Shadow Ritual (5 page)

Sophie recognized the Donizetti aria, “Una furtive lagrima,” just as she understood the full significance of
the three blows: one to the shoulder, one to the neck, and one to the forehead.

6

The first pages of Descartes’s
Discourse on Method
had always fascinated Marek: a philosopher holed up in his room with his stove, who, by the sole power of reasoning, had found a solution to every problem. For Marek, this was a key life lesson, a personal approach. Now, in his deserted lab, Marek talked to himself. He bounced ideas off the walls, waiting for order to rise from chaos.

He typed out his thoughts regarding the stone as they took form. “Based on similar ritual formulas found in texts from the same period, this would appear to be written by a temple intendant. It contains a list of materials, including two types of wood—cedar and juniper.”

Marek reached for a Bible. The construction of Solomon’s Temple was described in the first
Book of Kings
. It was all there: the dimensions, the interior architecture, and the materials. The interior walls were lined with cedar and juniper. The inner sanctuary for the Ark of the Covenant was lined with cedar and gold. And in this sanctuary, Solomon placed a pair of cherubs made of olive wood.

“Undoubtedly, the intendant was addressing the leader of an outgoing caravan.”

Marek put the Bible down. Many of the ancient writings focused on administration: accounting, bills, laws, decrees, orders, counterorders. Clearly, humans had always fallen prey to two major demons: organization and hierarchy. The Tebah Stone would have been no exception, were it not for that one sentence.

Three lines before the traditional closing lines, the intendant added a final instruction: “Watch over your men. Make sure that they do not buy or bring back that demon
bvitti
that seeds the mind with prophesies.”

He hadn’t been able to find the word in any of his reference works on Semitic language and scripture. It was as if the word had not survived the torrents of time and the tribulations of the Jewish people. Now Marek was seeing it long after some obscure functionary had struck it with an official curse.

The phone rang.

“Professor, you have a visitor. The man says you’re waiting for a package. I’ve searched him.”

“It’s fine, Isaac. Let him up. I’m expecting him.”

“As you wish.”

The professor hung up and headed into the hallway to wait for the messenger. The elevator doors opened with a whish. A man in a djellaba stepped out. He had a thin face and piercing eyes, and he was carrying a beige canvas bag. He smiled at Marek.

“Professor, I give you respects from my master.”

“Thank you. I’ll take the package. Then you can go home. It’s late.”

The man’s smile broadened.

“Thank you, professor. Would you be kind enough to offer me some water? I am thirsty.”

Marek wanted to yank the bag from the man’s hand, but he took a deep breath instead. “Of course. Follow me. There’s a water fountain near my office.”

The two men walked down the hallway, past classrooms and research labs, until they reached Marek’s office.

“Help yourself,” Marek said, motioning to the fountain in the hallway.

He didn’t wait a second longer to take the bag. Marek stepped into his office and opened it. He removed a dark stone, set it on his desk, and examined its shape, hoping it would contain some clues about that unknown word. After a few seconds, he shook his head. He took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked the man, who had come into his office. “This is a fake, and a bad one at that. It wouldn’t even fool tourists. Has Perillian lost his mind? I’m warning you—”

Before Marek could finish his sentence a sharp blow broke his shoulder blade. He fell to the floor, gasping in pain.

“You don’t have to warn me, Jew,” the messenger said in a silken voice. “The problem with all you sons of Israel is that you still think you’re the masters of my land. Now I’m the one warning you. Your death is imminent. I was asked to kill you with a stick.”

The man struck Marek again, this time on the neck. He was barely conscious now, but he remembered every detail of Henri’s execution sixty years earlier in Dachau.

He knew the third blow would kill him.

Marek stared his killer in the eye and managed to say the one sentence from the Masonic ritual. “The flesh falls from the bones.”

~ ~ ~

Bashir brought the stick down on Marek’s head. “Another damned Jewish ritual,” he muttered.

Blood flowed down the researcher’s face.

Bashir put the walking stick in the stand where he had found it and looked around the man’s office.

