Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

"You son of a bitch." He took a step forward. De Roquefort leveled his gun. He still held the book from the ossuary. "Go ahead. Shoot me."

De Roquefort seemed unfazed. "You killed a brother. You know the penalty."

"He died because of you. You sent him."

"There you go again. One set of rules for yourself, another for the rest of us. You pulled the trigger."

"In self-defense."

"Lay the book down."

"And what will you do with it?"

"What the masters in the Beginning did. I'll use it against Rome. I always wondered how the Order rose so quickly. When popes tried to merge us with the Knights Hospitallers, over and over we stopped them. And all because of that book and those bones. The Roman Church could not take the chance of either being made public.

"Imagine what those medieval popes thought when they learned that the physical resurrection of Christ was a myth. Of course, they couldn't be sure. That testimony could be as fictitious as the Gospels. Still, the words are compelling and the bones hard to ignore. There were thousands of relics floating around then. Pieces of saints adorned every church. Everyone believed so easily. No reason to think these bones would have been ignored. And these were the greatest relics of them all. So masters used what they knew, and the threat worked."

"And today?"

"Just the opposite. Too many people who believe nothing. Lots of questions exist in the modern mind and few answers in the Gospels. That testimony, though, is another matter. It would make sense to a great many people."

"So you're going to be a modern-day Philip IV."

De Roquefort spit on the ground. "That's what I think of him. He wanted this knowledge so he could control the Church-so that his heirs could control it, too. But he paid for his greed. Him and his entire family."

"Do you think for one minute you could control anything?"

"I have no desire to control. But I would like to see the faces of all those pompous prelates as they explain away the testimony of Simon Peter. After all, his bones rest at the heart of the Vatican. They built a cathedral around his grave and named the basilica for him. He's their first saint, their first pope. How will they explain away his words? Wouldn't you like to listen as they try?"

"Who's to say they're his?"

"Who's to say Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John's words are theirs?"

"Changing everything might not be so good."

"You're as weak as your father. No stomach for a fight. You'd bury this away? Tell no one? Allow the Order to languish in obscurity, tainted by the slander of a greedy king? Weak men like you are why we find ourselves in this situation. You and your master were well suited to one another. He was a weak man, too."

He'd heard enough and, without warning, raised his left hand, which held the lamp, angling the bright bar so that its strongest glow momentarily flashed in de Roquefort's eyes. The instant of discomfort caused de Roquefort to squint, and his hand with the gun dropped as he raised his other arm to shield his eyes.

Mark kicked the gun from de Roquefort's grip, then rushed from the chamber. He emerged from the open gate, turned back toward the ladder, but took only a few steps.

Ten feet ahead he saw another light and spotted Malone and his mother.

Behind him, de Roquefort emerged.

"Halt" came the command, and he stopped.

De Roquefort stepped close.

He saw his mother raise a gun.

"Get down, Mark," she yelled.

But he stayed standing.

De Roquefort was now directly behind him. He felt the barrel of the gun at the back of his head.

"Lower your weapon," de Roquefort said to her.

Malone displayed a gun. "You can't shoot us both."

"No. But I can shoot this one."

MALONE CONSIDERED HIS OPTIONS. HE COULDN'T GET A SHOT AT de Roquefort without hitting Mark. But why had Mark stopped? Allowing de Roquefort the opportunity to corral him.

"Lower the gun," Malone said quietly to Stephanie.

"No."

"I would do as he says," de Roquefort made clear.

Stephanie did not move. "He's going to shoot him anyway."

"Maybe," Malone said. "But let's not provoke it."

He knew she'd lost her son once through mistakes. She was not about to have him taken from her again. He studied Mark's face. Not a speck of fear. He motioned with his light at the book in Mark's grasp.

"That what this was all about?"

Mark nodded. "The Great Devise, along with a lot of treasure and documents."

"Was it worth it?"

"That's not for me to say."

"It was," de Roquefort declared.

"So what now?" Malone asked. "Nowhere for you to go. Your men are down."

"Your doing?"

"Some. But your chaplain is here with a contingent of knights. Seems there's been a revolt."

"That remains to be seen," de Roquefort said. "I'll only say it one more time, Ms. Nelle, lower your gun. As Mr. Malone correctly notes, what do I have to lose by shooting your son?"

Malone was still assessing the situation, his mind checking off options. Then, in the ambient glow from Mark's lamp, he spotted it. A slight depression in the floor. Hardly noticeable, except if you knew what to look for. Another floor trap spanning the width of the passage and extending from where he stood all the way to Mark. He cut his gaze back and saw in the younger man's eyes the fact that he knew it existed. A slight nod of the head and he realized why Mark had stopped. He'd wanted de Roquefort to come after him. He needed him to come.

Apparently it was time to end this.

Here and now.

He reached out and wrenched the gun from Stephanie's grasp.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Back to de Roquefort, he mouthed, "The floor," and he saw that she registered what he'd said.

Then he faced their dilemma.

"Wise move," de Roquefort said to him.

Stephanie went silent, apparently understanding. But he doubted that she really did. He turned his attention back across the passage. His words, meant for Mark, were said to de Roquefort.

"Okay. Your move."

MARK KNEW THIS WAS IT. THE MASTER HAD WRITTEN TO HIS mother that he did not possess the resolve needed to complete his battles. Starting them seemed easy, continuing them even easier, but resolving them had always proven difficult. Not anymore. His master had formed the stage and the players had acted out the script. Time for the finale. Raymond de Roquefort was a menace. Two brothers were dead because of him, and there was no telling where it all would stop. No way could he and de Roquefort exist within the Order together. His master had apparently known that. Which was why one of them had to go.

He knew that just a step ahead was a deep gouge in the floor, the bottom of which he hoped was lined with bronze stakes. In his rage to hurl forward, unconcerned with everything around him, de Roquefort possessed no idea of that danger. Which was precisely how his enemy would administer the Order. The sacrifices that thousands of brothers had made for seven hundred years would be wasted on arrogance.

When he'd read Simon's testimony he'd finally been provided a historical affirmation of his own religious skepticism. He'd always been troubled by biblical contradictions and their weak explanations. Religion, he feared, was a tool used by men to manipulate other men. The human mind's need to have answers, even to questions that possessed no answer, had allowed the unbelievable to become gospel. Somehow a comfort came in believing that death was not an end. There was more. Jesus supposedly proved that by physically resurrecting Himself, and offering that same salvation to all who believed.

But there was no life after death.

Not literally.

Instead, what others made of your life was how you lived on. In remembering what the man Jesus said and did, Simon Peter realized that his dead friend's beliefs were actually resurrected within him. And preaching that message, doing what Jesus had done, became the measure of Simon's salvation. None of us should judge anyone, only ourselves. Life is not infinite. A set time defines us all-then, just as the bones in the ossuary showed, to dust we return.