Shadow Ritual (19 page)

“I… I don’t know you… Leave me…”

Passersby were scowling at her, as if she were drunk. The door of a black car opened, and she was pushed into the backseat. She was now entirely paralyzed and couldn’t make out colors or shapes anymore. Everything was becoming a grayish blur.

The woman’s sensual voice resonated in her head. “Rest assured, Jade. The drug will take you away to dreamland.”

She felt a kiss on her forehead. A wave of panic rolled through her paralyzed body. The perfume was making her queasy.

“Sleep well. Oh, I did forget to introduce myself. I’m Joana, your new friend. I hope we’ll get along during the little time you have left.”

Jade fell into an ink-black sleep.

DEBIR

The holy of holies

on the western side of Solomon’s temple,

where the Ark of the Covenant was kept

~ ~ ~

I sent my soul into the invisible,

Some letter of that after-life to spell.

And by and by my soul returned to me

And answered, “I myself am heaven and hell.”

—Omar Khayyam, The Rubaiyat

45

Death. A quick one, to be done once and for all with this unbearable suffering of his flesh and soul. The gardener’s third session was the worst. The torturer started on his remaining fingers, one at a time, tip first, multiplying the torment. His left hand was nothing more than an open wound, covered with a makeshift bandage offered by the gardener in his great mercy.

And then Sol showed up. He hadn’t pictured an old man like that, with hair as white as snow and ramrod-straight posture despite his age. He wanted to know if Bashir had picked up any documents with the Tebah Stone, and if so, where they were.

Exhausted and out of his mind with pain, the Palestinian was ready to confess whatever they wanted to hear so that the persecution would end. He told him the locker number at the Gare du Nord, hoping for some leniency. In vain. Sol promised that the gardener would not disturb him anymore, but his life would end in this cellar.

If, however, he had a final wish before dying, Sol would try to oblige. Bashir asked for something to ease the pain, along with a brew of the magic mushrooms he had purchased in Amsterdam, which were hidden in the double lining of his luggage. He was given a light morphine derivative that did not relieve his suffering.

A few hours or minutes later—he no longer had any notion of time—Sol returned with a scalding liquid that Bashir drank to the last drop, holding the cup with his right hand.

“Wait until the mushrooms take effect before you kill me.”

He was short of breath, but he had enough strength to add, “You bastard, I did my job, and this is how you pay me.”

Sol patted Bashir’s sweat-soaked hair. “The Jews followed you. The risk was too high. It’s nothing personal. I have a lot of admiration for the Palestinian cause.”

“Stop the bullshit! You’re just a damned Nazi.”

Sol rose to his feet without answering. Bashir didn’t have the strength to hold up his head anymore. A final question was tormenting him. “Why did you have me kill that man in Jerusalem with three blows?”

Sol looked at him and smiled. “It would take too long to explain. Let’s just say that our victim belonged to a group that has been an enemy of ours for a very long time. It was a calling card meant just for them. I have to leave you now. If it’s any consolation, a woman will be at your side when your hour of deliverance comes. She’ll be in the cell next to yours. I hope that she will bring you some comfort. May you quickly reach your paradise and enjoy the pleasures that Mohammed promised. In my religion, unfortunately, we don’t get that kind of welcoming committee.”

Bashir watched him walk toward the door of the cell. His head was spinning from the mushrooms. Soon he would plunge into a parallel universe. He realized he was experiencing his final seconds of awareness and murmured, “What religion?”

The old man’s voice echoed in the basement. “Power.”

46

Marcas reread the Grand Orient archives Jade had given him. Either the Breuil Manuscript was pure nonsense, or there was something worth paying attention to, and the allusion to the Templars could point to it. In any case, someone had Sophie murdered in Rome for these papers and had Marek murdered in Jerusalem at the same time, presumably for a stone related to the papers.

Breuil had spent time in Egypt and was focused on building a new kind of temple. Instead of a mosaic in the center, this temple would have a bush with exposed roots. Breuil also alluded to the bitter beverage drunk by Freemason initiates and the shadow ritual, keys to gaining access to the Great Architect of the Universe.

