Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

Those words had been used since the Beginning, and de Roquefort recalled when they'd been uttered to him, thirty years ago. He still felt the flame that had been ignited within him-a fire that now burned with a raging intensity. To be a Templar was important. It meant something. And he was determined to ensure every candidate who donned the robe during his tenure understood that devotion.

He faced the kneeling man.

"What do you say, brother?"

"De par dieu." For God's sake, I will do it.

"Do you understand that your life may be required?" And after what had happened the past few days, this inquiry seemed even more important.

"Without question."

"And why would you offer your life for us?"

"Because my master ordered it."

The correct answer. "And you would do so without challenge?"

"To challenge would be to violate Rule. My task is to obey."

He motioned to the draper, who produced from a wooden chest a long twill cloth.

"Stand," he said to the candidate.

The young man came to his feet, dressed in a black wool robe that covered his thin frame from shoulder to bare feet.

"Remove your garment," he said, and the robe was lifted over his head. Beneath, the candidate was dressed in a white shirt and black trousers.

The draper approached with the cloth and stood off to one side.

"You have removed the shroud of the material world," de Roquefort made clear. "Now we embrace you with the cloth of our membership and we celebrate your rebirth as a brother in our Order."

He motioned and the draper came forward and wrapped the cloth around the candidate. De Roquefort had seen many a grown man cry at this moment. He himself had fought to suppress his own emotions when the same cloth had been wrapped around him. No one knew how old this particular shroud was, but one had reverently remained in the initiation chest since the Beginning. He well knew the tale of one of the early cloths. Used to wrap Jacques de Molay after the master had been nailed to a door in the Paris Temple. De Molay had lain within the linen for two days, unable to move from his wounds, too weak to even rise. While he had, bacteria and chemicals from his body had stained the fibers and generated an image that fifty years later began to be venerated by gullible Christians as the body of Christ.

He'd always thought that fitting.

The master of the Knights Templar-the head of a supposed heretical order-became the mold from which all subsequent artists fashioned Christ's face.

He stared out at the assembly. "You see before you our newest brother. He wears the shroud that symbolizes rebirth. It's a moment we've all experienced, one that joins us to each other. When chosen as your master I promised a new day, a new Order, a new direction. I told you that no longer would the few know more than the many. I told you that I would find our Great Devise."

He stepped forward.

"In our archives, at this moment, is a man who possesses knowledge we need. Unfortunately, while our former master did nothing, others, not of this Order, have been searching. I have personally followed their efforts, watched and studied their movements, waiting for a time when we would join that search." He paused. "That time has come. I have brothers beyond the walls searching at this moment, and more of you will follow."

As he spoke, he allowed his gaze to drift across the church to the chaplain. He was an Italian with a solemn countenance, the chief prelate, the Order's highest-ranking ordained cleric. The chaplain headed the priests, about a third of the brothers, men who chose a life devoted solely to Christ. The chaplain's words carried much weight, particularly given that the man spoke sparingly. Earlier, when the council had convened, the chaplain had voiced his concern about the recent deaths.

"You're moving too fast," the chaplain declared.

"I'm doing what the Order desires."

"You're doing what you desire."

"Is there a difference?"

"You sound like the previous master."

"On that point he was correct. And though I disagreed with him on a great many things, I obeyed him."

He'd resented the younger man's directness, especially in front of the council, but he knew that many respected the chaplain.

"What would you have me do?"

"Preserve the brothers' lives."

"The brothers know that they may be called upon to lay down their lives."

"This is not the Middle Ages. We're not waging a crusade. These men are devoted to God and pledged their obedience to you, as proof of their devotion. You have no right to take their lives."

"I intend to find our Great Devise."

"To what end? We've endured without it for seven hundred years. It's unimportant."

He'd been shocked.

"How can you say such a thing? It's our heritage."

"What could it possibly mean today?"

"Our salvation."

"We're already saved. The men here all possess good souls."

"This Order does not deserve banishment."

"Our banishment is self-imposed. We're content within it."

"I'm not."

"Then this is your fight, not ours."

His anger had risen.

"I don't intend to be challenged."

"Master, less than a week and you've already forgotten from whence you came."

Staring at the chaplain, he tried to read the features on the stiff face. He'd meant what he said earlier. He was not going to be challenged. The Great Devise must be found. And the answers lay with Royce Claridon and the people inside Cassiopoia Vitt's chateau.

So he ignored the indifferent look from the chaplain and concentrated on the crowd seated before him.

"My brothers. Let us pray for success."

MALONE WAS IN RENNES, STROLLING INTO THE CHURCH OF MARY Magdalene, and the same garish detail gave him the same uncomfortable feeling. The nave was empty, save for a solitary man standing before the altar, dressed in a priestly black robe. When the man turned, the face was familiar.

Berenger Sauniere.

"Why are you here?" Sauniere asked in a shrill voice. "This is my church. My creation. No one's but mine."

"How is it yours?"

"I took the chance. No one but me."

"Chance of what?"

"Those who challenge the world always face risk."

Then he noticed a gaping hole in the floor, just before the altar, and steps leading into blackness.

"What's down there?" he asked.

"The first step along the way to truth. God bless all those who guarded that truth. God bless their generosity."

The church encasing him suddenly dissolved and he was surrounded by a treed plaza that spread out before the American embassy in Mexico City. People rushed by in all directions, and the sounds of horns blaring, tires squealing, and diesel engines grew loud.

Then gunshots.

Coming from a car that had ground to a stop. Men emerged. Firing at a middle-aged woman and a young Danish diplomat who were enjoying their lunch in the shade. Marines guarding the embassy reacted, but they were too far away.

He reached for his gun and fired.

Bodies dropped to the pavement. Cai Thorvaldsen's head exploded as bullets meant for the woman found him. He shot two of the men who'd started the melange, then felt his shoulder tear as a bullet pierced through him.

The pain jarred his senses.

Blood poured from the wound.

He stammered back, but shot his assailant. The bullet penetrated the dark face, which once again became that of Berenger Sauniere.

"Why did you shoot me?" Sauniere calmly asked.

The walls of the church re-formed and the stations of the cross appeared. Malone spotted a violin lying on one of the pews. A metal plate rested on the strings. Sauniere floated over and scattered sand on the plate. Then he drew a bow across the strings and, as sharp notes rang out, the sand arranged itself into a distinct pattern.