“Yes,” he said, watching her face as he did it again. “There you are.”

With his hands and his mouth alternately ravishing her breasts, he worked in and out of her body, dragging the heavy thickness out before driving it back in again, over and over. Simone could feel the lounge shuddering beneath her, and heard the low, gasping sounds that escaped her lips and the liquid glide of his penis as he went deep into her core. Only some remnant of pride forced her to resist the delight that coiled inside her, begging to be released.

Simone could not bear it another moment. “Please.”

He lifted his mouth from her nipple, his eyes glittering as he took her hand and brought it to the juncture of their bodies. Gripping her forefinger, he pressed the end into the top of her sex, rubbing the pad of her fingertip against the wet knot there.

Simone tried to pull her hand away, but he held on and whispered to her, words that made her cringe and pant and whimper. He told her how it felt to be inside her, to watch his cock push into her, to feel her body tightening around him, to see the bulge of her sex. As he spoke he made her stroke her clit faster, harder, matching the rhythm with his hips, until he brought her finger to his mouth and sucked on it.

Pleasure took her apart as her body convulsed under his. Korvel shoved deep into the heart of her delight, shuddering as his semen erupted in long, hard jets.

Chapter 11

P

ájaro waited for nightfall before he entered Le Panier, Marseilles’s oldest quartier. Once the refuge of whores, sailors, and other scum from the docks, the shameful ghetto had been gradually revitalized by a curious infusion of new blood. Artisans, always in need of cheap lodgings, had first gravitated to the rough shantytown to rent rooms and studio space in its tall, squash-colored houses with their ladder-long white shutters. Of course, they had to peddle their wares as well, which ranged from decorative pots to hand-painted santons, tiny figurines used in traditional crèches to illustrate the Nativity scene. In time the stink of fish, liquor, and sex for sale had faded from the alleys, replaced by the pungent aromas of damp pots, gas kilns, and sunscreen-slathered tourists.

As he climbed the stone steps to a side street, Pájaro sensed someone coming up behind him. He glanced up at the washing-draped balconies, seeing only an amber cat with copper eyes staring down at him, before he turned to face his shadow.

Middle age and all its disappointments had soured the woman’s triangular features, and just-freshened makeup failed to disguise the cobwebs of capillaries alcohol addiction had started to spread on either side of her hooked nose.

“Do you want something, mademoiselle?”

Her clumpy lashes fluttered with grotesque coyness as she assessed his clothes and the location of his pockets. “I’m just having a walk. Are you going to the Twelve Coins? They have live music.” She shimmied around in an uneven circle to demonstrate her deplorable dancing skills.

“I don’t drink or dance.” He continued up the steps, knowing she would follow, listening for the second pair of footsteps as her partner tailed them. He changed direction, leading them to the back of a busy restaurant’s kitchen, where he retreated to the shadows.

An overweight, burly man caught up with the barfly and yanked at her arm. “Where did he go?”

“I didn’t see.” When her companion went still, she made an impatient sound. “Come on, Porci, I haven’t…” She darted out of the way as the man toppled over, and shrieked at the blade sticking out of his back.

“Shhhh.” Pájaro clapped a hand over her mouth as he dragged her back behind some plastic crates of bottled water.

A short time later he emerged alone, and took two bottles from the crates to rinse the blood from his hands and his dagger. He yanked down a towel from a low-hanging balcony and used it to dry his hands before he dropped it in a rubbish container a block away.

Squeezed between a narrow gallery of arts Africains and a garden container shop, Pájaro found number eight Rue Méry, the current residence of Bonafacio Puget, formerly the department chair of medieval studies at a prestigious Paris university. The professor, who had retired to pursue his lifelong ambition of writing the definitive history of the French Church, was also the country’s leading expert on the Knights Templar.

A man too young to be Puget answered the door, yawning as he asked, “Can’t you read?”

Pájaro glanced at the faded red Aucune Sollicitation sign posted in corner of the front window. “I am not a salesman. Where is Professor Puget?”

“He’s an old man; he’s sleeping. Come back in the— Hey!” He recovered from being shoved aside and tried to get in front of Pájaro as he stepped inside. “You can’t come in here.”

“Yet I have.” He caught the younger man’s hand before he could touch him. “Who are you?”

