Shadow Ritual

45

Death. A quick one, to be done once and for all with this unbearable suffering of his flesh and soul. The gardener’s third session was the worst. The torturer started on his remaining fingers, one at a time, tip first, multiplying the torment. His left hand was nothing more than an open wound, covered with a makeshift bandage offered by the gardener in his great mercy.

And then Sol showed up. He hadn’t pictured an old man like that, with hair as white as snow and ramrod-straight posture despite his age. He wanted to know if Bashir had picked up any documents with the Tebah Stone, and if so, where they were.

Exhausted and out of his mind with pain, the Palestinian was ready to confess whatever they wanted to hear so that the persecution would end. He told him the locker number at the Gare du Nord, hoping for some leniency. In vain. Sol promised that the gardener would not disturb him anymore, but his life would end in this cellar.

If, however, he had a final wish before dying, Sol would try to oblige. Bashir asked for something to ease the pain, along with a brew of the magic mushrooms he had purchased in Amsterdam, which were hidden in the double lining of his luggage. He was given a light morphine derivative that did not relieve his suffering.

A few hours or minutes later — he no longer had any notion of time — Sol returned with a scalding liquid that Bashir drank to the last drop, holding the cup with his right hand.

“Wait until the mushrooms take effect before you kill me.”

He was short of breath, but he had enough strength to add, “You bastard, I did my job, and this is how you pay me.”

Sol patted Bashir’s sweat-soaked hair. “The Jews followed you. The risk was too high. It’s nothing personal. I have a lot of admiration for the Palestinian cause.”

“Stop the bullshit! You’re just a damned Nazi.”

Sol rose to his feet without answering. Bashir didn’t have the strength to hold up his head anymore. A final question was tormenting him. “Why did you have me kill that man in Jerusalem with three blows?”

Sol looked at him and smiled. “It would take too long to explain. Let’s just say that our victim belonged to a group that has been an enemy of ours for a very long time. It was a calling card meant just for them. I have to leave you now. If it’s any consolation, a woman will be at your side when your hour of deliverance comes. She’ll be in the cell next to yours. I hope that she will bring you some comfort. May you quickly reach your paradise and enjoy the pleasures that Mohammed promised. In my religion, unfortunately, we don’t get that kind of welcoming committee.”

Bashir watched him walk toward the door of the cell. His head was spinning from the mushrooms. Soon he would plunge into a parallel universe. He realized he was experiencing his final seconds of awareness and murmured, “What religion?”

The old man’s voice echoed in the basement. “Power.”

46

Marcas reread the Grand Orient archives Jade had given him. Either the Breuil Manuscript was pure nonsense, or there was something worth paying attention to, and the allusion to the Templars could point to it. In any case, someone had Sophie murdered in Rome for these papers and had Marek murdered in Jerusalem at the same time, presumably for a stone related to the papers.

Breuil had spent time in Egypt and was focused on building a new kind of temple. Instead of a mosaic in the center, this temple would have a bush with exposed roots. Breuil also alluded to the bitter beverage drunk by Freemason initiates and the shadow ritual, keys to gaining access to the Great Architect of the Universe.

Breuil’s ideas contradicted traditional Masonic teachings. Freemason temples were generally designed to symbolize the development of an initiate’s inner temple — knowledge of universal harmony. Spiritual growth was seen as a step-by-step process. An initiate became an entered apprentice, then a fellow craft mason, and then a master, and that was just the beginning. Some lodges had a number of higher designations. Patience and humility were the crucial pillars required to reach higher levels of knowledge.

Marcas hadn’t paid attention at first, but now it leaped out at him. Breuil was claiming that his ritual could open the door to a state of all-encompassing awareness. It was a direct line to God. And that was blasphemy — if such a word could apply to the Freemason universe.

Marcas put the papers down and massaged his neck. Sophie had gone to the Templar chapel in Plaincourault, according to Jouhanneau. What message would he and Zewinski find there?

