the shroud.'
He winced. Other radical thinkers had proposed that show of defiance before, but every master had quelled the act. 'We must stop him in conclave. Luckily, he cannot control the selection process.'
'He frightens me,' a brother said, and the quiet that followed signaled that the others agreed.
After an hour of prayer the seneschal gave the signal. Four bearers, each dressed in a crimson robe, hoisted the master's coffin.
He turned and approached two columns of red porphyry between which stood the Door of Gold. The name came not from its composition, but from what was once stored behind it.
Forty-three masters lay in their own locoli, beneath a rock ceiling, polished smooth and painted a deep blue, upon which gold stars spangled in the light. The bodies had long ago turned to dust. Only bones remained, encased within ossuaries each bearing a master's name and dates of service. To his right were empty niches, one of which would cradle his master's body for the next year. Only then would a brother return and transfer the bones to an ossuary. The burial practice, which the Order had long employed, belonged to the Jews in the Holy Land at the time of Christ.
The bearers deposited the coffin into the assigned cavity. A deep tranquility filled the semi-darkness.
Thoughts of his friend flashed through the seneschal's mind. The master was the youngest son of a wealthy Belgian merchant. He'd gravitated to the Church for no clear reason-simply something he felt compelled to do. He'd been recruited by one of the Order's many journeymen, brothers stationed around the globe, blessed with an eye for recruits. Monastic life had agreed with the master. And though not of high office, in the conclave after his predecessor died the brothers had all cried, 'Let him be master.' And so he took the oath. I offer myself to the omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul and so shall I remain in this holy life all my days until my final breath. The seneschal had made the same pledge.
He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the Order's beginning-the battle cries of war, groans of brothers wounded and dying, the anguished moans born of burying those who'd not survived the conflict. That had been the way of the Templars. First in, last to leave. Raymond de Roquefort longed for that time. But why? That futility had been proven when Church and State turned on the Templars at the time of the Purge, showing no regard for two hundred years of loyal service. Brothers were burned at the stake, others tortured and maimed for life, and all for simple greed. To the modern world, the Knights Templar were legends. A long-ago memory. No one cared if they existed, so righting any injustice seemed hopeless.
The dead must stay dead.
He again glanced around at the stone chests, then dismissed the brothers-save one. His assistant. He needed to speak with him alone. The younger man approached.
'Tell me, Geoffrey,' the seneschal said. 'Were you and the master plotting?'
The man's dark eyes flashed surprise. 'What do you mean?'
'Did the master ask you to do something for him recently? Come now, don't lie to me. He's gone, and I'm here.' He thought pulling rank would make it easier for him to learn the truth.
'Yes, Seneschal. I mailed two parcels for the master.'
'Tell me of the first.'
'Thick and heavy, like a book. I posted it while I was in Avignon, more than a month ago.'
'The second?'
'Sent Monday, from Perpignan. A letter.'
'Who was the letter sent to?'
'Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Chateau.'
The younger man quickly crossed himself, and the seneschal spied puzzlement and suspicion. 'What's wrong?'
'The master said you would ask those questions.'
The information grabbed his attention.
'He said that when you did, I should tell you the truth. But he also said for you to be warned. Those who have gone down the path you are about to take have been many, but never has anyone succeeded. He said to wish you well and Godspeed.'
His mentor was a brilliant man who clearly knew far more than he'd ever said.
'He also said that you must finish the quest. It's your destiny. Whether you realize that or not.'
He'd heard enough. The empty wooden box from the armoire in the master's chamber was now explained. The book he'd sought inside was gone. The master had sent it away. With a gentle wave of his hand he dismissed the aide. Geoffrey bowed, then hustled toward the Door of Gold.
Something occurred to him. 'Wait. You never said where the first package, the book, was sent.'
Geoffrey stopped and turned but said nothing.
'Why don't you answer?'
'It is not right that we speak of this. Not here. With him so near.' The young man's gaze darted to the coffin.
'You said he wanted me to know.'
Anxiety swirled in the eyes staring back at him.
'Tell me where the book was sent.' Though he already knew, he needed to hear the words.
'To America. A woman named Stephanie Nelle.'
TWENTY
2:30 PM
MALONE SURVEYED THE INSIDE OF ERNST SCOVILLE'S MODEST house. The decor was an eclectic collection of British antiques, twelfth-century Spanish art, and unremarkable French paintings. He estimated that a thousand books surrounded him, most yellowed paperbacks and aged hardcovers, each shelf fronting an exterior wall and meticulously arranged by subject and size. Old newspapers were stacked by year, in chronological order. The same was true for periodicals. Everything dealt with Rennes, Sauniere, French history, the Church, Templars, and Jesus Christ.
'Seems Scoville was a Bible connoisseur,' he said, pointing to rows of analysis.
'He spent his life studying the New Testament. He was Lars's biblical source.'
'Doesn't seem anyone has searched this house.'
'It could have been done carefully.'
'True. But what were they looking for? What are we looking for?'
'I don't know. All I know is I talked to Scoville, then two weeks later he's dead.'
'What would he have known that was worth killing for?'
She shrugged. 'Our conversation was pleasant. I honestly thought he was the one who'd sent the journal. He and Lars worked closely. But he knew nothing of the journal being sent to me, though he wanted to read it.' She stopped her perusal. 'Look at all this stuff. He was obsessed.' She shook her head. 'Lars and I argued about this very thing for years. I always thought he was wasting his academic abilities. He was a good historian. He should have been making a decent salary at a university, publishing credible research. Instead, he traipsed around the world, chasing shadows.'
'He was a bestselling author.'
'Only his first book. Money was another of our constant debates.'
'You sound like a woman with a lot of regrets.'
'Don't you have some? I recall you taking the divorce from Pam hard.'
