They made for higher ground, and at last found themselves in what appeared to be an uninhabited region of the Corbière Hills. There were no houses, and no livestock. Hall figured that any animals that had once grazed had been killed for food by the Nazis.

It started to rain. Hall’s feet were damp. The top brass had taken the view that the new buckled combat boots recently issued to soldiers would suffice for winter once treated with dubbin, but Hall now had conclusive evidence, if further evidence were needed, that even in the wet grass this was not the case. The boots neither repelled water nor retained warmth, and as the two men trudged through the damp undergrowth Hall’s toes began to hurt so badly that his eyes watered. In addition, problems with the supply chain meant that he and Crane were clad only in wool trousers and Ike jackets. Between them, they had four frag grenades, Crane’s M1 (with a spare “immediate use” clip carried on his bandolier sling, for reasons Hall couldn’t quite figure out since Crane had barely managed to fire off a couple of rounds during the ambush), and Hall’s Browning Automatic Rifle. He had nine of his 13x20-round mags left, including the one in the gun, and Crane, as his designated assistant, had two more belts, giving them twenty-five mags in total. They also had four K-rations, two each of Spam and sausage. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good either, not if those Germans found their trail.

“You got any idea where we are?” asked Crane.

“Nope,” said Hall. Of all the men he had to end up with after a goddamned massacre, it would have to be Larry Crane. The guy was unkillable. Hall felt like a pincushion, what with all the splinters that had entered him, and Crane didn’t have a scratch on his body. Still, it was like they said: somebody was looking out for Crane, and by staying close by, a little of that protection had rubbed off on Hall as well. It was a reason to be thankful, he supposed. At least he was alive.

“It’s cold,” said Crane. “And wet.”

“You think I haven’t noticed?”

“You gonna just keep walking until you fall down?”

“I’m gonna keep walking until-”

He stopped. They were on the top of a small rise. To their right, white rocks shone in the moonlight. Farther on, a complex of buildings was silhouetted against the night sky. Hall could make out what looked like a pair of steeples, and great dark windows set into the walls.

“What is it?”

“It’s a church, maybe a monastery.”

“You think there are monks there?”

“Not if they have any sense.”

Crane squatted on the ground, supporting himself with his rifle.

“What do you reckon?”

“We go down, take a look around. Get up.”

He yanked at Crane, smearing blood on the other man’s uniform. He felt stabs of pain run through his hand as some of the splinters were driven farther into his flesh.

“Hey, you got blood on me,” said Crane.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” said Hall. “Real sorry.”

Sandy Crane was talking to her sister on the phone. She liked her sister’s husband. He was a good-looking man. He wore nice clothes and smelled good. He also had money, and wasn’t afraid to spread it around so that his wife could look her best at the golf club, or at the charity dinners that they seemed to attend every second week and about which her sister never tired of telling her. Well, Sandy would show her a thing or two once Larry got his hands on that money. Barely eight hours had elapsed since she opened the letter, but already Sandy had their windfall spent ten times over.

“Yeah,” she said. “Larry looks like he might be coming into a little money. One of his investments paid off, and now we’re just waiting for the check to be cut.”

She paused to listen to her sister’s false congratulations.

“Uh-huh,” said Sandy. “Well maybe we might just come along with you to the club sometime, see about getting us one of those memberships too.”

Sandy couldn’t see her sister proposing the Cranes for membership in her swanky club for fear of being run out of the gates with the dogs at her heels, but it was fun to yank her chain some. She just hoped that, for once, Larry wouldn’t find a way to screw things up.

Hall and Crane were a stone’s throw away from the outer wall when they saw shadows cast by moving lights.

“Down!” whispered Hall.

The two soldiers hugged the wall and listened. They heard voices.

“French,” said Crane. “They’re speaking French.”

He risked a glance over the wall, then rejoined Hall.

“Three men,” he said. “No weapons that I can see.”

The men were moving to the soldiers’ left. Hall and Crane followed them from behind the wall, eventually making their way to the front of the main chapel, where a single door stood open. Above it was a tympanum carved with three bas-reliefs, including a brilliantly rendered crucifixion at the center, but the wall was dominated by a stained-glass oculus and two windows, the traditional reference to the Trinity. Although they were not to know it, the door they were watching was rarely opened for any reason. In the past, it had been unlocked only to receive the remains of the viscounts of Navarre or other benefactors of the abbey to be buried at Fontfroide.

There were noises coming from inside the chapel. Hall and Crane could hear stones being moved and grunts of effort from the men within. A figure passed through the darkness to their right, keeping watch on the road that led to the monastery. His back was to the soldiers. Silently, Hall closed in on him, sliding his bayonet from his belt. When he was close enough, he slapped his hand over the man’s mouth and placed the tip of the knife to his neck.

“Not a move, not a sound,” he said. “Comprenez?”

The man nodded. Hall could see a white robe beneath the man’s tattered greatcoat.

“You’re a monk?” he whispered.

Again, the man nodded.

“How many inside? Use your fingers.”

The monk lifted three fingers.

“They monks too?”

Nod.

“Okay, we’re going inside, you and me.”

Crane joined him.

“Monks,” said Hall. He saw Crane breathe out deeply with relief and felt a little of the same relief himself.

“We don’t take any chances, though,” said Hall. “You cover me.”

He forced the monk down the flight of four stone steps that led to the church door. As they drew closer they could see the lights flickering within. Hall stopped at the entrance and glanced inside.

There was gold on the stone floor: chalices, coins, even swords and daggers that gleamed with gemstones set into their hilts and scabbards. As the monk had said, three men were laboring in the cold surroundings, their breath rising in great clouds, their bodies steaming with sweat. Two were naked from the waist up, forcing a pair of crowbars into the gap between floor and stone. The third, older than the others, stood beside them, urging them on. He had sandals on his feet, almost obscured by his white robes. He called a name, and when no response came he moved toward the door.

Hall stepped into the chapel. He released his grip on the monk and pushed him gently ahead of him. Crane appeared beside him.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re Americans.”

The expression on the old monk’s face didn’t indicate that he thought this was okay at all, and Hall realized that the cleric was just as concerned about the Allies as he was about any other potential threat.

“No,” he said, “you should not be here. You must go. Go!”

He spoke English with only the barest hint of an accent. Behind him, the monks, who had briefly paused in their efforts to shift the stone, now redoubled them.

“I don’t think so,” said Hall. “We’re in trouble. Germans. We lost a lot of guys.”

“Germans?” said the monk. “Where?”

“Near Narbonne,” said Hall. “SS.”