Shadow Ritual (16 page)

“Just how high?”

“He’s the official grand archivist of our jurisdiction, Marc Jouhanneau.”

“Jouhanneau, you say?”

“You know how it works. Put on your best brotherly smile, and listen attentively. He’ll be here later. In the meantime, the archive conservator is waiting for you.”

A few minutes later, Marcas was standing in front of hundreds of boxes on gray metal shelves in a large room on the seventh floor of the Grand Orient headquarters. Each box had a large label in black Cyrillic script. The seals on most of boxes had been broken. They had traveled from Paris to Berlin, to Moscow, and then back to Paris—an incredible journey of found memories.

Marcas returned to the doorway, where the conservator—a man in his forties, his beard speckled with white—was standing.

“It’s moving to see these archives when you know their history,” Marcas said. “How long will you need to go through all this information?”

“Years, probably. Fortunately, the Russians made it easier by doing an exhaustive inventory. Starting in 1953, Russian government workers studied our documents page by page, probably without understanding their scope. Perhaps they only translated the work done by the Germans.

“What were they looking for?”

“They were looking for political documents and trying to understand how lodges were organized. They might have suspected that we had our own spy network. The communists didn’t like us much.”

Marcas nodded. “It’s not easy being a Mason. Between the Nazis and fascists, the communists, the reactionary Catholics, the monarchists, and all nature of nationalists, it’s a wonder that we’ve managed to survive.”

“Yes, it is hard to please everyone.”

That was an understatement, Marcas thought. “Or anyone, for that matter,” he said.

The archivist continued. “These documents have little political value. They’re mostly of historical interest. And in that respect, some of the papers are priceless. Look at this.”

The conservator handed Marcas a yellowed piece of paper covered in fine, old-style writing.

List of New Officers, Loge des IX Soeurs.
From the 20th day of the 3rd month of the year 1779.
Worshipful Master—Dr. Franklin

Marcas’s eyes widened. “That’s Benjamin Franklin’s lodge. Remarkable.”

The conservator smiled. “Makes you think, doesn’t it. But what can I do for you?”

Marcas began by asking about any suspicious deaths similar to Hiram’s murder. The conservator scratched his beard.

“You should look at the book that inventories the Russian boxes. If you find what you’re looking for, give me a call, I’m in the office down the hall.

Marcas sat down and opened the binder. The inventory was a real hodgepodge, with lodge receipts from 1930, presentations from 1925, and meeting minutes from 1799. He patiently went down the list. His eyes were stinging a half hour later, and his legs had fallen asleep. That was when he found an odd listing: Dissertation by Brother André Baricof, from the Grenelle Étoilée Lodge, about Freemasons persecuted throughout history. Dated 1938. Series 122, section 12789.

Ten minutes later, Antoine had a large box in front of him. He broke the string that secured the box and took off the musty cover. Inside, he found folders containing manuscripts and tables filled with numbers. He went through them one by one until he found what he was looking for.

He took out the Baricof file and set the box on the floor next to the desk. The file was a dozen pages long. The man, a newspaper journalist, had drawn up a morbid list of Freemasons who had experienced violent deaths. Marcas went through it quickly. On page four, his heart skipped a beat.

There’s been considerable concern among our eldest brothers regarding murders identical to Hiram’s slaying. The first ones are said to have taken place in the eighteenth century in the Westphalia region of Germany. Twelve German brothers from the same lodge were found dead in a clearing. They bore stigmata corresponding with Hiram’s death: dislocated shoulders, broken necks, and crushed skulls. Police investigators linked the slayings to a worrisome secret organization led by the Saint Vehme, which was composed of judges and army officers and dedicated to punishing enemies of Christianity. The authorities, however, never made any arrests.

I found similar murders, also in Germany, right after World War I. The first ones took place in Munich after the failure of the Spartakiste revolution, when communist extremists tried to take power in Bavaria. The Oberland, a right-wing militia led by a racist brotherhood called the Thule, retaliated. Several Freemasons were among the hundreds of people executed. The brothers were slain in accordance with the same ritual. There is evidence of another murder, in Berlin this time: a worshipful master of the Goethe Lodge who was left to die on a sidewalk with the same blows to his body. It would be interesting to know if the Nazis continued these practices, but since lodges have been banned, and detention camps have opened up, we don’t have any more contact with brothers over there.

