The Lafayette Sword (20 page)

74

New York

Present day

F
rom a bench in Central Park, Marcas watched a group of runners go by as he tried to make sense of what had happened with Joan Archambeau. She was hiding something. He bit into his hot dog, and mustard dribbled down his chin. He wiped his mouth and pulled out the piece of pur
ple paper.

“The Blazing Scot. 33. 1886. Ce
nevières.”

Then he pulled out the message engraved on the Lafaye
tte sword.

“New York, where, in turn, speak brothers of all ways, truth lies in the center of the ancient ga
ze. 1886.”

He couldn't make any sense of it. He was finishing his soda when his p
hone rang.

“Mr. Marcas? I
t's Joan.”

“Yes,” he sai
d sharply.

“I… Something came back to me. Maybe it could help. As I said, my father was a Freemason. Sometimes he talked with me about what they did in the lodge. I wasn't very interested, but I recall that he mentioned the Écossais Étincelant. Something about it being a very o
ld lodge.”

Marcas felt his heartbeat accelerate, Écossais Étincelant, or Blazing Scot. He jumped up. “Thanks. I'll try to find a registry o
f lodges.”

“You could probably find that at the Masonic Hall. It's on West 23r
d Street.”

“Yes, it's quite we
ll known.”

“Can I go with you?” Joan said. She sounded
hesitant.

Marcas didn't answer right away. “I don't think it's a good idea. I'll be going on official police business. I'm sure they'll wonder why I have someone tagging along, and I don't want to cause any confusion. I'm in New York to get the information I need for my inves
tigation.”

“Listen, Mr. Marcas, my father and I didn't exactly get along. If I went with you, I might understand who he was just a littl
e better.”

Marcas didn't say anything. He was looking f
or a taxi.

“At least meet with me afterward. Unless, of course, you really don't want to see
me again.”

He was softening. After all, she did have a right to know the fami
ly secret.

“Okay, I'll let you know when I have an app
ointment.”

“Thanks.”

Marcas ended the call and shook his head. He didn't t
rust her.

Joan set the phone down on her desk. The man picked up h
is jacket.

“Perfect,” he said. “We'll see if he finds out where this lodge is. I was right to keep h
im alive.”

“You frighten me. You've gone too far, killing those people. That wasn't the plan. I'm beginning to think that your emotions are overriding your inte
lligence.”

She didn't see the slap coming. Putting her hand to her cheek, she glar
ed at him.

“Never speak to me like that again. You know what you owe me. Is that clear? I am the Sword
of Light.”

“Yes,” sh
e mumbled.

“Good. You'll go meet with him as soon as he calls. I have a few thin
gs to do.”

He shut the door behind him and
was gone.

The Masonic Hall on West 23rd Street was enormous. Freemasonry was out in the open here in the United States, and lodges had big signs telling everyone what they were. This wasn't how it was done in Europe, where lodges were discreet. Marcas was blown away by the opulence of the hall. Photos in the entranceway showed other lodges, which were beautiful and seemed to have something for
everyone.

Marcas had called Guy Andrivaux and asked him to put him in touch with someone from the Grand Lodge of Free and Accepted Masons of New York. Two hours later, he got a call from Samuel Colt, a librarian at the grand lodge, who recommended that he stop by. He hadn't been able to find the Écossais Étincelant, but Marcas was free to consult the
archives.

Then he had called Joan Archambeau. He told her that his appointment had been put off until the next day. He didn't want her hanging around while he was doing his
research.

When he reached the magnificent library, he was shown to a small office, where a portrait of the venerable brother George Washington hung above a small credenza. Samuel S. Colt, who looked like he was in his forties and had a thick moustache, came in to greet him and pointed to the lodge directories he had set out on an oak table. Marcas wondered if the man was a descendant of the famed inventor of the Colt revolver, who was also a Freemason—and a chemist, actually. But he decided to wait. They spoke for a minute, and Colt slipped away, leaving Marcas alone with ten large leather-bound registries with golden eyes in triangles on the covers. Each volume covered a year from 1870 to 1890. The table of contents in each listed the names of lodges established during the year, along with key events. Marcas spent more than an hour examining the tiny writing on paper yellowed with age. The Écossais Étincelant lodge was nowhere t
o be seen.

Finally, Marcas looked up. The writing in the volumes was faded in spots, and his eyes were fatigued. He rubbed his face. It had to be in there somewhere. There was no reason for the clues to be false. Trying to make sense of everything, he walked out to the hallway to get a drink from the fountain. What bearing did this elusive lodge have on the mystery he was trying to unravel? Something
was off.

Samuel Colt came out of his office and wandered over. “Did you find what you were loo
king for?”

“No, the Écossais Étincelant must have been unrecognized, because I haven't found it anywhere in t
he books.”

The man pulled a cloth from his pocket and took off his glasses. “What was the name again?” he asked, polishing t
he lenses.

“The Écossais Étincelant. I found the name in a French directory and was curious about it.” Marcas didn't like lying, but it was the expedient th
ing to do.

“Maybe it's a secondary name for the lodge. It was common at one time for lodges to have them. Do you know anything else
about it?”

“Just the number thirty-three. I suppose it refers to the thirty-thir
d degree.”

Marcas and Colt returned to the room with the directories. Colt pulled out a paper and wrote down “Écossais Étince
lant. 33.”

“The thirty-three probably corresponds with the lodge number,” Colt said. “Lodges in the United States have corresponding numbers. For example, I go to Sons of Union No. 301 in New Jersey. We should look for Number 3
3 lodges.”

