Shadow Ritual (4 page)

Marek stopped. King Salomon’s temple was a mythic spot for Jews, said to hold the Arc of the Covenant and the stone tablets on which the Ten Commandments were inscribed. It had been plundered and destroyed by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar. Cyrus the Great of Persia ordered the Second Temple to be built on the same site. Herod the Great embellished it under Roman occupation.

Cyrus’s temple reconstruction in 520
BCE
was a key moment in Jewish history, and every artifact related to it was priceless. Marek weighed the stone in his hand. The money meant nothing to Marek. This stone was the missing link, the final element in his quest to honor Henri’s memory, to fulfill his second oath.

All he needed now were the documents from Paris. He stared at the relic and started to tremble. Was it really such a good idea to be waking the dead?

3

A flute of vintage Tattinger Champagne in hand, Antoine Marcas scanned the vast reception hall. He couldn’t help thinking of all the pomp surrounding ambassadors. Yes, France did like to strut. It was hard to get more sumptuous than the Palazzo Farnese. Even the name evoked the splendors of near-absolute magnificence: the Italian Renaissance, an era of princes, freewheeling cardinals, and courtesans skilled at damning the lords of the Church. The wealthy Farnese family had built this residence in the middle of the sixteenth century. They were nobles from Latium who boasted a pope—Paul III—in their lineage. The pontiff’s own son, however, had been excommunicated because of his taste for plundering and rape.

Laughter and voices were bouncing off the walls.

“Antoine, I hope you’re enjoying yourself. It’s quite a change from the police headquarters in Paris, isn’t it?”

Startled, Marcas turned around. It was Alexis Jaigu, a former military man who was now an intelligence officer on some assignment in Rome. Jaigu was the friend who had invited him to this affair.

“Alexis! You must save me. Find me a woman in this crowd of beauties.”

Jaigu made circles with his fingers and brought them to his eyes. “Tall blonde at two o’clock, flaming redhead at six. Two apparently isolated targets without patrol escorts. Intelligence report: the blonde heads up marketing for a San Paolo bank. The redhead is second-in-command at an Israeli company that dabbles in arms sales to emerging countries.”

“Too high-powered for me. You wouldn’t have a more classic model—a painter or dancer, someone a little more artistic?”

“So I take it you’re finally over your ex-wife. It’s about time. How’s your son?”

“He’s living with his mother,” Marcas said, looking away. He didn’t like to talk about his divorce. Cops never stayed married long, and Marcas was no exception to that rule. He had spent many sleepless nights after his wife left him, along with difficult weekends with his son who blamed him for the separation. Some men in his shoes found solace in drink, others in one-night stands. Marcas had buried himself at the Freemason lodge, focused on his symbolism studies. It had taken a full year before he started dating again. But he was still single. One of his occasional dates had told him to let go of his ex before bidding him good night. Marcas had laughed. The only time he thought of his ex-wife was when he wrote the alimony check at the end of the month or when he received one of her hateful letters full of accusations.

Jaigu grabbed a toast with Périgord foie gras from a platter. “Hey, do you know the ambassador?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“So he’s not a Freemason, like you?”

Marcas stiffened. “I’m no snitch. Ask him yourself.”

“You’re joking, right? I don’t want to get sent to some faraway consulate in Africa. It’s a favor I’m asking. Don’t you have some sort of secret code of recognition? A special handshake or something?”

Marcas sighed. It was always the same stupidities: occult influence, signs of recognition—the folklore. How many times had his hand been kneaded by overly familiar non-Masons who had read a few things about freemasonry?

“Sorry, I can’t.”

“At least say you don’t want to, Antoine. How long have we known each other? And you still cover for the ambassador? A man you’ve never even met? You brothers really do stick together.”

Marcas didn’t want to get into a long explanation with his now-tipsy friend. He knew Jaigu well, and tomorrow the man would be full of apologies.

“Drop it, Alexis.”

“I won’t press. And I won’t hold it against you. Let me introduce you to two superb actresses who are waiting for nobody but us,” Jaigu said, throwing his arm around Marcas’s shoulder and leading him to the terrace.

