The Templar Legacy (28 page)

“So the errors are part of the message?” Malone asked.

“It would seem. Look here. Her name is wrong. She was not Marie de Negre d’Arles dame d’Haupoul. She was Marie de Negri d’Ables d’Hautpoul. Many of the other words are also truncated. Letters are raised and dropped for no reason. But look at the date.”

Malone studied the Roman numerals.

MDCOLXXXI

“Supposedly her date of death. 1681. And that’s discounting the O, since there is no zero in the Roman numeral system, and no number was denoted by the letter O. Yet here it is. And Marie died in 1781, not 1681. Is the O there to make clear that Bigou knew the date was wrong? And her age is wrong, too. She was sixty-eight, not sixty-seven, as noted, when she died.”

Malone pointed to the sketch of the right stone and the Roman numerals in the bottom corner.LIXLIXL. “Fifty. Nine. Fifty. Nine. Fifty.”

“Most peculiar,” Claridon said.

Malone glanced back at the lithograph. “I don’t see where this painting figures in?”

“It’s a puzzle, monsieur. One that has no easy solution.”

“But the answer is something I’d like to know,” a deep male voice said, out of the darkness.

MALONE HAD BEEN EXPECTING CONTACT FROM THE WOMAN, BUTthis voice was not hers. He reached for his gun.

“Stand still, Mr. Malone. Weapons are trained on you.”

“It’s the man from the cathedral,” Stephanie said.

“I told you we’d meet again. And you, monsieur Claridon. You weren’t that convincing in the asylum. Insane? Hardly.”

Malone searched the darkness. The sheer size of the chamber produced a confusion of noise. But he spotted human forms standing above them, before the upper row of shelving at the wooden railing.

He counted four.

“I am, though, impressed by your knowledge, monsieur Claridon. Your deductions about the headstone seem logical. I always believed there was much to be learned from that marker. I, too, have been here before, rummaging through these shelves. Such a difficult endeavor. So much to explore. I do appreciate you narrowing the search. Reading the Rules of Caridad. Who would have thought?”

Claridon made the sign of the cross and Malone spotted fear in the man’s eyes. “May God protect us.”

“Come now, monsieur Claridon,” the disembodied voice said. “Do we need to involve heaven?”

“You are His warriors.” Claridon’s voice trembled.

“And what brings you to that conclusion?”

“Who else could you be?”

“Perhaps we are the police? No. You wouldn’t believe that. Maybe we’re adventurers—searchers—like you. But no. So, let’s say for the sake of simplicity that we are His warriors. How can you three aid our cause?”

No one answered him.

“Ms. Nelle possesses her husband’s journal and the book from the auction. She’ll contribute those.”

“Screw you,” she spat out.

A pop, like a balloon bursting, sounded over the rain and a bullet careened off the table a few inches from Stephanie.

“Bad answer,” the voice said.

“Give them to him,” Malone said.

Stephanie glared at him.

“He’ll shoot you next.”

“How did you know?” the voice asked.

“That’s what I’d do.”

A chuckle. “I like you, Mr. Malone. You’re a professional.”

Stephanie reached into her shoulder bag and removed the book and journal.

“Toss them toward the door, between the shelves,” the voice said.

She did as instructed.

A form appeared and retrieved them.

Malone silently added one more man to the list. At least five were now in the archive. He felt the gun wedged at his waist beneath his jacket. Unfortunately, there was no way to retrieve it before at least one of them was shot. And only three bullets remained in the magazine.

“Your husband, Ms. Nelle, managed to piece together many of the facts, and his deductions as to missing elements were generally correct. He was a remarkable intellect.”

“What is it you’re after?” Malone asked. “I only joined this party a couple of days ago.”

“We seek justice, Mr. Malone.”

“And it’s necessary to run down an old man in Rennes-le-Château to achieve justice?” He thought he’d jostle the barrel and see what spilled out.

“And who would that be?”

“Ernst Scoville. He worked with Lars Nelle. Surely you knew of him?”

“Mr. Malone, perhaps a year of retirement has dulled your skills. I’d hope that you were better at interrogating when you were working full time.”

“Since you have the journal and the notebook, don’t you have to be going?”

