'Mark,' Stephanie said, 'you can't really believe that there exists any definitive proof relating to Christ on the cross? Your father never even went that far.'
'How would you know?' The question carried bitterness.
'I know how he-'
'You don't know anything, Mother. That's your problem. You never knew anything about what Dad thought. You believed everything he sought was a fantasy, that he was wasting his talents. You never loved him enough to let him be himself. You thought he sought fame and treasure. No. He sought the truth. Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again. That's what interested him.'
Stephanie collected her scattered senses and told herself not to react to the rebuke.
'Dad was a serious academician. His work had merit, he just never talked openly about what he really sought. When he discovered Rennes-le-Chateau in the seventies and told the world about Sauniere's story, that was simply a way to raise money. What may or may not have happened there is a good tale. Millions of people enjoyed reading about it regardless of the embellishments. You were one of the few who didn't.'
'Your father and I tried to work through our differences.'
'How? By you telling him he was wasting his life, hurting his family? By telling him he was a failure?'
'All right, dammit, I was wrong.' Her voice was a shout. 'You want me to say it again? I was wrong.' She sat up from the chair, a desperate resolution vesting her with power. 'I screwed up. That what you want to hear? In my mind, you've been dead five years. Now here you are, and all you want is for me to admit I was wrong. Fine. If I could tell your father that, I would. If I could beg his forgiveness, I would. But I can't.' The words were coming fast, emotion charging her, and she intended to say it all while she possessed the courage. 'I came here to see what I could do. To try to follow through on whatever it was Lars and you thought important. That's the only reason I came. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. But don't shoot that sanctimonious crap at me anymore. You screwed up, too. The difference between us is that I learned something over the past five years.'
She slumped back in the chair, feeling better, if even in a small way. But she realized the gulf between them had just widened and a shudder passed through her.
'It's the middle of the night,' Malone finally said. 'Why don't we sleep a little and deal with all this in a few hours.'
THIRTY-EIGHT
5:25 AM
DE ROQUEFORT SLAMMED THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND HIM. THE iron clanged against the metal frame with the retort of a rifle, and the lock engaged.
'Is all ready?' he asked one of the assistants.
'As specified.'
Good. Time to make his point. He strolled ahead through the subterranean corridor. He was three floors below ground level, in a part of the abbey first occupied a thousand years ago. Endless construction had transformed the rooms surrounding him into a labyrinth of forgotten chambers, now used mainly for cool storage.
He'd returned to the abbey three hours ago with Lars Nelle's notebook and Royce Claridon. The loss of Pierres Gravees du Languedoc, the book from the auction, weighed heavy on his mind. He could only hope the notebook and Claridon would supply him with enough of the missing pieces.
And the dark woman-she was a problem.
His world was distinctly male. His experience with women minimal. They were a different breed, of that he was sure, but the female he'd confronted on the Pont St.-Benezet seemed almost alien. She'd never shown even a hint of fear, and handled herself with the cunning of a lioness. She'd lured him straight to the bridge, knowing precisely how she planned to make her escape. Her only mistake was in losing the journal. He had to know her identity.
But first things first.
He entered a chamber topped by pine rafters that had remained unaltered since the time of Napoleon. A long table spanned the room's center, upon which lay Royce Claridon, prone on his back, his arms and legs strapped to steel spikes.
'Monsieur Claridon, I have little time and I need much from you. Your cooperation will make everything so much simpler.'
'What do you expect me to say?' Desperation laced the words.
'Only the truth.'
'I know little.'
'Come now, let us not start with a lie.'
'I know nothing.'
He shrugged. 'I heard you in the archives. You are a reservoir of information.'
'All that I said in Avignon came to me then.'
De Roquefort motioned to a brother who stood across the room. The man stepped forward and laid an open tin container on the table. With three extended fingers, the brother scooped out a sticky white glob.
De Roquefort pulled off Claridon's shoes and socks.
Claridon raised his head to see. 'What are you doing? What is that?'
'Cooking grease.'
The brother rubbed the grease onto Claridon's bare feet.
'What are you doing?'
'Surely you know your history. When the Templars were arrested in 1307, many means were used to extract confessions. Teeth were pulled out, the empty sockets probed with metal. Wedges were driven under nails. Heat was used in a variety of imaginative ways. One technique involved greasing the feet, then exposing the oiled skin to flame. Slowly the feet would cook, the skin falling away like meat from a tenderloin. Many brothers succumbed to that agony. Those who managed to survive all confessed. Even Jacques de Molay fell victim.'
The brother finished with the grease and withdrew from the room.
'In our Chronicles, there's a report of one Templar who, after being subjected to foot burning and confessing, was carried before his inquisitors clutching a bag with his blackened foot bones. He was allowed to keep them as a remembrance of his ordeal. Wasn't that kind of his inquisitors?'
He stepped over to a charcoal brazier that burned in one corner. He'd ordered it prepared an hour ago and its coals were now white hot.
'I would assume you thought this fire was to warm the chamber. Below ground is chilly here in the mountains. But I had this flame forged just for you.'
He rolled the cart with the brazier within three feet of Claridon's bare feet.
'The idea, I'm told, is for the heat to be low and steady. Not intense-that tends to vaporize the grease too quickly. Just as with a steak, a slow flame works best.'
Claridon's eyes went wide.
'When my brethren were tortured in the fourteenth century, it was thought God would fortify the innocent to handle the pain, so only the guilty would actually confess. Also-and quite convenient, I might add-any confession extracted from torture was nonretractable. So once a person confessed, that was the end of the matter.'
He pushed the brazier to within twelve inches of the bare skin.
Claridon screamed.
'So soon, monsieur? Nothing has even happened yet. Have you no endurance?'
'What do you want?'
'A great many things. But we can start with the significance of Don Miguel de Manara Reading the Rules of the Caridad. '
