The Expected One (21 page)

“Why are there so many guards at the gate?”

“That is my most private domain, sacred ground. I call them the Trinity Gardens and I allow very few visitors inside — and believe me, many of the guests here tonight would pay dearly to get behind those gates.”

Sinclair elaborated. “The costume ball is a tradition — my annual gathering for certain people who share a common interest.” He gestured to the revelers below them on the patio. “Some I respect — even revere, some I call friend, others…others are amusing to me. But all of them I watch closely. Some very closely.

“I thought you might find it interesting to see how people come from all over the world to investigate the mysteries of the Languedoc.”

Maureen watched the scene over the balcony, enjoying the silky breeze carrying the scent of the nearby rose garden on the early summer air. She noticed Tammy looking very chummy with Derek — and Derek looking like he was all hands on the sultry gypsy queen. She squinted at someone who might have been Peter, but decided it couldn’t be. The man in her line of vision was smoking. Peter hadn’t smoked since he was a teenager.

She turned to Sinclair suddenly and asked, “How did you find me?”

He lifted her right hand gently. “The ring.”

“The ring?”

“You’re wearing it in the photo, on the jacket of your book.”

Maureen nodded the beginning of understanding. “You know what the pattern means?”

“I have a theory on the pattern, which is why I brought you to this particular balcony. Come.”

Sinclair took Maureen gently by the arm and led her back inside to where a piece of artwork encased in glass was mounted on the wall. The piece was small, not much larger than an 8 x 10 photograph, but its central placement and the careful lighting showed it to its best advantage.

“It’s a medieval engraving,” he explained. “It represents philosophy. And the seven liberal arts.”

“Like the Botticelli fresco.”

“Exactly. You see, it comes from the classical perspective that if you embrace all seven of the liberal arts, you may attain the title of philosopher. That’s why this female figure in the center is depicted here as the goddess, Philosophia, and the liberal arts are at her feet, in service to her. But here is what I thought you would find most interesting.”

He started at the left, naming the liberal arts as he traced them with his fingers. He stopped at the seventh and final.

“Here we are. Cosmology. See anything there that looks familiar?”

Maureen gasped with excitement. “My ring!”

The figure representing cosmology held a disk decorated with the pattern on Maureen’s ring. She counted the stars and held her hand up to the image.

“It’s identical, right down to the off-center spacing of some of the circles.” She was quiet for a moment, taking it all in, before turning back to Sinclair.

“But what does it all mean? How does it all apply to Mary Magdalene? And to me?”

“There are spiritual and alchemical applications. In terms of the Magdalene’s mysteries, I believe this symbol shows up so frequently as a clue, a reminder that we need to pay attention to the critical relationship between the earth and the stars. The ancients knew that, but we have forgotten it in our modern age. As above, so below. The stars remind us every night that we have the opportunity to create heaven on earth. I believe that is what they wanted to teach us. It was their ultimate gift to us, their message of love.”

“They?”

“Jesus Christ and Mary Magdalene. Our ancestors.”

And as if a cosmic timer had been set to punctuate his sentence, the fireworks began their light show over the garden as the revelers watched in delight. Sinclair eased Maureen back outside to watch bursts of color rain over the château grounds. When he put his arm around her she allowed it, feeling strangely comfortable there in the warm embrace of his strength.

Below on the patio, Father Peter Healy wasn’t watching the fireworks. At least, not those in the sky. His attention was focused on Bérenger Sinclair, who stood on the balcony with an arm placed firmly and possessively around the waist of Peter’s red-haired cousin. In contrast to Maureen, he was feeling anything but comfortable — about Sinclair, about these people, and about their plans.

There were other sets of eyes watching the evolution of Sinclair and Maureen’s chemistry that night. Derek watched from below, looking up from his place on the opposite end of the patio. Scanning the balcony, he noticed his French colleague was well positioned upstairs, perhaps even close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation between their host and the woman dressed as Mary Magdalene.

Derek Wainwright patted his body discreetly, to be sure that the blood-red ceremonial cord of the Guild was tucked safely away in the folds of his Thomas Jefferson costume. He would need it later tonight, when he returned to Carcassonne.

…Perhaps I am the sole defender of the princess called Salome, but it is my duty to be so. I regret that I have left it so late, for she did not deserve her terrible fate. There was a time when it was death to speak of her and of her actions, and I could not defend her without risking the followers of Easa and the higher path of The Way. But like so many of us, she was judged by those who did not know the truth, or even an echo of it.

First, I will say this: Salome loved me, and she loved Easa even more. Given a chance, another time or place, or another set of circumstances, the girl could have been a true disciple, a sincere follower of The Way of Light. Thus, I include her in his Book of Disciples, for what she could have been. Like Judas and Peter and the others, Salome had a role carved out for her, and little chance to escape that role. Her name was etched in the stones of Israel, etched in John’s blood, and perhaps in some of Easa’s.