He looked at his watch. Thirty minutes late. That didn’t seem like her style.

Then there was the question of how Plaincourault was spelled: thirteen or fifteen letters?

He glanced at his watch again. What would she be wearing: pants or a skirt? He started imagining her legs — and stopped himself. He had more urgent things to think about. Sophie’s murder was becoming something bigger than an investigation. It was starting to feel like a quest.

What he had found in the archives was troubling. And then there were those slayings that mimicked Hiram’s death: not only the ones that had been committed recently, but also the ones that had been committed over the course of many years. A long-standing conspiracy to kill Freemasons? But why? It seemed that some invisible enemy was crossing through time.

He looked at his watch a third time. Had Zewinski forgotten him? He called her number and got her voice mail. He left a sharp message.

She was definitely irritating him. Her hostility to Freemasons was more than just the usual distrust of the uninitiated. He wanted to know where that hostility was coming from.

47

It was the smell that woke her up. It was heavy, nauseating, and it filled every inch of the room. Death. She’d experienced it at a hospital in Kabul. A women had developed gangrene after delivering a baby, and her flesh was rotting away. But the Taliban wouldn’t allow her to be treated by hospital physicians because they were all men. Jade had risked her life by sneaking in medications provided by two volunteer doctors. Still, the woman had died.

Jade emerged slowly from her torpor. Her head felt tight, as though it were in a vise. Someone was speaking in Arabic. She knew the language, but she had no idea who was talking. The person was moaning between sobs, pleas, and declarations. Where was she?

“Bvitti, I climb on the stone… My nails reach for my cursed flesh… Bvitti, the sky is red with blood. An eye is watching me. I must leave…”

She tried to get up to make out who it was, but she couldn’t. Her legs were tied down. She looked around and realized that she was in a cell.

“I see it. It’s wonderful, but the stone is keeping me back… Go away. You’re the demon…”

The man shrieked.

“You’re the devil… You’re tempting me. Curse you. Nothing escapes the All Powerful.”

Jade turned her head to the right and saw a man who was also being held prisoner. He was thrashing around, as though he were possessed. Even in the darkness, she could tell that his hands and feet were covered with bloody bandages. That was the smell. The poor man had gangrene. No one had taken care of it, and he was going to die. Beyond a certain stage, antibiotics couldn’t help.

Jade panicked. “Is anyone here?” she shouted. “Come quick. There’s a man who’s dying.”

She stopped when she realized the shouting served no purpose. Her kidnappers knew perfectly well what state the man was in. They had done it to him.

She took deep breaths in an effort to get her fear under control. They don’t want to kill me, she told herself, or else I wouldn’t be here.

“Bvitti… Root of the sky… The eye has also turned black, and tears of blood are flowing. It’s wonderful. I am one of those tears…”

Jade tried to get the man’s attention.

“Who are you? Can you hear me?”

The man turned toward her. He was soaked with sweat and drooling.

“I am the one who is… the abyss.”

Thank God he was tied up too and couldn’t attack her. As soon as she thought it, she acknowledged the absurdity. He was too weak, and his hands and feet were useless.

The man continued his monologue, but the words became less distinguishable. Jade turned away and tried to recall how she had been kidnapped. It was a professional job. She had been drugged and abducted in broad daylight in front of hundreds of people. The woman who did this was most likely in cahoots with Sophie’s murderers. In fact, they could be one and the same person. Jade felt a wave of blinding rage.

Her attention shifted to the man’s words.

“The stone is my ladder! Me, divinely impure.”

The smell was unbearable. He wouldn’t last long. She had to do something quick.

“Who is your God?”

“The Very Great One… The Veiled One. Nobody knows his true words.”

“Do you?”

“I saw the golden face of the Very Saint when he blew his soul into the stone. He spoke… in the middle of the languages of men. And the sacred word is their destiny.”

“What men?”

Mad laughter filled the room.

