Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

That much he'd already surmised. What else?

The man handed him a cellular phone. "That same employee said a note was left that indicated you'd be coming. When you did, he was to give you this phone, along with this."

He unfolded and read from a scrap of paper.

The answer has been found. I will call before the sun sets with information.

He needed to know, "Who wrote this?"

"The employee said it was left with his change of clothes along with an instruction that it be given directly to you."

"How did you get it?"

"When he mentioned your name, I simply told him I was you and he handed it to me."

What was happening here? Was there a traitor among his enemy? Apparently so. Since he possessed no idea where they'd gone, little choice remained.

"Withdraw the brothers and return to the abbey."

MALONE MARVELED AT THE PYRENEES, WHICH WERE SO MUCH like the Alps in appearance and majesty. Separating France from Spain, the crests seemed to roll to infinity, each jagged peak crowned with bright snow, the lower elevations a mixture of green slopes and purple crags. Between the summits lay sun-scorched valleys, deep and foreboding, the haunts of Charlemagne, the Franks, Visigoths, and Moors.

They'd taken two cars-his rental and Cassiopeia's Land Rover, which she kept parked at the construction site. Their exit from the chateau had been clever-the ruse apparently working, since there'd been no tails-and, once away, he'd given both cars a thorough searching for any electronic trackers. He had to give Cassiopeia credit. She was imaginative.

An hour ago, before heading up into the mountains, they'd stopped and purchased clothes at a shopping plaza outside Ax-les-Thermes, a thriving spa resort that catered to hikers and skiers. Their colorful tunics and long gowns had won them some strange looks, but they were now dressed in jeans, shirts, boots, and fleece jackets, ready for what lay ahead.

St. Agulous perched on the rim of a precipice, surrounded by terraced hills, at the end of a narrow highway that corkscrewed a path up through a cloud-dimmed pass. The village, not much larger than Rennes-le-Chateau, was a mass of time-worn limestone buildings that seemed to have merged with the rock beyond.

Malone stopped short of entering the town, easing off into the trees, down a narrow dirt lane. Cassiopeia cruised in behind him. They climbed out into sharp mountain air.

"I don't think it's a good idea for all of us to just ride in there," he said. "This doesn't look like a place that receives a whole lot of tourists."

"He's right," Mark said. "Dad always approached these villages cautiously. Let me and Geoffrey do it. Just a couple of guys out hiking. That's not unusual for summer."

"You don't think I'd make a good impression?" Cassiopeia asked.

"Making an impression is not your problem," Malone said, grinning. "Getting folks to forget that impression is the problem."

"And who put you in charge?" Cassiopeia asked.

"I did," Thorvaldsen declared. "Mark knows these mountains. He speaks the language. Let him and the brother go."

"Then, by all means," she said. "Go."

MARK LED THE WAY AS HE AND GEOFFREY STROLLED THROUGH the main gate and into a tight plaza shaded by trees. Geoffrey still carried the rucksack with the two books, so they appeared as a couple of hikers out for the afternoon. Pigeons circled above the jumble of black slate roofs, dueling with a blast of wind that whistled through the clefts, shoving clouds northward over the mountains. A fountain in the center of the plaza trickled with water, green with age. No one was in sight.

A cobbled street radiating from the plaza was well kept and checkered with scattered sunlight. The tap of horned feet announced the appearance of a shaggy goat, which vanished down another side lane. Mark smiled. Like so many in this region, this was not a clock-driven place.

One vestige of any former glory came from the church, which rose at the end of the plaza. A set of wide narrow steps led up to a Romanesque door. The building itself, though, was more Gothic, its bell tower an odd octagonal shape that immediately arrested Mark's attention. He could not recall seeing another like it in the region. The size and grandeur of the church spoke of a lost prosperity and power.

"Interesting that a small town like this has a church that size," Geoffrey said.

"I've seen others like it. Five hundred years ago, this was a thriving market center. So a church would have been a must."

A young woman appeared. Sun freckles gave her the air of a country girl. She smiled, then entered a small general store. Next door stood what appeared to be a post office. Mark wondered about the strange vagary of fate that had apparently preserved St. Agulous from the Saracens, Spaniards, French, and Albigensian Crusaders.

"Let's start in there," he said, pointing at the church. "The local priest may be helpful."

They entered a compact nave topped by a star-spangled ceiling of vivid blue. No statuary decorated the plain stone walls. A wooden cross hung above the simple altar. Worn boards, each at least two feet wide, probably hewn centuries ago from the surrounding primeval forest, sheathed the floor and creaked with each step. Where the church at Rennes was animated in obscene detail, an unnatural quiet reigned in this nave.

Mark noticed Geoffrey's interest in the ceiling. He knew what he was thinking. The master had worn a robe of blue with gold stars in the last days of his life.

"Coincidence?" Geoffrey asked.

"I doubt it."

From the shadows near the altar emerged an older man. His crooked shoulders were poorly concealed under a loose brown frock. He walked with a jerky, stooped gait that reminded Mark of a puppet on a string.

"Are you the abbe?" he asked the man in French.

"Oui, monsieur."

"What's the name of this church?"

"The Chapel of St. Agulous."

Mark watched as Geoffrey strolled forward, past where they stood, to the first pew before the altar. "This is a quiet place."

"Those who live here belong only to themselves. It is indeed a peaceful location."

"How long have you been abbe?"

"Oh, for many years. No one else seems to want to serve here. But I do like it."

Mark recalled what he knew. "This area was once a hiding place for the Spanish brigands, wasn't it? They would slip into Spain, terrorize the locals, rob farmhouses, then slip back over the mountains, safe here in France, out of reach of the Spanish."

The priest nodded. "To plunder Spain, they had to live in France. And never once did they touch a Frenchman. But that was a long time ago."

He continued to study the church's austere interior. Nothing suggested that the building harbored any great secret.

"Abbe," he said. "Have you ever heard the name Berenger Sauniere?"

The older man thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Is that a name anyone has ever mentioned in this village?"

"I'm not accustomed to monitoring my parishioners' conversations."

"Nor did I mean to say that you were. But is it a name you recall anyone mentioning?"

He shook his head again.

"When was this church built?"

"In 1732. But the first building was erected here in the thirteenth century. Many came after. So unfortunate, but nothing remains from those early structures."

The older man's attention was diverted to Geoffrey, who was still wandering near the altar.

"Does he bother you?" Mark asked.

"What is he looking for?"

Good question, Mark thought. "Perhaps he's in prayer, wanting to be near the altar?"

The abbe faced him. "You don't lie well."

Mark realized the old man standing before him was far smarter than he wanted his listener to believe. "Why don't you tell me what I want to know."