If hers were the rash, childish actions of youth — of a young person who does not think things through before she speaks — then she is indeed guilty of that. But to be remembered as she is — reviled and despised as a harlot who ordered John the Baptizer’s death — I think it is one of the greatest of all the injustices that I can remember.

On the Day of Judgment, perhaps she will forgive me.

And perhaps John will forgive us all.

T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF
D
ISCIPLES

M
aureen retired to bed shortly after the fireworks display. Peter had appeared as she descended the stairs with Sinclair, offering to escort her back to her room. She took him up on the offer, more than ready to escape into some much-needed solitude. It had been an overwhelming twenty-four hours and her head was throbbing.

Later that night Maureen was awakened by voices in the hallway. She thought she recognized Tammy, speaking in a whisper. A man’s muffled voice whispered back. Then the throaty laughter came, a trait that was as specific to Tammy as her fingerprints. Maureen listened, amused that her friend was enjoying the party.

She smiled as she drifted back to sleep, with the slightest, sleepy notion that the male voice she heard whispering intimately to Tammy was definitely not American.

Carcassonne
June 25, 2005

D
EREK
W
AINWRIGHT GROANED
as the morning sun blared relentlessly through his hotel room window. There were two things he didn’t want to deal with today — his hangover and the eight new messages on his cell phone.

Rising slowly to gauge the extremity of his headache, he shuffled over to his Italian leather traveling bag and extracted a prescription bottle. He opened it to reveal an assortment of pills. Picking through them, he found what he wanted and threw back a Vicodin before chasing it with three Tylenol tablets for good measure. Thus fortified, he glanced at his phone on the nightstand. He had turned it off late last night when he came back to the hotel; he couldn’t deal with the incessant beeping, and he certainly didn’t want to listen to the messages.

Derek had spent most of his life escaping responsibility in much the same way. A trust-fund baby from a supremely wealthy and influential East Coast family, the youngest of real estate mogul Eli Wainwright’s boys had been given a very generous ticket to ride. He breezed into Yale on his father and elder brothers’ legacies, and later, despite his mediocre academic performance, secured an executive position in a top-notch investment firm. Derek left that job after less than a year when he determined that the hours were not compatible with his party boy lifestyle. Not that he needed to work. His family trust was large enough to carry him for life, and for the lives of his children and grandchildren — if he ever settled down enough to have any.

Eli Wainwright had been surprisingly patient with his youngest son’s deficiencies. Derek lacked the scholastic drive and aptitude of his siblings, but he had shown the most interest in a vital element of the family’s life and success — membership in the Guild of the Righteous. Baptized first as an infant and then again at fifteen, as was tradition in their organization, Derek seemed to have a natural affinity for the society and its teachings. His father selected Derek to follow in his shoes as one of the top American members of the Guild, an organization that stretched across not only the Western world but into parts of Asia and the Middle East. The Guild of the Righteous counted among its members some extremely influential men from the arenas of big business and international politics.

Membership was limited strictly to blood legacies, and baptized men were expected to marry into the Daughters of Righteousness, female children of the Guild who were raised within a strict code of decorum. Girls were given special training in the appropriate behavior for a wife and mother, taking their lessons from an ancient document known as
The True Book of the Holy Grail
that had been handed down for centuries. Some of the largest debutante balls and cotillions on the Eastern seaboard, into the South, and throughout Texas were in essence “coming-out parties” for Daughters of Righteousness, announcing their readiness to enter the world as the obedient and proper wives of Guild members.

Eli’s older sons had all married Daughters of Righteousness and were well ensconced in perfect upper-crust lives. Pressure was coming to bear on the youngest Wainwright, now well into his thirties, to settle down in a similar fashion. Derek wasn’t interested, although he didn’t dare say so to his father. He found the Daughters immensely boring in all of their pristine virginity. The idea of bedding one of those perfectly bred ice princesses each night made him shudder. Sure, he could do what his brothers and all the other Guild members did — marry the approved and appropriate mother for your children and find a tantalizing trollop to keep things interesting on the side. But why settle for that at this stage? He was still young and terrifyingly rich, and he had few responsibilities. And as long as there were exotic, sensual women like Tamara Wisdom to entice him, he wasn’t going to shackle himself to some tedious prize broodmare who reminded him too much of his mother. If his father remained convinced that he was interested only in carrying out Guild business, Derek could get away with shirking his other responsibilities for at least a few more years.

What Eli Wainwright did not see with the blind eyes of a father who chooses not to view the flaws in his son was that Derek’s affinity wasn’t for the Guild’s philosophy. It was for the mystique of an outlawed society, the rituals, the sense of elitism that came with knowing secrets that had been handed down for centuries and protected in blood. The true attraction came from the understanding that virtually any unsavory act of a member could be cleaned up and swiftly concealed due to the Guild’s global network of influence. Derek reveled in these things, and in the way he was treated because of his father’s wealth and influence everywhere he went. Or at least he had previously, until the former Teacher of Righteousness died somewhat mysteriously and was replaced with this new one, the fanatical Englishman who ruled the Guild with an iron fist.

