Shadow Ritual (15 page)

For Breuil, the bitter drink was a crucial element of the Masonic mystery. “The cup represents the door opening to real life. It is the path. Our rituals have strayed. We are mimicking initiation and not experiencing it in its fullness. The journey a neophyte takes is nothing more than a pale reflection of the true initiation that opens the gates of horn and ivory.”

The gates of horn and ivory. Yes, Marcas remembered them well from Homer and Virgil. Both gates supposedly leading to the beyond. But he didn’t know if they opened to paradise or hell.

Marcas put the pages down. He was imagining the faces of the non-Mason Soviets translating these documents. A decadent bourgeois delirium tainted with reactionary mysticism. No doubt, they had wondered why the members of this secret sect had wasted their time with such religious playacting.

He jumped when Zewinski came back in the room.

“So?”

“Your friend did a thorough analysis. But it looks like it was in vain.”

“Why do you say that?” She looked disappointed.

Marcas glanced at the photocopies. “These are just wild esoteric imaginings. Nothing of real interest. A brother with a dream of renewing freemasonry. There have been many just like him. It’s our messianic side.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The papers are from an officer during the empire. He’d been to Egypt with Bonaparte, and he wanted to establish his own lodge with a new Egyptian-inspired ritual.”

“What’s that got to do with freemasonry?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. At the time, there was an Egyptian craze that extended to all sectors of French culture, including freemasonry. Dozens of Masons created Egyptian rites: the Sophisiens, the Rite Oriental, the Friends of the Desert, and many others.

“So did it all disappear?”

“No, there’s an Egyptian freemasonry even today. The Memphis-Misraim still uses the initiation rites. But at the beginning of the empire, it was trendy. I really don’t think your friend died because of these papers. There’s nothing in them.”

32

The train was crossing the fields north of Paris. The three men set down their cards and got up, as if someone had given a silent order.

The one who had won the game removed a large signet ring from a black pouch. It had a silver band and a fine diamond mount. Then he removed a white flask with a pipette from the pouch. He applied a small drop of the white substance to the diamond and slipped the ring on his finger.

The three men opened the compartment door and stepped into the aisle without even glancing at Bashir, as if he didn’t exist.

Just before they went off, the eldest turned to him.

“When we pull into the station, take your time getting off. You don’t want to miss the show.”

The men left, leaving Bashir alone with his dark thoughts.

The train arrived at 11:35 a.m. at the Gare du Nord. Bashir got off ten minutes later, just in time to see two paramedics rushing along the platform with a gurney. Bashir spotted Blondie convulsing wildly inside the train. He was foaming at the mouth and shouting incomprehensibly while throwing himself at the window. Other travelers were huddled around him, gawking.

With bloodshot eyes, the man stared wildly at Bashir, who instinctively stepped back. The man was now hitting his head against the glass, a dark stream of blood flowing down his face. The bystanders outside the train groaned in shock and disgust. The train attendant pulled down the shade.

Bashir moved away, wondering what kind of delayed-reaction poison the killers had used. He shivered at the thought that he might be targeted once his assignment was completed. He’d been made and was now a potential threat. In Palestine, he could have found a safe house immediately, but Paris was hostile territory. He didn’t have any contacts.

At the end of the platform, Bashir took the first escalator to the luggage counter. A guard inspected his bags before Bashir chose a locker. He would take the stone and leave the papers—an insurance policy if his client decided to bump him off after he delivered the artifact. He memorized the locker number and headed to the metro, scanning the environs to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

For the first time in a very long while, Bashir felt the same sensation he had inflicted so often on his own victims: fear.

33

Jade hesitated. “That’s not what she told me when I saw her in Rome,” she said after a few seconds.

“What did she say?”

“Something about some Breuil dude. That he’d found a secret. It was in the papers.”

Zewinski examined the documents again, looking lost. “That’s all? I really thought something was going to click, that you’d find some secret formula that only a Freemason could decipher. And you’re sure the crazy old geezer was nobody special?”

