'More than I ever realized.'
She pointed ahead and directed him to turn left. They eased past kiosks peddling rosaries, medals, pictures, and souvenirs to more camera-toting visitors.
'They come by the busload,' she said. 'Wanting to believe in the impossible.'
Up another incline and he parked the Peugeot in a sandy lot. Two buses were already there, their drivers milling about smoking. A water tower rose to one side, its tattered stone adorned with a zodiac sign.
'The crowds come early,' Stephanie said as they climbed out. 'Here to see the domaine d'Abbe Sauniere. The priest's domain-what he built with all that mysterious treasure he supposedly found.'
Malone stepped close to a waist-high rock wall. The panorama below, a patchwork of field, forest, valley, and rock, stretched for miles. The silver-green hills were dotted with chestnut and oak. He checked his bearings. The great bulk of the snowcapped Pyrenees blocked the southern horizon. A stiff wind howled from the west, thankfully warmed by the summer sun.
He glanced to the right. A hundred feet away the neo-Gothic tower, with its crenellated roof and single round turret, had graced the cover of many a book and tourist brochure. It stood on the edge of a cliff, grim and defiant, seemingly clinging to rock. A long belvedere stretched from its far side and rounded back toward an iron glasshouse, then to another cluster of olden stone buildings, each topped with orange-tiled roofs. People milled back and forth on the ramparts, cameras in hand, admiring the valleys below.
'The tower is the Tour Magdala. Quite a sight, isn't it?' Stephanie asked.
'Seems out of place.'
'That's what I always thought, too.'
To the right of the Magdala rose an ornamental garden that led to a compact Renaissance-style building that also seemed from another locale.
'The Villa Bethanie,' she said. 'Sauniere built it, too.'
He noted the name. Bethany. 'That's biblical. In the Holy Land. It meant 'house with an answer.' '
She nodded. 'Sauniere was clever with names.' She pointed to more buildings behind them. 'Lars's house is down that alley. Before we head there, I have to do something. As we walk, let me tell you about what happened here in 1891. What I read about last week. What brought this place back from obscurity.'
The abbe Berenger Sauniere pondered the daunting task before him. The Church of Mary Magdalene had been built upon Visigoth ruins and consecrated in 1059. Now, eight centuries later, the inside was in ruin, thanks to a roof that leaked as if it weren't there. The walls themselves were crumbling, the foundations slipping away. It would take both patience and stamina to repair the damage, but he thought himself up to the task.
He was a husky man, muscular, broad-shouldered, with a head of close-cropped black hair. His one endearing feature, which he used to his advantage, was the cleft in his chin. It added a whimsical air to the stiff countenance of his black eyes and thick eyebrows. Born and raised a few miles away, in the village of Montazels, he knew the geography of the Corbieres well. From childhood he'd been familiar with Rennes-le-Chateau. Its church, dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene, had been in limited use for decades, and he'd never imagined that one day its many problems would be his.
'A mess,' the man known as Rousset said to him.
He glanced at the mason. 'I agree.'
Another mason, Babou, was busy shoring up one of the walls. The region's state architect had recently recommended that the building be razed, but Sauniere would never allow that to happen. Something about the old church demanded that it be saved.
'It will take much money to complete the repairs,' Rousset said.
'Enormous amounts of money.' He added a smile to let the older man know that he understood the challenge. 'But we shall make this house worthy of the Lord.'
What he did not say was that he'd already secured a fair amount of funds. A bequest from one of his predecessors had left six hundred francs especially for repairs. He'd also managed to convince the town council to loan him another fourteen hundred francs. But the bulk of his money had come in secret five years ago. Three thousand francs had been donated by the countess of Chambord, the widow of Henri, the last Bourbon claimant to the defunct French throne. At the time Sauniere had managed to bring a great deal of attention to himself with anti-republican sermons, ones that stirred monarchist feelings in his parishioners. The government reeled from the comments, withdrawing his yearly stipend and demanding that he be fired. Instead the bishop suspended him for nine months, but his actions caught the attention of the countess, who'd made contact through an intermediary.
'Where do we start?' Rousset asked.
He'd given that matter a great deal of thought. The stained-glass windows had already been replaced and a new porch, outside the main entrance, would be completed shortly. Certainly the north wall, where Babou was working, must be mended, a new pulpit installed, and the roof replaced. But he knew where they must start.
'We will begin with the altar.'
A curious look came to Rousset's face.
'The people's focus is there,' Sauniere said.
'As you say, Abbe.'
He liked the respect his older parishioners showed him, though he was only thirty-eight. Over the past five years he'd come to like Rennes. He was near home, with plenty of opportunities to study Scriptures and perfect his Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He also enjoyed trekking in the mountains, fishing, and hunting. But the time had come to do something constructive.
He approached the altar.
The top was white marble pitted by water that had rained down for centuries from the porous ceiling. The slab was supported by two ornate columns, their exteriors adorned with Visigoth crosses and Greek letters.
'We shall replace the top and the pillars,' he declared.
'How, Abbe?' Rousset asked. 'There is no way we can lift that.'
He pointed to where Babou stood. 'Use the sledgehammer. There is no need for delicacy.'
Babou brought the heavy tool over and surveyed his task. Then, with a great heave, Babou hoisted the hammer and crashed it down onto the center of the altar. The thick top cracked, but the stone did not give way.
'It's solid,' Babou said.
'Again,' Sauniere said with a flourish.
Another blow and the limestone shattered, the two halves collapsing into each other between the still standing pillars.
'Finish,' he said.
The two pieces were quickly busted into many.
He bent down. 'Let's haul all this away.'
'We'll get it, Abbe,' Babou said, setting the sledgehammer aside. 'You pile it for us.'
The two men lifted large chunks and headed for the door.
'Take it around to the cemetery and stack it. We should have use for it there,' he called out to them.
As they left, he noticed that both pillars had survived the demolition. With a swipe he cleared dust and debris away from the crown of one. On the other a piece of limestone still lay, and, when he tossed the chunk into the pile, he noticed beneath, in the crown of the pillar, a shallow mortise hole. The space was no bigger than the palm of his hand, surely designed to hold the top's locking pin, but inside the cavity he caught sight of a glimmer.
He bent close and carefully blew away the dust.
Yes, something was there.
A glass vial.
Not much longer than his index finger and only slightly wider, the top sealed with crimson wax. He looked close and saw that the vessel contained a rolled piece of paper. He wondered how long it had been there. He was not aware of any recent work done to the altar, so it must have been secreted there a long time ago.
He freed the object from its hiding place.
'That vial started everything,' Stephanie said.
Malone nodded. 'I read Lars's books, too. But I thought Sauniere was supposed to have found three parchments in that pillar with some sort of coded messages.'
She shook her head. 'That's all part of the myth others added to the story. This, Lars and I did talk about. Most