There it was, on the cluttered desk—the Tebah Stone. He slipped it into his bag, along with the papers next to it. He looked at the computer screen, printed the page with the professor’s comments, and erased the file. He removed his djellaba, stuffed it into the bag, and stepped over Marek’s body, carefully avoiding the blood pooled around the man’s head.

In the elevator, he wondered why his client had required that ritual. It was too complicated, as far as he was concerned. Strangling was quicker and cleaner. When he was younger, Bashir had been partial to throat slitting. Then one September night in Beirut, when he was executing a contract at a private party, a spurt of blood had stained his Armani suit—a superb three piece he had bought in Rome. A suit that had put him back a thousand euros—ruined. He had used guns and rope ever since.

Bashir headed to the front entrance, where the guard, hypnotized by a parade of blondes, was watching television. The man died instantly.

Bashir checked his watch. He had just enough time to get to a hiding place. He removed the video recording from the security camera. This job was almost too easy. He wasn’t even getting his usual adrenaline rush.

He paused a few seconds and hit the yellow alarm button. A siren ripped through the silence. Police cars would arrive in a matter of minutes, their lights flashing.

He felt his blood flowing to his brain and heart. Now he was getting that rush. He ran toward his car, where his two bodyguards waited.

The plan had worked perfectly. The safe house was five minutes away. Bashir felt for the stone in the bag as he watched the street fly by. Another fine night in Jerusalem.

7

This time, his charm was working. The French movie producer laughed every time Marcas made a joke. Perhaps he’d suggest that they go downtown for a drink and more conversation. Just as Marcas was about to do that, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Alexis Jaigu leaning toward his ear. “Come quick. I need you. Now.”

Marcas shook his head. No, not now. He wasn’t going to miss out on his chance for a little Roman love.

Before he could protest, his friend pulled him aside and whispered, “It’s urgent, Antoine.”

“What’s going on?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

Marcas turned to the producer and excused himself. “I won’t be long,” he said with a smile.

The party was in full swing. A DJ had replaced the quartet, and guests were dancing to the latest hits.

Marcas followed Jaigu, who took the stairs two at a time, nearly in rhythm with the Benny Benassi selection coming out of the speakers. Marcas’s ten-year-old son had introduced him to the group.

Two men were guarding a large wooden door. They stepped aside for the intelligence officer. Inside, Marcas saw two other gorillas bending over a mass. He walked closer, finally making out the body of a woman in a pool of blood.

Jaigu squatted next to the body.

“This can’t get out to the media,” Jaigu said. “It would be a disaster for the embassy’s image. Our relations with the Italian administration are already tense. The press would have a heyday.”

Marcas glowered. “Alexis, what am I doing here? You know I have no authority. This is a job for the head of security.”

Jaigu didn’t take his eyes off the lifeless body. “I know, but you’re a homicide detective. And the victim is a personal friend of the head of security. We have to be spot-on with this. Please. As a favor to me. Just take a look. Our chief security officer will be here shortly.”

Marcas sighed. “We need to lift fingerprints, examine the body, and—”

Jaigu interrupted him. “I just want your first impressions. Security has orders to cordon off the embassy. We have a witness.”

Marcas leaned over the body. The metallic odor of the woman’s blood and the sweet smell of beeswax floor polish mingled with her scent. Probably Shalimar, Marcas thought. “What do you know so far?”

“The victim went upstairs with another woman around forty-five minutes ago. One of the guards saw them. Ten minutes later, the other woman came down and disappeared. The guard figured he should check on this one. He alerted us as soon as he discovered the body.”

“I still don’t get what you want from me. I can’t do anything here, and your security chief will be furious. I would be. Why isn’t he here, anyway?”

Jaigu gave a sheepish smile. “Okay, okay. You caught me. I’ve been at war with her.”

“Her?”

“Special Agent Jade Zewinski. Fearsome—ask anyone who knows her. Some people don’t even bother calling her by her last name. They just call her Jade because she’s hard as stone. Joined the army young, rose quickly, intelligence, commandos, tours in the Middle East and Afghanistan. Lots of rage and lots of connections. Luckily, the guard who found this woman is a friend of mine, and he contacted me first. I just want your thoughts so I can tell the ambassador before she gets to him.”

