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 v:irtues."
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.
4
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.
5
Cardou
1042 hours
At first, Lang thought the man with the needle was going to pray. His knees bent to the kneeling position so slowly that it wasn't until the crack of a shot seconds later that Lang realized something unexpected was happening. The echo was still circling the mountainsides like a startled pigeon as the Templar slumped face-first to the ground, exposing blood and brain matter where the back and top of his head had been.
With one movement, Lang snatched himself free of a grip loosened by surprise, grabbed the copy of the letter and dove for the ground, landing hard enough on the rocky surface to nearly knock the wind out of his lungs. He rolled downhill, trying to ignore the cuts from sharp stones, until he was behind a boulder big enough to hide him from the sight of the three remaining Templars.