'Why does that matter? The Devise is not yours, regardless.'
'You're quite forward for a mere brother of the Order.'
'Much is at stake here, the least of which is your ambition to prove Christianity a lie.'
'I don't recall saying that was my ambition.'
'The master knew.'
Cassiopeia's face screwed tight-the first time Malone had seen agitation in her expression. 'Your master knew nothing of my motives.'
'And by keeping them hidden,' Geoffrey said, 'you do nothing but confirm his suspicion.'
Cassiopeia faced Henrik. 'This young man could be a problem.'
'He was sent by the master,' Thorvaldsen said. 'We shouldn't question.'
'He's trouble,' Cassiopeia declared.
'Maybe so,' Mark said. 'But he's part of this, so get used to him.'
She stayed calm and unruffled. 'Do you trust him?'
'Doesn't matter,' Mark said. 'Henrik's right. The master trusted him and that's what matters. Even if the good brother can be irritating.'
Cassiopeia did not push the point, but on her brow was written the shadow of mutiny. And Malone did not necessarily disagree with her impulse.
He turned his attention back to the table and stared at the color images taken at the Church of Mary Magdalene. He noticed the garden with the statue of the Virgin and the words MISSION 1891 and PENITENCE, PENITENCE carved into the face of the upside-down Visigoth pillar. He shuffled through close-up shots of the stations of the cross, pausing for a moment on station 10, where a Roman soldier was gambling for Christ's cloak, the numbers three, four, and five visible on the dice faces. Then he paused on station 14, which showed Christ's body being carried under cover of darkness by two men.
He remembered what Mark had said in the church, and he couldn't help wondering. Was their route into the tomb or out?
He shook his head.
What in the world was happening?
FORTY-NINE
5:30 PM
DE ROQUEFORT FOUND THE GIVORS ARCHAEOLOGICAL SITE, WHICH was clearly denoted on the Michelin map, and approached with a measure of caution. He did not want to announce his presence. Even if Malone and company were not there, Cassiopeia Vitt knew him. So on arriving, he ordered the driver to slowly cruise through a grassy meadow that served as a car park until he found the Peugeot matching the make and color he remembered, with a rental sticker on the windshield.
'They're here,' he said. 'Park.'
The driver did as instructed.
'I'll explore,' he told the other two brothers and Claridon. 'Wait here, and remain out of sight.'
He climbed out into the late afternoon, a blood ball of summer sun already fading over the surrounding walls of limestone. He sucked in a deep breath and savored cool, thin air that reminded him of the abbey. They'd clearly risen in altitude.
A quick visual survey and he spotted a tree-shaded lane cast in long shadows and decided that direction seemed best, but he stayed off the defined path, making his way through the tall trees, a tapestry of flowers and heather carpeting the violet ground. The surrounding land had all once been a Templar domain. One of the largest commanderies in the Pyrenees had crowned a nearby promontory. It had been a factory, one of several locations where brothers labored night and day crafting the Order's weapons. He knew that great skill had gone into compacting wood, leather, and metal into shields that could not be easily split. But the sword had been the brother knight's true friend. Barons often loved their swords more than their wives, and tried to retain the same one all of their lives. Brothers cradled a similar passion, which Rule encouraged. If a man was expected to lay down his life, the least that could be done was allow him the weapon of his choice. Templar swords, however, were not like those of barons. No hilts adorned with gilt or set with pearls. No end knobs capped in crystal containing relics. Brother knights required no such talismans, as their strength came from a devotion to God and obedience to Rule. Their companion had been their horse, always one with quickness and intelligence. Each knight was allocated three animals, which were fed, combed, and tricked out each day. Horses were one of the means whereby the Order flourished, and the coursers, the palfreys, and especially the destriers responded to the brother knights' affection with an unmatched loyalty. He'd read of one brother who returned home from the Crusades and was not embraced by his father, but was instantly recognized by his faithful stallion.
And they were always stallions.
To ride a mare was unthinkable. What had one knight said? The woman to the woman.
He kept walking. The musty scent of twigs and boughs stirred his imagination, and he could almost hear the heavy hooves that had once crushed the tender mosses and flowers. He tried to listen for some sound, but the clicking of grasshoppers interfered. He was mindful of electronic surveillance but had, so far, sensed none. He continued to thread a path through the tall pines, moving farther away from the lane, deeper into the woods. His skin heated, and sweat beaded on his brow. High above him, rock crannies groaned from a wind.
Warrior monks, that's what the brothers became.
He liked that term.
St. Bernard of Clairvaux himself justified the Templars' entire existence by glorifying the killing of non- Christians. Neither dealing out death nor dying, when for Christ's sake, contains anything criminal but rather merits glorious reward. The soldier of Christ kills safely and dies the more safely. Not without cause does he bear the sword. He is the instrument of God for the punishment of evildoers and for the defense of the just. When he kills evildoers it is not homicide, but malicide, and he is considered Christ's legal executioner.
He knew those words well. They were taught to every inductee. He'd repeated them in his mind as he'd watched Lars Nelle, Ernst Scoville, and Peter Hansen die. All were heretics. Men who'd stood in the Order's way. Malice doers. Now there were a few more names to be added to that list. Those of the men and women who occupied the chateau that was coming into view, beyond the trees, in a sheltered hollow among a succession of rock ridges.
He'd learned something of the chateau from the background information he'd ordered earlier, before leaving the abbey. Once a sixteenth-century royal residence, one of Catherine de Medicis' many homes, it had been spared destruction in the Revolution due to its isolation. So it remained a monument to the Renaissance-a picturesque mass of turrets, spires, and perpendicular roofs. Cassiopeia Vitt was clearly a woman of means. Houses such as this required great sums of money to buy and maintain, and he doubted she conducted tours as a way to supplement the income. No, this was the private residence of an aloof soul, one that had three times interfered in his business. One that must be tended to.
But he also needed the two books Mark Nelle possessed.
So rash acts were out of the question.
The day was fast falling, deep shadows already starting to engulf the chateau. His mind whirled with possibilities.
He had to be sure they were all inside. His current vantage point was too close. But he spied a thick stand of beech trees two hundred meters away that would provide an unobstructed view of the front entrance.
He had to assume that they expected him to come. After what happened in Lars Nelle's house, they surely realized Claridon was working for him. But they might not expect him here this soon. Which was fine. He needed to return to the abbey. His officers were awaiting him. A council had been called that demanded his presence.
He decided to leave the two brothers in the car here to watch. That would be enough for now.
But he'd be back.