“The impious have unearthed the stone and reaped destruction. In the cloud of words, God engraved the one that would reduce them to slavery.”

“What impious ones?”

“The sons of Zion that have not recognized the Real God. Today the stone will speak. It will say the sacred word. Bvitti. Bvitti. Bvitti.”

She turned away from him and would have jumped, had she been able. A man with a bushy moustache was staring at her, a pipe in his mouth, a hand in his apron. He was smiling. She responded with a snigger.

“Can’t you see that he’s dying?”

A second man approached. He looked more threatening. He was staring at her too. The first one opened the door of the other cell, and they both entered.

“You’re right. We’re going to calm him down right now. Hans?”

The second man pulled a pistol out of his jacket and placed it against the dying man’s temple.

The detonation rang through the cellar.

“No,” Jade screamed as a geyser of blood and flesh hit the wall. The vision of her father flashed in her mind, with his head on the armrest, the puddle of blood on the floor. The nightmare all over again. A bullet in the head.

But she wasn’t a little girl now, and the fear wasn’t paralyzing her. She was furious. It was an icy rage that emanated from a dark place that would always be there.

“You sons of bitches!”

The man with the moustache entered her cell, sat down beside her, and patted her thigh. He was wearing a strange expression. He shook his head, set his pipe on the floor, and, with a mischievous look in his eye, said, “I am the gardener. What’s your favorite flower?”

48

Marcas took the steps two by two. He’d gotten Zewinski’s address from Darsan. His irritation with her had given way to anxiety. He had a bad feeling about her being late. Now he was almost in a panic. He couldn’t get up the steps fast enough, and when he reached the third floor, his heart started pounding. Her apartment door had been pried open. He advanced quickly, back against the wall, his service revolver in front of him. He used his foot to push the door all the way open and immediately saw the place had been tossed. After a quick check to make sure all was clear, he pulled out his phone.

“Alexis?”

“Antoine, great to hear from you. I’m back in Paris, you know.

“Can you get your buddies to locate Zewinski’s cell phone?”

“Have things gone that far already? Really, you should take it slower with a broad like that.”

“Look, she’s disappeared and she’s not answering her phone.”

“Don’t take it so personally.”

“I’m serious. Her place has been tossed, and it looks like some nasty folks are behind the Dawes murder. Locate Zewinski for me. Now.”

“Okay, okay. I’m on it. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah, check with our contacts in Israel. Find out if any known traffickers have left the country. I also need to know about any developments in the investigation of the murder at the archeological institute?”

49

“Who are you?”

“I told you. I am the gardener.”

The man did look the job. Jade sat up and saw him searching through his apron pocket.

“Why am I here?”

“I don’t know. I just want to know your favorite flower.”

“I hate flowers. Too bad.”

The man pulled a small pair of pruning shears out of his pocket and waved them in front of her eyes.

“That’s impossible. Everyone loves flowers, especially women. I’ll have to teach you some manners.”

He applied the gardening tool to her big toe. Jade understood the dying man’s bandages. She didn’t even tremble as her training kicked in. She had learned all the ins and outs of torture: sensory deprivation, drugs, electricity, and all manner of instruments for delivering pain. Inflicting repeated violence on a subject was an age-old practice and often highly effective. It had been favored in Pinochet’s Chile and General Videla’s Argentina, with a little help from the CIA.

The Arab’s death had served as a preview, preparing her psychologically for what lay ahead. But there was no way she would let this bastard with a mustache see any fear. If he planned to cut her up, he wasn’t going to take any pleasure in it. She knew the pain would be horrendous, but she conjured up an image of Sophie and focused all her hate on the henchman.

“Before you start your gardening, I want to ask you a question.”

The man stopped what he was doing and looked thrown off.

“Um… Okay.”

“I’ve heard that torturers like you are impotent. I read a study. They enjoy inflicting pain because they can’t get it up. Is that true in your case?”

