The Lafayette Sword (21 page)

76

Saint Jacques de la Boucherie Church

March 21, 1355

L
ady Perenelle entered the church through the small door, the discreet one on the side, the one parishioners used to attend daily Mass. The large carved doors at the front of the church were opened only on religious holidays, when worshippers entered to the sound of celebratory bells and grand music. When those doors were open, light flooded much of the church. But on this early spring morning, Lady Perenelle wasn't seeking light. She wanted the anonymity of
darkness.

She ran her eyes over the pews to see if anyone was praying. There was little risk of that this early, but she couldn't allow herself to be re
cognized.

She slowly approached the stoup. She dipped her fingers in the icy holy water and made the sign of the cross. She couldn't find the words to pray. What could she possibly say to God? The murder of the torturer had ripped her faith from her. She didn't understand what had happened to her calm and orderly life—no more than she could understand her husband's real personality. He was a respected scribe by day, but a reader of forbidden texts
by night.

She couldn't even remember how she had made it up from the cellar. She only recalled being back in the main room, her hands covered in blood. As for
the book…

She pulled her coat tight. As for the book… She knew what she had to do. She would save her husband fro
m himself.

The bells made her jump. She backed up and looked at the vaulted door just left of the choir stall. That was how the priests entered for Mass and confession. They arrived via a metal staircase that clanged with every step. She listened. Nothing. Now she had to explore the side chapels. Most were private spaces where the wealthy came to honor their patron saints. Some rich parishioners were buried there, under humble stone slabs, signs of devotion or just insurance for the afterlife. Lady Perenelle had her own dream of lying in rest and finding eternal peace with her husband in an antique chapel at the back of t
he church.

She was checking each of the chapels when she heard voices. Two worshippers were whispering their morning prayers in one of them. Hiding in the shadows, Lady Perenelle looked for another way, but if she wanted to reach the far side of the church, she would have to walk past the two
believers.

It would be better if she waited for them to finish. The risk of one of them seeing her was too great. But soon she realized that they weren't praying, but were deep in conversation. She inched closer and recognized the statue of Saint Anthony reigning over them. She smiled. It was the two Bartolei brothers, moneylenders from Italy who traded in gold. They were in a dangerous business and were very devoted to Saint Anthony, who was said to protect thieves and rascals of
all kinds.

“I'm telling you, the British are on t
heir way.”

“And I'm telling you those are just stories. Whenever people see helmets and spears, rumors of a British attack begin t
o spread.”

“Our sources are good. Provost de Neaufles told me he saw the troops assembling. He came to g
et funds.”

“He probably needed the money for some other kind of a
dventure.”

“He left town with all of his belongings, as if the Devil were on his heels. I think we should do
the same.”

They fell silent, as if taking the time to measure the scope of the information. Lady Perenelle had listened without feeling alarmed. For weeks there had been talk of an imminent British attack. The rumors didn't bother her, and, unlike the Bartolei brothers, she had no gold to stow away. Protecting her husband from doing something very wrong was much more real and much mo
re urgent.

She had to get to her destination. She considered crossing in front of the altar. It was the most visible part of the church, but if nobody came in, she wouldn't be spotted. She took a step to the right, but the floor, worn by centuries of foot traffic, was uneven. She tripped, reached out to catch her balance, and knocked over a candle stand. It fell to the floor, and the sound of the crash echoed throughout t
he church.

The two brothers panicked and started running down the nave, swearing and shrieking as if demons were chasing them. The parish priest rushed down t
he stairs.

In a state of panic, Lady Perenelle picked herself up. She didn't know what to do. The priest would be there at any second. She turned toward the front of the church and focused on the silver box on the altar. With the brothers' shrieks echoing and the sound of the priest approaching, she rushed to the altar and opened the box. She removed the Bible and placed it to the side. She pulled the bloody book from under her coat and dropped it in the box. Then she fled, as if her life depend
ed on it.

The priest inspected the church. It was silent now. He found the candle holder on the floor and picked it up. Seeing that everything appeared to be in order, he walked over to the altar and knelt in front of the silver box that held the Holy Book. “God Almighty, hear m
y prayer.”

