Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

De Roquefort crossed himself and mumbled a prayer. "Look what they did."

But Mark realized an even greater significance. "This means someone visited this place after March 1314. They must have kept coming back until they all died. Five of them knew about this place. The Black Death surely took them in the mid-1300s. But they never told a soul, and this vault was lost forever." A sadness swept over him at the thought.

He turned and his light revealed crucifixes and statuary of ebonized wood dotting one wall, about forty, the styles varying from Romanesque, to German, to Byzantine, to high Gothic, the intricately carved physical undulations so perfect they seemed to almost breathe.

"It's spectacular," de Roquefort said.

The tally was incalculable, the stone niches that spanned two walls were packed full. Mark had studied in detail the history and purpose of medieval carving from the pieces that survived in museums, but here before him was a broad, spectacular display of Middle Age craftsmanship.

To his right, on a stone pedestal, he spotted an oversized book. The cover still gleamed-gold foil, he surmised-and was dotted with pearls. Someone had apparently opened the volume before, as crumbled parchment lay beneath, scattered like leaves. He bent down, brought the light close to the scraps, and saw Latin. He could read some of the script and quickly determined that it had once been an inventory ledger.

De Roquefort noticed his interest. "What is it?"

"An accounting. Sauniere probably tried to examine it when he found this place. But you have to careful with parchment."

"Thief. That's what he was. Nothing but a common thief. He had no right to take any of this."

"And we do?"

"It's ours. Left for us by de Molay himself. He was crucified on a door, yet told them nothing. His bones are here. This is ours."

Mark's attention was diverted to a partially open chest. He shone his light and saw more parchment. He slowly hinged open the lid, which only slightly resisted. He dared not touch the sheets stacked together. So he strained to decipher what was on the top page. Old French, he quickly concluded. He could read enough to know that it was a will.

"Papers the Order was safekeeping. This chest is probably full of thirteenth- and fourteenth-century wills and deeds." He shook his head. "To the end, the brothers made sure their duty was done." He considered the possibilities that lay before him. "What we could learn from these documents."

"This is not all of it," de Roquefort suddenly declared. "No books. Not one. Where's the knowledge?"

"What you see is it."

"You're lying. There's more. Where?"

He faced de Roquefort. "This is it."

"Don't be coy with me. Our brothers secreted away their knowledge. You know that. Philip never found it. So it has to be here. I can see it in your eyes. There's more." De Roquefort reached for his gun and raised the barrel to Mark's brow. "Tell me."

"I'd rather die."

"But would you rather have your mother die? Or your friends up there? Because that's who I'll kill first, while you watch, until I learn what I want to know."

Mark considered the possibility. It wasn't that he was afraid of de Roquefort-strangely, no fear coursed through him-it was simply that he wanted to know, too. His father had searched for years and found nothing. What had the master told his mother about him? He doesn't possess the resolve needed to complete his battles. Bullshit. The solution to his father's quest was a short walk away.

"All right. Come with me."

"IT'S AWFUL GLOOMY IN HERE," MALONE SAID TO THE BROTHER who appeared in charge. "Mind if we get the generator going and fire up those lights?"

"We wait for the master to return."

"They're going to need those lights down there, and it takes a few minutes to set things up. Your master may not be inclined to wait when he calls for them." He was hoping the prediction might affect the man's judgment. "What's it going to hurt? We're just rigging up some lights."

"Okay. Go ahead."

Malone withdrew back to where the others stood. "He bought it. Let's set 'em up."

Stephanie and Malone moved toward one set, while Henrik and Cassiopeia grabbed another. The bars consisted of two halogen flood lamps atop an orange tripod. The generator was a small gasoline-powered unit. They positioned the tripods at opposite ends of the church and angled the bulbs upward. Power cords were connected and run back to where the generator sat, near the altar.

A tool bag lay beside the generator. Cassiopeia was reaching inside when one of the guards stopped her.

"I need to hot-wire the power cords. Can't use plugs for this kind of ampage. I'm only going to get a screwdriver."

The man hesitated then stepped back, gun at his side, seemingly ready. Cassiopeia reached into the bag and carefully removed the screwdriver. By the light of the fires, she attached the cords to leads on the generator.

"Let's check out the connections to the lights," she said to Malone.

They casually walked to the first tripod. "My dart gun is in the tool bag," she whispered.

"I assume those are the same little darlings used in Copenhagen?" He kept his lips still as a ventriloquist's.

"They work fast. I just need a few seconds to fire the shots."

She was fiddling with the tripod, not doing anything.

"And how many shots do you have?"

She seemingly finished what she was doing. "Four."

They headed for the other tripod. "We have six guests."

"The other two are your problem."

They stopped at the second tripod. He breathed out, "We'll need a moment of distraction to confuse everybody. I have an idea."

She tinkered with the back of the lights. "About time."

MARK LED THE WAY BACK DOWN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE, past the ladder, toward where Malone and Cassiopeia had first explored. No light seeped down from the church above. As they were leaving the treasure chamber he'd retrieved the bolt cutters, as he assumed the other gate would likewise be chained.

They came to words etched into the wall.

"By this sign ye shall conquer him," de Roquefort said as he read, then his beam found the second gate. "That it?"

Mark nodded and motioned at the skeleton propped against the wall. "He came to see for himself." He explained about the marshal from Sauniere's time and the medallion Malone found, which confirmed the identity.

"Serves him right," de Roquefort said.

"And what you're doing is better?"

"I come for the brothers."

In the halo of his light bar, Mark noticed a slight depression in the earth ahead. Without saying a word, he stepped around the liar, toward the wall, avoiding the trap that de Roquefort seemed not to notice, as his focus was on the skeleton. At the gate, with the bolt cutters, Mark severed another brass chain. He recalled Malone's caution and stepped to one side as he worked the grille open.

Beyond the entrance were the same two sharp turns. He inched his way forward. Within the golden glow of his lamp he saw nothing but rock.

He turned the first corner, then the second. De Roquefort stood behind him and their combined lights revealed another gallery, this one larger than the first treasure chamber.

The room was dotted with stone plinths of varying shapes and sizes. Atop them were books, all neatly stacked. Hundreds of volumes.

A sick feeling came to Mark's stomach as he realized that the manuscripts would most likely be ruined. Though the chamber was cool and dry, time would have taken a toll on both the leaves and the ink. Much better if they'd been sealed inside another container. But the brothers who had secreted these certainly never imagined that it would be seven hundred years before they'd be retrieved.