"I'm still not sure that this isn't all a waste of time," said Rafi, finally. It had been a theme he'd been harping on ever since they'd arrived in France, and his chafing arguments were starting to irritate Holliday. "I can't see how talking to this Pierre Ducos is going to get us any closer to finding Peggy." The Israeli shook his head. "We should be talking to the police in Alexandria."
"That and five dollars at Starbucks should be just about enough for a cup of coffee in Egypt," Holliday answered, negotiating yet another hairpin turn on the tree- covered hillside. The Peugeot was beginning to strain and he dropped the transmission into low. "You really think the Egyptian authorities are going to give much time and energy to an Israeli and his American friend trying to track down a bunch of Catholic priests?" He glanced over at his companion. "Or do you have friends in the Mukhabarat that I don't know about?" he asked, referring to the Egyptian version of the CIA.
"I've told you a hundred times, Doc: I went to school with a guy who works for Mossad now. As far as I know he does something with computers. That's my only connection with spooks and spies, really." He shook his head again, his expression tense with worry. "If I had pull with Israeli Intelligence I would have used it by now, believe me."
"Whatever," Holliday answered wearily. "We'll see what Ducos has to say and take it from there."
"What makes you think he'll even talk to you?" Rafi asked.
"I know the secret handshake," replied Holliday.
They made a final turn and drove through the twin-towered, high-arched gate in the fortress wall that surrounded the town. The streets were narrow, stone buildings on either side almost a thousand years old, windows shuttered, roofs slate, doors with iron strap hinges. There wasn't a modern building to be seen. They found the French lawyer's office in a small building next to a bistro named Godard with a sign showing a plump goose waddling across a village street. Directly across from the office there was a tiny hotel called the Relais des Chevaliers. The street was so narrow Holliday had to park the car with the offside wheels up on the sidewalk to give another vehicle space to pass.
"Built for horses and carts, not cars," commented Holliday. He knocked on the heavy wooden-planked door and waited. Nothing happened.
"Maybe he's not there," Rafi said.
Holliday rapped harder. Still nothing.
"Maybe he doesn't exist," said Rafi, his tone a little acidic.
Holliday ignored the comment. He tried the latch and the door opened. He stuck his head into the doorway. The interior of the building was dark and cool. Holliday stepped into a cramped, low-ceilinged hallway. Rafi followed. The walls were plaster, mottled with age. There was a wrought iron chandelier above them that looked as though it had been designed for candles. "Hello?" Holliday called out. Somewhere there was a rasping cough.
"Viens," called out a thin voice. Come. The voice echoed from behind a door on the left side of the hallway. Holliday opened the door and stepped inside the room, Rafi on his heels.
The office was from another time, like something out of Les Miserables.
An ancient case clock ticked away loudly in one corner. Rows of wooden file cabinets lined one wall and a spindly-looking secretary's desk with pigeonhole cubicles above it stood against another. Light leaked into the room through cracks in the shutters over the large window, dust dancing in the broad beams of sun. The floors were wide yellow oak planks worn smooth of any varnish. Looking out from across an enormous desk, a large man with wavy snow-white hair sat in a high-backed velvet chair. There were two identical chairs on the other side of the desk.
The man appeared to be in his late seventies or early eighties, fat but well preserved. His skin had the faintly translucent look of parchment. His nose was a beak and the eyes were large and gray behind half-lens reading glasses framed in bright blue plastic. He was wearing a wide-lapel blue suit that had gone out of style half a century ago.
The front of the jacket was speckled with bits of ash from the fuming curved stem pipe held between the large man's lips. From where Holliday stood it looked as though the pants were drawn up almost to his elbows. The shirt was as white as the man's luxurious head of hair and obviously starched.
"Mr. Ducos?" Holliday asked.
"Oui," said the fat man. "Je suis Ducos."
"Do you speak English?"
"Of course," said Ducos. "Several other languages as well, including a little Hebrew." He smiled pleasantly at Rafi.
"I didn't know it showed," said the archaeologist.
"It doesn't," said Ducos. "But I'm well aware of who you are, Dr. Wanounou, and you as well, Colonel Holliday."
"And how's that?" Holliday asked.
"On the telephone you said you knew Helder Rodrigues, Colonel," said Ducos. "That is sufficient to catch my attention."
"You knew him?" Holliday asked. The south of France was a long way from the remote island in the Azores that had been the old man's home.
"For many years." Ducos paused. "Do you know what I seek?" he asked obscurely.
"You seek what was lost," answered Holliday. Rafi gave him a long look.
"And who lost it?"
"The King lost it."
"And where is the King?"
"Burning in Hell," said Holliday with a smile.
"Do you mind letting me in on your secret?" Rafi asked. "I'm feeling a little bit out of the loop."
Ducos explained. "After the dissolution of the Templars under the aegis of King Philip in 1307, fugitive members of the Order needed a way of recognizing each other safely. They devised a number of secret exchanges."
"The secret handshake," said Holliday.
"That particular one was used between Father Rodrigues and myself," Ducos continued. "It was written in the back of the notebook he kept." He looked at Holliday. "You have it?"
"Yes." He took it out of the inside pocket of his jacket and slid it across the desk toward the old man. Ducos's large, age- gnarled hand reached out and he laid his palm over the notebook. Holliday saw that a tear had formed in the corner of one eye. Ducos made no move to wipe it away.
"His blood?" Ducos asked.
"Yes. He died protecting the secret of the scrolls," said Holliday. "He died in my arms."
"So Tavares told me," Ducos said and nodded. Manuel Tavares, the captain of the fishing boat San Pedro and the other gatekeeper of the Templar hoard on the island of Corvo.
"We have a problem," said Rafi urgently.
"Do you refer to the disappearance of Miss Blackstock in Egypt or the recent attempt on the life of Colonel Holliday?" Ducos asked.
"You know about that?" Holliday said, startled. "It's barely been forty-eight hours."
Ducos took the pipe out of his mouth and smiled, the thin lips opening to reveal a neat row of large, pure white and obviously false teeth, made in some long-ago era.
"One of the advantages of belonging to an order that has been in existence for close to a thousand years is the number and the extent of the ears to the ground which are available," said the old man.
"The man who tried to kill me isn't important now; we have to find Peggy. Quickly," replied Holliday.
"Tell me everything you know," said Ducos.
In the end it wasn't very much. The Frenchman listened to what there was, leaning back in his chair and puffing on his pipe. When Rafi was finished, Ducos asked Holliday a few questions about the attack at West Point, then fell silent, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. Finally he spoke, the words measured and precise.