Pragmatic and cold, that was Pam's way. Interestingly, though, she'd not sought an immediate divorce. Instead, they'd simply lived apart, remained civil, and spoke only when necessary for Gary's sake.
But eventually the time came for decisions-across the board.
So he quit his job, resigned his commission, ended his marriage, sold his house, and left America, all in the span of one long, terrible, lonely, exhausting, but satisfying week.
He checked his watch. He really should e-mail Gary. They communicated at least once a day, and it was still late afternoon in Atlanta. His son was due in Copenhagen in three weeks to spend a month with him. They'd done the same thing last summer, and he was looking forward to the time together.
His confrontation with Stephanie still bothered him. He'd seen naivete like hers before in agents who, though aware of risks, simply ignored them. What was it she always told him? Say it, do it, preach it, shout it, but never, absolutely never, believe your own bullshit. Good advice she should heed. She had no idea what she was doing. But then, did he? Women were not his strong point. Though he'd spent half his life with Pam, he never really took the time to know her. So how could he possibly understand Stephanie? He should stay out of her business. After all, it was her life.
But something nagged at him.
When he was twelve he'd learned that he'd been born with an eidetic memory. Not photographic, as movies and books liked to portray, just an excellent recall of details that most people forgot. It certainly helped with studying, and languages came easy, but trying to pluck one detail from so many could, at times, aggravate him.
Like now.
TEN
DE ROQUEFORT TRIPPED THE FRONT DOOR LOCK AND ENTERED the bookshop. Two of his men followed him inside. The other two were stationed outside to watch the street.
They crept past darkened shelves to the rear of the cluttered ground floor and climbed narrow stairs. No sound betrayed their presence. On the top floor, de Roquefort stepped through an open doorway into a lit apartment. Peter Hansen was ensconced in a chair reading, a beer on the table beside him, a cigarette burning in an ashtray.
Surprise flooded the book dealer's face. 'What are you doing here?' Hansen demanded in French.
'We had an arrangement.'
The dealer sprang to his feet. 'We were outbid. What was I to do?'
'You told me there'd be no problem.' His associates moved to the far side of the room, near the windows. He stayed at the door.
'That book sold for fifty thousand kroner. An outrageous price,' Hansen said.
'Who outbid you?'
'The auction will not reveal such information.'
De Roquefort wondered if Hansen thought him that stupid. 'I paid you to ensure that Stephanie Nelle was the purchaser.'
'And I tried. But no one told me the book would go for such a price. I stayed with the bidding, but she waved me off. Were you willing to pay more than fifty thousand kroner?'
'I would have paid whatever it took.'
'You weren't there, and she was not as determined.' Hansen seemed to relax, the initial surprise replaced with a smugness de Roquefort fought hard to ignore. 'And besides, what makes that book so valuable?'
He surveyed the tight room, which reeked of alcohol and nicotine. Hundreds of books lay scattered among stacks of newspapers and magazines. He wondered how anyone lived in such disarray. 'You tell me.'
Hansen shrugged. 'I have no idea. She wouldn't say why she wanted it.'
De Roquefort's patience was wearing thin. 'I know who outbid you.'
'How?'
'As you well know, the attendants at the auction are negotiable. Ms. Nelle contacted you to act as her agent. I contacted you to make sure she obtained the book so that I might have a copy before you turned it over to her. Then you arranged for a telephone bidder.'
Hansen smiled. 'Took you long enough to figure that one out.'
'Actually it took me only a few moments, once I had information.'
'Since I now have control of the book and Stephanie Nelle is out of the picture, what is it worth for just you to have it?'
De Roquefort already knew what course he would be taking. 'Actually, the question is, how much is the book worth to you?'
'It means nothing to me.'
He motioned and his two associates grabbed Hansen's arms. De Roquefort jammed a fist into the book dealer's abdomen. Hansen spit out a breath, then slumped forward, held upright by his limbs.
'I wanted Stephanie Nelle to have the book, after I made a copy,' de Roquefort said. 'That was what I paid you to do. Nothing more. You once possessed a use to me. That's no longer the case.'
'I… have the… book.'
He shrugged. 'That's a lie. I know exactly where the book is.'
Hansen shook his head. 'You won't… get it.'
'You're wrong. In fact, it will be an easy matter.'
MALONE FLIPPED ON THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS OVER THE HISTORY section. Books of every shape, size, and color consumed the black lacquered shelves. But there was one volume in particular he recalled from a few weeks back. He'd bought it, along with several other mid-twentieth-century histories, from an Italian who'd thought his wares worth far more than Malone was willing to pay. Most sellers did not understand that value was a factor of desire, scarcity, and uniqueness. Age was not necessarily important since, just as in the twenty-first century, a lot of junk had always been printed.
He recalled selling a few of the Italian's books, but was hoping that one of them was still around. He could not remember it leaving the store, though one of his employees might have made a sale. But thankfully the book remained on the second row from the bottom, precisely where he'd first placed it.
No dust jacket protected the clothbound cover, which was once surely a deep green, now faded to light lime. Its pages were tissue-thin, gilt-edged, and littered with engravings. The title was still visible in patchy gold lettering.
The Knights of the Temple of Solomon.
The copyright read 1922 and, when he first saw it, Malone had become interested since the Templars were a subject he'd read little about. He knew they were not mere monks, more religious warriors-a sort of spiritualized special forces unit. But his rather simplistic conception was of white-clad men sporting stylish red crosses. A Hollywood stereotype, surely. And he recalled being fascinated as he'd thumbed through the volume.
He carried the book to one of several club chairs that dotted the store, settled himself into the soft folds, and started to read. Gradually, a summary began to formulate.
By AD 1118 Christians once again controlled the Holy Land. The First Crusade had been a resounding success. And though the Muslims were defeated, their lands confiscated, their cities occupied, they'd not been vanquished. Instead, they remained on the fringe of the newly established Christian kingdoms, wreaking havoc on all who ventured to the Holy Land.
Safe pilgrimage to holy sites was one of the reasons for the Crusades, and road tolls were the chief revenue source for the newly formed Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem. Pilgrims were streaming by the day into the Holy Land, arriving alone, in pairs, groups, or sometimes as entire uprooted communities. Unfortunately, the roads in and out were not secure. Muslims lay in wait, bandits roamed freely, even Christian soldiers were a threat since pillage was, to them, a normal course of forage.
So when a knight from Champagne, Hugh de Payens, founded a new movement consisting of himself and eight
