The Lafayette Sword (18 page)

65

Pensacola, Florida

Present day

I
t had been raining for three days. Some of the streets were flooded, and many basements were wet. Jack Winthrop missed the dry heat of Kuwait. He folded his shirts and placed them neatly in his suitcase, checking the two encrypted devices he used to send and receive e-mails. He felt a headache coming on, probably because of jet lag. He hadn't had enough time to spend with his wife and two
daughters.

He had been watching the sheets of rain beat down on the sand in front of his villa when he received the request from Aurora Source. He didn't want to leave so soon. He missed his girls when he was away, and the distance between him and his wife seemed to grow with each trip. Then there was the memory of that one-eyed man in the hangar in Kuwait. He was feeling remorse, and that didn't help him d
o his job.

He checked his ticket. Destination Paris. There were worse places t
o be sent.

He opened the door to his girls' room and looked at the walls filled with Disney posters. They were sleeping. He kissed them on the forehead. He knew his wife was pretending
to sleep.

The rain slapped his face as he ran to the taxi waiting in front of the house. When he got to the airport, he learned that his flight to Miami had been cancelled because of the weather. He scanned the waiting area filled with anonymous passengers, all of whom were focused on their ce
ll phones.

Jack Winthrop made a decision. This would be his last assignment f
or Aurora.

66

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

“I
don't believe I need to open the body,” the doctor announced. “How he died
is clear.”

The chief guard was examining the texture of the mercury and the characteristic color of sulfur in the two r
ecipients.

Flamel was waiting silently for the dialogue to pick up again. But no words came. Even the doctor was lost in thought. He was certainly making connections with the recently b
urned Jew.

Pareilles finally broke the silence. “So, if that is sulfur and
mercury…”

Was he still hoping this was an ordina
ry murder?

The doctor left no room for doubt. “Let me assure you—they are. And this is certainly an act of v
engeance.”

The room went silent again. Actually, the whole house was quiet. Rhenac's men had apparently finished the
ir search.

Seconds later, someone shouted an order. Guy de Pareilles straightened up, checked his uniform, and exited the room. Left alone, Flamel focused on what he had written, while the doctor continued to stare at
the body.

The door opened again, and Pareilles came back in, looki
ng somber.

“Master Flamel, you will not recopy your work. Give it to me as is. There will be no copy of th
is… This—”

“Medical dissection,” the doctor said. “A procedure developed by the Greek physician Galen
Pergamum.”

Pareilles glar
ed at him.

“Now, now, soldier, don't look so angry. I didn't even open him up. Only the Devil knows what I would have found in his in
testines.”

Flamel tensed at the doctor's tone. He expected Pareilles to react, but nothing
happened.

“What you see here is a case of aggravated murder,” Pareilles said with glacial calm. “The Dominican brothers will soon tell us if this is heresy or sorcery or both. I suspect a conspiracy against the state and perhaps even against the king
himself.”

“Undoubtedly, we are thinking of the same person,” the do
ctor said.

Pareilles walked over to the window without answering. He gave the soldiers in the street
a signal.

“Certainly you are thinking about a man who went up in smoke recently on the banks of t
he Seine.”

The soldiers formed a line blocking one end of the street. The points of their spears gleamed in the light of the r
ising sun.

“The man the king himself brought to France during these uncertain times, when the English are at the gates of Paris, the kingdom's princes are constantly revolting, and the coffers are desperately empty,” the doctor
continued.

Another line of soldiers cut off the street at the Saint Jacques Church, bows and arr
ows ready.

The doctor pressed for an answer. “Who better to fill the state's coffers with gold than an alchemist? But the Spanish Jew was nothing more than a c
harlatan.”

Pareilles shouted an order, and the remaining guards took up their positions outside the door, dagg
ers drawn.

“Our king was right to get rid of that
imposter.”

Still not reacting, Pareilles glanced at Flamel, who was rolling up the parchment in a piece of leather. The docto
r went on.

“But an imposter who first, under direct order from his majesty, went through the hands of our torturer.” The doctor gestured to the body on the floor. “What did he say to the torturer? What secrets did he
pass on?”

“Milord,” Pareilles finally said. “You talk too much. Far
too much.”

67

Present day

Aurora Source to Au
rora Paris

Alert.
A security and intervention agent is on his way
to Paris.

Aurora Paris to Aur
ora Source

Operation Chimera.
Following our phone call, the target, Inspector Antoine Marcas, took an Air France flight to New York today. According to my source, this sudden departure is linked to his investigation. He should arrive at 18:10 at JFK. Send the agent to
New York.

Aurora Source to Au
rora Paris

Operation Chimera.
Noted. Our agent will arrive in New York well before the target. Please send a photo so we can set up a tail. An emergency meeting of the Aurora board should take place shortly to appro
ve action.

68

New York

Present day

B
ecause of his status as a police officer, Marcas had been able to bypass the security lines for regular passengers and was one of the first to board the plane. The flight had gone smoothly, and Marcas arrived in New York with minima
l jet lag.

But now he was annoyed. The taxi driver wasn't taking the Manhattan Bridge to his hotel. Instead, he had chosen the Brooklyn Bridge. Like an ordinary tourist, Marcas was being taken for a ride. The police inspector decided not to make an issue of it. As they crossed the bridge, he stared at the skyscrapers lighting up the night. Whenever he saw this sparkling vista, he sensed an invisible electrical current running through all of
Manhattan.

