Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

"If you have Lars's notebook, you have more knowledge than I possess. He often spoke of the journal, but I was never allowed to see it."

"We also have a copy of Pierres Gravees du Languedoc," Stephanie said.

Claridon gasped. "I never believed that book existed."

She reached into her bag and showed him the volume. "It's real."

"Might I see the gravestone?"

She opened to the page and showed him the drawing. Claridon studied it with interest. The older man smiled. "Lars would have been pleased. The drawing is a good one."

"Care to explain?" Malone asked.

"The abbe Bigou learned a secret from Marie d'Hautpoul de Blanchefort, just before she died. When he fled France in 1793, Bigou realized that he would never return, so he hid what he knew in the church at Rennes-le-Chateau. That information was later found by Sauniere, in 1891, within a glass vial."

"We know all that," Malone said. "What we don't know is Bigou's secret."

"Ah, but you do," Claridon said. "Let me see Lars's notebook."

Stephanie handed him the journal. He anxiously shuffled through it and showed them a page.

"This cryptogram was supposedly inside the glass vial."

"How do you know?" Malone asked.

"To know that, you must understand Sauniere."

"We're all ears."

"When Sauniere was alive, not a word was ever written about the money he spent on the church or the other buildings. No one outside of Rennes even knew any of that existed. When he died in 1917, he was totally forgotten. His papers and belongings were either stolen or destroyed. In 1947 his mistress sold the entire estate to a man named Noel Corbu. The mistress died six years later. The so-called tale of Sauniere, about his great treasure find, first appeared in print in 1956. A local newspaper, La Depeche du Midi, published three installments that supposedly told the true story. But the source for that material was Corbu."

"I know this," Stephanie said. "He embellished everything, adding to the story, changing it all around. Afterward, more press accounts came and the story gradually became even more fantastic."

Claridon nodded. "Fiction completely took over fact."

"You talking about the parchments?" Malone asked.

"An excellent example. Sauniere never found parchments in the altar pillar. Never. Corbu, and the others, added that detail. Not one person has ever seen those parchments, yet their texts have been printed in countless books, each one supposedly hiding some sort of coded message. It's nonsense, all of it, and Lars knew that."

"But Lars published the texts of the parchments in his books," Malone said.

"He and I spoke of that. All he would say is, People love a mystery. But I know it bothered him to do it."

Malone was confused. "So is Sauniere's story a lie?"

Claridon nodded. "The modern rendition is mainly false. Most of the books written also link Sauniere to the paintings of Nicolas Poussin, particularly The Shepherds of Arcadia. Supposedly, Sauniere took the two parchments he found to Paris in 1893 for deciphering and, while there, purchased a copy of that painting, and two more, at the Louvre. They are reported to contain hidden messages. The problem with that is the Louvre did not sell copies of paintings at that time, and there is no record that The Shepherds of Arcadia was even stored at the Louvre in 1893. But the men who promulgated that fiction worried little about errors. They just assumed no one would check the facts, and for a while they were right."

Malone motioned to the cryptogram. "Where did Lars find this?"

"Corbu penned a manuscript all about Sauniere."

Some of the words from the eight pages sent to Ernst Scoville swept through his mind. What Lars had written about the mistress. At one point she did reveal to Noel Corbu one of Sauniere's hiding places. Corbu wrote of this in his manuscript I managed to find.

"While Corbu spent a great deal of time telling reporters the fiction of Rennes, in his manuscript he did a credible job of detailing the true story, as he learned it from the mistress."

More of what Lars had written ran through Malone's mind. What Corbu found, if anything, is never revealed by him. But the wealth of information contained within his manuscript makes one wonder where he could have learned all that he wrote about.

"Corbu, of course, let no one see the manuscript, since the truth was not nearly as captivating as the fiction. He died in the late sixties from a car crash and his manuscript disappeared. But Lars found it."

Malone studied the rows of letters and symbols on the cryptogram. "So what is this? Some type of code?"

"One quite common for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Random letters and symbols, arranged in a grid. Somewhere in all that chaos is a message. Basic, simple, and, for its time, quite difficult to decipher. Still so even today, without the key."

"What do you mean?"

"Some numeric sequence is needed to find the right letters to assemble the message. Sometimes, to confuse the matter further, the starting point on the grid was random, too."

"Did Lars ever decipher it?" Stephanie asked.

Claridon shook his head. "He was unable. And it frustrated him. Then, in the weeks before he died, he thought he came across a new clue."

Malone's patience was wearing thin. "I assume he didn't tell you what that was."

"No, monsieur. That was his way."

"So where do we go from here? Point the way, like you're supposed to."

"Return here at five PM, on the road just beyond the main building and wait. I'll come to you."

"How can you leave?"

"No one here will be sad to see me go."

Malone and Stephanie shared a glance. She was surely debating, as he was, if following Claridon's directions would be smart. So far this whole endeavor had been littered with either dangerous or paranoid personalities, not to mention wild speculation. But something was going on, and if he wanted to learn more he was going to have to play by the rules the odd man standing across from him was setting.

Still, he wanted to know, "Where are we going?"

Claridon turned to the window and pointed eastward. In the far distance, miles away, on a hilltop overlooking Avignon, stood a palace stronghold with an Oriental appearance, like something from Arabia. Its golden luminosity stood out against the eastern sky with a fugitive brightness and cast the appearance of several buildings piled onto one another, each rising from the bedrock, standing in clear defiance. Just as its occupants had done for nearly a hundred years, when seven French popes ruled Christendom from within the fortress walls.

"To the palais des popes," Claridon said.

The palace of the popes.

THE SENESCHAL STARED INTO GEOFFREY'S EYES AND SAW HATRED. He'd never seen that emotion there before.

"I've told our new master," Geoffrey said, nudging the gun deeper into de Roquefort's throat, "to stand still or I will shoot him."

The seneschal stepped close and poked a finger beneath the white mantle, into the protective vest. "If we'd not started the gunfire, you would have, right? The idea was for us to be killed while escaping. That way, your problem is solved. I'm eliminated and you're the Order's savior."

De Roquefort said nothing.

"That's why you came here alone. To finish the job yourself. I saw you lock the dormitory door. You wanted no witnesses."

"We must go," Geoffrey said.

He realized the danger that endeavor would entail, but doubted if any of the brothers would risk the master's life. "Where are we going?"

"I'll show you."

Keeping the gun cocked at de Roquefort's neck, Geoffrey led his hostage across the dormitory. The seneschal kept his own gun ready and, at the door, released the latch. In the hall stood five armed men. At the sight of their leader in peril, they raised their guns, ready to fire.