“I need that lithograph. Monsieur Claridon, please be so kind as to take it to my associate, there, beyond the table.”

Claridon clearly did not want to do it.

Another slap from a sound-suppressed weapon and a bullet thudded into the tabletop. “I hate repeating myself.”

Malone lifted the drawing and handed it to Claridon. “Do it.”

The sheet was accepted in a hand that trembled. Claridon took a few steps beyond the spill of the weak lamp. Thunder pounded the air and rattled the walls. Rain continued to burst forth with fury.

Then a new noise erupted.

Gunfire.

And the lamp exploded in a burst of sparks.

DEROQUEFORT HEARD THE GUNSHOT AND SAW THE MUZZLEflash from near the archive’s exit. Damn. Somebody else was here.

The room was plunged into darkness.

“Move,” he screamed to his men on the second-floor catwalk, and he hoped they knew what to do.

MALONE REALIZED SOMEBODY HAD SHOT OUT THE LIGHT. THEwoman. She’d found another way in.

As darkness overtook them, he grabbed Stephanie and they dropped to the floor. He was hoping the men above him had been likewise caught off guard.

He brought out the gun from beneath his jacket.

Two more shots exploded from below, and the bullets sent the men above scurrying. Footsteps pounded on the wooden platform. He was more concerned about the man on the ground floor, but he’d heard nothing from the direction where he’d last seen him, nor had he heard anything from Claridon.

The running stopped.

“Whoever you are,” the man’s voice said, “must you interfere?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the woman said in a languid tone.

“This is not your business.”

“I disagree.”

“You assaulted two of my brothers in Copenhagen.”

“Let’s say I ended your attack.”

“There will be retribution.”

“Come and get me.”

“Stop her,” the man yelled.

Black shapes rushed across overhead. Malone’s eyes had adjusted and he made out a staircase at the far end of the catwalk.

He handed Stephanie the gun. “Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To repay a favor.”

He crouched down and hustled forward, weaving through the shelves. He waited, then tackled one of the men as he leaped from the last tread. The size and shape of the man was reminiscent of Red Jacket, but this time Malone was ready. He brought a knee into the man’s stomach, then pounded a fist to the back of the neck.

The man went still.

Malone surveyed the darkness and heard running a few aisles over.

“No. Please leave me be.”

Claridon.

DEROQUEFORT HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE DOOR THAT LED OUTof the archives. He’d descended from the ramparts and knew the woman would want to make a hasty retreat, but her choices were limited. There was only the exit to the hall and one other, through the curator’s office. But his man stationed there had just reported through the radio that all was quiet.

He now knew she was the same person who’d interfered in Copenhagen and probably the same one from last night in Rennes-le-Château. And that realization spurred him on. He must learn her identity.

The door leading out of the archives opened, then closed. In the wedge of light that splashed in from the hall he spied two legs lying prone on the floor between the shelves. He darted over and discovered one of his subordinates unconscious, a small dart planted in the neck. This brother had been stationed on the ground floor and had retrieved the notebook, journal, and lithograph.

Which were nowhere to be seen.

Damn her.

“Do as I instructed,” he called out to his remaining men.

He raced for the door.

MALONE HEARD THE MAN’S COMMAND AND DECIDED TO HEADback to Stephanie. He had no idea what the men had been commanded to do, but he assumed it included them and wasn’t good.

He crouched down and eased his way through the shelves, toward the table.

“Stephanie,” he breathed out.

“Here, Cotton.”

He slipped close to her. All he could hear now was the rain. “There must be another way out of here,” she mouthed through the darkness.

He relieved her of the gun. “Somebody left through the door. Probably the woman. I saw only one shadow. The others must have gone after Claridon and left through another exit.”

The door leading out opened again.

“That’s him leaving,” he said.

They stood and rushed back across the archives. At the exit Malone hesitated, heard and saw nothing, then led the way out.

DEROQUEFORT SPOTTED THE WOMAN RUNNING DOWN THE LONGgallery. She whirled and, not losing a step, fired a shot his way.

He dove to the floor, and she disappeared around a corner.

He came to his feet and bolted after her. Before she’d fired, he’d caught sight of the journal and the book in her grasp.

She had to be stopped.