The blood drained from moustache man’s face.

“Hans, leave us,” he said, waving the assistant away. “I need to have a little talk with this young lady. She has some wayward ideas that could use a trim. I think her cries might be too much for even you.”

He looked her up and down, biting his lip.

“A woman who doesn’t like flowers and doubts my virility. For once, I’m going to innovate and start with the ears.”

He slowly aimed the pruners at her head, but Jade didn’t struggle. She knew her torturer was waiting for the first sign of fear. She plastered a smile on her face, trying to upset the balance of power.

He opened the metal blades and slipped them gently around her right ear, almost like a caress. Jade closed her eyes and tightened her fists to concentrate her energy.

The man leaned in. She could smell his sour breath tinged with the acrid odor of pipe tobacco.

“In five minutes, you will beg me to stop, and I won’t.”

Just as he was about to apply pressure to the shears, a woman’s voice rang out. “That’s enough, gardener. Leave her alone.”

The man straightened and looked at the bars. The sadist was now clearly angry. “How dare you interrupt me? I have explicit orders.”

The woman on the other side of the bars raised her voice. “Mine are more important. Sol wants me to bring her upstairs so I can take care of her personally. Get out of here now. And take your gorilla Hans with you.”

“Nobody talks to me that way, young lady. Do you know who I am in this organization?”

“Yes, and I don’t give a crap. Do you want me to tell Sol that you disobeyed?”

Fuming, the gardener put his pruners away. “I only have your word for it. Just this time. She’ll eventually get what she deserves. I’ve never tried a woman’s blood on my little protégés.”

He turned and smiled at Jade. “I’ll be back soon.”

He opened the cell door and left with his man. Joana walked in and sat down on the mattress.

“Just in the nick of time. You owe me one.”

Jade looked at her with disdain. “You won’t get any gratitude from me. I know who you are. You killed my friend in Rome.”

“Yes. She was a little too easy for my taste. You, however, are a much more interesting target. We have things to talk about, the two of us, but I must take some precautions.”

Joana took out a small leather bag and removed a silver ring with a pointed mount. She put it on her index finger. Before Jade could react, the killer pressed the ring against her bare foot. A drop of blood rose at the puncture wound.

“You’re lucky, Jade. Gallons of blood have been spilled in this cellar. But today, not a drop of your blood will go on the floor. You’re going to sleep for fifteen minutes while I take you upstairs.”

Jade felt her head spinning again, as it had when she was kidnapped. She wanted to say something, but she was already elsewhere.

50

They’d localized Zewinski in the Chevreuse area about an hour southwest of Paris. More, actually, because Marcas was stuck in a traffic jam leaving the beltway — commuters heading home. It was the wrong time of day to get kidnapped. Dammit, Zewinski!

He called Marc Jouhanneau as he drove.

“Did Marek say anything about the stone?”

“Just that it was clearly authentic, and he was decrypting it. Sophie thought it might have one of the ingredients or something else related to the ritual. In any case, the stone is in enemy hands.”

“Enemy hands?”

“They are everywhere.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“They killed Sophie and Marek. It’s a very structured organization that has been persecuting us for a long time. They want to get their hands on the secret that belongs to us.”

“Who exactly are they?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Before and during the war, they were called the Thule. They may go by another name now. But they have the same signature and kill in the same way.”

Marcas hesitated a moment and then said, “Do you know of similar murders?”

“My father was killed in Dachau in the same way.”

Yet another Hiram murder, Marcas thought. He was losing count.

Jouhanneau cleared his throat. “Yes, the Beast is still here, hidden, and has struck again. It’s us against them. Evil is lurking near the temple doors, brother. You must stop them. The message is clear. Go to Plaincourault, and you’ll understand.”

Marcas ended the call. First to Chevreuse, he said to himself, then to Plaincourault.