“No, a bourgeois who got rich on the revolution. He bought some land in—”

Marcas shuffled through the papers, his hands coming dangerously close to Zewinski’s.

“…in Plaincourault, near the city of Châteauroux.”

Jade pulled away.

“You’re joking.”

“About what?”

“That name.”

Zewinski was breathing quickly.

“When I put the papers in the embassy safe, Sophie asked if we could change the code just for the night. I teased her about being paranoid, but she seemed really worried, so I said we could. She chose a word.”

“Don’t tell me…”

“Yep, it was the name of that village. The access code needed to have fifteen letters.”

Marcas frowned. Something wasn’t right. He picked up Breuil’s papers again and counted each letter. He shook his head.

“There’s a mistake. Plaincourault has thirteen letters.”

“When Sophie put in the code, she spelled it P-L-A-I-N-T-C-O-U-R-R-A-U-L-T. She added two letters: a T and an R. She said that was the original spelling.”

“What original spelling?”

“The one used by the knights of the Order of the Temple. The Templars.”

Marcas let out a chuckle. “Peekaboo, there they are again. It’s been a while,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone always goes and brings in the Order of the Temple. It’s bull if you ask me. We’re back to square one. We’ve got two identical murders: one in Rome and one in Jerusalem. Sophie was on her way to see someone in Jerusalem, presumably the dead man. Someone—or a group of people—wanted something from them. And it’s very possible that whoever it was has it in for the Freemasons. In other words, exactly what we knew before. In any case, the papers are clearly incomplete. What was she going to do in Jerusalem?”

“When I asked, she was cagey and got even more nervous. She said she’d been working with someone there.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Not really. Come on, she was stressed and paranoid. I didn’t give it much thought.”

“Try to remember. What exactly did she say?”

“She’d gone on and on about the secret, which had been guarded for thousands of years. I told her to take a vacation, that the occult Mason stargazing was affecting her reason.”

Marcas nodded and looked back at the papers.

“Is something wrong?” Zewinski said.

“It’s this manuscript.”

“What about it?”

“Look here: ‘Only the shadow ritual will lead to the light.’”

Marcas was quiet for a moment. “I don’t like that expression: the shadow ritual,” he finally said. “It sounds dodgy.”

34

The hotel lobby was buzzing. A pack of photographers was milling around, and three security guards were at the entry. Bashir grumbled as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Contact Tuzet at the Plaza Athénée. Ask for the keys to his Daimler.” Sol’s message had been enigmatic, to say the least. Bashir headed toward the reception desk. At the entrance to the bar, he saw a sign announcing that P.F. Tuzet was the day’s entertainment. Tuzet was apparently a French crooner who rehashed fifties ballads by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. A singer as a contact? Why not?

He asked for the performer. The gracious blonde hostess smiled and nodded in the direction of a man standing at the bar, next to a beautiful woman of color. She was wearing a form-fitting black satin dress, and her hair was pulled back in a bun. Bashir headed toward the crooner, eager to dump the stone and disappear.

A flute of Champagne in her hand, the woman was singing.

Gone my lover’s dream
Lovely summer’s dream
Gone and left me here
To weep my tears into the stream

Stroking the woman’s arm, Tuzet joined in. “Willow weep for me.” It was a classic that had been recorded many times over. His eyes shining, Tuzet took another sip of bourbon. What a showoff, Bashir thought.

“Sorry to interrupt your cooing, Mr. Tuzet, but we need to talk.”

The singer shot him a disdainful look.

“Boy, I’m not finished with my beauty here. Call me in ten years,” he said, turning back to the woman. “People are so rude today.”

Bashir cut him off, his tone threatening. “The keys to your Daimler, Tuzet.”

The crooner’s expression changed. He grinned. “You should have said so sooner. Don’t get huffy. Excuse me, my dear. I’ll be right back.”

Still smiling, the singer led Bashir out of the bar to a secluded spot near the elevators. He let a couple of people pass and grabbed Bashir’s arm. He dropped the smile.

“Dammit. You were supposed to arrive yesterday. I hung out all evening after my gig.”

