row of lancet windows.

  A shout came from the hallway. More voices. Excited. People were headed their way.

  “There’s no other way out of here,” he said.

  They stood halfway down the row of empty beds. Behind them was the entrance, about to be filled with adversaries. Ahead, lavatories.

  “Into the bathrooms,” he said. “Let’s hope they move on.”

  Geoffrey ran to the far end where two doors led into separate facilities. “In here.”

  “No. Let’s split up. You go into one. Hide in a stall and stand on a toilet. I’ll take the other. If we’re quiet, we migh
t get lucky. Besides—” He hesitated, not liking the reality. “—it’s our only play.”

  De Roquefort examined the bullet wound. The man’s shoulder was bleeding, the brother in agony, but he was showing remarkable control, fighting hard not to go into shock. He’d stationed the shooter in the dining hall thinking the seneschal might eventually make his way there. And he’d been right. What he’d underestimated was his opponents’ resolve. Brothers took an oath never to harm another brother. He’d thought the seneschal enough of an idealist that he’d stay true to that oath. Yet two men were now headed to the infirmary. He hoped neither would have to be taken to the hospital in Perpignan or Mont Louis. That might lead to questions. The abbey’s healer was a qualified surgeon and possessed a well-equipped operating room, one that had been used many times in years past, but there were limits to its effectiveness.

  “Take him to the physician and tell him to mend them here,” he ordered a lieutenant. He checked his watch. Forty minutes before prayers at Sext ended.

  Another brother approached. “The door at the far end, beyond the dorm entrance, is still locked, as you ordered.”

  He knew they’d not come back through the dining hall. The wounded brother had made no such report. Which left only one alternative. He reached for the man’s revolver.

  “Stay here. Allow no one to pass. I’ll handle this myself.”

  The seneschal entered the brightly lit bathroom. Rows of toilet stalls, urinals, and stainless-steel sinks encased by marble counters filled the space. He heard Geoffrey in the adjacent room, positioning himself in a stall. He stood rigid and tried to calm his nerves. He’d never been in a situation like this before. He snatched a few deep breaths then turned back and grasped the door handle, easing it open half an inch and peering through the crack.

  The dormitory was still empty.

  Perhaps the search had moved on. The abbey was lined like an ant mound with corridors. All they would need was a few precious minutes to make an escape. He cursed himself again for weakness. His years of careful thought and deliberate intent had all been wasted. He was now a fugitive with more than four hundred brothers about to be his enemy. I simply respect the power of our adversaries. That’s what he’d told his master just a day ago. He shook his head. Some respect he’d shown. So far, he’d done nothing smart.