Breuil’s ideas contradicted traditional Masonic teachings. Freemason temples were generally designed to symbolize the development of an initiate’s inner temple—knowledge of universal harmony. Spiritual growth was seen as a step-by-step process. An initiate became an entered apprentice, then a fellow craft mason, and then a master, and that was just the beginning. Some lodges had a number of higher designations. Patience and humility were the crucial pillars required to reach higher levels of knowledge.

Marcas hadn’t paid attention at first, but now it leaped out at him. Breuil was claiming that his ritual could open the door to a state of all-encompassing awareness. It was a direct line to God. And that was blasphemy—if such a word could apply to the Freemason universe.

Marcas put the papers down and massaged his neck. Sophie had gone to the Templar chapel in Plaincourault, according to Jouhanneau. What message would he and Zewinski find there?

He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes late. That didn’t seem like her style.

Then there was the question of how Plaincourault was spelled: thirteen or fifteen letters?

He glanced at his watch again. What would she be wearing: pants or a skirt? He started imagining her legs—and stopped himself. He had more urgent things to think about. Sophie’s murder was becoming something bigger than an investigation. It was starting to feel like a quest.

What he had found in the archives was troubling. And then there were those slayings that mimicked Hiram’s death: not only the ones that had been committed recently, but also the ones that had been committed over the course of many years. A long-standing conspiracy to kill Freemasons? But why? It seemed that some invisible enemy was crossing through time.

He looked at his watch a third time. Had Zewinski forgotten him? He called her number and got her voice mail. He left a sharp message.

She was definitely irritating him. Her hostility to Freemasons was more than just the usual distrust of the uninitiated. He wanted to know where that hostility was coming from.

47

It was the smell that woke her up. It was heavy, nauseating, and it filled every inch of the room. Death. She’d experienced it at a hospital in Kabul. A women had developed gangrene after delivering a baby, and her flesh was rotting away. But the Taliban wouldn’t allow her to be treated by hospital physicians because they were all men. Jade had risked her life by sneaking in medications provided by two volunteer doctors. Still, the woman had died.

Jade emerged slowly from her torpor. Her head felt tight, as though it were in a vise. Someone was speaking in Arabic. She knew the language, but she had no idea who was talking. The person was moaning between sobs, pleas, and declarations. Where was she?

“
Bvitti
, I climb on the stone… My nails reach for my cursed flesh…
Bvitti
, the sky is red with blood. An eye is watching me. I must leave…”

She tried to get up to make out who it was, but she couldn’t. Her legs were tied down. She looked around and realized that she was in a cell.

“I see it. It’s wonderful, but the stone is keeping me back… Go away. You’re the demon…”

The man shrieked.

“You’re the devil… You’re tempting me. Curse you. Nothing escapes the All Powerful.”

Jade turned her head to the right and saw a man who was also being held prisoner. He was thrashing around, as though he were possessed. Even in the darkness, she could tell that his hands and feet were covered with bloody bandages. That was the smell. The poor man had gangrene. No one had taken care of it, and he was going to die. Beyond a certain stage, antibiotics couldn’t help.

Jade panicked. “Is anyone here?” she shouted. “Come quick. There’s a man who’s dying.”

She stopped when she realized the shouting served no purpose. Her kidnappers knew perfectly well what state the man was in. They had done it to him.

She took deep breaths in an effort to get her fear under control. They don’t want to kill me, she told herself, or else I wouldn’t be here.

“
Bvitti
… Root of the sky… The eye has also turned black, and tears of blood are flowing. It’s wonderful. I am one of those tears…”

Jade tried to get the man’s attention.

“Who are you? Can you hear me?”

The man turned toward her. He was soaked with sweat and drooling.

“I am the one who is… the abyss.”

Thank God he was tied up too and couldn’t attack her. As soon as she thought it, she acknowledged the absurdity. He was too weak, and his hands and feet were useless.

