The Lafayette Sword (8 page)

29

Île de la Cité

March 14, 1355

T
he torture room was cast in shadows. The only lighting was the candle on the writing table. Flamel had begun to record the session. He knew the ritual formulas used to open interrogations. He had copied them many times in his shop. Nobody ever tortured in his own name. The torturer acted at the behest of God or the king. The hand that caused the suffering was always obeying a hig
her order.

The torturer tossed the gag on
the floor.

There were no screams. The young woman apparently didn't understand the henchman's i
ntentions.

“Her name
is Flore.”

“...de Cenevières,” came a voice that suffering had not total
ly broken.

Flamel turned in
surprise.

“And I know what
you want.”

The torturer stood still, his breast rippe
r in hand.

“What do you know about our interest
s, woman?”

“What they're all interested in—the men of the Church and the ki
ng alike.”

The torturer snickered. “And who are you, poor wench, to know the desires of t
he great?”

“Men want only one thin
g: power.”

Now the torturer was laughing. “Power. What news! And you think you can teach us something? My poor girl, we have known that since God chased Adam out of
paradise.”

He brought the breast-ripper points down on Flore's heaving chest. “You will have to teach me something else if you want to feed your children
one day.”

“Procreation just adds misfortune to the lot of human beings. It's the Devi
l's work.”

“So you don't need your nipples, whore?” he shouted. “Who put such ideas in your head? Your
evil Jew?”

Her voice, filled with disdain, grew louder. “Isaac was good. He saved m
y mother.”

“He bewitched her. She sold your body to th
e damned.”

“Never. He never to
uched me.”

“In any case, he will never touch y
ou again.”

For a few moments, all that could be heard was the scratch of pen on parchment. Flamel had slowed his hand, because he knew the words he was transcribing could lead to the woman's death, despite what the torturer had told him. Her words were those of a heretic. Not wanting to have children, claiming that procreation was the work of the Devil—that was enough to send her to
the stake.

“You do know the treatment reserved for those excluded from God? Those who refuse his law and dare to challenge
his will?”

The torturer opened and closed the rusty claws of the breast ripper, waking them from the sleep
of death.

“They're purified by fire. But that's nothing compared to what awaits you. Sp
eak, dog.”

“Men want gold,” Flore
cried out.

It was as if the woman's body had caught fire. The torturer leaped back. “Why are you talking about gold, trollop? Do you think I torture for that vile metal that makes peop
le crazy?”

“Are you naïve, torturer? Do you think I was handed over to you to save my soul? They brought Isaac here because he knew the secret
of gold.”

Flamel stopped writing. He remembered Master Maillard's words from the night of the pyre. “The coffers are empty.” So, this Isaac was an
alchemist.

“The truth is, he thought he knew the secret,” Flore said. He thought he could finish his quest in Paris. But he didn't h
ave time.”

Flamel glanced at the torturer. He was immobile, his face dark. The torturer put the breast ri
pper down.

“I have orders not to kill you, woman, and to send you back to your province. But I was given a mission, and I will fulfill it. You have a choice. Speak, or your body will speak
for you.”

The woman didn't hesitate. “I wi
ll speak.”

30

Rue Muller, eighteenth arrondissement, Paris

Present day

T
he last rays of the sun struck the Declaration of Rights of Man and the Citizen under its protective glass. At the top of the poster, two bare-breasted women with wings were holding up a pyramid with an eye in t
he center.

Antoine Marcas contemplated the poster as he sat in his threadbare armchair. Someday he'd fix up his apartment, but he had more important things on his mind at the moment. He had taken a taxi back to his place a few hours earlier. He hadn't wanted to bother any of his colleagues or brothers. Now he was waiting for the grand
secretary.

Marcas felt a tug in his heart every time he looked at the poster. For more than two hundred years, it had symbolized an ideal that men had fought and
died for.

He had a weakness for the 1793 version, in which the writers, one of them a brother, had added several articles, including the last one, the thi
rty-fifth.

“When the government violates the rights of the people, insurrection is for the people and for each portion of the people the most sacred of rights and the most indispensable o
f duties.”

The article was a bit too subversive for some, and it had been removed from official versions that c
ame later.

Marcas knew that his predilection for this document was a bit old-fashioned in a modern-day France, where attachment to founding principles verged on being outmoded. He had tried to teach his son, Pierre, about the deeper meaning of the revolutionary declaration, but he had given up. The boy was clearly bored. How could his antique document and its principles compete with plasma screens and game consoles? Marc
as sighed.

Who still worried about human rights in this day and age? Well, at least he did. He had made it a habit to read and reread the articles the way other people were motivated to read the Scriptures day in and day out. He had even stopped once at the Concorde Metro station under the square where Louis XVI was executed. He had spent a quarter of an hour going over the entire text, which was written on the station's tiled walls. Commuters had stared at him. He didn't care. If only more people took
the time.

He poured a second glass of orange juice and returned to the subject foremost on
his mind.

He couldn't understand why the killer had left him alive. How was he going to find him? He'd been obsessing over this since leaving the hospital. He hadn't had a chance to check in with Hodecourt, who was still officially in charge, so he didn't know if his colleague had come up with anything. But Marcas did have one clue: the man's supposed vengean
ce degree.

In France, as elsewhere, the majority of Freemasons stopped with the degree of master. But a minority progressed over the years, or an entire lifetime, through higher degrees that largely focused on Masonic symbols. Many of these Masons eagerly collected medallions with strange names, such as Grand Elect, Knight Rose Croix, and Prince of the Tabernacle. The names made Marcas smile, but he respected the brothers who undertook this particular path. Those he'd met had always impressed him with their
knowledge.

