The Templar Legacy (22 page)

“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 might get lucky. Besides—” He hesitated, not liking the reality. “—it’s our only play.”

DEROQUEFORT EXAMINED THE BULLET WOUND. THE MAN’Sshoulder 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 OFtoilet 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.

The door leading from the dormitory swung open and Raymond de Roquefort stepped inside.

His adversary locked the ponderous bolt on the door.

Any hope the seneschal may have possessed vanished.

The showdown was to be here and now.

De Roquefort held a revolver and studied the room, surely wondering where his prey might be. They’d not fooled him. But the seneschal had no intention of risking Geoffrey’s life. He needed to draw his pursuer’s attention. So he released his grip on the handle and allowed the door to close with a soft thud.

DEROQUEFORT CAUGHT A FRACTION OF MOVEMENT AND HEARDthe sound of a door, hydraulically hinged, gently nudge a metal frame. His gaze shot to the back of the dormitory and one of the lavatory doors.

He’d been right.

They were here.

Time to end this problem.

THE SENESCHAL SURVEYED THE BATHROOM. FLUORESCENT LIGHTilluminated everything in a daylight glow. A long wall mirror above the sink counter made the room appear even larger. The floor was tile, the toilets separated by marble partitions. Everything had been built with care and designed to last.

He ducked into the second stall and closed the swinging door. He hopped onto the toilet and folded himself over the partition until he could close and lock the doors to the first and third stalls. He then shrunk back, still standing on the toilet, and hoped de Roquefort took the bait.

He needed something to draw attention. So he freed the toilet paper from its holder.

Air rushed out as the bathroom’s door swung open.

Soles swept across the floor.

He stood on the toilet, gun in hand, and told himself to breathe slow.

DEROQUEFORT POINTED THE SHORT-BARRELED AUTOMATICtoward the stalls. The seneschal was here. He knew it. But where? Did he dare take a moment to bend down and examine the gap at the bottom? Three doors were closed, three cocked open.

No.

He decided to fire.

THE SENESCHAL REASONED IT WOULD TAKE ONLY A MOMENT BEFOREde Roquefort started shooting, so he flipped the toilet paper holder beneath the partition, into the first stall.

Metal found tile with a clank.

DEROQUEFORT FIRED A BURST INTO THE FIRST STALL AND KICKEDthe door inward with his sandal. Marble dust clouded the air. He unleashed another round that obliterated the toilet and the plaster on the wall.

Water flooded out.

But the cubicle was empty.

IN THE INSTANT BEFORE DEROQUEFORT REALIZED HIS MISTAKE, the seneschal fired over the stalls, sending two slugs into his enemy’s chest. The gunshots reverberated off the walls, the sound waves racking his brain.

He watched as de Roquefort fell back across the marble counter and bucked as though punched in the chest. But he noticed no blood flowed from the wounds. The man seemed more dazed than anything. Then he spotted a blue-gray surface beneath tears in the white cassock.

A bulletproof vest.

He readjusted his aim and fired for the head.

DEROQUEFORT SAW A SHOT COMING AND MUSTERED THEstrength to roll off the counter just as the bullet left the barrel. His body skidded across the wet floor, through the puddled water, toward the outer door.

Bits of porcelain and stone crunched beneath him. The mirror exploded, shattering in a clangor then pulverizing onto the counter. The confines of the washroom were tight and his opponent was unexpectedly brave. So he retreated toward the door and slipped out just as a second shot careened off the wall behind him.

THE SENESCHAL JUMPED FROM THE TOILET AND BURST FROM THEstall. He crept toward the door and prepared himself for an exit. De Roquefort would surely be waiting. But he wasn’t going to shy away. Not now. He owed this fight to his master. The Gospels were clear. Jesus came not to bring peace, but a sword. And so did he.

He steeled himself, readied the gun, and yanked open the door.

The first thing he saw was Raymond de Roquefort. The next was Geoffrey, his gun firmly nestled to the master’s neck, de Roquefort’s weapon lying on the floor.

VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON

MALONE STARED ATROYCECLARIDON AND SAID, “YOU’RE GOOD.”

