'It's scary, but at least the sun's shining. Every other time I've done it has been at night.'
Mark turned right and scampered down the stone stairs to the lower part of the cemetery. Fifty or so people were scattered around, admiring the memorials. Beyond the wall the cloudless sky was a brilliant blue and the wind moaned like a stricken soul. Clear days were always breezy in Rennes, but the cemetery air was motionless, the church and presbytery blocking the strongest gusts, which came from the south and west.
He hustled straight for a monument that lay adjacent to the east wall, beneath a canopy of elms that draped the earth in long shadows. He noticed that the crowd loomed mainly on the upper level, where the grave of Sauniere's mistress sat. He hopped onto a thick tombstone and clambered up onto the wall.
'Follow me,' he said as he jumped down on the other side, rolled once, then came to his feet, brushing off grit.
He looked back as Malone leaped the eight feet down to the narrow track.
They were standing at the base of the wall, on a rocky footpath that measured about four feet wide. Anomalous beech and pines sustained the downward slope beyond, beaten back by the wind, their branches twisted and interlaced, their roots stuck between clefts in the rock.
Mark pointed left. 'This path ends just ahead, beyond the chateau, with nowhere to go.' He turned. 'So we have to go this way. It takes us around to the car park. There's an easy way up there.'
'No wind here, but when we round that corner-' Malone pointed ahead. '-I imagine it'll get breezy.'
'Like a hurricane. But we have no choice.'
FORTY-THREE
DE ROQUEFORT BROUGHT ONE BROTHER WITH HIM AS HE ENTERED the cemetery, the remaining three waited outside. Clever what Mark Nelle had done, using the secret room as a diversion. They'd most likely stayed inside only long enough for his scout to leave the church. Then they hid in the confessional until he'd ensconced himself in the sacristy.
Inside the parish close he stopped and calmly surveyed the graves, but did not see his quarry. He told the brother standing next to him to search left and he went right, where he came across Ernst Scoville's grave.
Four months ago, when he'd first learned of the former master's interest in Scoville, he'd sent a brother to monitor the Belgian's activities. Through a listening device installed on Scoville's telephone his spy had learned about Stephanie Nelle, her plans to visit Denmark then France, and her intent to obtain the book. But when it became clear that Scoville did not like Lars Nelle's widow and was merely leading her on, intent on thwarting her efforts, a speeding car on the Rennes incline solved the problem of his potential interference. Scoville was not a player in the unfolding game. Stephanie Nelle was and, at the time, nothing could be allowed to impede her movement. De Roquefort had personally handled Scoville's killing, involving no one at the abbey since he could ill afford to explain why outright murder was necessary.
The brother returned from the other side of the cemetery and reported, 'Nothing.'
Where could they have gone?
His gaze settled on the tawny gray wall that lined the outer edge. He stepped to a spot where the wall rose only breast-high. Rennes sat on the backbone of a summit with slopes as steep as pyramids on three sides. Objects in the valley below were lost in a grayish haze that blanketed the colorful earth, like some far-off Lilliputian world, the basin, highways, and towns as if seen on an atlas. The wind from beyond the wall washed over his face and dried his eyes. He planted both hands on top, leveraged himself up, and hinged his body forward. He glanced right. The rocky ledge was barren. Then he looked left and caught a glimpse of Cotton Malone turning from the wall's north side to its west.
He dropped back down.
'They're on a ledge moving toward the Tour Magdala. Stop them. I'm going to the belvedere.'
STEPHANIE LED THE WAY AS SHE AND GEOFFREY FLED THE HOUSE. A sunburned lane paralleled the west wall and led northward to the car park and beyond to Sauniere's domain. Geoffrey was clearly alight with anticipation, and for a man who appeared only in his late twenties he'd handled himself with a professional ease.
Only scattered houses stood in this corner of town. Firs and pines climbed skyward in patches.
Something whizzed by her right ear and pinged off the limestone of the building just ahead. She whirled to see the short-hair from the house taking aim fifty yards back. She dove behind a parked car that nestled close to the rear of one of the houses. Geoffrey dropped to the ground, rolled, then hinged up and fired two shots from between his outstretched legs. The pop, like a firecracker, was dulled by the howling wind. One of the bullets found its mark and the man cried out in pain, then grabbed at his thigh and fell.
'Good shot,' she said.
'I couldn't kill him. I gave my word.'
They came to their feet and rushed ahead.
MALONE FOLLOWED MARK. THE ROCKY ESCARPMENT, LINED BY spikes of brown grass, had narrowed, and the wind, which before was only a nuisance, had now become a hazard, molesting them with gale force, its monotonous murmur masking all other noise.
They were on the town's west side. The lofty stem of copses from the north slope were gone. Nothing but bare rock plunged downward, gleaming in the fiery afternoon sun, colored by tufts of moss and heather.
The belvedere Malone had crossed two nights ago, chasing after Cassiopeia Vitt, spanned twenty feet above them. The Tour Magdala stood ahead and he could see people atop the tower admiring the distant valley. He wasn't wild about the view. Heights affected his head like wine-one of those weaknesses that he'd hid from the government psychologists who were once required, from time to time, to evaluate him for duty. He risked one glance down. Scant brushwood dotted the steeply inclined plane for several hundred feet. Then a short ledge leveled, and below that an even steeper drop began.
Mark was ten feet ahead of him. He saw him glance back, stop, then turn and level his gun, pointing the barrel his way.
'Was it something I said?' he yelled.
The wind buffeted Mark's arm and shook the weapon. Another hand came up to steady the aim. Malone caught the glare in the man's eye and turned back to see one of the short-hairs coming straight for them.
'Far enough, brother,' Mark hollered over the wind.
The man held a Glock 17, similar to the one Mark gripped.
'If that weapon comes up, I'll shoot you,' Mark made clear.
The man's arm stopped its rise.
Malone did not like his predicament and pressed himself against the wall to give them room for the duel.
'This is not your battle, brother. I realize you're simply doing what the master ordered. But if I shoot you, even in the leg, you'll go over the edge. Is it worth it?'
'I'm bound to follow the master.'
'He's leading you into peril. Have you even considered what you're doing?'
'That's not my responsibility.'
'Saving your life is,' Mark said.
'Would you shoot me, Seneschal?'
'Without question.'
'Is what you seek important enough to harm another Christian?'
Malone watched as Mark pondered the question-and he wondered if the resolve he noted in the eyes was matched with the courage to follow through. He, too, had faced a similar dilemma-several times. Shooting someone never came easy. But sometimes it simply had to be done.
'No, brother, it's not worth a human life.' And Mark lowered his gun.
In the corner of his eye, Malone saw movement. He turned to see the other man take advantage of Mark's concession. The Glock started to rise as the man's other hand whipped across to meet the weapon, surely to help