MALONE SAW A MAN, DRESSED IN BLACK TROUSERS AND A DARKturtleneck, gun in hand, turn a corner fifty feet away.

“This is going to get interesting,” he said.

They both ran.

DEROQUEFORT KEPT UP HIS PURSUIT. THE WOMAN WAS CERTAINLYattempting to leave the palace, and she seemed to know the geography. Every turn she took was the right one. She’d deftly obtained what she came for, so he had to assume that her escape would not be left to chance.

Through another portal, he entered a rib-vaulted hall. The woman was already at the far end, turning a corner. He trotted over and saw a wide stone staircase leading down. The Great Staircase of Honor. Once, lined with frescoes, broken by iron gates, and sheathed with Persian runners, the stairway had lent itself to the solemn majesty of pontifical ceremonies. Now the risers and walls were bare. The darkness at the bottom, some thirty yards away, was absolute. He knew below were exit doors into a courtyard. He heard the woman’s footsteps as she descended but could not make out her form.

So he just fired.

Ten shots.

MALONE HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A HAMMER REPEATEDLYstriking a nail. One sound-suppressed shot after another.

He slowed his approach to a doorway ten feet ahead.

HINGES SQUEALED AT THE BASE OF THE INK-BLACK STAIRWAY. DERoquefort recognized the sound of a door groaning open. The storm outside grew louder. Apparently his indiscriminate shots had missed. The woman was leaving the palace. He heard footsteps behind him, then spoke into the mike clipped to his shirt.

“Do you have what I wanted?”

“We do,” was the reply through his earphone.

“I’m in the Conclave Gallery. Mr. Malone and Ms. Nelle are behind me. Handle them.”

He rushed down the staircase.

MALONE SAW THE MAN IN THE TURTLENECK LEAVE THE CAVERNOUShall that stretched out before them. Gun in hand, he ran ahead with Stephanie following.

Three armed men materialized from other portals into the room and blocked their way.

Malone and Stephanie stopped.

“Please toss the gun aside,” one of the men said.

No way he could take them all before either he, Stephanie, or both of them went down. So he allowed the gun to clatter on the floor.

“What do we do now?” Stephanie asked.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“There’s nothing for you to do,” another of the short-hairs said.

They stood still.

“Turn around,” came the command.

He stared at Stephanie. He’d been in tight spots before, a few just like the one they were facing. Even if he managed to subdue one or two, there was still the third man, and all were armed.

A thud was followed by a cry from Stephanie and her body collapsed to the floor. Before he could move toward her, the back of Malone’s head was pounded with something hard and everything before him vanished.

DEROQUEFORT FOLLOWED HIS QUARRY, WHO RUSHED THROUGHthe Place du Palais, quickly fleeing the empty plaza and winding a path through Avignon’s deserted streets. The warm rain fell in steady sheets. The heavens suddenly opened, cleft by an immense flash of lightning that momentarily lifted the vault of darkness. Thunder shook the air.

They left buildings behind and came close to the river.

He knew, just ahead, the Pont St. Bénézet stretched out across the Rhône. Through the storm he saw the woman navigate a path straight for the bridge’s entrance. What was she doing? Why go there? No matter, he had to follow. She possessed the rest of what he’d come to retrieve, and he did not plan to leave Avignon without the book and journal. Yet he wondered what the rain was doing to the pages. His hair was matted to his scalp, his clothes pasted to his body.

He saw a flash ten meters ahead of him as the woman fired a shot into the door that led to the bridge’s entrance.

She disappeared inside the building.

He rushed to the door and carefully gazed inside. A ticket counter stood to his right. Souvenirs were displayed in more counters to the left. Three turnstiles led out onto the bridge. The incomplete span had long ago ceased being anything but a tourist attraction.

The woman was twenty meters away, running down the bridge, out onto the river.

Then she disappeared.

He rushed forward and leaped over the turnstiles, racing after her.

A Gothic chapel stood at the end of the second pylon. He knew that it was the Chapelle Saint-Nicholas. The remains of St Bénézet, who was originally responsible for the bridge being built, were once preserved there. But the relics were lost during the Revolution and only the chapel remained—Gothic on top, Romanesque below. Which was where the woman had gone. Down the stone staircase.