“You’re out for a promotion on this?”

“Listen, anything you find could help us solve this case. First impressions are important in a murder investigation, right? And on top of that, if I could stick it to that pain in the ass Jade, well, why not? It’s the first murder in this palace since the Farneses lived here, and the victim happens to be a friend of hers. That should put a dent in her career. If it doesn’t get her transferred to a French embassy in Latvia or Angola, I’ll apply for Freemason initiation just to learn your handshake.”

Marcas didn’t want to get involved in a power struggle that had nothing to do with him. Still, the murder was intriguing, and he started to go over the body, paying special attention to the forehead and shoulder. What a strange way to die. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

8

Special Agent Jade Zewinski pushed her way through the guests. The call to her cell phone had interrupted a tête-à-tête with a handsome Italian actor. He was insufferable and pretentious but attractive enough for a romp in the sack. Jade had left the buck standing there with his Champagne. She didn’t even excuse herself.

Her second-in-command didn’t waste any time when she got to him. “It’s your friend,” he spit out. “She’s dead. They found her upstairs. I’m so sorry.”

The blood drained from her face. She felt a lump in her throat. She and Sophie had known each other since high school in Paris. Back then, they were like sisters. They hadn’t seen each other in more than a year, though—until two days ago, when Sophie had shown up in Rome. She’d changed. She was more mature and had lost nearly all of her youthful spontaneity.

Jade’s second-in-command cleared his throat. “Ma’am, Jaigu is already up there.”

Jade stiffened. “What the hell?”

“He got the news before we did. I don’t know how.”

“That shit’s got no business being at our crime scene. He’s just an intelligence officer. Have the men toss him out.”

“That’s hard to do, Chief. He’s got the ambassador’s ear.”

Jade picked up her pace, bumping into an Italian minister and nearly knocking over the German ambassador. She was thinking about Sophie. At breakfast in a small café on the Piazza Navone, Sophie had filled in the gaps. She had finished her degree in comparative history and taken over her parents’ Paris bookstore on the Rue de Seine. It specialized in old esoteric manuscripts. Demand was exploding for alchemy treatises, Masonic documents, and occult breviaries from the eighteenth century. She had customers from all over the world.

On the side, she had become a Freemason, mostly out of curiosity. Her thesis director had sponsored her. The path fascinated her, and she volunteered as an archivist at the Grand Orient Freemason headquarters in Paris. With her knowledge of ancient manuscripts, she had quickly organized and documented the tons of archives hidden away there.

Jade had made a face when Sophie mentioned the Freemasons. There was no love lost with these people. She’d rubbed shoulders with brothers twice in her life and had bitter memories of both occasions. The last time, she’d missed out on a position in Washington because an initiate had skillfully worked his connections. She hated this kind of old-boys network, although Masons were not the only ones with power in French diplomatic circles. In fact, they weren’t as powerful as Catholics and aristocrats, but still...

Sophie had stopped in Rome while en route to Jerusalem. She had seemed tense, saying she was on an assignment for the Grand Orient. She was supposed to be giving some documents to an Israeli researcher. She kept glancing around during their breakfast together, as if she suspected someone was watching her. She had asked Jade to keep a briefcase with the documents in the embassy safe. Jade joked about her paranoia, but agreed to keep them anyway. Then they talked about their relationships, an endless topic. Sophie mentioned an older man—a rich American customer who came through Paris occasionally—and some special women friends.

Sophie had laughed and flirted with her friend. But Jade had always made it clear that she only had eyes for men.

Now Sophie would never laugh again.

On the way up the stairs, Jade decided to keep quiet about Sophie’s documents. She had a hunch that they had something to do with her friend’s death. She pushed the thought out of her head when she spotted the two men bent over the body.

“You’ve got no fucking business being here,” she yelled. “Get away. Now, damn it!”