4

Bashir Al Khansa, aka the Emir, rarely went anywhere alone and usually traveled under the cover of night. It was his way of playing Israeli security, which was polluting East Jerusalem. When he had time to sleep, it was in homes carefully chosen by logistics specialists in his movement, which Israeli spies had been trying to infiltrate for a long time.

On this night, Bashir was wearing a thin moustache and a white suit like those favored by rich Lebanese businessmen. A perfect disguise for his meeting with Alex Perillian.

The two men were now sitting in the courtyard, heat reflecting off the old stones. Bashir’s two bodyguards watched over the entrance.

Bashir was seething. “Allah is great, showing us to this stone, and you hand it over to those Jewish pigs? They will sully it with their blasphemous hands.”

Perillian sighed. “Since when have the respectful servants of the Prophet been interested in a stone engraved by the sons of Zion?”

“Everything found in the land of Allah belongs to Allah. Where is the stone now?”

“At the archeological institute. The scientists are analyzing it, and if it is authentic, the price will be high, and your share will be great.”

“The servants of Allah don’t care about money from unbelievers! I want the stone.”

Perillion was sweating now. “Be patient. I’ll get the stone back as soon as the tests are done. Then you can—”

“May Allah curse the infidels who don’t acclaim his light. Nobody must know the significance of the stone—especially those Israeli dogs. Do you understand?”

“But there’s nothing I can do.”

Bashir smiled. “Yes there is.”

~ ~ ~

Marek was leaning over his worktable, examining his translation of the inscription. On his computer, a software program was matching the concordances with ancient Hebrew texts.

His heart had raced at the idea of being the first to proclaim a fragment linking the chosen people with their destiny. But he had just discovered that he was not the first. In the lower right corner of the stone, an anonymous hand had engraved a Latin cross with branches that widened like the sails of a boat. It was the cross of the Order of the Temple—or the Knights Templar, the order founded by nine Frenchmen in the second decade of the twelfth century on Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, just above the Temple of Solomon.

Marek, the venerable master of his Freemason lodge, recognized it immediately. Didn’t some people claim that the higher orders of freemasonry were direct descendants of the Templars? Marek thought those stories were nothing but legend, but he knew them well.

Now the cross danced in front of his eyes. What had the Templars been doing with this stone?

The computer screen lit up. Marek examined the word frequencies one after the other. They supported the dating. Except for a single word—a word that didn’t exist in the database.

First the cross, then the unknown term.

The phone rang, pulling Marek back to the here and now. As he reached for the receiver, he looked at his watch. It was ten thirty.

“Oh, professor.” The caller’s accent was melodious. “What luck. I tried to reach you at home first. Happiness to the man who works late!”

“Perillian, if you’re calling in the middle of the night for my conclusions—”

“Oh no, professor, that’s not it. There’s been a miracle. A real miracle. Someone has just brought me another fragment of the same stone.”

“You must be joking.”

“No, professor. It is from the same source. The family brought it over this very evening.”

“Perillian, you realize that such a discovery could have a significant bearing on my current analysis.”

“I’m all too aware of that, professor. I don’t want to keep such a treasure from you.”

“When will you bring it over?”

“Right away. I’ll send over a servant. I can’t just leave the family who brought it like that, etiquette and all. You can trust the man I’m sending. His name is Bashir. Can you make sure he doesn’t get caught up at the roadblocks?”

“Don’t worry about that. Fax me his papers, and I’ll inform the ministry right away.”

“Thank you, professor. You’ll see. It’s one of a kind, really.”

Marek ended the call and turned to the computer screen.

~ ~ ~

Perillian smiled at Bashir. “You see—”

He didn’t have time to finish his sentence. Bashir, a gun with a silencer in hand, stood over the businessman as he crumpled to the floor. He had aimed for the spleen, granting the man a merciful death—painful, yes, but quick. He had surprised himself with this act of kindness. He usually preferred to watch the life drain from his victims slowly, not so much out of sadism as from curiosity. The life force was there, and then it wasn’t. Every time, death was unique, but in many ways it was the same, whether the man was a Jew, a Muslim, or a Christian.