The text went on to explore the tense relationship with fascist regimes. Marcas was adding to the notes he had started in Rome. There was no longer any room for doubt. It had all started in Germany and had continued over the course of centuries. The rite was a bloody parody of the death of the most respected Freemason, Hiram.

36

Bashir sprinted past the boutiques on the Avenue Montaigne, heading toward the Champs-Elysées. Famous names—Cerruti, Chanel, Prada—flashed before his eyes. He shoved aside a group of young women. The Rond-Point Marcel-Dassault was about three hundred yards away.

The two goons were closing in on him.

Bashir dashed to the other side of the avenue as the light turned red, leaving the two men stuck on the other side of traffic. This gave him time to reach the restaurant l’Avenue, a hot spot for models, actresses, and TV personalities. At the corner he veered onto the Rue François-Ier and then onto the Rue de Marignan, which led to the Champs-Elysées. He hoped to catch a cab there, but he realized that traffic was at a standstill.

The men were closing in again. A very long minute later, he reached the wide central avenue. The sidewalk was filled with tourists. A light turned green, and engines revved, warning pedestrians to get out of the way. The vehicles started moving toward the Place de la Concorde.

Bashir had to get across the boulevard. The Champs-Elysées was much wider than the Avenue Montaigne—three lanes of cars moving in each direction. The risk of getting hit was three times higher. Bashir took a breath and dashed to the central island halfway to the other side.

A motorcyclist slammed his brakes just inches from his feet. A bus came to an abrupt stop, and a concert of honking broke out, but he arrived safely at the thin strip of concrete in the middle of traffic. It was mobbed by tourists clicking photos of the Arc de Triomphe. Bashir looked behind him. The two men were standing exactly where he had been thirty seconds earlier, blocked by moving cars. One was smirking at him. The other was waving like a long-lost friend.

Bashir glanced the other way, at the brightly lit signs and movie posters promising thrills and adventure. He had already bought the ticket—he was running for his life. Green turned to orange. It was time. Bashir threw himself in front of the moving cars. A gray convertible banged his knee. Pain shot through his leg, but he kept running.

A scooter swerved to avoid him and skidded, crashing into a double-parked delivery truck. The honking intensified, but he reached the sidewalk.

Bashir slalomed between passersby and ran up the Rue du Colisée at full speed. Sol’s men were about fifty yards behind and gaining. His pulse accelerated. His legs were burning, as if his blood were spitting acid into his muscles. He turned onto the Rue de Ponthieu and focused on his environment. An entrance to a parking garage was ten yards ahead. He looked back just as he slipped into it. He didn’t see the goons.

He moved deeper into the shadows, caught his breath, and pulled an old paper napkin from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. He waited a good twenty minutes, savoring his freedom. Once again, he’d escaped death.

Bashir considered his options. Grab a cab to the Gare du Nord and pick up his bag? Too dangerous. Someone could have seen him leave his luggage behind. A hotel room for the night? That didn’t feel safe either.

He decided on an alternative. He’d catch a train to another city. Too bad for his bag. He’d pick it up another time.

Allah was great and generous with his servants.

Bashir was eying a convertible parked nearby when unbearable pain blazed in his head.

He crumpled to the ground. He turned his head and could make out a blurry face leaning toward him.

“You really thought you could escape us?” the man asked.

Was that the Tebah Stone in his hand? Bashir’s world turned black.

37

As soon as Marcas was gone, Jade called her friend Christine de Nief and invited her to a late lunch. Jade wanted to know more about the Templars but refused to ask the cop, who would have been all too happy to show off his knowledge. She had typed “Templars” into a search engine and pulled up twelve thousand pages—enough to scare anyone off. The few pages that she did read didn’t encourage her to read more. They were stories of buried treasures, secrets lost since the time of Jesus, doomsday conspiracies, and secret societies of all types, including the Freemasons. Unable to separate what was believable from the rubbish, Jade gave up. Christine, however, could help her. She was a historian who worked as a television and radio consultant.