Their new leader had changed everything. He flaunted his hereditary connection to Oliver Cromwell while studying his ancestor’s ruthless and often gruesome tactics for dealing with opposition. Upon ascending to the title of Teacher of Righteousness, John Simon Cromwell made his first dramatic statement via an ugly execution. True, the murdered man was an enemy of the Guild and the leader of an organization that had opposed it for hundreds of years. But the message was clear: I will eliminate anyone who challenges me, and I will do it in an ugly way. Beheading the man with a sword and severing his right index finger carried the dramatic and literal touch of their new leader’s unstoppable fanaticism.

Derek attempted to block that specific image from his cloudy mind as he picked up the cell phone and switched it on, dialing into his voice mail. It was time to face the music. He had a mission to complete and he was committed to it, determined to show that British bastard once and for all what he was made of. He was sick of being ridiculed by him and the Frenchman. They treated him like an idiot, and no one had ever been allowed to do that before.

As the messages began to play, Derek steeled himself against the Oxford accent that grew progressively more menacing with each message. By the final words of the eighth voice mail, Derek knew what had to be done.

Château des Pommes Bleues
June 25, 2005

T
AMARA
W
ISDOM BRUSHED HER GLOSSY BLACK HAIR
while looking into the gargantuan gilded mirror. Vibrant morning sunlight illuminated her room, which was every inch as palatial as Maureen’s. Roses in shades of cream and lavender were clustered in crystal vases on every table. Purple velvets and heavy brocades draped her enormous bed, a place that she rarely occupied alone.

She smiled, allowing herself to bask briefly in the warmth of memories from the night before. The heat of his body had left an impression on her skin long after he had taken his leave of her just before dawn. In her wild and experiential attitude toward life she had known many great passions, but none had ever been quite like this. She finally understood what the alchemists meant when they spoke of the Great Work, the perfect union of a man and a woman — a joining of body, mind, and spirit.

Her smile faded as she came back to the reality of what must be done today.

It had all been so much fun at first, like a great game of chess played across two continents. She had grown to care about Maureen very quickly. They all had. Even the priest had not turned out to be the meddlesome creature they had feared. He was a mystic in his own way, a far cry from the rigid dogmatist they had anticipated.

Then there was the question of her own deepening involvement. The Mata Hari element had been amusing at first, but now it was becoming repellent. She would have to balance this very carefully today in order to obtain the information she needed, yet not lose herself in the deal. She had several goals to accomplish today, for herself, for the Society, and for Roland.
Keep the big picture in mind, Tammy,
she reminded herself.
There is everything to gain if you are successful, and everything to lose if you fail.

The game had changed. And it was becoming far more perilous than any of them had anticipated.

Tammy set the brush down and splashed a heady floral fragrance on her pulse points and her throat, making preparations for what was to come. As she turned to leave the room, she stopped before the astonishing painting that graced her wall. It was by the French symbolist Gustave Moreau, and it depicted the princess Salome, draped in her seven veils and holding the head of John the Baptist on a platter.

“That’s my girl,” Tammy whispered to herself as she departed on her latest and most crucial piece of intrigue.

Maureen dined alone in the breakfast room. Roland, walking through the adjoining hallway, noticed and entered.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Paschal. You are alone?”

“Good morning, Roland. Yes. Peter was still asleep, and I didn’t want to disturb him.”

Roland nodded. “I have a message for you from your friend Miss Wisdom. She is now staying here at the château and would like to join you here for dinner tonight.”

“That would be great.” Maureen was anxious to catch up with Tammy and recap the party. “Where is she?”

Roland shrugged. “She left early this morning for Carcassonne. Something to do with the film she is making. She gave me only this message for you. Now, Mademoiselle, I will go and find Monsieur Bérenger as he would be most distressed to find you dining alone.”

Sinclair interrupted Maureen’s thoughts, arriving very quickly in the breakfast room following Roland’s departure.

“Did you get some sleep?”

“How can you help it in that bed? It’s like sleeping on clouds.” Maureen had noted the first night that there was a massive feather mattress beneath the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Superb. Have you plans this morning?”

“Not until eleven. I’m meeting Jean-Claude today, remember?”

“Yes, of course. He’s taking you to Montsegur. Astonishing place. My only regret is that I won’t be the one to show it to you for the first time.”

“Would you like to join us?”

Sinclair laughed. “My dear, Jean-Claude would have me hung, drawn, and quartered if I tagged along with you today. You’re the star of the region now, after your big debut last night. Everyone wants to know more about you. You will raise Jean-Claude’s stock in the region by one hundred points once he is seen squiring you around.

“But I shall not begrudge him that. I have something of my own to show you, once you have finished your breakfast, something that I am sure you will find entirely memorable.”