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He edges closer, listening to the older man’s comments with keen interest, a critical ear, and rising irritation. Fournier’s no Dominican, but he’s taken a keen interest in the Inquisition since his arrival at Fontfroide. Geographically, the center of the Inquisition — Toulouse — is near Fournier’s abbey; theologically, the spirit of the Inquisition is close to Fournier’s stern and austere heart. During the past year, in fact, he’s spent weeks in Toulouse, observing and admiring the work of Bernard Gui, the devout Dominican whose masterful wielding of physical pain, theological cunning, and abject terror has broken hundreds of heretics during his seven years as Chief Inquisitor. Fournier wonders if Gui is here today, but he doubts that the Inquisitor’s busy schedule allows him time to travel from Toulouse to Paris, even for such a worthy cause.
Suddenly, from the knot of Dominicans, he hears Gui’s name spoken aloud, as if the older friar has somehow been reading his thoughts. The man is speaking in Latin so that the rabble around him cannot understand, but his words are clear to Fournier. The Dominican is criticizing Gui — and not just criticizing him, but mocking him: mocking a brother friar, and the Chief Inquisitor at that. “He has the fierceness of a bull,” the man says with a smile. “The intelligence of a bull, too.”
Fournier pushes sideways, further closing the distance between himself and the Dominican. The movement catches the eye of the friar, and when he meets Fournier’s gaze, Fournier calls to him in Latin: “Would you dare to say such things about Bernard if he were here to listen?”
The older man registers mild surprise, but not the contrition and fear that Fournier expected from him. “My words will reach his ears soon enough, I feel certain,” he says to the hulking young Cistercian. “When you relay them, be sure to tell Brother Bernard who spoke them: Johannes Eckhart, master and chair of Dominican theology here at the University of Paris.” He bows, with a slight smile and a sideways tilt to his head — is he mocking Fournier now? — and then turns his back on the indignant abbot.
“God is not pleased,” Fournier mutters beneath his breath. He considers pushing through the half-dozen people who stand between them, considers teaching the old man a lesson in respect. Suddenly a shout ripples up the shore, like a bow wave from the boat that is making its way upstream toward the Isle of the Jews, making its way toward the towering stake and the stacks of wood.
The boat, rowed by eight men, carries half a dozen of the king’s guards, as well as Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charny. One of the guards raises a flaming torch high overhead, and the mob roars.
* * *
The pyre burns until midnight. The two templars are long since incinerated, but the crowd lingers, loath to leave until every stick of wood is consumed.
When the flames finally gutter and die, the Order of the Knights Templar has been extinguished. But hanging in the air, like the lingering smoke and the scent of charred flesh, is the dying cry of Grand Master Jacques de Molay: “I summon the king and the pope to meet me before God!”
CHAPTER 1
Sevierville, Tennessee
The Present
I heard a click in my headset, followed by the voice of the TBI pilot. “Dr. Brockton, you okay back there?”
“I’m still kinda puckered from that takeoff,” I answered, “but yeah, I’m fine.”
He laughed. “I’ll go easier on the landing.”
He circled the plume of smoke, which rose from the ruins of a house. Fifty yards away was what might have been an airstrip except for the fact that it was hemmed in by houses. I pointed at the ribbon of asphalt. “What’s up with that? Looks like they accidentally put a runway smack-dab in the middle of a neighborhood.”
“They did, but not by accident,” the pilot said. “This is Smoky Mountain Airpark. A subdivision for aviation nuts. Instead of a garage, every house has its own airplane hangar.”
A small fleet of vehicles ringed the smoldering hangar and half-burned house we landed beside. In addition to the helicopter, I counted four fire trucks — two of them still spraying water on the house — plus three Sevier County Sheriff’s Office cruisers and four unmarked cars, which I supposed were TBI vehicles.
I was only half right, I learned when four investigators met me halfway between the helicopter and the house.
“Good to see you again, Doc,” shouted Steve Morgan over the ebbing noise of the turbine and the rotor wash. Steve had majored in anthropology, but he’d been working for the TBI for about ten years now, and he was the one who’d called to ask if I could take a quick look at a death scene. “Where’s your assistant? Miranda? I thought you two were joined at the ileum.”
“She’s in France for the summer,” I yelled. “Left a couple days ago. On a dig with some fancy French archaeologist.” Whatever expression my face was showing, it made him laugh.
“Doc, do you know Dave Pendergrast, from our Sevier County office?”
“I didn’t, but I do now. Good to meet you.” I shook Pendergrast’s hand.
“This is Special Agent Craig Drucker, of the FBI,” Steve went on. He turned and nodded toward a man striding toward us from the ruined building. “And Special Agent Robert Stone of the Drug Enforcement Administration.”
I smiled. “No need to introduce me to this guy,” I said. “Rocky Stone and I go way back. Last time we worked together was that big meth-lab explosion that killed a couple guys up in Scott County. That was, what, three, four years ago, Rocky?”
“Ha. More like six or eight.” He grinned. “My oldest kid was being born while you were piecing those two bodies together.” I smiled, remembering how antsy Rocky had been to get to the hospital to see his wife and the baby, and how proud he’d been the next day when I dropped by the maternity ward to see them. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Rocky said. “Sorry we kept you in the dark on the ride over.”
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” I assured him. “I’ll do just about anything for a helicopter ride.”
The subdivision wasn’t just an aviation nut’s dream; it was also, the DEA agent explained, a drug runner’s dream. “For the past year,” Rocky said, “we’ve been investigating a smuggling ring based in Colombia. They’ve been flying cocaine into small airports all over the Southeast, changing the drop point every time. But this place is perfect as a more permanent base — a clandestine hub, I guess you could call it. No control tower, very little traffic, virtually no risk of detection. You land whenever you’ve got a shipment, taxi the plane into your own private hangar, lock the door, and unload in complete privacy. This operation could have run without a hitch for years.”
“So what happened?” I asked, nodding at the smoking ruins. “Turf war? A raid that got too hot to handle?”
“I wish,” Rocky said. “One of our undercover agents had infiltrated the operation. What’s left of him is there, in what’s left of the hangar. We’ve got an arson investigator coming, but we’d like you to examine the body. See if he died during the fire or died before the fire. We need to know if it was an accident or a homicide.”
“Dr. Garcia’s the medical examiner,” I pointed out. “He’s got primary jurisdiction here.” Dr. Edelberto Garcia — Eddie — served as ME for Knoxville, Knox County, and several surrounding counties.
“Actually, we called Dr. Garcia just before we called you. He says if the body’s rotten or burned, you’re the guy to look at it.”
“That’s damned decent of Eddie,” I joked, “letting me have all the good ones.” All four agents smiled.
“The scary thing is,” Rocky said, “the Doc’s not being sarcastic. He actually means it.”
The truth was, Rocky was right. I actually did.
* * *
The dead agent was maurice watson, alias “Perry Hutchinson,” whom the DEA had planted as the manager of the airpark. Six months before, working through the drug smugglers’ distributors in Atlanta, Hutchinson had offered them a sweet deal: a house, a hangar, and a key to the gas pump in exchange for a small cut of the profi
ts.
“They brought in the first load two weeks ago,” said Rocky. “It was small — just a test run. Smooth as silk. They were planning another run next week. A big load. We were all set to come down on them. But somebody got spooked — or got tipped off.” He shook his head grimly. “You ready to take a look?”