He headed to the library and swore. He had lent out his copy of the
Dictionnaire thématique illustré de la franc-maçonnerie
by Jean Lhomme, Edouard Maisondieu, and Jac
ob Tomaso.

He took out his cell phone and called the man who could help him: Pragman, a Belgian brother who had a Masonic blog. It was a mine of in
formation.

Pragman answered on the third ring. “How are you,
brother?”

“Fine. I need your help. Would you happen to have the thematic dictionary
on hand?”

“O
f course.”

“Can you look up the higher degree
s for me?”

The brother in Brussels quickly scanned the text until he found what Marcas was looking for. Each major Masonic jurisdiction worked in one of three rites: the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite, the Rectified Scottish Rite, or the French Rite. Each had a hierarchy of degrees that every Mason, in theory, could progres
s through.

“Here it says that in the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite, the ninth degree, called the Elu, or Elected Knight, is a vengeance degree—vengeance for Hiram's death,” Pra
gman said.

Hiram was Freemasonry's legendary founder and, it was said, the architect of King Solomon
's temple.

“The French Rite has four high degrees called orders. The first-order degree, master elect, is a vengeance degree, close to that of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite. The focus of this degree is the pursuit of Master Hiram's assassins in the name of justice. Both Masons and their detractors have worried about how justice is rendered in the vengeance
degrees.”

“Is
that all?”

“The authors go on to say that stabbing someone in the heart, as guilty as the person may be, is barbaric and that acting it out in a Masonic ceremony—which is what ninth-degree candidates do—is perhaps inconsistent with the teachings of Freemasonry. Does t
hat help?”

“Ye
s and no.”

“This wouldn't have anything to do with the two murders in Paris, would it? The news has go
ne viral.”

“I can't tell you much more, except to say that the bastard claims he's a high-degree Mason. But I've got to go now. Give me a call the next time you're in Paris. An
d thanks.”

“Any time,
Antoine.”

The doorbell rang just as Marca
s hung up.

So, during the passage to that degree, the initiate had to symbolically reenact a knifing. Was it possible that a brother had taken the ritual too much to heart? But why murder two innoce
nt people?

31

Present day

Aurora Source to
all Aurora

Trading price.
The market in London is overheating, following reports of a five percent rise in gold transactions over the year. Our source predicts price increases in the next three days. We propose purchasing a value of fifty million dollars, to be divided among Aurora members and their clients, to stabiliz
e trading.

The profit allowance will hover around two percent, or a million dollars. Purchase and sale orders will be separated by six hours to avoid any suspicion of man
ipulation.

Operation Burning Desert.
Our Security and Intervention Department has informed us that the agent has arrived in Kuwait to verify the tr
ansaction.

32

Hamadi oil complex, Kuwait

Present day

B
ehind the wheel of the black SUV, Jack Winthrop left the line of traffic and made a smooth turn onto the road leading to well number fifty-eight. The thin strip of asphalt seemed to go on infinitely across the ochre sand studded with
oil rigs.

Winthrop, a former Marine captain and now the Aurora group's security specialist, slowed when he reached the rusted carcass of a Soviet tank and turned onto a dirt road. He put his cold soda can in a cup holder and signaled to the man at his side, who was wearing a traditional Bedouin djellaba. The Kuwaiti smiled and pulled a shiny Uzi out of the glove co
mpartment.

Winthrop navigated the SUV over the rocky terrain. On either side of the vehicle, greasy black crusts dating from the Iraqi invasion were heating up under the sun. A flare rose up beyond a hill, and Winthrop slowed to a crawl. In a matter of minutes, he spotted the sheet-metal
building.

Aurora's Kuwait representative had provided exact directions, and now all Winthrop had to do was follow his instructions, manage the transaction, and, as much as possible, avoid collater
al damage.

He took a final gulp of his soda, enjoying the coolness going down his gullet. He had never regretted his decision to work for the Aurora group after his dishonorable discharge from the Marines. An unfair discharge, as far as he was concerned, but his superiors had wanted to make an example of him. He wasn't without friends, however, and a retired colonel quickly found work for him. He introduced Winthrop to a Swiss financier who was looking for a security specialist. The ex-Marine did well on his first two missions and earned the businessman's trust. After a year and a half, the man told him about the Aurora group. It had about two dozen members around the world who invested in gold. They were high-rollers—specialized traders, mining managers, and central bank officials who believed the precious metal was the only guarantee of financial and political stability in
the world.

The members shared information about gold markets and potentially lucrative opportunities and transactions. The Swiss banker, known as Aurora Source, centralized the information and shared it with the
community.

Two days earlier, Aurora Source had given him the details of the mission
in Kuwait.

During reconstruction of the Al Ahmadi oil refineries, an engineer had discovered fifteen standard 12.5-kilo bars of gold stolen by Saddam Hussein's army in 1990. Decades later, Aurora's undercover operatives were still finding hiding spots fashioned by Iraqis on the run. To discreetly fence the supply, Aurora operatives were relying on a Lebanese trader in Kuwait. Winthrop's job was to ensure the safe pickup and delivery of the most recent find. Aurora Source didn't want his own bodyguards involved, as they were too close to the royal family's secre
t service.

Winthrop parked the van, and the Kuwaiti picked up the large white sack at
his feet.

Without saying a word, the driver and passenger got out of the air-conditioned vehicle. A wave of burning heat struck Winthrop. The hangar was only a few yards away, but the heat was unbearable. The air was saturated with the acrid and sticky smell of
petroleum.

The door opened before they even knocked. The armed men ushered them in. The job was finally
under way.