The Pegasus Secret Read online

  OVER THE EDGE

  There was no guard rail. On the right, Lang could see occasional tree tops and roofs of the town far below. Twice he saw a large bird below, wings outstretched over the farmland as it coasted along thermals. On this motorcycle, he thought, I’m almost that free.

  He was never sure what pulled him from the euphoria of the day. He only knew he was surprised on one of the short straight stretches to see the bike’s mirrors filled with a truck. Not the eighteen-wheeled behemoth of American Interstates, but large enough to fill its half of the road.

  Lang leaned into a sweeping right-hand turn and set up for a hairpin to the left. No doubt about it, the truck was gaining on them, swerving all over the road as it struggled to stay on the pavement.

  Lang searched ahead for a turn-off, even a space between paving and mountainside. There were none. Straight drop right, perpendicular rise left. Nowhere to go.

  Taking his left, non-throttle hand from the handlebar, Lang tapped Gurt’s leg and pointed behind. He heard a German expletive over the roar of the truck’s engine. She squeezed him tighter.

  The bike shuddered as its fiberglass rear fender shattered and Lang braced against the impact. The bastard intended to run them over! He opened the throttle to stop.

  How had they found him?

  Other books by Gregg Loomis:

  The Coptic Secret

  The Sinai Secret

  Gates of Hades

  The Julian Secret

  THE

  PEGASUS

  SECRET

  GREGG LOOMIS

  DORCHESTER PUBLISHING

  January 2011

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  200 Madison Avenue

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2005 by Gregg Loomis

  Nicolas Poussin, The Shepherds of Arcadia

  Photo Credit: Réunion des Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, NY

  Louvre, Paris, France

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1142-2

  E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-1104-0

  The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Mary Jack Wald, my agent, whose help and suggestions were priceless, not to mention her efforts to make sure this book saw print. Thanks to Don D’Auria, editor, for his help, too. Henry Lincoln’s video on Rennes-le-Chateau was helpful, as were the suggested translation of the Latin puzzle in Poussin’s painting by Richard Andrews and Paul Schellenberger’s Tomb of God.

  THE

  PEGASUS

  SECRET

  PROLOGUE

  Rennes-Le-Château

  Southwest France

  1872

  Father Saunière had made a strange discovery.

  The roll of vellum parchment was so old that the ribbon tying the sheets together had crumbled into dust when he took the bundle from its hiding place in the altar. He had never seen writing like this, faded lines that looked more like worm tracks than script.

  He had been doing some work in the little church, repairs his parish could ill afford to hire out. The roof leaked, a number of the pews were going to collapse without new nails and the altar . . . Well, the altar was older than the church itself.

  He frowned as he looked up at the altar. Basically a stone slab, centuries of serving the Holy Eucharist had worn it so unevenly that it was about to fall from the two short plinths supporting it. Even at six feet and over two hundred pounds, he had barely been able to lift the block from its supports. That was when he had discovered that one of the columns was hollow—with the parchments inside.

  No one knew the origins of the altar. Saunière supposed it had come from the ruins of one of the many castles nearby. Its intricate carvings were far too elaborate for a church whose poor box rarely yielded more than a few sous at a time.

  The area was old. Romans, Templars, perhaps even Moors when it had been part of Catalonia in Spain. The altar could have come from any one of their chapels.

  Or Cathars or Gnostics.

  The possibility that the altar could have been part of heretic or pagan services made Saunière wince. God alone knew what heathen use the stone might have served. He looked over his shoulder as though someone might be there to reproach him for the thought.

  Mere objects could not be evil, he told himself. Still, holding these pages made him uncomfortable. It might be best if they were destroyed. No, that was not his decision to make. He would show them to the bishop on the prelate’s next visit, let authority decide.

  What harm could mere inanimate documents do, anyway?

  The answer came to him as he was conducting evening mass: It had been paper nailed to a cathedral door that had torn the church apart forever.

  Part One

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  Paris

  0234 hours

  The explosion shook the entire Place des Vosges as well as a good part of the Marais district. Had the thirty-six town houses, nine on each side of the square, been built with less sturdy material than the handmade bricks of four centuries past, the damage might have been greater. Even so, the antique glass had been blown out of every window of the largest of these stately homes, the former Hôtel de Rohan-Guéménée, the second floor of which had been the home of Victor Hugo.

  The only real damage, though, was to number 26, the source of the blast. By the time the pompiers from the 11th arrondissement, the district fire department, arrived twelve minutes later, the building was four stories of inferno. Saving the house and its occupants was not a possibility.

  A line of gendarmes kept spectators a respectful distance from the blaze while others interviewed bathrobe- clad residents. One man, an apparent insomniac, told the officers he had been watching a rerun of the past year’s World Cup championship match when he had heard a crash of shattering glass followed by a flash of light brighter than any he had ever seen. Rushing to the window, he had nearly been blinded by the intensity of the blaze.