The man continued his monologue, but the words became less distinguishable. Jade turned away and tried to recall how she had been kidnapped. It was a professional job. She had been drugged and abducted in broad daylight in front of hundreds of people. The woman who did this was most likely in cahoots with Sophie’s murderers. In fact, they could be one and the same person. Jade felt a wave of blinding rage.

Her attention shifted to the man’s words.

“The stone is my ladder! Me, divinely impure.”

The smell was unbearable. He wouldn’t last long. She had to do something quick.

“Who is your God?”

“The Very Great One… The Veiled One. Nobody knows his true words.”

“Do you?”

“I saw the golden face of the Very Saint when he blew his soul into the stone. He spoke… in the middle of the languages of men. And the sacred word is their destiny.”

“What men?”

Mad laughter filled the room.

“The impious have unearthed the stone and reaped destruction. In the cloud of words, God engraved the one that would reduce them to slavery.”

“What impious ones?”

“The sons of Zion that have not recognized the Real God. Today the stone will speak. It will say the sacred word.
Bvitti. Bvitti. Bvitti
.”

She turned away from him and would have jumped, had she been able. A man with a bushy moustache was staring at her, a pipe in his mouth, a hand in his apron. He was smiling. She responded with a snigger.

“Can’t you see that he’s dying?”

A second man approached. He looked more threatening. He was staring at her too. The first one opened the door of the other cell, and they both entered.

“You’re right. We’re going to calm him down right now. Hans?”

The second man pulled a pistol out of his jacket and placed it against the dying man’s temple.

The detonation rang through the cellar.

“No,” Jade screamed as a geyser of blood and flesh hit the wall. The vision of her father flashed in her mind, with his head on the armrest, the puddle of blood on the floor. The nightmare all over again. A bullet in the head.

But she wasn’t a little girl now, and the fear wasn’t paralyzing her. She was furious. It was an icy rage that emanated from a dark place that would always be there.

“You sons of bitches!”

The man with the moustache entered her cell, sat down beside her, and patted her thigh. He was wearing a strange expression. He shook his head, set his pipe on the floor, and, with a mischievous look in his eye, said, “I am the gardener. What’s your favorite flower?”

48

Marcas took the steps two by two. He’d gotten Zewinski’s address from Darsan. His irritation with her had given way to anxiety. He had a bad feeling about her being late. Now he was almost in a panic. He couldn’t get up the steps fast enough, and when he reached the third floor, his heart started pounding. Her apartment door had been pried open. He advanced quickly, back against the wall, his service revolver in front of him. He used his foot to push the door all the way open and immediately saw the place had been tossed. After a quick check to make sure all was clear, he pulled out his phone.

“Alexis?”

“Antoine, great to hear from you. I’m back in Paris, you know.

“Can you get your buddies to locate Zewinski’s cell phone?”

“Have things gone that far already? Really, you should take it slower with a broad like that.”

“Look, she’s disappeared and she’s not answering her phone.”

“Don’t take it so personally.”

“I’m serious. Her place has been tossed, and it looks like some nasty folks are behind the Dawes murder. Locate Zewinski for me. Now.”

“Okay, okay. I’m on it. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, check with our contacts in Israel. Find out if any known traffickers have left the country. I also need to know about any developments in the investigation of the murder at the archeological institute?”

49

“Who are you?”

“I told you. I am the gardener.”

The man did look the job. Jade sat up and saw him searching through his apron pocket.

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know. I just want to know your favorite flower.”

“I hate flowers. Too bad.”

The man pulled a small pair of pruning shears out of his pocket and waved them in front of her eyes.

“That’s impossible. Everyone loves flowers, especially women. I’ll have to teach you some manners.”

He applied the gardening tool to her big toe. Jade understood the dying man’s bandages. She didn’t even tremble as her training kicked in. She had learned all the ins and outs of torture: sensory deprivation, drugs, electricity, and all manner of instruments for delivering pain. Inflicting repeated violence on a subject was an age-old practice and often highly effective. It had been favored in Pinochet’s Chile and General Videla’s Argentina, with a little help from the CIA.