Bashir pulled his arm away. “I don’t have to explain myself,” he said. “Here’s the package. My job is done.”

Bashir reached for the stone, but the singer stopped him.

“No, not here. Take the keys to my Daimler. It’s parked in the garage, near the service elevator. Put the package in the trunk, and leave the keys at the reception desk.”

An alarm went off in Bashir’s head. He didn’t like the arrangement. Parking lots were perfect for bumping someone off. He’d done it himself once or twice. The mistake in Amsterdam was one too many. There would be no faux pas in Paris.

“Sorry, buddy, but I’m not going into your garage. Take the package, and don’t keep your fans waiting.”

“I can’t. My orders were very clear.”

“I don’t give a shit about your orders. I did my job.”

With that, Bashir handed him the bag containing the Tebah Stone as if he were handing off a bag of garbage. He turned around and focused on vanishing.

He was sure Sol had other employees in the hotel. Three in Amsterdam, so there would be at least as many in Paris. He had no illusions. He knew that having been followed made him an unacceptable risk to Sol. Bashir would have done the same in his place.

He scanned the lobby. A man with the square shoulders of a wrestler was approaching him, looking hostile. Another man in a gray suit who had been standing near the entrance was walking toward him, as well, making eye contact with the other man. It was a trap.

All of the sudden, shouts and cries rose up from the crowd in front of the hotel. Photographers dashed toward the doors, pushing everything and everyone out of their way.

Amid the excitement, a flashy Italian actress appeared, followed by two bodyguards and three assistants, a cell phone glued to her ear. The hit man in the gray suit was caught by surprise and shoved aside by one of the star’s bodyguards. Bashir rushed to the entrance, knocked down a fan, and spilled out the door.

He had gotten past the security guards but now faced a pack of screaming fans taking pictures with their cell phones. A human wall. He looked back. The two goons were still inside, trying to get out.

He took a deep breath and rushed the crowd like a bull charging into an arena. He punched a teenager in the stomach. The boy howled and crumpled over. Bashir elbowed left and right, stepping on toes and kicking shins. The cries of pain were lost in the overall hysteria. In fewer than twenty seconds, he had made his way through the crowd. But the game was not over. The others would follow his lead.

He ran across the Avenue Montaigne and flattened himself inside a porte cochère between two streetlamps. They had just made it onto the street. They didn’t seem to see him. He heaved a sigh. Ten more seconds, and he would have been dead meat. He’d just wait for them to give up, and then he’d vanish.

Suddenly a voice rang out of the intercom just five inches from his head. “Sir, are you a resident or a visitor?”

Bashir jumped, glanced around, and spotted a camera above the door. An infrared detector had signaled the security guard.

The voice deepened. “You cannot loiter in front of this doorway. You must leave, or I’ll call the police.”

“I’m just waiting for some friends.”

“Wait for them on the sidewalk. This is private property. This is your last warning.”

Across the street, he saw one of his assailants pointing in his direction. It was too late.

35

Marcas had left Zewinski at the black-ops offices and was heading toward the Grand Orient headquarters on the Rue Cadet. He wanted to look into the shadow ritual. He had called ahead to tell the worshipful master that he would be coming, and the man met him at the entrance.

“Tell me, Antoine, I hear you’re in charge of investigating the murder of our sister in Rome.”

This was the first time the worshipful master had broached the subject of his police work, and Marcas was surprised that the man knew exactly what he was doing.

“You have eyes and ears everywhere, don’t you?” Marcas said.

The master smiled. He’d headed up the judiciary brotherhood for ten years.

“I also heard a rumor about you answering to a tough-as-nails security chief who’s not too crazy about you. And the interior minister has assigned Darsan to follow the case. He’s not really a friend of ours either.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got a reputation as a hard ass. I think he’s a bit of an anarchist.”

Marcas’s laugh echoed in the hall.

“Reactionary or anarchist? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Between the two of them—Darsan and that special agent—you’ve got your work cut out. Later on, I’ll introduce you to one of our brothers. He’s pretty high up—”