They both opened up ledgers and searched until they came up with ni
ne lodges:

Polar Star Lod
ge No. 33.

Saint John Lod
ge No. 33.

Sons of Light Lod
ge No. 33.

Golden Clover Lod
ge No. 33.

Seven Branch Chandelier Lod
ge No. 33.

Ivanhoe Lod
ge No. 33.

Luxor Star Lod
ge No. 33.

Children of Washington Lod
ge No. 33.

Freedom Call Lod
ge No. 33.

Marcas stretched, loosening his shoulders and arms. Colt had put his hands behind his head and was leaning back in
his chair.

“Stars and gold glitter, but I don't see anything Scottish, per se,” Ma
rcas said.

Colt looked at the list again and smiled. “Of course,” he said, pointing to the sixth name. I don't know why I didn't see it before.
Ivanhoe.”

Marcas blinked.
“And why?”

“
Ivanhoe
was written by Sir Walter Scott, a Scottish baronet and Freemason. He was initiated at what was later called the Saint David Lodge. The Scottish Rite tradition that we know today began with men like Sir Walter. Ivanhoe is a popular name for Masonic lodges in the United States. It recalls the righteousness and bravery of Sir Walter's protagonist, Wilfred
Ivanhoe.”

Colt looked through the corresponding volume. “There's an address in Harlem. It was an exclusive whites-only part of town in the nineteenth century, and it had a number of Masonic temples from 1870 to 1900. Afterward, waves of immigrants moved in. A mass migration of African Americans began in the early twentieth century, and Harlem became a culturally rich part of New York, especially in the 1920s. As you may know, it also experienced an economic decline later in the century. Today, Harlem's on the rise again and becoming gentrified—to the dismay of many longtime Harlem residents, who want to keep it as
their own.

“Do you think the lodge is stil
l active?”

Colt walked over to a computer and entered the name of the lodge. He frowned and looked up. “It seems to have closed in 1904. The Prince Hall brothers took over the temple for a while, and it was sold a few yea
rs later.”

“What are the Prince Hall
brothers?”

“Prince Hall was the first black Freemason in the United States, initiated in 1775. He founded African Lodge No. 1, primarily for African Americans who couldn't join white lodges. He was grand master, and his movement, which began in Boston, grew to become a powerful Masonic presence here in the United States and around the world. Members have included Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, and Duke E
llington.”

“Give me the address. I want to check out what happened to the
building.”

Colt jotted down the address and handed it over. “I happen to know a Prince Hall brother. He's a police officer, like you. Give him a call. He might be able
to help.”

Colt gave him the number, and Marcas scribbled it under the address of t
he lodge.

“Thank you,” Marcas said, preparing to leave. “I've been meaning to ask a question. Are you related to the Samuel Colt who invented the
revolver?”

Colt brushed his moustache. “I share his name, and we have Freemasonry in common. But I've never owned a gun, and I never i
ntend to.”

Marcas shook Colt's hand. “It was a pleasure to
meet you.”

The sun was setting when Marcas left the Masonic hall. He looked at the bustling street and decided to head directly to Harlem to find what was left of the Ivanhoe Lodge. Perhaps he would uncov
er a clue.

75

Berne

Present day

T
he members of Aurora left shortly after lunch, leaving Edmond Canseliet behind with the group's founder. The two men sipped coffee on
the deck.

“That was a close vote,” Canse
liet said.

André Surgens put down his steaming cup. “Don't be naïve, Edmond. Do you really think the nays could
have won?”

“How can you be so c
onfident?”

“I contacted some of our friends ahead of time to persuade them to vote our way. To tell the truth, it cost me a handful of gold. Didn't you notice how Zurich was suddenly so interested in particle acce
lerators?”

The Frenchman smiled. “Corruption, eh? I thought we didn't do that kind of thing i
n Aurora.”

Surgens smiled. “No need to worry, my friend. We just bent the rules a little to counterbalance the narrow mindset of some of our members. Your family sample—that gold nugget you showed Mr. Marcas—concerns me. To tell the truth, it brings memories
to mind.”

Canseliet looked at his watch. He had time before he needed to leave for the airport. “What kind of
memories?”

“Those of another era, when alchemists were considered scholars and none doubted their art, even if they were threatened an
d cursed.”

“Yet many ended up in exile, in pr
ison, or—”

“Burned at the stake, true enough. Have you ever heard of Isaac B
enserade?”

“Never,” Canseliet answered. “Jewish, I suppose, considering
his name?”

“Yes. Executed in Paris in 1355 for being an a
lchemist.”

“That was the year Nicolas Flamel left on his pilgrimage. A coincidence,
no doubt.”

“Yes, of course, a coincidence. Anyway, you wanted to ask me something, di
dn't you?”

“Who is handling surv
eillance?”

“A former American Marine, Jack Winthrop. He's perfect for the job: both discreet and effective. I caught him before he flew to Paris and redirected him to New York. According to his latest report, Mr. Marcas met with an attorney and then spent his afternoon in the library at the Masonic Hall in New York. I suppose that doesn't surp
rise you.”

Canseliet frowned. So Surgens knew he was a
Freemason.

“I vouch for the man. Forget your prejudices against Americans, m
y friend.”

Surgens got up and accompanied Canseliet to the front door, where a silver Lexus was waitin
g for him.

Canseliet waved to Surgens, settled into the black leather seat, and nodded to the chauffeur. He watched Surgens as they drove off. He had a bad feeling about this. He'd never seen the man break his own rules before. Aurora was based
on trust.

The car wound its way down the mountain, and only at the bottom did Canseliet realize that he had, indeed, been naïve. This couldn't have been the man's
first lie.