77

Harlem, New York

Evening of Marcas's first day in the city

M
arcas felt a little uneasy as he got out of the taxi. Everyone he had spoken with had told him that Harlem wasn't what he remembered—full of neglected buildings and neglected people. Since then, Harlem had become vibrant, family-friendly, and burgeoning with young professionals. Still, some had warned him that there were parts of Harlem where he would need to take care at night, mostly because the streets were deserted. This was one of th
ose parts.

He studied his map with a flashlight he'd bought from a street vendor near his hotel. He zipped up his black jacket. At night this area was most likely no different from parts of other American—and French—cities. You just had to be aware of your surroundings. And, after all, he was a cop who knew how to take care of himself. Marcas started walking toward the address he had noted. What remained of the lodge was most likely three blocks away, a few centimeters on the, but a good kilomete
r on foot.

He passed building after building, quite a few of them under renovation and dark, because all the workers had gone home. He slowed down and tried to make out the streets and addresses. Nothing corresponded with his map. He had overestimated his sense of direction, but he con
tinued on.

A few minutes later, he felt a presence behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck went up. He quickened his pace, not daring to look over his
shoulder.

He saw an intersection up ahead and crossed the street. Maybe if he turned the corner he'd come across lights a
nd people…

No luck. The intersecting street was as dark as
this one.

Marcas dared to look over his shoulder. A form in a hoodie was trailing him. Maybe he was looking for a building too. Then again, maybe he wasn't. Marcas started jogging. He looked over his shoulder again, and the person in the hoodie was jogging too. This guy wasn't looking for a building. He was looking for someone with
a wallet.

Marcas quickly scanned his surroundings. He couldn't see any lights or signs of life. His instincts took over. He turned around and said the closest thing to a prayer he cou
ld summon.

“What do you want?” he yelled at the shadowy figure. “
My money?”

The form in the hoodie stopped. Marcas got a good look at him, and he could see that it was just a kid—maybe only a few years older than Pierre. But if the boy was a junkie, he could be very dangerous. On top of that, he didn't know if the kid had a gun. Marcas was sure he could take the boy if he wasn't armed. A knife or a gun, though, would change everything. Marcas held his ground. The kid sai
d nothing.

“I warn you, I'm a cop,” Marcas said. “You look like you're young. I have a son. Here, if you need some money, take it. I'm going to slowly reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet. Then I'm going to take all my money out of the wallet and give it to you. It's yours, and we can call it a night. You can go your way, and I'll
go mine.”

The kid just stared, saying nothing. Marcas did what he said he would do. He took several bills out of his wallet and held them out. No sooner had he done this, than the kid rushed at him. Marcas's stomach leaped to his throat. He pictured Pierre and got ready for the assault. But instead of knifing him, the boy grabbed the bills an
d ran off.

Marcas stood panting in the middle of the sidewalk. He couldn't believe his luck. He waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. Then he looked around. He needed to find the
building.

78

The torturer's house

March 21, 1355

“W
e are behind all of it,” Bernard de Rhenac said. “And we manipulated the torturer so he would find the boo
k for us.”

“Why him?” Flamel dar
ed to ask.

Rhenac was staring at the body. “You can always count on fanatics. He hated books. We just needed to
bait him.”

“But how do you know he
found it?”

Bernard de Rhenac looked Flamel in the eye. “Because we followed him, the same way we foll
owed you.”

The scribe shut up. It was Rhenac's duty to be one step ahead, and only he was familiar with the intrigues and hypocrisy necessary to reach such a position of power. Controlling the kingdom's justice system and secret police was enough to make an ordinary person tremble. To arrive at such heights, one needed to survive the worst backstabbing and attempts on o
ne's life.

The doctor was wringing his hands. Flamel guessed he was going over the various people who could help him. He had served his role as a pawn and was no long
er useful.

Flamel left his writing table and inched toward a corner of the room. He felt like a game animal drawn out of its s
afe place.

Bernard de Rhenac was watching bot
h of them.

“Feublas!” h
e shouted.

