'Turn around,' came the command.
He stared at Stephanie. He'd been in tight spots before, a few just like the one they were facing. Even if he managed to subdue one or two, there was still the third man, and all were armed.
A thud was followed by a cry from Stephanie and her body collapsed to the floor. Before he could move toward her, the back of Malone's head was pounded with something hard and everything before him vanished.
DE ROQUEFORT FOLLOWED HIS QUARRY, WHO RUSHED THROUGH the Place du Palais, quickly fleeing the empty plaza and winding a path through Avignon's deserted streets. The warm rain fell in steady sheets. The heavens suddenly opened, cleft by an immense flash of lightning that momentarily lifted the vault of darkness. Thunder shook the air.
They left buildings behind and came close to the river.
He knew, just ahead, the Pont St. Benezet stretched out across the Rhone. Through the storm he saw the woman navigate a path straight for the bridge's entrance. What was she doing? Why go there? No matter, he had to follow. She possessed the rest of what he'd come to retrieve, and he did not plan to leave Avignon without the book and journal. Yet he wondered what the rain was doing to the pages. His hair was matted to his scalp, his clothes pasted to his body.
He saw a flash ten meters ahead of him as the woman fired a shot into the door that led to the bridge's entrance.
She disappeared inside the building.
He rushed to the door and carefully gazed inside. A ticket counter stood to his right. Souvenirs were displayed in more counters to the left. Three turnstiles led out onto the bridge. The incomplete span had long ago ceased being anything but a tourist attraction.
The woman was twenty meters away, running down the bridge, out onto the river.
Then she disappeared.
He rushed forward and leaped over the turnstiles, racing after her.
A Gothic chapel stood at the end of the second pylon. He knew that it was the Chapelle Saint-Nicholas. The remains of St Benezet, who was originally responsible for the bridge being built, were once preserved there. But the relics were lost during the Revolution and only the chapel remained-Gothic on top, Romanesque below. Which was where the woman had gone. Down the stone staircase.
Another greenish bolt of lightning flashed overhead.
He shook the rain from his eyes and stopped at the top riser.
Then he saw her.
Not below, but back on top, racing toward the end of the fourth span, which would take her halfway out into the Rhone with nowhere to go, since the spans to the other side of the river had washed away three hundred years ago. She'd obviously used the stairs to dip beneath the chapel as a way to block any shot he may have wanted to take.
He dashed after her, rounding the chapel.
He didn't want to shoot. He needed her alive. Even more important, he needed what she carried. So he sent a bullet to her left, at her feet.
She stopped and turned to face him.
He rushed forward, gun leveled.
She stood at the end of the fourth span, nothing but darkness and water behind her. A clap of thunder violated the air. Wind came in wild gusts. Rain poured across his face.
'Who are you?' he asked.
She wore a black bodysuit that matched her dark skin. She was lean and muscular, her head sheathed in a tight hood, only her face visible. She carried a gun in the left hand, a plastic shopping bag in the other. She extended the shopping back out over the edge.
'Let's not get hasty,' she said.
'I could simply shoot you.'
'Two reasons why you won't do that.'
'I'm listening.'
'One, the bag will drop into the river and what you really want will be lost. And two, I'm a Christian. You don't kill Christians.'
'How do you know what I do?'
'You are a knight of the Templars, as are the others. You took an oath not to harm Christians.'
'I have no idea whether you're a Christian.'
'So let's stick with reason one. Shoot me, the books swim in the Rhone. The swift current will take them away.'
'Apparently we seek the same thing.'
'You're a quick one.'
Her arm stayed extended out over the edge and he contemplated where best to shoot her, but she was right- the bag would be gone long before he could traverse the ten feet that separated them.
'Looks like we have a standoff,' he said.
'I wouldn't say that.'
She released her grip and the bag disappeared into the blackness. She then used his moment of surprise to raise her gun and fire, but de Roquefort pivoted left and dropped to the wet stones. When he shook the rain from his eyes, he saw the woman leap over the edge. He stood and rushed over, expecting to see the churning Rhone sweeping by, but instead below him was a stone platform, about eight feet down, part of a pylon that supported the outer arch. He saw the woman yank up the bag and disappear beneath the bridge.
He hesitated only an instant, then jumped, landing on his feet. His middle-aged ankles rattled from the impact.
An engine roared and he saw a motorboat shoot out from under the far side of the bridge and speed away, toward the north. He raised his gun to fire, but a muzzle flash signaled she was firing, too.
He lunged flat to more wet stone.
The boat dissolved out of range.
Who was that vixen? Clearly, she knew what he was, though not who he was since she'd not identified him. She also apparently understood the significance of the book and the journal. Most important, she knew his every move.
He came to his feet and stepped beneath the bridge, out of the rain, where the boat had been moored. She'd also planned a clever escape. He was about to climb back up, using an iron ladder affixed to the bridge's exterior, when something in the darkness caught his attention.
He bent down.
A book lay on the soaked stone beneath the overpass.
He brought it close to his eyes, straining to see what the damp pages contained, and read a few of the words.
Lars Nelle's notebook.
She'd lost it during her hasty retreat.
He smiled.
He now possessed part of the puzzle-not all, but maybe enough-and he knew precisely how to learn the rest.
THIRTY-SEVEN
MALONE OPENED HIS EYES, TESTED HIS SORE NECK, AND DETERMINED nothing seemed broken. He massaged the swollen muscles with his open palm and shook off the effects of being unconscious. He glanced at his watch. Eleven twenty PM. He'd been out about an hour.
Stephanie lay a few feet away. He crawled toward her, lifted her head, and gently shook her. She blinked her
