Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

"Why have you come such a long way for this?" Hansen was saying in his tight, wheezy voice.

"Are you familiar with the Roskilde auction?"

Typical Stephanie, answering a question she didn't want to answer with another question.

"I attend often. Lots of books for sale."

Malone, too, was familiar with the auction. Roskilde lay thirty minutes west of Copenhagen. The town's antique-book dealers convened once a quarter for a sale that brought buyers from all over Europe. Two months after opening his shop, Malone had earned nearly two hundred thousand euros there from four books he'd managed to find at an obscure estate sale in the Czech Republic. Those funds had made his transition from salaried government employee to entrepreneur a lot less stressful. But they also bred jealousy, and Peter Hansen had not hidden his envy.

"I need the one book we spoke about. Tonight. You said there would be no problem buying it," Stephanie said, in the tone of someone accustomed to giving orders.

Hansen chuckled. "Americans. All alike. The world revolves around you."

"My husband said you were a man who could find the unfindable. The book I want is already found. I just need it purchased."

"It does go to the highest bidder."

Malone winced. Stephanie did not know the perilous territory she was navigating. The first rule of the bargain was never to reveal how badly you wanted something.

"It's an obscure book that no one cares about," she said.

"But apparently you do, which means there will be others."

"Let's make sure we're the highest bidder."

"Why is this book so important? I've never heard of it. Its author is unknown."

"Did you question my husband's motives?"

"What does that mean?"

"That it's none of your business. Secure the book and I'll pay your fee, as agreed."

"Why don't you buy it yourself?"

"I don't plan to explain myself."

"Your husband was much more agreeable."

"He's dead."

Though the declaration carried no emotion, a moment of silence passed.

"Are we to travel to Roskilde together?" Hansen asked, apparently getting the message that he was going to learn nothing from her.

"I'll meet you there."

"I can hardly wait."

Stephanie bounded from the office and Malone shrank farther into his alcove, his face turned away as she passed. He heard the door to Hansen's office slam shut and took the opportunity to stride back toward the front entrance.

Stephanie exited the darkened shop and turned left. Malone waited, then crept forward and watched his former boss weave her way through afternoon shoppers back toward the Round Tower.

He dropped back and followed.

Her head never turned. She seemed oblivious that anyone might be interested in what she was doing. Yet she should be, especially after what happened with Red Jacket. He wondered why her guard was not up. Granted, she wasn't a field agent, but she wasn't a fool either.

At the Round Tower, instead of turning right and heading toward Hojbro Plads where Malone's bookshop stood, she kept straight. After another three blocks, she disappeared inside the Hotel d'Angleterre.

He watched as she entered.

He was hurt that she was intent on purchasing a book in Denmark and had not asked him to assist. Clearly, she didn't want him involved. In fact, after what happened at the Round Tower, she apparently didn't even want to speak with him.

He glanced at his watch. A little after four thirty. The auction started at six PM, and Roskilde was half an hour's drive away. He'd not planned on attending. The catalog sent out weeks ago contained nothing of interest. But that was no longer the case. Stephanie was acting strange, even for her. And a familiar voice deep inside his head, one that had kept him alive through twelve years as a government operative, said she was going to need him.

THE SENESCHAL KNELT BESIDE THE BED TO COMFORT HIS DYING master. For weeks he'd prayed that this moment would not come. But soon, after ruling the Order wisely for twenty-eight years, the old man lying on the bed would achieve a well-earned peace and join his predecessors in heaven. Unfortunately for the seneschal, the tumult of the physical world would continue, and he dreaded that prospect.

The room was spacious, the ancient stone-and-wood walls free of decay, only the pine-hammered ceiling beams blackened by age. A solitary window, like a somber eye, broke the exterior wall and framed the beauty of a waterfall matted by a stark gray mountain. A growing dusk thickened the room's corners.

The seneschal reached for the old man's hand. The grip was cold and clammy. "Can you hear me, Master?" he asked in French.

The tired eyes opened. "I am not gone as yet. But soon."

He'd heard others in their final hour make similar statements and wondered if the body simply did exhaust itself, lacking the energy to compel lungs to breath or a heart to beat, death finally conquering where life had once flourished. He gripped the hand tighter. "I'll miss you."

A smile came to the thin lips. "You have served me well, as I knew you would. That's why I chose you."

"There will be much conflict in the days ahead."

"You are ready. I have seen to it."

He was the seneschal, second only to the master. He'd risen fast through the ranks, too fast for some, and only the master's firm leadership had quelled the discontent. But death would soon claim his protector and he feared open revolt might follow.

"There is no guarantee I'll succeed you."

"You underestimate yourself."

"I respect the power of our adversaries."

A silence washed over them, allowing the larks and blackbirds beyond the window to announce their presence. He stared down at his master. The old man wore an azure smock besprinkled with golden stars. Though the facial features were sharpened by his approaching death, there remained a vigor to the old man's lean form. A gray beard hung long and unkempt, the hands and feet constricted with arthritis, but the eyes continued to glisten. He knew twenty-eight years of leadership had taught the old warrior much. Perhaps the most vital lesson was how to project, even in the face of death, a mask of civility.

The doctor had confirmed the cancer months ago. As required by Rule, the disease was allowed to run its course, the natural consequences of God's action accepted. Thousands of brothers through the centuries had endured the same end, and it was unthinkable that the master would soil their tradition.

"I wish I could smell the water's spray," the old man whispered.

The seneschal glanced toward the window. Its sixteenth-century panes were swung open, allowing the sweet aroma of wet stone and verdant greens to seep into his nostrils. The distant water roared in a bubbly tenor. "Your room offers the perfect venue."

"One of the reasons I wanted to be master."

He smiled, knowing the old man was being facetious. He'd read the Chronicles and knew that his mentor had ascended by being able to grasp each turn of fortune with the adaptiveness of a genius. His tenure had been one of peace, but all that would soon change.

"I should pray for your soul," the seneschal said.

"Time for that later. Instead, you must prepare."

"For what?"

"The conclave. Gather your votes. Be ready. Do not allow your enemies time to rally. Remember all I taught you." The hoarse voice cracked with infirmity, but there was a firmness in the tone's foundation.

"I'm not sure that I want to be master."

"You do."

His friend knew him well. Modesty required that he shun the mantle, but more than anything he wanted to be the next master.

He felt the hand within his shiver. A few shallow breaths were needed for the old man to steady himself.