The Templar Legacy (37 page)

But now he seriously questioned all that.

He actually felt like a fool.

But all Henrik Thorvaldsen could do was smile. “About time, Cotton. I’ve been waiting two days.”

DEROQUEFORT SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND CONCENTRATEDon the GPS screen. The transponder attached to Malone’s rental car was working perfectly, the tracking signal transmitting strongly. One brother drove while Claridon and another brother occupied the rear seat. De Roquefort was still irritated with Claridon’s interference back in Rennes. He had no intention of dying and would have eventually leaped out of the way, but he’d truly wanted to see if Cotton Malone possessed the resolve to drive through him.

The brother who’d fallen down the rocky incline had died, shot in the chest before he fell. A Kevlar vest had prevented the bullet from doing any damage, but the fall had broken the man’s neck. Thankfully, none of them carried identification, but the vest was a problem. Equipment like that signaled sophistication, but nothing linked the dead man to the abbey. All the brothers knew Rule. If any of them were killed outside the abbey, their bodies would go unidentified. Like the brother who’d leaped from the Round Tower, Renne’s casualty would end up in a regional morgue, his remains eventually consigned to a pauper’s grave. But before that happened, procedure called for the master to dispatch a clergyman, who would claim the remains in the name of the Church, offering to provide a Christian burial at no cost to the state. Never had that offer been refused. And while arousing no suspicion, the gesture ensured that a brother received his proper internment.

He’d not rushed leaving Rennes, first searching Lars Nelle’s and Ernst Scoville’s houses and finding nothing. His men had reported that Geoffrey had carried a rucksack, which was handed over to Mark Nelle in the car park. Surely it contained the two stolen books.

“Any idea where they went?” Claridon asked from the backseat.

He pointed to the screen. “We’ll know shortly.”

After questioning the injured brother who’d eavesdropped on Claridon’s conversation inside Lars Nelle’s house, he’d learned that Geoffrey had said precious little, obviously suspicious of Claridon’s motivations. Sending Claridon in there had been a mistake. “You assured me you could find those books.”

“Why do we need them? We have the journal. We should be concentrating on deciphering what we have.”

Maybe, but it bothered him that Mark Nelle had chosen those two volumes from the thousands in the archives. “What if they contain information different from the journal?”

“Do you know how many versions of the same information I’ve come across? The entire Rennes story is a series of contradictions stacked atop one another. Let me explore your archives. Tell me what you know and let’s see what, together, we have.”

A good idea, but unfortunately—contrary to what he’d led the Order to believe—he knew precious little. He’d been counting on the master leaving the requisite message for his successor, in which the most coveted information was always passed from leader to leader, as had been done from the time of de Molay. “You’ll get that opportunity. But first we must take care of this.”

He thought again of the two dead brothers. Their deaths would be seen by the collective as an omen. For a religious society heaped in discipline, the Order was astoundingly superstitious. And violent death was not common—yet two had occurred in a matter of days. His leadership could now well be questioned. Too much, too fast would be the cry. And he’d be forced to listen to all objections since he’d openly challenged the last master’s legacy, in part because that man had ignored the brothers’ wishes.

He asked the driver for an interpretation of the GPS readout. “How far to their vehicle?”

“Twelve kilometers.”

He gazed out beyond the car windows at the French countryside. Once, no stretch of sky had been true to the eye unless a tower rose on the horizon. By the twelfth century Templars had populated this land with well over a third of their total estates. The entire Languedoc should have become a Templar state. He’d read of plans in the Chronicles. How fortresses, outposts, supply depots, farms, and monasteries had all been strategically established, each connected by a series of maintained roads. For two hundred years the brotherhood’s strength had been carefully preserved, and when the Order failed to establish a fiefdom in the Holy Land, eventually surrendering Jerusalem back to the Muslims, the aim had been to succeed in the Languedoc. All was well under way when Philip IV struck his death blow. Interestingly, Rennes-le-Château was never mentioned in the Chronicles. The town, in all of its previous incarnations, played no role in Templar history. There’d been Templar fortifications in other parts of the Aude Valley, but nothing at Rhedae, as the occupied summit was then called. Yet now the tiny village seemed an epicenter, and all because of an ambitious priest and an inquisitive American academician.

