The Lafayette Sword (17 page)

60

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

T
he doctor stared at the torturer's empty eye sockets and the rest of his mutil
ated face.

“An amateur! The man who did this knew nothing about anatomy. Milord de Pareilles, you can eliminate anybody who has studied
medicine.”

“Unless they did it on purpose to mislead us,” Pareilles
responded.

“Impossible. Look how he cut the eyes out. Even my novice students know how to remove an eyeball without damaging the surrounding tissues. And look at how the optic nerve is severed.
Butchery.”

“So maybe the killer was mad with anger when he attacked him. Do you think the torturer was alive when it
happened?”

The doctor examined the man's wrists. “Do you see these
markings?”

Pareill
es nodded.

“It's proof that the torturer was immobilized, undoubtedly while he was being
blinded.”

“So there were two men,” Pareilles concluded. “Or at l
east two.”

“It could have been two women, or a man and a woman,” the doctor suggested as he used a razor to scrape
the face.

Flamel shuddered when he h
eard this.

“Never would a woman commit such an abomination. It's the work of a man,” Guy de Pareilles countered. “
A madman.”

The king's doctor took his time to answer. He was collecting the liquid running down the torturer's face from each e
ye socket.

“Do you have a son?” the doc
tor asked.

“Yes. He's six. A strong lad who does
me honor.”

“What would you do if someone killed your son in the prime of
his life?”

Flamel saw the blood drain from Pareill
es's face.

“For the love of God, I would hunt down the dog who killed the flesh of my flesh and avenge h
is death.”

“Would you kill the
murderer?”

“Worse than that,
I would—”

“And you aren't a madman, are you,” the do
ctor said.

Pareilles lo
oked away.

“You see, when faced with the unacceptable, you would fall prey to the demon of vengeance,” the doctor said. “The demon would remove any sense of morality or compassion. You would become an animal thirsting for blood, like those who committed this
horror.”

Flamel stopped writing. The exchange had taken a private turn that he was sure neither of the men wanted to have recorded. He decide
d to wait.

The search of the house continued. Bernard de Rhenac's men were knocking on the walls and listening for any hollow spaces. They had already cut open all the
furniture.

The doctor didn't say anything for a few seconds. He seemed to be listening. “I see your friends are also looking for the truth. Their methods are odd: first the furniture and now t
he walls.”

Guy de Pareilles didn't answer. He, like all other officers of the king, wasn't happy about the fact that the minister's secret police were inve
stigating.

The doctor took out two bowls and poured the first liquid collected from the sockets into one, and the second liquid into the other. He continued to press Pareilles. “I'm just a humble doctor, but I must admit that I don't understand why they're tearing this hou
se apart.”

“The minister carries out his own investigation, milord, and neither you nor I have any business getting
involved.”

“Of course, but one would think they believe the Devil is at work here. They're searching as if their souls depend
ed on it.”

“Never say such words in the house of a dead man.” Pareilles made the sign of the cross. “Scribe, erase that last
sentence.”

Flamel, who had started writing again, did as he was told, using a sharp blade to scrape the parchment. Meanwhile, the doctor added a granular powder to each bowl. The substances in the bowls flashed in reaction. One gave off an acrid vapor, while the surface of the other liquid took on a sparkly g
ray sheen.

Flamel put down his pen and ju
st stared.

“Mercury and sulfur. That's what was put in the torturer's eye sockets,” the do
ctor said.

“Mercury and sulfur,” Pareilles
repeated.

“Looks like alchemy,” the doctor said as he
stood up.

61

Rue Dante, Saint Ouen, a northern suburb of Paris

Present day

T
he street smelled like mold. The sidewalk, the filthy walls of the houses, and the pavement itself exuded the odor. It was as if the smell of decomposition had become embedded in the air. Even the dry cold of the night couldn't chase away the sic
kly smell.

How unpleasant, he thought as he removed the blade from its case. He would have preferred a more agreeable environment, but this was the only spot where he could accomplish his task without being noticed. He stood just outside a garage and waited for his victim. If his reconnaissance was correct, the man would be here any minute now. Bad reporters are always on time, he thought as he watched a gray cat poise to leap on a rat that was its matc
h in size.

“I am the Sword of Light, the Elu of v
engeance.”

The excitement spread through him. Blood flooded his brain in an ancestral reflex. He could already imagine the reporter's face when the blade entered
his chest.

The double murder at the Freemason headquarters had been the catalyst. Now he knew that he couldn't abandon his mission. Killing had become as vital as… Eating? Drinking? Copulating? Really, there was nothing like this quest. Perhaps it was the search for this ultimate secret that gave him such a thirst f
or blood.

And now he was going to murder again—his last murder before his departure for New York. This would be for pleasure, but would also serve a purpose, not for his quest, but for society. He would be eliminating a
parasite.

