NARBONNE—FRIDAY
Decades of sucking unfiltered Gauloise cigarettes had etched a web of wrinkles around Madame Isner’s mouth, and lipstick bled into the tiny crevices. Those scarlet lips formed a moue of disdain when Lia set her bag on the counter of Saint-Just et Saint-Pasteur’s administrative offices and announced she was there to see Jordí. Even though Lia spoke French as a native, tied her scarf just so, and wrapped her hair in an elegant chignon, Madame Isner sneered at her as if she’d walked in wearing a baseball cap and tennis shoes.
“Father Bonafé is not available,” the secretary snapped.
“We had plans to meet today. I’m Lia Carrer. Father Bonafé said to come at ten.” Lia checked her watch. “I’m a few minutes early. I’ll wait.”
“I know who you are, and you’ll be waiting in vain. Father Bonafé is out of town.”
“Out of town? But we had lunch yesterday. You called to remind him about a finance committee meeting, and he came back here.”
“I did no such thing.” Madame Isner sniffed. “Father Bonafé most certainly did not return here yesterday. At any rate, the finance committee meets every other Tuesday.”
Lia imagined smacking the creamy, red smirk clean off Madame’s face, and she clenched the strap of her bag to keep her hand in place.
“Do you know where I can find him or when he’ll be back?”
“Most certainly not, Mademoiselle Carrer.”
“It is Madame,” she replied, acid dripping from her tone. “May I at least work in the Trésor until lunch?”
“Impossible.” The secretary straightened a stack of papers, smacking the bottom edge against her desk. “No one is allowed to work in the archives without supervision, and I am the only administrator on staff. Not even I have clearance to access the Trésor. It is closed to the public until further notice.”
Lia blew air noisily upward, ruffling her bangs, and slapped her hands on the counter. Madame Isner drew back, her mouth folding into a thousand tiny pleats as her lips pursed in distaste. “So be it,” Lia said. “If you happen to hear from Father Bonafé, I’d be grateful if you’d ask him to contact me immediately.”
“I suggest you leave a note for his mailbox. I am not his personal secretary.”
Lia turned on her heel and left without another word. Back in her car, she pounded the steering wheel with the flat of her palms. Damn you, Jordí. Where do I go now? I have no idea where you live. She’d tried to leave a message earlier, but an automated voice informed her the priest’s number was currently unavailable.
Out of ideas, she drove back to Minerve. On the doorstep of Le Pèlerin sat a large mailing envelope with no name or address.
LE PÈLERIN, MINERVE—SATURDAY AFTERNOON
Lia drained a bottle of San Pellegrino and rolled her head from side to side to loosen her stiff neck. Her eyes throbbed from staring at pages of tiny, intricate handwriting. Photocopies of letters or a private diary, written in a script and language she was struggling to comprehend, were strewn across the dining table. She’d worked on the translations late into the night and started again just after dawn. None contained a salutation, but two had been signed in the same name: Manel.
Even more intriguing were a few occurrences of Latin words wholly familiar to Lia: Militum Xpisti—Soldiers of Christ. The mysterious Knights Templar. Lia pressed finger pads gently against her orbital bones and massaged her tired eyes. Then she read again the note clipped to the inside cover of a file folder:
Lia, the promised collection has been liberated and is now under lock and key in the Trésor. I’ve enclosed only a few of the documents I felt confident sending through our scanner. The rest will need far more precise treatment, when the time is right. But I wanted you to have the first opportunity to explore. I will call soon. Jordí
How had Jordí managed such a coup? If these documents were real, it would mean the archives of Saint-Just et Saint-Pasteur, overseen by Father Jordí Bonafé, had grown from small but important to perhaps the most critical mass of Cathar-related history in France. And no one but he and Lia—and perhaps the unknown “liberator” of the collection from the institute, whom she suspected was Jordí himself—knew where these materials were and possibly the secrets they contained. It could take months, even years, to close the institute and comb out the bureaucratic and legal tangle. For the moment, these materials were their secret.
The archival room at Saint-Just et Saint-Pasteur did not possess a high-resolution, museum-quality scanner of its own. The only photo archive lab in the region worth its salt was housed at the Université Paul-Valéry in Montpellier. The documents’ authenticity would have to be verified independently, but taking the materials to the university would mean admitting to their existence and where they had come from. Lia was aching to get her hands on the originals locked away in the Trésor. Whatever she was searching for, it had to be there.
Sighing, she gathered the papers into a neat stack and placed them in a binder. The kitchen clock read 2:30. She was meeting Lucas in Lastours at 4:00.
He’d sent an email that morning to say he was headed out to capture the castles in the late-afternoon light. His invitation had been breezy and noncommittal.
I don’t know the châteaux very well. If you have time, I’d be grateful for the background while I shoot. The historical perspective always helps the visual one…
Still feeling delicate about how they’d parted in Termes, she had hesitated before finally sending a text. Meet you at visitor’s center, 4:00, she promised.
The mystery of when Jordí had left these letters on her doorstep, why, and where he’d disappeared to would have to wait.