51

An aristocrat in the late eighteenth century had to be the one responsible for the still-intact décor of this room. During the final years of the reign of Louis XV, libertine nobles had filled their mansions with highly elaborate and ornamental furnishings in a style called Rococo. It lent itself to sensual pleasures of all sorts. Estates in pastoral valleys had quickly mimicked the châteaux in Paris and Versailles. Far from the court and the fashionable salons of the capital, the owners of these rural mansions could feel that they weren’t isolated, but instead part of a sumptuous culture where any enjoyment could be had.

But the pleasures of the luxurious lifestyle were short-lived. The blood of the French Revolution swept them away. Many of the homes disappeared, victims of history and an expanding real-estate market. Only a few remained, bearing silent witness to a period when freedom of the body accompanied an independent spirit.

This mansion was one that had survived. The French windows overlooked sumptuous grounds, and the louvered shutters let in thin strips of sunlight that sparkled on the polished wood floor. Lovers had most likely enjoyed the delicate play of light on their alabaster skin. A Venetian mirror hung above the veined marble chimney and took in the entire room. Women’s clothing was strewn on sensually rounded armchairs. A stiletto pump had ended up under the mahogany desk. Its mate lay on the bed. A white linen scarf was draped over a plaster bust.

In the back of the room, curtains opened to a dark alcove. A canopy topped a bed that held the sleeping prisoner.

Joana was on the sofa, contemplating the woman she was going to kill. She got up and walked to a window. The grounds were calm. The estate’s employees had finished for the day. There was nobody on the expansive lawn. No one would bother them.

She looked back at the bed. Jade had moved her head. What dark world had she been in? Slivers of sweat had formed under her armpits. Joana had never seen anything so erotic. When she had brought Jade into the room, she’d given in and undressed her before attaching her with wire to the bedposts. Now she was waiting for her victim to wake up.

Although Joana hated weakness, she was ambivalent about her own occasional lack of discipline. She looked over at the desk. Inside a plastic box were two mushrooms. She’d only used a little when Sol ordered her to brew them for the Palestinian to help him pass to the next realm. She had enough left for her own fantasies.

52

Jade moaned softly. She was cold. Her hands were asleep, and pain was shooting up her legs. She wanted to move, but nothing happened.

“No sense trying,” a woman said.

She had to open her eyes.

“A real Sleeping Beauty, except the wait for your Prince Charming will be long. Eternal, in fact.”

The woman assassin was sitting in front of her, staring. Her eyes were cloudy.

“He’s not coming at all. So…”

The woman stood up. “Don’t make me torture you. Think of your body.” She leaned over Jade. “Such a fine body, delicious without anything covering it. You must have known a lot of pleasure in your short life.”

Now the woman was on the bed.

“Your friend was beautiful. I kissed her before killing her.”

Jade wanted to scream. “Tell me what you want.”

Joana inched closer. Her blonde hair brushed Jade’s skin.

“Me? Oh, many things, but first…”

Jade stiffened.

“Is my doll afraid? Do you prefer your cop friend?”

“What about my cop friend?”

“Seriously. You disappoint me. With a cop? I would have thought more of you if it had been with — what was her name again — Sophie?”

“Bitch.”

“If you want, my dear. In any case, you are going to die. Don’t hold back.”

Jade took a deep breath. “No, there’s nothing between the cop and me. He’s not my type.”

The woman’s voice seemed to lose its lilt. “He’s not?”

“No.”

“So you did prefer your girlfriend, then.”

“What do you think?”

The woman leaned in closer yet.

“What if I don’t like guessing games?”

“My hands. Sophie loved when I used my hands.”

Joana stood up and swayed.

“Your hands! Your hands. Do you think I’m an idiot?” She snickered.

“I can prove it to you.”

“So prove it,” the assassin said, shuffling through the papers on the desk and pulling out a letter opener. “One hand. Only one. Make the slightest — I said the slightest — wrong move…”

She shoved the letter opener under Jade’s throat.

“…and I’ll slit your throat.”