The taxi driver was slaloming through traffic, swearing in a language Marcas couldn't identify, when a white limo veered in front of them. The limo driver stuck his arm out the window and made a rude gesture. Cursing even louder, the taxi driver swerved around the limo and laid on his horn. And just as he did this, he was forced to slam on the brakes. They were getting close to the center of Manhattan, and the cars and trucks had slowed t
o a crawl.

Marcas scanned the gigantic digital billboards. He paused on one announcing a new TV series Marcas had vaguely heard about, some contem
porary family comedy. Marcas smirked. He could qualify for his own contemporary family comedy: single cop with one son. It wasn't what he envisioned when he married Isabelle, but what he wound up with. Even the hopes he had allowed himself to nurture during his time with Jade had been
trampled.

For a few moments he had allowed himself to entertain thoughts of starting something with the lovely Anne Hervieu, the conservator at the Musée Carnavalet. But he had thought better of it. He was too bitter to have a decent relationship with a woman. He needed time—and yes, maybe better perspective and room for forgiveness in his heart. He was too spent for love at t
he moment.

The taxi stopped at a light, and Marcas heard the blinker go on. The driver was getting ready to turn left, toward City Hall, instead of continuing north. This had to end. He wasn't going to circle the city three times just to get to his hotel. He tapped the window and pointed straight ahead. The driver shrugged, muttered something, and turned off th
e blinker.

A half hour later, Marcas was lying on the bed in his hotel room. All he had to do now was wait until tomorrow. He couldn't help thinking that the whole thing was absurd. He'd flown across the ocean to meet for an hour with a woman he didn't know to discuss some centuries-old crap about alchemy, gold, and ritual murders. He could pictu
re it now.

“Hi, Miss Archambeau. I'm looking for a Freemason psycho who's killing brothers, apparently for the fun of it. And by the way, did your father happen to leave you a little envelope with the secret of the Ho
ly Grail?”

What
bullshit.

He took a bottle of gin from the mini-fridge. The clear liquid ran down his throat without giving him any pleasure. Too tired to venture outside and roam the Broadway theater district, he picked up the remote and clicked through a televangelist and a food show called “Chopped” before landing on female cage fighters. He experienced a moment of culture shock before falling into a de
ep sleep.

Hot water from the shower was filling the bathroom with steam. God, he loved the Waldorf Astoria. Following Marcas was child's play. He knew all about the man, including where he was now and where he would be
tomorrow.

He heard a knock at the door. Just on time—a professional. He slipped on a bathrobe, padded across the thick carpet, and opened up to a tall blonde who smiled and sashayed into the room. He removed some bills from his wallet and handed them over. An hour of pleasure awaited him. When he approached her, she smiled again and then grabbed him by the neck, flipped him over, and locked his head between h
er thighs.

His choice, made via an online reservation with a private erotic-wrestling club, had been an excellent one. He managed to wriggle free, but she blocked an arm. She was strong, and he
was hard.

After a half hour of intense play, he was straddling the woman. The image of the three men he murdered ran through his mind just as he ejaculated between he
r breasts.

69

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

T
he first shop owners were opening their shutters and setting up their stalls. It had been a short night, and many looked haggard. None of the residents were happy about the armed guards controlling the comings and goings. A few brave pedestrians tried to approach the house, but the soldiers had strict orders to keep the curious away from the scene of the crime. Rumors that this was a political assassination and the country was at risk of riots and perhaps civil war were already spreading. But the presence of Bernard de Rhenac's secret police wasn't brought up even in
whispers.

Master Maillard was the only resident who didn't feel threatened. Actually, he felt a bit annoyed that the authorities hadn't called on him yet. The paper-scratcher Flamel had been at the center of the action for hours now, and here he was, a shopkeeper with an impeccable reputation and several well-founded theories about the assassination, left to his ow
n devices.

Maillard would leave his shop and start heading over to the torturer's house. Then he'd change his mind and return to his place, where he'd putter a bit. A few minutes later, he'd go out again. He did this several times, until he saw that the guards were watching him more closely. He decided to stay put. He wanted to help out, but he didn't want to be q
uestioned.

The sound of his neighbor's door opening made him reconsider. Lady Perenelle was venturing outside. He hurried out to
greet her.

“Lady Perenelle, your husband has been in that cursed house for hours now. I'm worried about him, as is everyone else. What do you think they're doing with him
in there?”

Lady Perenelle just star
ed at him.

“I just don't understand why they're keeping him so long. After all, he didn't know the
torturer.”

“Excuse me, Master Maillard,” Lady Perenelle said, pulling her coat tight and trying to move past him. “I'm in
a hurry.”

“Guards are blocking th
e street.”

“I'm going to church. I don't think they will keep a Christian from the hous
e of God.”

Her tone surprised the furrier. This wasn't the Lady Perenelle he knew. Her face was tight, and her arms wer
e crossed.

“Of course, you're right. In these difficult times, o
ne needs—”

“Give my best to your family, Master
Maillard.”

The furrier watched her cross the street and disappear into t
he church.