DE ROQUEFORT POINTED THE SHORT-BARRELED AUTOMATIC toward the stalls. The seneschal was here. He knew it. But where? Did he dare take a moment to bend down and examine the gap at the bottom? Three doors were closed, three cocked open.
No.
He decided to fire.
THE SENESCHAL REASONED IT WOULD TAKE ONLY A MOMENT BEFORE de Roquefort started shooting, so he flipped the toilet paper holder beneath the partition, into the first stall.
Metal found tile with a clank.
DE ROQUEFORT FIRED A BURST INTO THE FIRST STALL AND KICKED the door inward with his sandal. Marble dust clouded the air. He unleashed another round that obliterated the toilet and the plaster on the wall.
Water flooded out.
But the cubicle was empty.
IN THE INSTANT BEFORE DE ROQUEFORT REALIZED HIS MISTAKE, the seneschal fired over the stalls, sending two slugs into his enemy's chest. The gunshots reverberated off the walls, the sound waves racking his brain.
He watched as de Roquefort fell back across the marble counter and bucked as though punched in the chest. But he noticed no blood flowed from the wounds. The man seemed more dazed than anything. Then he spotted a blue-gray surface beneath tears in the white cassock.
A bulletproof vest.
He readjusted his aim and fired for the head.
DE ROQUEFORT SAW A SHOT COMING AND MUSTERED THE strength to roll off the counter just as the bullet left the barrel. His body skidded across the wet floor, through the puddled water, toward the outer door.
Bits of porcelain and stone crunched beneath him. The mirror exploded, shattering in a clangor then pulverizing onto the counter. The confines of the washroom were tight and his opponent was unexpectedly brave. So he retreated toward the door and slipped out just as a second shot careened off the wall behind him.
THE SENESCHAL JUMPED FROM THE TOILET AND BURST FROM THE stall. He crept toward the door and prepared himself for an exit. De Roquefort would surely be waiting. But he wasn't going to shy away. Not now. He owed this fight to his master. The Gospels were clear. Jesus came not to bring peace, but a sword. And so did he.
He steeled himself, readied the gun, and yanked open the door.
The first thing he saw was Raymond de Roquefort. The next was Geoffrey, his gun firmly nestled to the master's neck, de Roquefort's weapon lying on the floor.
TWENTY-NINE
'I've had lots of practice.' Claridon looked at Stephanie. 'You are Lars's wife?'
She nodded.
'He was a friend and a great man. So smart. Yet also naive. He underestimated those who opposed him.'
They were still alone in the solarium and Claridon seemed to notice Malone's interest in the door leading out.
'No one will disturb us. Not a soul wants to listen to my ramblings. I made a point to become quite a nuisance. They all look forward to my retreat here each day.'
'How long have you been here?'
'Five years.'
Malone was astonished. 'Why?'
Claridon paced slowly among the bushy potted plants. Beyond the outer glass, black clouds girted the western horizon, the sun blazing through crevices like fire from the mouth of a furnace. 'There are those who seek what Lars sought. Not openly, or with attention drawn to their quest, but they deal severely with those who stand in their way. So I came here and feigned illness. They feed you well, care for your needs, and, most important, ask no questions. I've not spoken rationally, other than to myself, in five years. And I can assure you, talking to yourself is not satisfying.'
'Why are you talking to us?' Stephanie asked.
'You're Lars's widow. For him, I would do anything.' Claridon pointed. 'And that note. Sent by someone with knowledge. Perhaps even by those people I mentioned who don't allow anyone to stand in their way.'
'Did Lars stand in their way?' Stephanie asked.
Claridon nodded. 'Many wanted to know what he learned.'
'What was your connection to him?' Stephanie asked.
'I had access to the book trade. He required many obscure materials.'
Malone knew that secondhand-book stores were the haunts of both collectors and researchers.
'We eventually became friends and I started to share his passion. This region is my home. My family has been here since medieval times. Some of my ancestors were Cathars, burned to death by the Catholics. But then, Lars died. So sad. Others after him also perished. So I came here.'
'What others?'
'A book dealer in Seville. A librarian in Marseille. A student in Rome. Not to mention Mark.'
'Ernst Scoville is also dead,' Stephanie said. 'Run down by a car last week, just after I spoke to him.'
Claridon quickly crossed himself. 'Those who seek are indeed made to pay. Tell me, dear lady, do you know anything?'
'I have Lars's journal.'
A look of concern swept across the man's face. 'Then you are in mortal danger.'
'How so?' Malone asked.
'This is terrible,' Claridon said, the words coming fast. 'So terrible. It's not right that you be involved. You lost your husband and your son-'
'What do you know of Mark?'
'It was just after his death that I came here.'
'My son died in an avalanche.'
'Not true. He was killed. Just like the others I mentioned.'
Malone and Stephanie stood in silence, waiting for the odd little man to explain.
'Mark was following leads his father had discovered years before. He was not as passionate as Lars, and it took him years to decipher Lars's notes, but he finally made some sense of them. He traveled south into the mountains to look but never returned. Just like his father.'
'My husband hung himself from a bridge.'
'I know, dear woman. But I always wondered what truly happened.'
Stephanie said nothing, but her silence signaled that at least part of her wondered, too.
'You said you came here to escape them. Who's them?' Malone asked. 'The Knights Templar?'
Claridon nodded. 'I came face-to-face with them on two occasions. Not pleasant.'
Malone decided to let that notion simmer a moment. He was still holding the note that had been sent to Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Chateau. He motioned with the paper. 'How can you lead the way? Where are we to go? And who is this engineer we're supposed to be watching out for?'
