eight pages were gone.
'I never noticed,' she said.
'A lot slipped by you.'
A hectic flush came to her face. 'I'm willing to concede that I screwed up.'
'Cotton,' Thorvaldsen said, 'this whole endeavor could mean much more. The Templar archives could well be part of any find. The Order's original archives were kept in Jerusalem, then moved to Acre, and finally to Cyprus. History says that after 1312 the archives passed to the Knights Hospitallers, but there's no proof that ever occurred. From 1307 to 1314 Philip IV searched for the archives, but he found nothing. Many say that reserve was one of the medieval world's greatest collections. Imagine what locating those writings would mean.'
'Could be the greatest book find ever made.'
'Manuscripts no one has seen since the fourteenth century, many surely unknown to us. The prospect of finding such a cache, however remote, is worth exploring.'
Malone agreed.
Thorvaldsen turned to Stephanie. 'How about a truce? For Lars. I'm sure your agency works with many 'persons of interest' to achieve a mutually beneficial goal. How about we do that here?'
'I want to see those letters between you and Lars.'
He nodded. 'You may have them.'
Stephanie's gaze caught his. 'You're right, Cotton, I do need some help. I'm sorry about my tone earlier. I thought I could do this on my own. But since we're all asshole buddies now, let's you and I go to France and see what's in Lars's house. I haven't been there in some time. There's also a few people in Rennes-le-Chateau we can talk with. People who worked with Lars. Then we'll go from there.'
'Your shadows might come, too,' he said.
She smiled. 'Lucky for me I have you.'
'I'd like to come,' Thorvaldsen said.
Malone was surprised. Henrik rarely traveled from Denmark. 'And the purpose of you gracing us with your company?'
'I know a bit about what Lars sought. That knowledge might prove useful.'
He shrugged. 'Fine by me.'
'Okay, Henrik,' Stephanie said. 'It'll give us time to come to know one another. Apparently, as you say, I have some things to learn.'
'As do we all, Stephanie. As do we all.'
DE ROQUEFORT FOUGHT TO RESTRAIN HIMSELF. HIS SUSPICIONS were now confirmed. Stephanie Nelle was on the trail that her husband had blazed. She also was the custodian of her husband's notebook, along with a copy of Pierres Gravees du Languedoc, perhaps the only copy still in existence. That was the thing about Lars Nelle. He'd been good. Too good. And now his widow owned his clues. He'd made a mistake trusting Peter Hansen. But at the time, the approach seemed the right one. He would not make that mistake again. Too much was riding on the outcome to trust any aspect to another stranger.
He continued to listen as they finalized what to do once in Rennes-le-Chateau. Malone and Stephanie would travel there tomorrow. Thorvaldsen would come in a few days. When he'd heard enough, de Roquefort freed the microphone from the window and withdrew with his two associates to the safety of a thick stand of trees.
There'd be no more killing tonight.
Pages are missing.
He would need that missing information from Lars Nelle's journal. The sender of the notebook had been smart. Dividing the spoils prevented rash acts. Clearly, there was more to this intricate puzzle than he knew-and he was playing catch-up.
But no matter. Once all of the players were in France, he could easily deal with them.
PART TWO
8:00 AM
THE SENESCHAL STOOD BEFORE THE ALTAR AND STARED AT THE oak coffin. The brothers were entering the chapel, marching in solemn order, their sonorous voices chanting in unison. The melody was ancient, sung at every master's funeral since the Beginning. The Latin lyrics spoke of loss, sorrow, and pain. Renewal would not be discussed until later in the day, when the conclave would convene to choose a successor. Rule was clear. Two suns could not set without a master and, as seneschal, he must ensure that Rule was maintained.
He watched as the brothers completed their entrance and positioned themselves before polished oak pews. Each man was cloaked in a plain russet frock, a cowl concealing his head, only his hands visible, folded in prayer.
The church was formed as a Latin cross with a single nave and two aisles. Little decoration existed, nothing to distract the mind from considering heaven's mysteries, but it was nonetheless majestic, the capitals and columns projecting an impressive energy. The brothers had first gathered here after the Purge in 1307-those who'd managed to escape Philip IV's grasp, retreating to the countryside and stealthily migrating south. Eventually they'd convened here, safe within a mountain fortress, and dissolved into the fabric of religious society, making plans, pledging commitments, always remembering.
He closed his eyes and allowed the music to fill him. No tinkling accompaniment, no organ, nothing. Just the human voice, swelling and breaking. He sapped strength from the melody and steeled himself for the hours ahead.
The chanting stopped. He allowed a minute of silence to pass, then stepped close to the coffin.
'Our most exalted and reverent master has left this life. He hath ruled this Order with wisdom and justice, pursuant to Rule, for twenty-eight years. A place for him is now set within the Chronicles.'
One man shoved back his cowl. 'On that I challenge.'
A shudder swept over the seneschal. Rule granted any brother the right to challenge. He'd expected a battle later, in conclave, but not during the funeral. The seneschal turned to the first row of pews and faced the speaker.
Raymond de Roquefort.
A stump of a man with an expressionless face and a personality of which the seneschal had always been wary, he'd been a brother for thirty years and had risen to the rank of marshal, which placed him third in the chain of command. In the Beginning, centuries ago, the marshal was the Order's military commander, the leader of the knights in battle. Now he was the minister of security, charged with making sure the Order stayed inviolate. De Roquefort had held that post for nearly two decades. He and the brothers who worked under him were allowed the privilege to come and go from the abbey at will, reporting to no one other than the master, and the marshal had made no secret of the contempt he felt for his now dead superior.
'Speak your challenge,' the seneschal said.
'Our departed master weakened this Order. His policies lacked courage. The time has come to move in a different direction.'
De Roquefort's words carried not a hint of emotion, and the seneschal knew how the marshal could clothe wrongs in eloquent language. De Roquefort was a fanatic. Men like him had kept the Order strong for centuries, but the master had many times counseled that their usefulness was waning. Others disagreed, and two factions had emerged-de Roquefort heading one, the master the other. Most brothers had kept their choice private, as was the