An image of Marcas flashed in Jade’s mind. Why him? Why not her father? Or one of the men who had loved her? Why him? He was nothing to her. Here she was on her deathbed — literally — a woman with more than one lover but no one she had loved, and oddly, she was thinking about that dude with a ridiculous first name: Antoine.

Her jailer finished releasing her right wrist and grabbed Jade’s hand.

“Now pleasure me.”

53

“Wait. First, tell me where you’re from.”

“Croatia. A lovely country. You should see it someday. Oh, sorry, you won’t be able to.”

Jade was coming out of her drug-induced haze and calculating her chances of escape. With one hand and her feet still tied up, the killer had a big advantage. She didn’t want to give into the lunatic’s whims, but she didn’t have much choice, given the letter opener at her throat.

“I’m waiting.”

The woman’s voice was becoming throaty, and Jade felt more pressure on her neck. Desperate to get out of the bad-movie scenario, she remembered the words of the unfortunate dead man.

“I know about bvitti,” she said.

Joana let up on her throat a little. “Bvi… What?”

“Bvitti. I need to see your boss. I know about the stone.”

“That damned stone with some crap about a mind-altering substance that could ‘seed the mind with prophesies.’ We got the archeologist’s papers, and we’re on top of it. Actually, that stone’s just one item on our shopping list.”

“Tell your master I know more about the Freemasons. They’re one step ahead of you.”

While trying to keep Joana distracted, Jade was feeling around with her free hand. She found the shoe on the bed and slowly brought it closer as Joana leaned in.

“I want your hand now,” she said.

The stiletto, with its metallic tip, made a perfect arc before striking the Croatian’s temple, knocking her to the side of the bed. The killer cried out and collapsed on the floor. The letter opener had only grazed Jade in the process.

Jade grabbed the blade and cut herself free. She wasn’t out of trouble yet. The house was probably full of the gardener’s friends. The woman was curled in a fetal position on the rug. Jade pressed down on her carotid artery to slow the flow of blood to her brain and prolong her state of unconsciousness but stopped short of killing her. She tied her up and gagged her.

Adrenaline was pumping through her now, and her mind was crystal clear. She walked across the room and looked out the window at the deserted grounds. She was on the second floor.

Jade headed toward the door and gently cracked it open. Music was coming from the end of the hallway. Too risky. She didn’t have much time. She’d try the window.

She dug through Joana’s handbag and took out her identity papers, undoubtedly fakes, and her cell phone, which would have key information about her contacts. She got dressed quickly, then went in the bathroom to splash some water on her face. The reflection in the mirror was frightening. She looked like an escapee from an asylum.

She didn’t have time to make herself more presentable. On her way back across the room, she picked up the letter opener. Everyone would understand. How could a moral compass hold up in the face of people who tortured and killed without remorse? She pointed the blade at Joana’s belly. A few inches, and the bitch’s life would be over. Sophie’s laughing eyes flashed in her mind. The hate was brewing. It wouldn’t take much more to get her revenge. Jade had killed before in the line of duty, but never anyone who was powerless.

She pulled herself together. No, she wouldn’t become a killing machine. She was better than that. But frustration lingered in her mind.

Jade looked around and saw a stone sculpture on a side table. It was some sort of stylized column. She weighed it in her hand — at least ten pounds. She raised it above her head and slammed it down on the woman’s right wrist.

Joana came to with the searing jolt of pain. She screamed into her gag. Her eyes filled with tears. She twisted her body in an attempt to get free, but Jade sat on her legs.

“I have a dark side, too. I’m not a nice little girl. You’ll be a cripple the rest of your life. I’m not quite done, though.”

She immobilized the broken wrist with one hand, and brought the sculpture down on Joana’s fingers. She was methodical and precise. The woman’s eyes filled with hate.

“You’ll never use your hand again. In case you wondered, one of my instructors taught me that little trick. He learned it from a Congolese army officer. It’s customarily used to punish thieves.”

