The Templar legacy

1:30 AM

DE ROQUEFORT SWIPED THE MAGNETIC CARD ACROSS THE SENSOR pad and the electronic bolt released. He entered the brightly lit archives and threaded his way through the restricted shelves to where Royce Claridon sat. On the table before Claridon were stacks of writings. The archivist sat to one side, watching patiently as he'd been ordered to do. He motioned for the man to withdraw.

"What have you learned?" he asked Claridon.

"The materials you pointed me to are interesting. I never realized the extent of this Order's existence after the 1307 Purge."

"There's much to our history."

"I found an account of when Jacques de Molay was burned at the stake. Many brothers apparently watched that spectacle in Paris."

"He walked to the stake on March 13, 1314, with his head held high and told the crowd, It is only right that at so solemn a moment, when my life has so little time to run, I should reveal the deception that has been practiced and speak up for the truth. "

"You memorized his words?"

"He's a man to know."

"Many historians blame de Molay for the Order's demise. He was said to be weak and complacent."

"And what do the accounts you've read say about him?"

"He seemed strong and determined and planned ahead before he traveled from Cyprus to France in the summer of 1307. He actually anticipated what Philip IV had planned."

"Our wealth and knowledge were safeguarded. De Molay made sure of that."

"That Great Devise." Claridon shook his head.

"The brothers made sure it survived. De Molay made sure."

Claridon's eyes looked weary. Though the hour was late, de Roquefort functioned best at night. "Did you read de Molay's final words?"

Claridon nodded. "God will avenge our death. Woe will come ere long to those who condemned us."

"He was referring to Philip IV and Clement V, who conspired against him and our Order. The pope died less than a month later, and Philip succumbed seven months after that. None of Philip's heirs produced a male son, so the Capetian royal line extinguished itself. Four hundred and fifty years later, during the Revolution, the French royal family was imprisoned, just like de Molay, in the Paris Temple. When the guillotine finally severed the head of Louis XVI, a man plunged his hand into the dead king's blood and flicked it into the crowd, shouting, Jacques de Molay, thou art avenged. "

"One of yours?"

He nodded. "A brother-caught up in the moment. There to watch the French monarchy be eliminated."

"This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

He wasn't particularly interested in sharing his feelings with this stranger, but he wanted to make clear, "I'm master."

"No. There's more here. More to this."

"Is analysis part of your specialty, too?"

"You stood in front of a speeding car, challenging Malone to run you down. Then you would have roasted the flesh from my feet with no remorse."

"Monsieur Claridon, thousands of my brothers were arrested-all for the greed of a king. Several hundred were burned at the stake. Ironically, only lies would have liberated them. The truth was their death sentence, since the Order was guilty on none of the charges leveled against it. Yes. This is intensely personal."

Claridon reached for Lars Nelle's journal. "I've some bad news. I've read a good part of Lars's notes and something is wrong."

He did not like the sound of that statement.

"There are errors. Dates are wrong. Locations differ. Sources incorrectly noted. Subtle changes, but to a trained eye they're obvious."

Unfortunately, de Roquefort was not knowledgeable enough to know the difference. He was actually hoping the journal would increase his awareness. "Are they merely entry errors?"

"At first I thought so. Then, as I noticed more and more, I came to doubt that. Lars was a careful man. A lot of the information in the journal I helped accumulate. These are intentional."

De Roquefort reached for the journal and paged through until he found the cryptogram. "What of this? Correct?"

"I would have no way of knowing. Lars never told me if he learned the mathematical sequence that unravels it."

He was concerned. "Are you saying the journal is useless?"

"What I'm saying is that there are errors. Even some of the entries from Sauniere's personal diary are wrong. I read some of those myself long ago."

De Roquefort was confused. What was happening here? He thought back to the last day of Lars Nelle's life, to what the American had said to him.

"You couldn't find anything, even if it were right before your eyes."

Standing in the trees, he'd resented Nelle's attitude but admired the man's courage-considering a rope was wrapped around the older man's neck. A few minutes earlier he'd watched as the American fastened the rope to a bridge support, then looped the noose. Nelle had then hopped onto the stone wall and stared out into the dark river below.