“We’re approaching the car,” the driver said.

He’d already instructed caution. The other three brothers he’d brought to Rennes were returning to the abbey, one with a flesh wound to his thigh after Geoffrey shot at him. That made three wounded men, along with two dead. He’d sent word that he wanted a council with his officers when he returned to the abbey, which should quell any discontent, but first he needed to know where his quarry had gone.

“Up ahead,” the driver said. “Fifty meters.”

He stared out the window and wondered about Malone and company’s choice of refuge. Odd that they would come here.

The driver stopped the car, and they climbed out.

Parked cars surrounded them.

“Bring the handheld unit.”

They walked and, twenty meters later, the man holding the portable receiver stopped. “Here.”

De Roquefort stared at the vehicle. “That’s not the car they left Rennes in.”

“The signal is strong.”

He motioned. The other brother searched beneath and found the magnetic transponder.

He shook his head and stared at the walls of Carcassonne, which stretched skyward ten meters away. The grassy area before him had once formed the town moat. Now it served as a car park for the thousands of visitors who came each day to see one of the last existing walled cities from the Middle Ages. The time-tanned stones had stood when Templars roamed the surrounding land. They’d borne witness to the Albigensian Crusade and the many wars thereafter. And never once were they breached—truly a monument to strength.

But they said something about cleverness, too.

He knew the local myth, from when Muslims controlled the town for a short time in the eighth century. Eventually, Franks came from the north to reclaim the site and, true to their way, laid a long siege. During a sally the Moorish king was killed, which left the task of defending the walls to his daughter. She was the clever one, creating an illusion of greater numbers by sending the few troops she possessed running from tower to tower and stuffing the clothing of the dead with straw. Food and water eventually ran out for both sides. Finally, the daughter ordered the last sow be caught and fed the final bushel of corn. She then hurled the pig out over the walls. The animal smashed into the earth and its belly burst forth with grain. The Franks were shocked. After such a long siege, apparently the infidels still possessed enough food to feed their pigs. So they withdrew.

A myth, he was sure, but an interesting tale of ingenuity.

And Cotton Malone had shown ingenuity, too, transferring the electronic tag to another vehicle.

“What is it?” Claridon asked.

“We’ve been led astray.”

“This is not their car?”

“No, monsieur.” He turned and started back for their vehicle. Where had they gone? Then a thought occurred to him. He stopped. “Would Mark Nelle know of Cassiopeia Vitt?”

“Oui,”Claridon said. “He and his father discussed her.”

Is it possible that was where they’d gone? Vitt had interfered three times of late, and always on Malone’s side. Maybe he sensed an ally there.

“Come.” And he started for the car again.

“What do we do now?” Claridon wanted to know.

“We pray.”

Claridon still had not moved. “For what?”

“That my instincts are accurate.”

MALONE WAS FURIOUS.HENRIKTHORVALDSEN HAD KNOWN FARmore about everything and had said absolutely nothing. He pointed at Cassiopeia. “She one of your friends?”

“I’ve known her a long time.”

“When Lars Nelle was alive. You know her then?”

Thorvaldsen nodded.

“And did Lars know of your relationship?”

“No.”

“So you played him for a fool, too.” Anger punctuated his voice.

The Dane seemed forced to submerge his defensiveness. After all, he was cornered. “Cotton, I understand your irritation. But one can’t always be forthcoming. Multiple angles have to be explored. I’m sure that when you worked for the U.S. government you did the same thing.”

He did not rise to the bait.

“Cassiopeia kept watch on Lars. He knew of her, and in his eyes, she was a nuisance. But her real chore was to protect him.”

“Why not just tell him?”

“Lars was a stubborn man. It was simpler for Cassiopeia to watch him quietly. Unfortunately, she could not protect him from himself.”

Stephanie stepped forward, her face set for combat. “This is what his profile warned about. Questionable motives, shifting allegiances, deceit.”