Before she got up, Jade slapped the woman’s face.

“And that’s just to humiliate you. The problem with us girls is that we’re taught to repress our urges. It feels good to let go from time to time, don’t you think? Adieu, bitch.”

Zewinski checked the bonds to make sure Joana couldn’t escape and then went to the window and climbed out. The grounds were silent. She grabbed the cornice and in less then a minute landed softly on the gravel. Two men, probably armed, were walking along the gate, blocking the way out.

Jade slipped toward the greenhouse and crawled about three hundred feet under the windows. When she reached the other side, she raised her head and peeked through a window. The gardener was inside watering a strangler fig. He was talking to it. The image of the poor tortured man came to mind, and the taste of anger filled her mouth. She didn’t have time to kill him. She needed to get out of there and reach Marcas.

The gardener interrupted his monologue and turned toward Jade. Her heart skipped a beat. He looked in her direction for a while, his ears pricked, and then went back to watering his plants. Jade let out a sigh of relief and stole into the woods at the edge of the property.

54

Marcas’s phone vibrated. The screen indicated an unknown number. He answered and heard a woman’s voice.

“Marcas, I need you to come get me right away.”

“I know, Jade.”

“What do you mean you know?”

“You think I’ve just been waiting around for you? You stand me up and don’t answer my messages. I check your place, and it’s been trashed. Your car’s on the street — with a parking ticket, I might add — and you think I’d go back to the office and sit on my hands until you whistle for me like I’m some chauffeur?”

“I was kidnapped by Sophie’s killers.”

“I had your cell tracked. We located the estate where they took you, and I’m watching the gate right now. The cavalry’s on the way. At first I saw only two guards, but things are definitely picking up in there. Where are you, Jade?”

“In Dampierre. It’s a nearby village. It looks completely deserted. Good thing I memorized your number. Hurry. They’re going to be after me.”

Her tone was urgent.

“I’ll be right there.”

“Marcas?”

“What?”

“You called me Jade.”

“Chalk it up to the adrenaline rush.”

55

The gardener looked down at the tied-up woman, his eyes full of disdain. What incompetence. She had endangered Orden. His men had searched the estate, in vain. The prisoner had fled into the woods, and the chances of getting her back were slim. He had just three men to secure the château, not enough to organize a search party. And he had more urgent issues to tend to. Orden would have to erase any trace of its presence before the police arrived.

Each of Orden’s properties had an emergency evacuation plan. The staff here did a timed test run twice a year. Phase one: retrieve any papers from the safe and activate the fire system. Phase two: take out the six bodies kept in freezers, and put them, along with their fake identity papers, in the bedrooms. Phase three: leave the grounds, using the station wagons parked in a garage. In the last drill, the team had accomplished everything in exactly twenty-five minutes.

The gardener freed Joana.

“That bitch destroyed my hand! Give me some morphine.”

The man didn’t respond. Had it been up to him, he would have put a bullet in her head — the usual procedure for incompetents. She was responsible for bringing down a house of Orden and letting a hostage escape — someone who could identify those in the mansion, including him. But she was one of Sol’s protégés, the daughter of a board member. Untouchable.

“Hans will bring you a shot. We leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll report your failure. Because of you, Orden is losing a precious base, and I’m losing my little dearies.”

Joana’s hand was killing her.

“Your dearies?”

“My darling plants. They’ll die in the fire. I’ll never get over it. I’m very sensitive.”

Joana fell back, looked at the ceiling, and let out a laugh.

“You’re a madman. You cut people up with pruning shears and cry over your damned plants.”

The gardener glared at her and turned to leave the room. “Fifteen minutes, no more,” he shouted. “That’s when the fire starts.”

Joana pulled herself up. The gardener wouldn’t spare any details in his report. She knew her errors wouldn’t be forgiven, and her injuries would keep her from doing what she liked best: killing. She didn’t expect any pity from Orden. Only weak people showed pity. That was what Sol preached. Her only chance of salvation lay in her father.