He checked his watch. His prey would pass by here in less than four minutes. He had already left the paper and was heading for the Mairie de Saint Ouen metr
o station.

It had been almost two decades since he'd seen the reporter. What a bastard. The man had mocked him in an article on rising businessmen who sponsored commando training for deserving executives. It was trendy at the time. He had been naïve and had gotten trapped by the reporter. The newspaper had published photos of him in fatigues and a beret, telling his underlings far-fetched war stories. The article had made him out to be a drill sergeant, and everyone—from employees and peers to his wife—had made fun of him. He fell into depression afterward and neede
d therapy.

It was the first time he had felt the irrepressible desire to kill with his own hands. His shrink had said that such feelings were natural, but acting on th
em wasn't.

But now he was going to do it. This murder wasn't a logical part of his quest, but just an additional moment of pleasure. A small vengeance
. A treat.

He heard footsteps in the deserted street. Late by just two minutes. Excellent. He had sharpened the blade with a stone, and now he held the grip against
his leg.

The footsteps got louder. His blood throbbed in his head
. It hurt.

The reporter was right in front of him, fiftyish and flat-footed, with straight hair and a smug look on
his face.

He jumped in front of the man, who swore in surprise. He closed his eyes when the blade entered his victim's tender belly. He savored the very moment that the metal tore the skin and plunged into th
e viscera.

The reporter collapsed in slow motion, flapping his arms. The killer felt a wave of warmth run through him at the sight of the dying m
an's pain.

“Who… Who
are you?”

“You don't recognize me? I am one of the many people you've exploited for the sake of seeing your name on the front page of your seedy li
ttle rag.”

The reporter slumped as the life seeped out of him. For a moment, there was a flash in his eyes—recognition
, perhaps.

The killer contemplated his victim. He was ecstatic. He had experienced that fleeting moment when, after the flesh slowed the blade, he summoned the strength to drive it into the body. An analogy came to him. The Freemasons set aside metals when they entered a meeting, a sign of leaving behind all impurities of the profane world. In his own ritual of vengeance, he left traces of his metal in the bodies of hi
s victims.

Too bad he would never be able to share such Masonic thoughts with his brothers. He removed the knife, wiped it off, and looked around. There was nobody. The Great Architect was
with him.

“I am the Sword
of Light.”

He turned the corner and got into his car, which was parked in front of a run-down drug-addicti
on center.

He was off to
New York.

62

Nicolas Flamel's home

March 21, 1355

W
ith only the meager light from a lamp to guide her, Lady Perenelle slowly descended into the darkness. It weighed more heavily on her with each step. She feared that she'd never be able to find her
way back.

Her guts were twisted in apprehension, but the devil of curiosity was stronger than the dread. Uncovering her husband's secret was an act of God. She would save
his soul.

A final step brought her to the cellar floor. She felt around in the darkness until her hand encountered a round wooden shape. She thanked the Almighty. She had reached the wine barrels lining the wall. She slowly followed the vats, counting as she went. She reached eleven before hitting the wall. A door in this wall would open to the space where Nicolas hid
his books.

Why was he not satisfied with what God had given him: a good job and a loving wife? Why had he developed such a passion for the books he was just mean
t to copy?

The flame in the oil lamp suddenly danced, as if someone in the shadows was breathing on it. The flame almost died. She
screamed.

Her heart was pounding, but she managed to gather her wits. Right in front of her was the door that hid her husband's secrets. She put her hand on the leather latch and waited for her heart to calm down. But as her heartbeat slowed, she heard something. She turned and tried to light up the darkness. She stopped breathing to hear better. It was only the sound of dripping water. To her right she spotted another lamp. She lit it, and the cellar was bathed in a g
olden hue.

Now it really was too late to go back. Reciting the Lord's Prayer, she started to open the door. When she reached “thy will be done,” she pulled it open all the way. A book fell onto the hard-pack
ed earth.

She bent down to pick it up. The binding felt wet. She lowered
the lamp.

She shrieked. Her hand was red w
ith blood.

63

Present day

Aurora Paris to Aur
ora Source

Alert.
Attached, please find test results regarding a sample found in Paris. I request real-time communication to discuss the impact of this in
formation.

Aurora Source to Au
rora Paris

Alert response.
Test results received. Could there be some mistake? Where did the sample
come from?

Aurora Paris to Aur
ora Source

Alert response.
Test conducted twice. I repeat my request for communication outside the network. I also request surveillance on the target, sta
rting now.

Aurora Source to Au
rora Paris

Alert response.
Face-to-face confirmed for 18:00 GMT tomorrow. Authorization to contact the Security and Intervention Department. Surveillance requires council meeting, but I take responsibility for activating
an agent.