Jade arrived at the trendy Porte d’Auteuil restaurant, which was full of well-off young people. Christine had chosen it. She loved to be seen.

Jade left the keys to the MG with the valet and stepped into the crowded restaurant. She spotted Christine deep in conversation with a dark-haired man at the next table. Jade had seen that face somewhere. Christine looked up, saw Jade, and abandoned her neighbor. She waved her over.

“Darling, what a pleasure to see you. What have you been up to?”

“Shooting this morning. It was divine.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“Same old you, just the way I love you,” Christine said.

Jade leaned in and whispered, “Who is that handsome man next to you? I’ve seen him before, haven’t I?”

Christine looked serious. “You didn’t recognize Olivier Leandri, the news anchor on the rise? Well, you do spend most of your time in Rome these days. Olivier and I had a thing awhile ago. I’ll introduce you if you’d like. He’s charming.”

Jade smiled. “No, not interested at the moment. I’m working on a case.”

“Darling, you’re always working. At some point you’ve got to make time for a man—someone not so high-risk. You should try brains over brawn for a change.”

“I appreciate your concern, Christine, but you and I both know that I’m not a nun. I’ve had my share of lovers, thank you. Maybe I’ll ask you to introduce me to one of your hot celebrity friends someday. But, as I said, I’ve got a case to solve, and I hope you can help me. Tell me about the Knights Templar.”

Her friend looked surprised. “Since when have you been interested in history?”

“I’ll explain. But let’s order first.”

The waiter took their orders, and they started off with a glass of Champagne.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“The basic story and then a few specific details.”

“The order was created at the beginning of the twelfth century by nine knights in Jerusalem, in the ruins of the former Temple of Solomon. The order became powerful in Europe—and rich. It established hundreds of command posts. Then, two hundred years later, it experienced its downfall. The king of France, Philippe le Bel, pressed Pope Clement to ban the order, which led to the bloody persecution of its members. The order’s command posts were requisitioned, its assets were seized, and the knights were imprisoned and tortured. The Templars vanished. Of course, such a tragic end has inspired wild theories and imaginative stories for lovers of cheap mysteries and esotericism. Does that answer your question?”

Christine looked at her as she nibbled a thin slice of duck
magret
.

“Yes. So how are the Freemasons linked with the Knights Templar?”

“Historically speaking, there isn’t a link. There isn’t a single serious historian who has proved that the two groups are linked. But Freemasons, or some of them, at least, seem convinced that there is a connection. As far as I’m concerned, they’re in a parallel universe where the study of symbols and rituals counts for more than solid research.”

“So all those stories of treasures and secrets are just hot air?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just saying there’s no proof. But who knows? Anything’s possible.”

Jade frowned. Possible wasn’t good enough.

38

Marcas made his way down the stairs of the lodge, mentally preparing to meet the grand archivist. Grand archivist wasn’t an official Grand Orient position. Rather, it was an honorary one, created because an increasing number of brothers were showing an interest in Freemason history and research. The man’s role was to oversee the jurisdiction’s research. Marc Jouhanneau, the Grand Orient’s grand archivist, was a specialist in the history of religion.

After the usual introductions and ritual embrace, Marcas sat down next to the slender, pleasant-looking man of indiscernible age. He was wearing a suit and a black bow tie.

“Are you related to Henri Jouhanneau? Special Envoy Mareuil gave me part of his diary to read.”

“He was my father.”

“What happened to him in 1941?”

“He was rounded up by the Germans because the Nazis needed neurologists. He was sent to do research for the Luftwaffe, Germany’s air force.”

“What kind of research?” Marcas asked.

“The Germans were looking for ways to increase survival rates for pilots shot down over the North Sea. At the time, it was impossible to last more than two hours. The SS headed up operations, and the guinea pigs came from neighboring concentration camps. They were dumped in icy water, and the researchers used various methods to revive them. In 1943, my father was transferred to another camp controlled by the Ahnenerbe and then to Weweslburg Castle, their so-called cultural headquarters. SS physicians were doing advanced brain research, and apparently they were quite a bit ahead of everyone else. They were especially interested in the various levels of consciousness. They had recruited a multidisciplinary team that even included psychoanalysts. Ironic, considering what Hitler thought of Sigmund Freud.”