He'd followed Nelle all day, wondering what he was doing in the high Pyrenees. The village nearby possessed no connection to either Rennes-le-Chateau or any of Lars Nelle's known research. Now it was nearing midnight and blackness enveloped the world around them. Only the gurgle of water running beneath the bridge disturbed the mountain stillness.

He stepped from the foliage onto the road and approached the bridge.

"I wondered if you were going to show yourself," Nelle said with his back to him. "I assumed an insult would draw you out."

"You knew I was there?"

"I'm accustomed to brothers following me." Nelle finally turned toward him and pointed at the rope around his neck. "If you don't mind, I was just about to kill myself."

"Death apparently doesn't frighten you."

"I died a long time ago."

"You fear not your God? He does not allow suicide."

"What God? Dust to dust, that's our fate."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"And what of your quest?"

"It's brought nothing but misery. And why does my soul concern you?"

"It doesn't. But your quest is another matter."

"You've watched me a long time. Your master has even spoken to me himself. Too bad the Order will have to continue the quest-without me leading the way."

"You're aware we were watching?"

"Of course. Brothers have tried for months to obtain my journal."

"I was told you're a strange man."

"I'm a miserable man who simply doesn't want to live any longer. A part of me regrets this. For my son, whom I love. And for my wife, who loves me in her own way. But I have no desire to live any longer."

"Are there not quicker ways to die?"

Nelle shrugged. "I detest guns, and something about poison seems offensive. Bleeding to death wasn't appealing, so I opted for hanging."

He shrugged. "Seems selfish."

"Selfish? I'll tell you what's selfish. What people have done to me. They believe that Rennes hides everything from the reincarnated French monarchy to aliens from space. How many searchers have visited with their equipment to desecrate the land? Walls have been torn out, holes dug, tunnels excavated. Even graves opened and corpses exhumed. Writers have postulated every conceivable wild theory-all designed to make money."

He wondered about the strange suicide speech.

"I've watched while mediums held seances and clairvoyants carried on conversations with the dead. So much has been fabricated, the truth is now actually boring. They forced me to write that gibberish. I had to embrace their fanaticism in order to sell books. People wanted to read drivel. It's ridiculous. I even laugh at myself. Selfish? All those morons are the ones who should be given that label."

"And what is the truth about Rennes?" he calmly asked.

"I'm sure you'd love to know."

He decided to try another approach. "You realize that you're the one person who may be able to solve Sauniere's puzzle."

"May be able? I did solve it."

He recalled the cryptogram he'd seen in the marshal's report filed in the abbey's archives, the one abbes Gelis and Sauniere found in their churches, the one Gelis may have perhaps died solving.

"Can't you tell me?" There was almost a plea to his question, one he did not like.

"You're like all the rest-in search of easy answers. Where's the challenge in that? It took me years to decipher that combination."

"And I assume you wrote little down?"

"That's for you to discover."

"You're an arrogant man."

"No, I'm a screwed-up man. There's a difference. You see, all those opportunists, who came for themselves and left with nothing, taught me something."

He waited for an explanation.

"There's absolutely nothing to find."

"You're lying."

Nelle shrugged. "Maybe? Maybe not."

He decided to leave Lars Nelle to his task. "May you find your peace." He turned and walked away.

"Templar," Nelle called out.

He stopped and turned back.

"I'm going to do you a favor. You don't deserve it, because all you brothers did was cause me aggravation. But your Order didn't deserve what happened to it, either. So I'll give you a clue. Something to help you along. It's not written down anywhere. Not even in the journal. Only you'll have it and, if you're smart, you might even solve the puzzle. You have a paper and pencil?"

He came back close to the wall, fished into his pocket, and produced a small note pad and pen, which he handed to Nelle. The older man scribbled something, then tossed the pen and pad to him.

"Good luck," Nelle said.

Then the American leaped over the side. He heard the rope go taut and a quick pop as the neck snapped. He brought the pad close to his eyes and in the faint moonlight read what Lars Nelle had written.