  The glass, the policeman asked, could it have crashed when something was thrown through a window?

  The man stuffed a fist into his yawning mouth, his interest diminishing now that the best part of the show was over. How does one distinguish between glass shattering when something is thrown into it rather than something being thrown out? He shrugged as only the French can, conveying uninterested ignorance as well as annoyance at a stupid question. “Je ne sais pas.”

  He turned to go back home, almost bumping into a middle-aged man in a suit. The spectator wondered what anyone would be doing in business attire at this hour. Not only dressed, but in a shirt freshly starched, jacket and trousers neatly pressed. He shrugged a second time and trudged homeward wondering if TV reception in the neighborhood had been affected by the fire.

  The gendarme touched the brim of his cap with a nod, an almost involun
tary sign of respect as he wished the new arrival, “Bon soir.” A straightening of the back and an air of deference were obvious. It was not every neighborhood fire that drew the attention of the Department of State Security and Investigation, the DGSE.

  The DGSE man gave the slightest of nods before staring intently into what was now a smoldering shell. Plumbing, twisted by the heat, poking into emptiness like supplicating arms. The adjacent homes exhibited an ugly black patina of soot as they stared onto the square with windows void of glass. Hot embers hissed with steam as firemen hosed them down. It was as if a shaft straight from hell had broken through the earth’s surface where the townhouse had once stood.

  “Any idea as to the cause?” the DGSE man asked.

  The fireman was fairly certain the nation’s security service would not be interested in leaking gas or a match carelessly dropped into the home’s supply of kerosene. “No sir, none.” He pointed. “The chief fire inspector is over there.”

  The security department man stood for a moment as though digesting the information before walking over to a short man almost swallowed by his flame-retardant uniform and knee-high boots. The impression was of a child playing in his parents’ clothes.

  The security man displayed a badge. “Louvere, DGSE. Any idea as to the cause?”

  The fireman, too tired to be impressed by what was, after all, just one more bureaucrat, shook his head. “Whatever set it off, it had help from some sort of accelerant. I’d be surprised if it was an accident.”

  Louvere nodded in apparent agreement. “Ether in an adjoining unit, perhaps?”

  The fireman gave a derisive snort. Ether was used in the process of turning cocaine powder into “rocks” of more potent crack. Few narcotic dealers knew (or cared) how to handle the highly volatile anesthetic safely. Misapplication of the heat necessary to the process could and did frequently result in spectacular results.

  “In this neighborhood?” He swept a hand, indicating the pricey homes. A three-day tournament had been held here in 1615 to celebrate the marriage of Louis XII. The Place had been home to Cardinal Richelieu and other notables. Duels had been fought in the center of the square while spectators watched from the shelter of the arcades that fronted the buildings. In 1962 President de Gaulle had declared the Place a national historic monument. The prices of homes here, in the rare event one became available, were not set to be attractive to crack labs.

  Louvere’s eyes followed the fireman’s gesture, taking in the perfect symmetry of the pink brick buildings. “I suppose not.”

  “Besides,” the fireman said, “DGSE hardly bothers itself with the dope trade. What’s your involvement?”

  “Let’s say it is personal. I have a friend, an old acquaintance in the States, who asked me to meet his sister, show her around Paris. She was staying with a schoolmate in number 26. Someone I had introduced her to called, said he had heard there was trouble here. So I came.”

  The fireman rubbed a grubby hand across his forehead. “If she was in there . . . Well, it will take our forensic people a few days to identify whatever’s left, probably have to do it by DNA.”

  The security man sighed as his shoulders slumped. “I don’t look forward to making that phone call.”

  The fireman nodded sympathetically. “Give me your card. I’ll personally see to it you get a copy of the report.”

  “Thank you.” Louvere gave one final glance at the gaping cavern that only hours before had been one of the most desirable residences in Paris. Shoulders stooped as though bearing the weight of the world, he walked past the yellow fire trucks that seemed like living animals with each breath-like stroke of their pumps. A short way down the narrow street, a Peugeot was waiting at the curb.

  2

  Paris

  Three days later

  The driver reached over the seat to shake his passenger awake. The man in the backseat of the taxi looked even more worn than most Americans the cabby picked up at Charles de Gaulle after a transatlantic flight: clothes rumpled, shirt wrinkled, face unshaven. Once the man was awake, his eyes were the true sign of weariness. Red- rimmed as though from a combination of grief and lack of sleep, they had a stare that seemed to focus on something a thousand miles away until he started counting out euros.

  Stuffing the bills in his pocket, the driver watched the man enter a nondescript building across from the Place de l’Opéra.

  Inside, the American passed antique elevators to climb worn steps to the second floor where he turned right and stopped. In front of him was what appeared to be an unmarked old-fashioned glass door. He knew the single translucent pane was the hardest bulletproof glass available. Slowly he lifted his head to stare at the ceiling where he was sure shadows concealed a camera. Noiselessly, the door slid open and he entered a small chamber facing yet another door, this one made of steel.