“I resent that.” Thorvaldsen glared at her. “Especially since Cassiopeia looked after you two, as well.”

On that point Malone could not argue. “You should have told us.”

“To what end? As I recall, you both were intent on coming to France—especially you, Stephanie. So what would have been gained? Instead, I made sure Cassiopeia was there, in case you needed her.”

Malone wasn’t going to accept that hollow explanation. “For one thing, Henrik, you could have provided us with background on Raymond de Roquefort, whom you both obviously know. Instead, we went in blind.”

“There’s little to tell,” Cassiopeia said. “When Lars was alive all the brothers did was watch him, too. I never made actual contact with de Roquefort. That’s only happened during the past couple of days. I know as much about him as you do.”

“Then how did you anticipate his moves in Copenhagen?”

“I didn’t. I simply followed you.”

“I never sensed you there.”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“You weren’t so good in Avignon. I spotted you at the café.”

“And your trick with the napkin, dropping it so you could see if I was following? I wanted you to know I was there. Once I saw Claridon, I knew de Roquefort would not be far behind. He’s watched Royce for years.”

“Claridon told us about you,” Malone said, “but he didn’t recognize you in Avignon.”

“He’s never seen me. What he knows is only what Lars Nelle told him.”

“Claridon never mentioned that fact,” Stephanie said.

“There’s a lot I’m sure Royce failed to mention. Lars never realized, but Claridon was far more of a problem for him than I ever was.”

“My father hated you,” Mark said, disdain in his tone.

Cassiopeia appraised him with a cool countenance. “Your father was a brilliant man, but he was not schooled in human nature. His was a simplistic view of the world. The conspiracies he sought, the ones you explored after he died, are far more complicated than either of you could imagine. This is a quest for knowledge that men have died seeking.”

“Mark,” Thorvaldsen said, “what Cassiopeia says about your father is true, as I’m sure you realize.”

“He was a good man who believed in what he did.”

“He was, indeed. But he likewise kept many things to himself. You never knew he and I were close friends, and I regret you and I never came to know one another. But your father wanted our contacts confidential, and I respected his desire even after his death.”

“You could have told me,” Stephanie said.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Then why are you talking to us now?”

“When you and Cotton left Copenhagen, I came straight here. I realized you would eventually find Cassiopeia. That’s precisely why she was in Rennes two nights ago—to draw you in her direction. Originally, I was to stay in the background and you were not to know of our connection, but I changed my mind. This has gone too far. You need to know the truth, so I’m here to tell it to you.”

“So good of you,” Stephanie said.

Malone stared at the older man’s hooded eyes. Thorvaldsen was right. He’d played both ends against the middle many times. Stephanie had, too. “Henrik, I haven’t been a player in this kind of game in more than a year. I got out because I didn’t want to play anymore. Lousy rules, bad odds. But at the moment I’m hungry and, I have to say, curious. So let’s eat, and you tell us all about that truth we need to know.”

Lunch was a roasted rabbit seasoned with parsley, thyme, and marjoram, along with fresh asparagus, a salad, and a currant dessert topped with vanilla cream. While he ate, Malone tried to assess the situation. Their hostess seemed the most at ease, but he was unimpressed with her cordiality.

“You specifically challenged de Roquefort last night in the palace,” he said to her. “Where’d you learn your craft?”

“Self-taught. My father passed to me his boldness, and my mother blessed me with an insight into the male mind.”

Malone smiled. “One day you may guess wrong.”

“I’m glad you care about my future. Did you ever guess wrong as an American agent?”

“Many times, and folks died from it occasionally.”

“Henrik’s son on that list?”

He resented the jab, particularly considering she knew nothing of what happened. “Like here, people were given bad information. Bad information leads to bad decisions.”

“The young man died.”

“Cai Thorvaldsen was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Stephanie made clear.

“Cotton is right,” Henrik said as he stopped eating. “My son died because he was not alerted to the danger around him. Cotton was there and did what he could.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that he was to blame,” Cassiopeia said. “It was only that he seemed anxious to tell me how to run my business. I simply wondered if he could run his own. After all, he did quit.”