Bashir slipped out of the Armenian’s room. His two bodyguards followed without a word, and they got into a car with fake plates. He gave the address of the institute and exchanged his suit for a djellaba. A Jew awaited him tonight. Bashir would see a life extinguish again. And the man would not get the favor he had extended to Perillian. This time he would adhere to a precise ritual.

5

Sophie Dawes scurried across the large room, stumbling more than once because only the outside lights illuminated the space. She gasped each time she hit something. Fear constricted her blood vessels.

The library entrance was just over there. Maybe, just maybe she could escape. She turned the handle, using all her strength. In vain. The elaborately carved wooden door remained shut. Exhausted from her sprint, Sophie collapsed on the floor.

She heard soft footsteps coming toward her. The person was moving along the fresco-covered wall. Sophie could hear the din of the party in the ground-floor reception room. She took a deep breath and crept toward a window.

“It’s no use.” The voice was firm, definitive.

Paralyzed by fear, Sophie looked up slowly. In front of her stood a young blonde woman wearing a strange smile. She was holding a telescopic baton with a metal tip.

The voice rang out again. “Where are the documents?”

“What documents? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, let me go,” Sophie pleaded.

“Don’t act stupid,” the woman said, using her baton to slowly lift Sophie’s skirt. “What you found is none of your business. You are just an archivist. I only need to know where the papers are.”

A wave of panic ran through Sophie. She felt stripped naked.

“You were hired as an archivist a year ago, right after your thesis at the Sorbonne. That was quite a presentation you made. The jury really liked it, although you looked a little stiff in your brand-new suit. Let’s see, what else can I tell you? Oh yes, you were supposed to go to Jerusalem tomorrow.”

“That can’t be,” Sophie moaned. You can’t…”

“But it is. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me anything? I can go on. Your thesis director found you that job. He has many friends, or should I say
brothers
?”

Sophie tried to get up, but the baton came down on her. She cried out in pain and clutched her shoulder.

“Quiet, or I’ll break your other shoulder blade.”

“Please.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” Sophie cried out. “I don’t know anything.”

The woman’s voice became more sinister. “You shouldn’t lie,” she whispered. “Perhaps I have not made myself entirely clear.”

She swung the black ebony instrument in the air and brought it down on Sophie’s neck. Sophie lost all the feeling in her legs.

The voice was singsong now. “You cannot move anymore, but you can still talk. This is your last chance.”

Sophie Dawes knew that the final blow would be fatal if she kept silent. She would die right here. Although she was just above a room filled with more than a hundred guests, no one would take notice, and no one would help.

“At the Hilton. My room, number 326. Please don’t hurt me,” she said, staring into her torturer’s almond-shaped eyes. They were keen and distant. Sophie had fallen for this woman at the party. She had introduced herself as Helen and told Sophie that she was studying for an advanced degree in art history. They had talked with passion about Renaissance painters. Sophie thought she was graceful and exciting. She couldn’t resist when the beautiful blonde suggested that they go someplace quiet, far from the crowd, to explore the frescos.

The two women had slipped upstairs as the uninterested security guards looked on. The nightmare had begun as soon as Helen closed the door behind them. The blonde had pulled her close as if to kiss her. Then Sophie saw the small black instrument, felt the electric shock, and fell to the floor. The woman then lifted her onto a sofa.

Sophie had come to quickly. She kicked her attacker in the ribs and ran toward the library.

Now Sophie had lost. She prayed that her attacker would just leave. It wasn’t fair. She was only twenty-eight. Helen smiled. Her expression looked affectionate, and Sophie felt relief.

“Thank you. Your death will be quicker.”

The angel of death kissed Sophie gently on the forehead and swung the baton.

Sophie heard it coming and lifted a hand to shield her face. Her fingers broke under the blow. She collapsed,
her eyebrow split open. Her blood flowing onto the polished floor.

Below her, a quartet was playing selections from an opera. The sounds of the party rose through the floorboards and slipped along the ancient walls, filling the private chambers and gilded sitting rooms.