The Templar Legacy Read Free Page A

and spanned two hundred years. The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon were the epitome of everything good. But success had bred jealousy and, as master, he should have fully appreciated the political storms churning around him. Been less stiff, more bending, not so outspoken. Thank heaven he’d anticipated some of what had already occurred and taken precautions. Philip IV would never see an ounce of Templar gold and silver.
    And he would never see the greatest treasure of all.
    So de Molay mustered his last remaining bits of energy and raised his head. Imbert clearly thought he was about to speak and drew close.
    “Damn you to hell,” he whispered. “Damn you and all who aid your hellish cause.”
    His head collapsed back to his chest. He heard Imbert scream for the door to be swung, but the pain was so intense and swept into his brain from so many directions that he felt little.
     
    He was being taken down. How long he’d hung he did not know, but the relaxation to his limbs went unnoticed because his muscles had long ago numbed. He was carried some distance and then realized that he was back in his cell. His captors laid him onto the mattress, and as his body sunk into the soft folds a familiar stench filled his nostrils. His head was elevated by a pillow, his arms stretched out at each side.
    “I have been told,” Imbert quietly said, “that when a new brother was accepted into your Order, the candidate was draped about the shoulders in a linen shroud. Something about symbolizing death, then resurrecting into a new life as a Templar. You, too, will now have that honor. I have laid out beneath you the shroud from the chest in the chapel.” Imbert reached down and folded the long herringbone cloth over de Molay’s feet, down the length of his damp body. His gaze was now shielded by the cloth. “I am told this was used by the Order in the Holy Land, brought back here and wrapped around every Paris initiate. You are now reborn,” Imbert mocked. “Lie here and think about your sins. I shall return.”
    De Molay was too weak to respond. He knew that Imbert had most likely been ordered not to kill him, but he also realized that no one was going to care for him. So he lay still. The numbness was receding, replaced by an intense agony. His heart still pounded and he was sweating frightening amounts of moisture. He told himself to calm down and think pleasant thoughts. One that kept coming to mind was what he knew his captors wanted to know above all else. He was the only man alive who knew. That was the way of the Order. One master passed the knowledge to the next in a way that only the next would know. Unfortunately, because of his sudden arrest and the purge of the Order, the passing this time would have to be accomplished another way. He would not allow Philip or the Church to win. They would only learn what he knew when he wanted them to know. What had the Psalm said? Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs like a sharp razor, working deceitfully.
    But then another biblical passage occurred to him, one that brought a measure of comfort to his beleaguered soul. So as he lay wrapped in the shroud, his body pouring forth blood and sweat, he thought of Deuteronomy.
    Let me alone, that I may destroy them.
     
     
    COPENHAGEN, DENMARK THURSDAY, JUNE 22, THE PRESENT 2:50 PM
    COTTONMALONE SPOTTED THE KNIFE AT THE SAME TIME HE SAWStephanie Nelle. He was sitting at a table outside the Café Nikolaj, comfortable in a white lattice chair. The sunny afternoon was pleasant and Højbro Plads, the popular Danish square that spanned out before him, bristled with people. The café was doing its usual brisk business—the mood feverish—and for the past half hour he’d been waiting for Stephanie.
    She was a petite woman, in her sixties, though she never confirmed her age and the Justice Department personnel records that Malone once saw contained only a winkingN /Ain the space reserved for date of birth. Her dark hair