'Papers the Order was safekeeping. This chest is probably full of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century wills and deeds.' He shook his head. 'To the end, the brothers made sure their duty was done.' He considered the possibilities that lay before him. 'What we could learn from these documents.'
'This is not all of it,' de Roquefort suddenly declared. 'No books. Not one. Where's the knowledge?'
'What you see is it.'
'You're lying. There's more. Where?'
He faced de Roquefort. 'This is it.'
'Don't be coy with me. Our brothers secreted away their knowledge. You know that. Philip never found it. So it has to be here. I can see it in your eyes. There's more.' De Roquefort reached for his gun and raised the barrel to Mark's brow. 'Tell me.'
'I'd rather die.'
'But would you rather have your mother die? Or your friends up there? Because that's who I'll kill first, while you watch, until I learn what I want to know.'
Mark considered the possibility. It wasn't that he was afraid of de Roquefort-strangely, no fear coursed through him-it was simply that he wanted to know, too. His father had searched for years and found nothing. What had the master told his mother about him? He doesn't possess the resolve needed to complete his battles. Bullshit. The solution to his father's quest was a short walk away.
'All right. Come with me.'
'IT'S AWFUL GLOOMY IN HERE,' MALONE SAID TO THE BROTHER who appeared in charge. 'Mind if we get the generator going and fire up those lights?'
'We wait for the master to return.'
'They're going to need those lights down there, and it takes a few minutes to set things up. Your master may not be inclined to wait when he calls for them.' He was hoping the prediction might affect the man's judgment. 'What's it going to hurt? We're just rigging up some lights.'
'Okay. Go ahead.'
Malone withdrew back to where the others stood. 'He bought it. Let's set 'em up.'
Stephanie and Malone moved toward one set, while Henrik and Cassiopeia grabbed another. The bars consisted of two halogen flood lamps atop an orange tripod. The generator was a small gasoline-powered unit. They positioned the tripods at opposite ends of the church and angled the bulbs upward. Power cords were connected and run back to where the generator sat, near the altar.
A tool bag lay beside the generator. Cassiopeia was reaching inside when one of the guards stopped her.
'I need to hot-wire the power cords. Can't use plugs for this kind of ampage. I'm only going to get a screwdriver.'
The man hesitated then stepped back, gun at his side, seemingly ready. Cassiopeia reached into the bag and carefully removed the screwdriver. By the light of the fires, she attached the cords to leads on the generator.
'Let's check out the connections to the lights,' she said to Malone.
They casually walked to the first tripod. 'My dart gun is in the tool bag,' she whispered.
'I assume those are the same little darlings used in Copenhagen?' He kept his lips still as a ventriloquist's.
'They work fast. I just need a few seconds to fire the shots.'
She was fiddling with the tripod, not doing anything.
'And how many shots do you have?'
She seemingly finished what she was doing. 'Four.'
They headed for the other tripod. 'We have six guests.'
'The other two are your problem.'
They stopped at the second tripod. He breathed out, 'We'll need a moment of distraction to confuse everybody. I have an idea.'
She tinkered with the back of the lights. 'About time.'
SIXTY-THREE
MARK LED THE WAY BACK DOWN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE, past the ladder, toward where Malone and Cassiopeia had first explored. No light seeped down from the church above. As they were leaving the treasure chamber he'd retrieved the bolt cutters, as he assumed the other gate would likewise be chained.
They came to words etched into the wall.
'By this sign ye shall conquer him,' de Roquefort said as he read, then his beam found the second gate. 'That it?'
Mark nodded and motioned at the skeleton propped against the wall. 'He came to see for himself.' He explained about the marshal from Sauniere's time and the medallion Malone found, which confirmed the identity.
'Serves him right,' de Roquefort said.
'And what you're doing is better?'
'I come for the brothers.'
In the halo of his light bar, Mark noticed a slight depression in the earth ahead. Without saying a word, he stepped around the liar, toward the wall, avoiding the trap that de Roquefort seemed not to notice, as his focus was on the skeleton. At the gate, with the bolt cutters, Mark severed another brass chain. He recalled Malone's caution and stepped to one side as he worked the grille open.
Beyond the entrance were the same two sharp turns. He inched his way forward. Within the golden glow of his lamp he saw nothing but rock.
He turned the first corner, then the second. De Roquefort stood behind him and their combined lights revealed another gallery, this one larger than the first treasure chamber.
The room was dotted with stone plinths of varying shapes and sizes. Atop them were books, all neatly stacked. Hundreds of volumes.
A sick feeling came to Mark's stomach as he realized that the manuscripts would most likely be ruined. Though the chamber was cool and dry, time would have taken a toll on both the leaves and the ink. Much better if they'd been sealed inside another container. But the brothers who had secreted these certainly never imagined that it would be seven hundred years before they'd be retrieved.
He stepped to one of the stacks and examined the top cover. What was once surely gilded silver atop wood boards had turned black. He studied the engravings of Christ and what appeared to be Peter and Paul, which he knew were formed from clay and wax beneath the gilt. Italian craftsmanship. German ingenuity. He gently lifted the cover and brought the light close. His suspicion was confirmed. He could not make out many of the words.
'Can you read it?' de Roquefort asked.
He shook his head. 'It needs to be in a laboratory. It will take professional restoration. We shouldn't disturb them.'
'Looks like somebody already did that.'
And he stared into the spill of de Roquefort's light and saw a pile of books scattered on the floor. Bits and pieces of pages lay about like charred paper from a flame.
'Sauniere again,' he said. 'It'll take years to garner anything useful from these. And that's assuming there's anything to find. Beyond some historical value, they're probably useless.'
'This is ours.'
So what, he thought, for all the good it would do.
But his mind raced with possibilities. Sauniere had come to this place. No question. The treasure chamber had provided his wealth-it would have been an easy matter to return from time to time and cart off unminted gold and silver. Actual coins would have raised questions. Bank officials or assay clerks might want to know their source. But the raw metal would have been the perfect currency in the early part of the twentieth century when many economies were either gold- or silver-based.
Yet the abbe had gone a step farther.
He'd used the wealth to fashion a church loaded with hints that pointed to something Sauniere clearly believed.
