The older man exhaled a jet of blue smoke instantly dispersed by the light wind. "We have served the True Church for some time, yes."

Lang made no effort to keep the contempt out of his voice. "Some service! Murder, blackmail. Hardly Christian v:irtues."

If Silver Hair was offended, he didn't show it. "Regrettably, an imperfect world does not allow the consistent practice of Christian virtues. After all, our Order was founded as a military one, trained in the very unchristian art of war. It was necessary then just as an occasional unchristian act is necessary now. Fortunately, we have the sacrament of confession to shrive us of such sins."

"Including killing women and children?"

He stubbed out his cigarette. "We have no time for ideological argument, Mr. Reilly. Suffice it to say that when we held Jerusalem, one of our number came across certain parchments that lead us here, the same that the priest Saunière found hidden in his altar." He let a smile flicker and die. "We know you are aware of Saunière, Mr. Reilly. Why else would you visit such a forlorn little place as Rennes-le-Château? What we found here on Cardou must be protected, no matter who suffers."

"So much for loving thy neighbor."

With one hand he held the letter, using the other to push himself erect from the rock with a spryness Lang would have associated with a younger man. "Mr. Reilly, I answered your question, that yes, we are the Templars. Now you can do me the curtesy of answering mine or…" He nodded to the goon with the needle.

Cardou

"You best make your shot before he jabs that needle in," the man said to the sniper. "I'd wager it's full of nasty stuff."

The shooter didn't move the scope. "Nothing nastier than the slug Reilly gets in the head should I hurry and miss."

The man bit back a retort. He knew placing a bullet in exactly the desired place from this distance was a skill depending equally on metrology,-mathematics, chemistry, physics and biology.

The longer the shot, the more the slightest breeze must be considered. The propellant of the projectile, gunpowder, had to be of the exact quality anticipated to burn at the rate calculated and provide precisely the power needed. Too little and the shot falls short. Too much is likely to overflatten the trajectory, resulting in overshooting the target. Either way, the velocity of the bullet would not be as anticipated, making it more subject to the other variables such as the weight and speed of the slug.

The shooter had to have the physical attributes required to breath in rhythm with the shot, inhale, exhale, hold, slowly exhaling until just enough air was in the lungs to keep the hands steady but not enough to cause the slightest tremor. The tiniest, most minute error, a single centimeter at this range, would send the bullet wide by several feet.

Gravity also affected the trajectory, depending on whether the shot was up or downhill. The variation made precise scope adjustment necessary.

If it were easy, anyone could do it.

He kept his impatience to himself.

Cardou

1042 hours

At first, Lang thought the man with the needle was going to pray. His knees bent to the kneeling position so slowly that it wasn't until the crack of a shot seconds later that Lang realized something unexpected was happening. The echo was still circling the mountainsides like a startled pigeon as the Templar slumped face-first to the ground, exposing blood and brain matter where the back and top of his head had been.

With one movement, Lang snatched himself free of a grip loosened by surprise, grabbed the copy of the letter and dove for the ground, landing hard enough on the rocky surface to nearly knock the wind out of his lungs. He rolled downhill, trying to ignore the cuts from sharp stones, until he was behind a boulder big enough to hide him from the sight of the three remaining Templars.

A deafening silence is not an oxymoron. The fitful breeze seemed to have quit rattling sand against stone. There was no noise of cars from the distant road. It was so quiet even the memory of the shot's sound was beginning to fade.like a dream. It was as if Lang had gone deaf or sound had ceased to exist.

He could imagine the Templars quietly hiding behind rocks of their own. The flat crack of the shot, almost like a hand clap, announced that the shooter had fired from a distance! He would be peering through a scope; waiting.

For what? Lang was fairly certain he hadn't been the target. If he had, he wouldn't be here behind this rock. For that matter, it would make no sense for the Templars to catch him in the act of violating their secret and then kill him before they found out how he had discovered it and to whom the letter had been sent.

Then who?

Lang gave up. It didn't matter. If only the shooter could keep the Templars' heads down while he slipped from rock to rock downhill to the car… And why not? He wasn't any good to the Templars dead; they'd never find out what they wanted. So, if the mysterious rifleman intended Lang no harm and the Templars wanted him alive…

Lang wasn't willing to risk his life on the logic.

Good thing, too.

When Lang lunged for another boulder, one of those Heckler and Koch MPIOs barked a short burst and rock splinters stung Lang's face like bees. He had no weapon, not even a penknife. He would have felt less naked standing nude in downtown Atlanta. Safer, too.

Lang was trying to figure out exactly where the most recent shots had come from when he heard something other than their fading echo, something crunching in the sandy soil. Someone was moving. towards him, moving slowly and deliberately on the soles of those expensive Italian shoes. No doubt whoever was approaching was also trying to keep his head down from the unknown man with the rifle.

Lang put the copy of the letter on the ground, wedging it under the massive stone. If he were captured, its location might become a bargaining chip. Moving around the boulder, Lang kept it between himself and whoever was out there. He picked up a white rock that fit neatly into his palm. It was no match for an automatic weapon, but it was better than no weapon, at all.

Maybe.

Cardou

1042.30 hours

"Now what?" the man demanded. "You've made them all go to ground." The sniper was still intent on whatever was to be seen through the scope. "We wait." "Wait? For how long?" "For as long as required."

Cardou

1043 hours

Unlike the shoes creeping up on him, the rubber of Lang's Mephistos cushioned any movements he made. Even so, he could play ring-around-the-rock only so long. Assuming these guys had even a modest grasp of tactics, one of them would be circling the rock while another waited for Lang to literally walk into his sights. The unknown was the sharpshooter. They, the Templars, would have to move while screened from the rifle and Lang was going to have to assume it wasn't him the shooter was after.

The toe caps stopped on the other side of the rock before moving slowly to Lang's left. Lang took a couple of steps to his right, still clutching the stone he had picked up. Another couple of steps and Lang would be exposed to the place he had left the Templars. His imagination conjured up the vision of one of the remaining fat-neck twins looking down the stubby barrel of his Heckler and Koch, waiting to center it on his back.

The one thing they wouldn't expect would be for Lang to go on the offensive. Sticking the stone under his belt, he felt for a handhold on the boulder, anything he could grab. His fingers found a small crevice and he pulled himself up, trusty Mephistos pushing against the rock.