64

Home of Antoine Marcas, Rue Muller

Present day

M
arcas ended the phone call. The officer watching his son had told him that no one had followed him home from school, and everything appeared to be normal. Isabelle, meanwhile, had informed Marcas that she would be leaving for Saint Martin with Pierre in two days. Reassured, he poured himself a glass of rum and sat down at his
computer.

He was thinking about Edmond Canseliet as he started to go through his e-mail. The whole scene had been dreamlike. How in the world had the killer gotten his hands on alchemical gold? There had to be some link to Paul
's secret.

His eyes stopped on the message he had been looking for. The American woman had
answered.

Dear Sir,

I am surprised and touched by your communication. I am so sorry for your loss. I have very little knowledge of the link between my family and that of your friend. However, you must understand that I have to take precautions. Please contact me at the num
ber below.

Marcas called the number immediately. After three rings, a woman
answered.

“Mr
. Marcas?”

He sat up
straight.

“I don't get that many calls from France. I was so sorry to hear about your friend. What exactly is it that you want? Please be specific, as I don't have time
to waste.”

Her tone was firm. Marcas was on tenterhooks, but he did his best to sound jus
t as firm.

“Ma'am, I'm a police inspector here in Paris. The deceased was a friend, but I'm also leading the investigation into his death. I'm looking for his killer, and apparently, you have a crucial piece of information related to his death. I need to know wh
at it is.”

“I'll be just as direct, Mr. Marcas. How do I know you're a police investigator? You contacted me through your private e-mail. For that matter, how do I know you're not th
e killer?”

Marcas went silent for a moment. It had been a mistake to use his own e-mail account. The lines between his personal life and his professional life had been blurry from the start. She was right to b
e careful.

“I can send you all the verification you need. And I'll give you the phone number of my supervisor, if yo
u'd like.”

He heard the sound of a chair scuffing the floor. “I respect your need to bring the killer to justice, but I still don't understand why I'm mixed up in an investigation led by the French police. I live in
New York.”

“Forgive me for not being more forthcoming. Paul de Lambre was not only my friend, but also a Freemason brother. We belonged to the same lodge. As with the police, you can verify this. I'll give you the phone number of the jurisdiction's offices. They will confirm that I am the one who found the body. The murderer killed an initiate, as well, and you alone can help to identify the man we're loo
king for.”

“How?”

“The investigation led to a clue that mentions a specific place in New York. The killer is also aware of it, but doesn't know exactly where it is. At least not yet. Now you know why I need to meet
with you.”

“Well, when should I ex
pect you?”

“I can grab a flight tomorrow. I just need an hour of your time. That's all I as
k of you.”

“First I need to check you out. I'll call you in an hour.” Her voice was
ice cold.

She clicked off before he could answer. He put the phone down. If she was in on it, she was a great actress. Her tone irritated him, but he figured he had himself to blame for that. He should have contacted her from police headquarters. Still, that would have tipped off Hodecourt, and he preferred keeping his colleague at arm's length. There was something obtuse about the man, and the investigation required a measure o
f finesse.

Waiting for her return call, he tried to read a book on the history of alchemy. The p
hone rang.

“We can meet here in
New York.”

“Where?”

“At my office on Madison Avenue. I'm not sure I'll be any help. I don't know much, and stories of Freemasonry and esoteric secrets aren't my cu
p of tea.”

“Freemasonry isn't the same as esotericism. Its goals are more p
ragmatic.”

“I know. My father was a Freemason: worshipful master at the Brothers of Freed
om Lodge.”

Marcas smiled. That c
ould help.

“I'm thrilled to hear that. I'm sure he was a
fine man.”

“Indeed. But he's dead. We'll talk more when yo
u arrive—”

Marcas cut her short. He had already compromised his standing with her by failing to give full disclosure. He wanted the upper hand. “I've got to go now,” he said. “I'll let you know when I land
. Thanks.”

Marcas ended the call and immediately entered the private number of the police prefect. He updated his superior on the status of the investigation and requested authorization to fly to New York. Then he called
Hodecourt.

“I thought you fell off the earth,” his colleague said. “Got anything to tell me about that gold nugget? I'm not getting very far a
t my end.”

Marcas wasn't surprised. Hodecourt spent most of his time at his desk. It was just dumb luck that he had gotten the medical examiner's report first. How the man had managed to win the favor of their higher-ups, Marcas would never know. He filled Hodecourt in and responded sympathetically when the man complained about not being approved for the trip. He'd just have to continue pursuing any leads in France. Hodecourt grunted and ended
the call.

Marcas booked his flight and reserved a room in a hotel near Gramercy Park, a
haut lieu
of the literary intelligentsia. Sid Vicious, Andy Warhol, and James Joyce had all frequented the bar at the Chelsea. Isabelle had taken him there once for his
birthday.