  “Oui?” a woman’s voice asked through a speaker.

  “Langford Reilly to see Patrick Louvere,” the man said in English. “He’s expecting me.”

  As noiselessly as the first, the second door opened and Lang Reilly entered one of many offices of France’s security force. In front of him stood a man in a dark, Italian-cut suit. The shirt was crisp and the shoes reflected the ceiling lights. In years past, Lang and Dawn had joked that Patrick Louvere must change his clothes several times a day to look so fresh.

  Louvere regarded Lang a moment through heavily lidded eyes, eyes that had always reminded Lang of a basset hound. “Langford!” he exclaimed, continuing in nearly ac- centless English as he embraced his guest. “It has been, what? Ten, fifteen years? Too long for friends to be apart.” He stepped back, a hand still on each of Lang’s arms. “You should have called. We could have sent a car.”

  Lang nodded. “A cab seemed the quickest way, but thanks.”

  The Frenchman dropped his hands. “I cannot tell you how sorry . . .”

  “I appreciate that, Patrick, but can we get started?”

  Louvere was not offended by what most of his countrymen would have considered brusqueness. Americans were famous for getting to the point. “But of course!” He turned and spoke to someone Lang could not see. “Coffee, please, Paulette. This way, Lang.”

  Lang followed him down a hall. It had been almost twenty years since he had last been here but other than newer carpet, as cheap and institutional as before, little had changed.

  Happily, neither had his relationship with Patrick Louvere. Although their respective governments had frequent differences—the most vocal being the war with Iraq—the American and the Frenchman had remained steadfast friends. Patrick had gladly volunteered to do whatever he could for Lang’s sister, Janet, during her visit with a former school chum in Paris. Since Janet was bringing her adopted son, Jeff, the Frenchman had insisted on taking the young boy into his own home daily to play with his own children while Janet and her friend prowled the shops of Rue du Faubourg St. Honore. It had been Patrick’s phone call that had shattered Lang’s world for a second time.

  The DGSE man ushered Lang into the same office he remembered and slid behind a desk clear of anything other than a slender file folder. Almost immediately, a middle-aged woman appeared with a coffee service and began to set cups on the desk. Although he felt he had consumed a tanker load of the stuff lately, Lang was too tired to protest.

  “So, you are a lawyer now?” Patrick asked, obviously making conversation until the men could be alone. “You sue the big American companies for millions of dollars, no?”

  Lang shook his head. “Actually, I do white-collar criminal defense.”

  The Frenchman pursed his lips. “White-collar? Criminal?” He looked as distressed as if he had been forced to mention the words “Australian” and “wine” in the same sentence. “You defend criminals with white collars?”

  “You know, crimes that involve business executives. Nonviolent: embezzlement, fraud, that sort of thing.”

  “The kind of criminal that can pay your fee.”

  “Ex
actly.”

  The woman left the room, closing the door behind her, and Patrick slid the folder across the polished desk top.

  Lang looked at it without touching it. “Still no idea who or why?”

  Patrick shook his head sadly. “No, none. We found strong traces of aluminum, iron oxide and a nitrogen accelerant.”

  “Thermite? Jesus, that’s not something some nutcase cooks up in his basement like a fertilizer bomb, that’s what the military uses to destroy tanks, armor, something requiring intense heat.”

  “Which accounts for how quickly the building burned.”

  Patrick was avoiding the subject of Lang’s main concern. The news, therefore, was going to be bad. Lang swallowed hard. “The occupants . . . you found . . . ?”

  “Three, as I told you on the phone I was certain we would. Your sister, her adopted son and their hostess, Let- tie Barkman.”

  Lang had known it was coming, but the irrational part of his mind had held a flicker of hope that somehow Janet and Jeff had not been there. It was like hearing a death sentence at the end of a trial where the result was a foregone conclusion. It just couldn’t be possible, not in a sane world. Instead of Patrick across the desk, he saw Janet, her eyes twinkling in amusement at a world she refused to take seriously. And Jeff, the child his divorced sister had found in one of those fever-ridden countries south of Mexico, Jeff with the brown skin, dark eyes and profile that could have been taken from a Mayan carving. Jeff with his baseball cap turned backwards, over-sized shorts and high-top sneakers. Jeff, Lang’s ten-year-old best buddy and as close as Lang would ever come to having a son.

  Lang did nothing to wipe away the tears running down his cheek. “Who would want to . . . ?”

  From somewhere Patrick produced a handkerchief. “We don’t know. The Barkman woman was a rich American divorcée living in Paris, but as far as we can tell, she had no ties to political extremists. In fact, we can find no one among her friends who even knows what her politics were. Your sister was a doctor, a . . .”