The Pegasus Secret (36 page)

He tried to remove the top without success. The lid had been carved to such a perfect fit that aeons of dust and grime had provided a sealant as effective as cement. Once again, Lang experienced warmth that seemed to reside in the box itself.

He squatted, sitting on his heels to bring his face closer to the stone. He closed his eyes and gave a gentle puff as he had in law school to blow dust from a book long unused. When he guessed the ministorm had quieted, he looked.

Much of the carving had cracked, fallen away as the stone had expanded and contracted in response to the cave’s temperature fluctuations. One series of characters resembled the Hebrew inscriptions Lang had once seen in a synagogue. Aramaic, the ancient language of the Jews? And Latin, the letters barely legible.

Lang’s lungs seemed to expand involuntarily as his surprise made him suck in a mouthful of dust and dirt that sent him into a spasm of coughing. He did not remember going from a squat to sitting splay-legged on the cave’s floor, staring at the ancient letters in the halo of the flashlight. Solving the riddle of the painting had been one thing, a cerebral exercise. Finding this was quite another.
His mind was spinning like a fishing reel, unable to even guess at all the implications from this discovery. Saunière, Pietro . . . they must have felt the same as Lang did now.

The cavern filled with light from behind him.

“Very clever, Mr. Reilly. I congratulate you.”

For an instant, Lang thought the police had finally caught up to him. Then he was afraid they hadn’t.

Forgetful of the low ceiling, he started to his feet.

“Stay right where you are if you want to live, Mr. Reilly. And be sure to keep your hands where I can see them.”

Lang lifted his arms, the universal gesture of surrender. There was no point in provoking these people. Not that They needed provocation to kill. Rough hands from behind snatched him to a semistanding position and slammed him against a wall. A quick but thoroughly professional pat-down followed. A hand reached into his pockets, removing all contents before the nearly dry shirt was pulled from his face.

“He’s not armed,” a second voice said. “But here’s a copy of some sort of letter.”

The copy made in the post office.

Lang risked looking over his shoulder. All he could see was a blinding light.

“You might want to read that letter,” Lang said, “before you do anything . . . rash.”

He was grabbed by the shoulders, spun around and shoved towards the entrance, again whacking his head on the low rock as he stumbled into daylight that made him wince after the darkness of the cave.

When Lang’s eyes adjusted, he saw a man, perhaps in his fifties, certainly dressed more appropriately for the boardroom than a mountainside in France. He was reading the letter. From his expression, he was less than amused.

It was an old trick, the if-something-happens-to-me letter,
not exactly original. But Lang was guessing that, trite or not, the letter was going to save his life, at least for the moment. At this point, he would have been perfectly willing to be saved by lost letters, infants on doorsteps or any other literarily hackneyed device including having the cavalry ride over the hill.

Beside the man in the suit were two more guys, younger and bigger. They looked as though they might have once played some sport where collisions were likely: football, rugby, hockey, something where inflicting pain is encouraged. Their necks overflowed the starched shirt collars and the tailored suits were stuffed as tight as the skin of a sausage. They each wore what Lang guessed to be thousand-dollar-plus Italian toe caps, footwear for the corporate elite. From the sheen of the black leather, those shoes hadn’t made many excursions like this one. Their wardrobes were complete with the Heckler and Koch 10-millimeter MP10s they each held, a submachine gun small enough to fit in a briefcase with the stock folded, heavier artillery than the goons in London had. It was the weapon of choice of both the Secret Service Presidential Detail and Navy SEALs. These guys were neither.

Lang didn’t turn but was certain the one behind, the one whose push had ejected him from the cave, was from the same mold.

The older man looked up from the letter. Tan under a full head of long silver hair, his face was lean, the sort of face AARP likes to use in its brochures.

“To whom did you send this?” he wanted to know.

“Santa Claus,” Lang said. “I’m beating the Christmas rush.”

He dipped his chin, the slightest of nods, and Lang’s arm was snatched upward from behind, a quick snap that sent a jolt of pain across Lang’s shoulders. It hurt enough to make him gasp.

“No one likes a smartass, Mr. Reilly,” the man said without a trace of anger, as though he were lecturing a dull child. “I assure you, I will have an answer. The question is, how much will you have to endure first?”

Lang made a show of glancing from left to right. “Don’t see the rack, thumbscrews, any of the interrogation tools Philip and the boys used on your people. Sure you can ask questions without equipment?”

Another wrenching of the arm. Lang may have only imagined the sound of tearing ligaments. He was certain he saw stars brighter than when he had banged his head.

“And the answer?” Silver Hair asked.

“And what happens when you get it?” Lang asked. “Don’t guess I’m walking out of here with your thanks.”

The man in the suit wasn’t the first to call Lang a wiseass and Lang devoutly hoped he’d live long enough for this guy not to be the last. But the purpose of the conversation wasn’t social banter. Agency training taught that, in a tight spot, stall, play for time in hopes you’ll find a way out. With two, probably three men armed with automatic weapons, it looked like Lang was going to need a whole lot of time.

The older guy, obviously the leader, gave Lang a smile that wouldn’t have melted ice in July. “Very perceptive of you, Mr. Reilly.”

He nodded to the hulk to his left who reached inside his coat with the hand that didn’t have a gun in it and produced a long slender box like something from a jeweler. Inside was a hypodermic needle.

“You guys ought to open a clinic,” Lang said. “Every time I see you, you want to give me a shot. And you haven’t even asked me about allergies.”

Silver Hair gave another of those little dips with his chin and the guy with the needle took a step.

“What the hell is it?” Lang asked. “Truth serum?’

“Not quite yet, Mr. Reilly,” he said. “Later, perhaps a little
sodium pentothal. Right now, we want you sedated, to help you relax and enjoy the ride, as you Americans say.”