“I’ve had lots of practice.” Claridon looked at Stephanie. “You are Lars’s wife?”

She nodded.

“He was a friend and a great man. So smart. Yet also naïve. He underestimated those who opposed him.”

They were still alone in the solarium and Claridon seemed to notice Malone’s interest in the door leading out.

“No one will disturb us. Not a soul wants to listen to my ramblings. I made a point to become quite a nuisance. They all look forward to my retreat here each day.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Five years.”

Malone was astonished. “Why?”

Claridon paced slowly among the bushy potted plants. Beyond the outer glass, black clouds girted the western horizon, the sun blazing through crevices like fire from the mouth of a furnace. “There are those who seek what Lars sought. Not openly, or with attention drawn to their quest, but they deal severely with those who stand in their way. So I came here and feigned illness. They feed you well, care for your needs, and, most important, ask no questions. I’ve not spoken rationally, other than to myself, in five years. And I can assure you, talking to yourself is not satisfying.”

“Why are you talking to us?” Stephanie asked.

“You’re Lars’s widow. For him, I would do anything.” Claridon pointed. “And that note. Sent by someone with knowledge. Perhaps even by those people I mentioned who don’t allow anyone to stand in their way.”

“Did Lars stand in their way?” Stephanie asked.

Claridon nodded. “Many wanted to know what he learned.”

“What was your connection to him?” Stephanie asked.

“I had access to the book trade. He required many obscure materials.”

Malone knew that secondhand-book stores were the haunts of both collectors and researchers.

“We eventually became friends and I started to share his passion. This region is my home. My family has been here since medieval times. Some of my ancestors were Cathars, burned to death by the Catholics. But then, Lars died. So sad. Others after him also perished. So I came here.”

“What others?”

“A book dealer in Seville. A librarian in Marseille. A student in Rome. Not to mention Mark.”

“Ernst Scoville is also dead,” Stephanie said. “Run down by a car last week, just after I spoke to him.”

Claridon quickly crossed himself. “Those who seek are indeed made to pay. Tell me, dear lady, do you know anything?”

“I have Lars’s journal.”

A look of concern swept across the man’s face. “Then you are in mortal danger.”

“How so?” Malone asked.

“This is terrible,” Claridon said, the words coming fast. “So terrible. It’s not right that you be involved. You lost your husband and your son—”

“What do you know of Mark?”

“It was just after his death that I came here.”

“My son died in an avalanche.”

“Not true. He was killed. Just like the others I mentioned.”

Malone and Stephanie stood in silence, waiting for the odd little man to explain.

“Mark was following leads his father had discovered years before. He was not as passionate as Lars, and it took him years to decipher Lars’s notes, but he finally made some sense of them. He traveled south into the mountains to look but never returned. Just like his father.”

“My husband hung himself from a bridge.”

“I know, dear woman. But I always wondered what truly happened.”

Stephanie said nothing, but her silence signaled that at least part of her wondered, too.

“You said you came here to escape them. Who’s them ?” Malone asked. “The Knights Templar?”

Claridon nodded. “I came face-to-face with them on two occasions. Not pleasant.”

Malone decided to let that notion simmer a moment. He was still holding the note that had been sent to Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Château. He motioned with the paper. “How can you lead the way? Where are we to go? And who is this engineer we’re supposed to be watching out for?”

“She, too, seeks what Lars coveted. Her name is Cassiopeia Vitt.”

“She good with a rifle?”

“She has many talents. Shooting, I’m sure, is one. She lives at Givors, an ancient citadel site. She’s a woman of color, a Muslim, who possesses great wealth. She labors in the forest to rebuild a castle using only thirteenth-century techniques. Her château stands nearby and she personally oversees the rebuilding project, calling herself l’Ingénieur. The engineer. Have you met her?”

“I think she saved my hide in Copenhagen. Which makes me wonder why someone would warn us to beware of her.”

“Her motives are suspect. She seeks what Lars sought, but for different reasons.”

“And what is it she seeks?” Malone asked, tired of riddles.

“What the brothers of the Temple of Solomon left behind long ago. Their Great Devise. What the priest Saunière discovered. What the brothers have been searching for all these centuries.”