“I am Puget’s assistant, Alain. Let go, you—”

“Listen carefully, Puget’s assistant.” Pájaro applied enough pressure to his wrist bones to make him squawk like a chicken. “Take me to him, or you’ll be picking your nose left-handed for life.”

He kept hold of the boy as he shuffled down the corridor and into a room cluttered with old books, new computer equipment, and the stodgy decor of the lifelong academic. Hundreds of handwritten papers lay sticking out of books, protruded from folders and binders, and formed scattered piles over every horizontal surface. Near the fireplace an old man sat slumped in an overstuffed armchair, a fat tabby curled on his lap.

“Professor,” Alain whimpered, startling the cat into jumping down and scampering away. “Wake up. Professor.”

Puget lifted a hand and swatted at the air. “Go home, boy. We will continue tomorrow.”

“Puget.” Pájaro waited until the old man’s eyes blinked open. “I am in need of your expertise.”

“What?” The professor hoisted himself into a more upright position. “I don’t cater to any connard who demands it. Are you not right in the head? Get out.”

Pájaro put down his case, drew the blade from his forearm sheath, and yanked Alain back against him. The boy yelped until he felt the edge of the blade pressing against his windpipe.

“How do you feel about Alain continuing to breathe through his mouth?” As the old man grabbed for the phone beside his chair, Pájaro cut the boy enough to spill blood. “At this hour, it will take emergency services five minutes to arrive, by which time both of you will be quite brain-dead.”

Puget slowly replaced the receiver. “What do you want?”

He released Alain, shoving him toward the professor’s desk. “Clear off the top of that. Quickly.”

Puget went to help the boy, who sobbed as he gathered up papers. The professor offered him a crumpled handkerchief before he shoved everything on the desk off one edge.

“Good.” Pájaro picked up his case, carrying it over to the desk and opening it. He also swept out his leg to trip Alain as the boy tried to run past him for the door. With a back sweep of his boot, he knocked the boy unconscious. “Translate the contents of this scroll for me.”

Puget glanced down at the case and drew in his lips. “I am not a linguist, monsieur.”

“You have translated books written in several languages dating back to the twelfth century,” Pájaro reminded him. “I know all about you, Professor. I ran your name through Google.” He reached over and tugged back the cloth covering the scroll. “This was inscribed during the thirteenth century. For you, it should be like reading a menu from a chalkboard.”

The luster of the gold worked its magic on the old man; he couldn’t take his eyes off the treasure. “If I do this, if I give you what you want, will you go?”

“You have my word; I will go,” Pájaro promised.

Puget removed a pair of white cloth gloves from a drawer, slipping them over his hands before he removed the scroll from the case. The weight of it caught him off guard, and he nearly dropped it before placing it to one side and moving the case out of his way.

Pájaro dragged one of the computer chairs over to the side of the desk, where he sat to watch as the professor examined the scroll. “There are clamps on either end.”

“So I see.” Puget made no move to release them, but turned over the two cylinders before he reached into his pocket for his reading glasses. “Where did you steal this from?”

He chuckled. “It belonged to my father.”

“It belongs in a museum.” Puget glanced at Alain’s slack features before he released the clamps and rolled the larger cylinder apart from the smaller. He frowned, reaching to switch on the desk lamp before he bent close. “This is not paper or parchment. It is gold.”

“That I already knew.”

“It is woven from threads of solid gold and some other metal, then embossed by hand tools. I have never seen the like.” His head bobbed as he examined the first row of symbols. “I cannot help you with this, monsieur.”

“You care so little for Alain?”

“You misunderstand my meaning.” Puget pointed to the script. “This is not a language. It is a code. A system of ancient pictographs invented and used by a small group of men. The key has never been found, and the code has never been deciphered. I know; I tried to crack it myself for thirty years without success.”

He nodded. “Tell me about these men.”

“Why?” Puget’s upper lip curled. “They were disgraced Templars, and they are all dead.”

Pájaro leaned forward. “How were they disgraced?”

“There have always been rumors about them. Nonsense, for the most part.” The professor pushed his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to rub his eyes. “They were said to have traded their souls to Satan for his favors, and for such were cursed by God and cast out by their own brotherhood. One account claims that de Mornay himself had them excommunicated and driven out of France for their unholy practices. Some say they returned to the Holy Land and died there trying to redeem themselves. Others believe they fled to the Far East.”