“Couple of questions,” Lang said. “After all, we both know you’re not going to turn me loose to write an expose for the
National Enquirer
. You can at least give me the satisfaction of a few answers.”

Silver Hair sighed. “And then, no doubt, you will tell me to whom you sent this letter.”

“So you can get rid of them just like you did my sister and nephew, kill them like the doorman in my condo building and the antique dealer? I don’t think you’d believe me even if I did tell you.”

There was a flash from down the hill, not in the direction of the road, the instant of glare of sun reflected off something—glass, metal. Lang wasn’t sure he had really seen it. If Silver Hair or his pals had, they gave no indication. Lang looked in the opposite direction, making sure that if something really was out there, he didn’t give it away. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very likely to be there on his behalf.

Lang might have been more wrong before but he couldn’t remember when.

Silver Hair nodded to his flunky to hold up a second. “Then, perhaps you will tell me how you found the cave and its . . . contents. I’d like to make sure no one else does. But be brief with your questions, Mr. Reilly.”

The older man sat down on the same flat rock from which Lang had watched the dust settle, the copy of the letter spread open on his lap. Lang felt a slight relaxation of the pressure on his arms. The one that had been twisted felt as though the joint was on fire.

“Templars,” Lang asked, “you are Templars?”

Silver Hair spoke as though relating a familiar story. “Quite correct, Mr. Reilly. If you know who we are, you also know our history, that in 1307 the King of France . . .” He
scowled as though recalling a personal betrayal. “The perfidious Philip sent orders to his minions to arrest the Knights of the Temple of Solomon and accuse them falsely. Our spies were widespread, were in every court in Europe. They warned of what was coming. As many of us as could leave without raising suspicion fled to Scotland where Philip’s lackey, Clement, couldn’t reach us. The Scottish king, the one known today as Robert the Bruce, was under papal interdict and no friend of the pope.”

His voice had more of an inflection than an accent, although Lang had the impression English wasn’t his first language.

“As many of you as could?” Lang was thinking of poor Pietro, left to face the Inquisition on bogus charges. “You deserted a number of your brothers to be tortured, killed, to burn at the stake.”

Silver Hair crossed his legs at the ankles. Lang noticed he was wearing those short socks that European men favor. “It was God’s judgement as to who went and who stayed, not ours.”

Lang was tempted to ask if the choice had been communicated by stone tablet or burning bush. Instead, he asked, “And Clement would have been delighted if he had bagged the entire Order, right? After all, you were blackmailing him just as you are blackmailing the papacy today.”

Silver Hair reached into an inside coat pocket and produced a silver cigarette case. He held it out for Lang to see. “Supposedly made from several of the infamous thirty pieces of silver given to Judas.” He took out a cigarette and offered one.

Lang shook his head. “Don’t smoke. No point in risking one’s health.”

If the Templar got the irony, he ignored it. “ ‘Blackmail’ is
such an ugly word, Mr. Reilly. We prefer to say we guard the pope’s greatest secret.” He lit up with a gold Ronson.

“And have since you somehow discovered it during the time of the crusades,” Lang said.

The older man exhaled a jet of blue smoke instantly dispersed by the light wind. “We have served the True Church for some time, yes.”

Lang made no effort to keep the contempt out of his voice. “Some service! Murder, blackmail. Hardly Christian virtues.”

If Silver Hair was offended, he didn’t show it. “Regrettably, an imperfect world does not allow the consistent practice of Christian virtues. After all, our Order was founded as a military one, trained in the very unchristian art of war. It was necessary then just as an occasional unchristian act is necessary now. Fortunately, we have the sacrament of confession to shrive us of such sins.”

“Including killing women and children?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “We have no time for ideological argument, Mr. Reilly. Suffice it to say that when we held Jerusalem, one of our number came across certain parchments that lead us here, the same that the priest Saunière found hidden in his altar.” He let a smile flicker and die. “We know you are aware of Saunière, Mr. Reilly. Why else would you visit such a forlorn little place as Rennes-le-Château? What we found here on Cardou must be protected, no matter who suffers.”

“So much for loving thy neighbor.”

With one hand he held the letter, using the other to push himself erect from the rock with a spryness Lang would have associated with a younger man. “Mr. Reilly, I answered your question, that yes, we are the Templars. Now you can do me the curtesy of answering mine or . . .” He nodded to the goon with the needle.

Cardou

“You best make your shot before he jabs that needle in,” the man said to the sniper. “I’d wager it’s full of nasty stuff.”

The shooter didn’t move the scope. “Nothing nastier than the slug Reilly gets in the head should I hurry and miss.”

The man bit back a retort. He knew placing a bullet in exactly the desired place from this distance was a skill depending equally on metrology, mathematics, chemistry, physics and biology.

The longer the shot, the more the slightest breeze must be considered. The propellant of the projectile, gunpowder, had to be of the exact quality anticipated to burn at the rate calculated and provide precisely the power needed. Too little and the shot falls short. Too much is likely to overflatten the trajectory, resulting in overshooting the target. Either way, the velocity of the bullet would not be as anticipated, making it more subject to the other variables such as the weight and speed of the slug.

The shooter had to have the physical attributes required to breath in rhythm with the shot, inhale, exhale, hold, slowly exhaling until just enough air was in the lungs to keep the hands steady but not enough to cause the slightest tremor. The tiniest, most minute error, a single centimeter at this range, would send the bullet wide by several feet.

Gravity also affected the trajectory, depending on whether the shot was up or downhill. The variation made precise scope adjustment necessary.

If it were easy, anyone could do it.

He kept his impatience to himself.

Cardou
1042 hours