A lean man with a red face opened
the door.

“Have your men roll the body up in one of the carpets and take it away with some furniture. Call it evidence if anyone asks questions. Take it to the Dominican monastery, and put it in the cellar, where it's nice
and cool.”

Rhenac turned
to Flamel.

“Flamel, I believe we need to talk p
rivately.”

Rhenac nodded to Feublas, who entered the room. But instead of approaching the body, the guard headed toward t
he doctor.

“
Non nobis domine sed nomine tuo,”
Feublas said, whisking out
a dagger.

Flamel watched in horror as the guard plunged the dagger into the doctor, whose eyes opened wide as his entrails spilled out of his gut. He collapsed in a flow
of blood.

When the physician stopped moving, Rhenac turned to Flamel, who wa
s shaking.

“
‘Non nobis domine sed nomine tuo.'
I always like that expression. ‘Not for us, Lord, but in your name.' It comes from the Templars. We can justify anything. Didn't you see how the poor doctor became crazed and cut himself open? I'll tell the king to get anothe
r healer.”

Rhenac smoothed his beard. “Now, let's talk about
the book.”

79

Harlem

Minutes after Marcas was robbed

A
t last, he had found it. The stone Victorian structure was bigger and more elaborate than those near it, most of which—like everything else in Harlem, it seemed—were undergoing renovation. So why hadn't the owners of this building gotten on the renovation bandwagon? An idle question. Marcas was just glad there were enough residents and open businesses in the neighborhood to make him feel comfortable. The main entrance was boarded up, as were the windows, and the façade was covered with graffiti. He was at the end of the quest, and it didn't seem likely that the building would unlock an
y secrets.

Marcas was just about to leave when he spotted a symbol above the doorway: a compass and square. He smiled at the relief he felt seeing it here, miles and miles from his own home. He decided to linger for a few minutes. There was a curio shop next to the building. And it
was open.

Chimes rang as he opened the door. He inhaled the scent of incense. Looking around, he saw textiles from Africa and Asia, soaps and lotions, carved Indian boxes, earrings, and posters of Malcolm X. At the back of the shop, a purple batik wall hanging was draped over what looked like
a doorway.

“Can I help you
, mister?”

A tall African-American woman in a long tunic was walking toward him. Marc
as smiled.

“I'm interested in the building next door,” he said. “Do you know who
owns it?”

“No, can't say I do. It's an eyesore, that one. Hurts my business. Why's it your
concern?”

Marcas quickly assessed and decided to lie. “I represent a French investor who's buying properties in Harlem. I think he'd be interested in that building, but I have to fly back to Paris tomorrow, and I haven't been able to nail down the owners. Do you know of a way I could get in and take a look before I
go home?”

“I don't know, mister. Maybe you're who you say you are, and maybe yo
u're not.”

Marcas was glad he hadn't handed over all of his money. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and he
ld it out.

“I'd really be appreciative if you'd
help me.”

The woman stared at him and di
dn't move.

Okay, Marcas thought. He had parted with hundreds of dollars already. What was another twenty? He removed his very last bill and he
ld it out.

“The investor I represent is known for his quality renovations. You'd do well to be next to one of his
projects.

The woman grabbed the bills. Less than a second later, she had a gun aimed at
his head.

“Okay, enough,” she said. “What's your real story? And
be quick.”

Marcas's heart started pounding again. First the kid in the hoodie, now this woman. Was it like this all the time in the Unit
ed States?

“You're right,” Marcas said, looking at the gun. “The real story is I'm a Freemason, and I need to get into that building next door—th
at's all.”

The woman's eyes hardened. “A Freemason, eh? Why should I help you? I hear you side with
the rich.”

“I support equality for al
l people.”

She didn't lower her gun. Marcas searched his brains for the words that would persuade her. Just as he was opening his mouth, he heard a noise at the back of the shop. The batik gave way, and a very tall African-American man with a shiny skull and shoulders like an icebox emerged. His deep voice filled
the shop.

“Didn't anyone ever tell you that Harlem ain't for little white folks like you?” He joined his hands and cracked his
knuckles.