56

Marcas could never sleep well in a hotel, and this night was no exception. He had spent the better part of it smoking and thinking. If you could call it thinking.

His mind was torn between the information he had to process and the woman with bruises on her wrists and ankles sleeping in the room next to his.

Now he knew what was written on the Tebah Stone. Jade had told him about the dying man’s delirium, and his repeated mention of a stone and the word bvitti. They would never know who the man was, but he had contributed a significant piece to the puzzle. Then there was what that female assassin had added about the archeologist’s report, about it being a substance that could “seed the mind with prophesies.”

Bvitti. The word was familiar. He’d read it somewhere, but where? He pulled out his laptop.

It took him a good half hour to find an article on a site on African religions. French ethnologists had studied initiation rites practiced in a village in the jungles of Gabon. The village was in a large area belonging to the Mitsogo tribe.

Bwiti was both a religion and a science that enabled its initiates — who underwent a secret three-day rebirth ceremony — to enter another spiritual dimension where they could communicate with their ancestors and come to understand the relationship of the earth and the beyond.

To experience Bwiti, an initiate would ingest the root bark of a sacred plant, Tabernanthe iboga. The sacred chemical substance was ibogaine, a psychoactive alkaloid. It had powerful hallucinogenic properties and purportedly didn’t cause dependency. In fact, it had been used in the West since the mid-nineteen eighties to treat cocaine and alcohol addiction.

Jouhanneau would be thrilled. He would have the second ingredient.

As Marcas read the article, a shiver ran up his spine. The coincidence was troubling.

There are striking similarities between Bwiti and Freemason initiation rites. Ultimately, the outcome is the same: knowledge of the mystery of the beyond, which Freemasons call the sublime secret. More surprising, however, is that the Freemason ritual uses three strikes of the mallet in memory of the assassination of Hiram, the architect of the Temple of Salomon, because of his refusal to reveal the sublime secret.

The researchers noted that during the Bwiti ceremony, “the initiate was struck three times on the head to free his spirit.”

It was almost too much for Marcas to take in. How could the Bwiti practice find itself inscribed on a Hebraic stone several centuries old? Perhaps via Egyptian merchants who had contact with African tribes or perhaps via Ethiopian traders, which also sent expeditions into deepest Africa.

His imagination was running wild. Did Sheba, the queen of Ethiopia conquered by King Solomon, offer this plant to the Hebrews?

His mind exhausted, he closed his laptop and went to bed. In the morning, his eyes were red, and his face was pale and hollow. He’d hardly gotten three hours of sleep.

Marcas stretched and walked over to the window. Dawn was chasing away the final scraps of night. He couldn’t get the Thule off his mind. Who were these people who could kidnap a trained army officer like Jade in the middle of Paris to drug and torture her for some fantasmagoric secret? The same people who had killed his brothers in other times and places?

He picked up his phone and called Jouhanneau again.

“Marcas here.” He quickly briefed Jouhanneau on Zewinski’s kidnapping, her sequestration with the dying man in a state of delirium, and her flight and rescue. He told Jouhanneau that they had taken refuge in a hotel run by a brother.

Then he shared his discoveries about Bwiti.

“You’ve caught up with the Thule,” Jouhanneau said. “Now you need the third ingredient and the dosage. Go to Plaincourault, where that eighteenth-century Freemason du Breuil wanted to create the new ritual.”

“The shadow ritual.”

“One of the keys to the ritual is in the fresco. You both have to get to Plaincourault as soon as possible.”

“Hold on, brother. We’re not trying to make this drug. We’re after killers.”

“Did you catch anyone?”

“Well, no. By the time the police arrived, they’d burned down the estate. I’m presuming the bodies in the ashes weren’t theirs. We need to track them.”

“Sophie was in Plaincourault before she went to Rome. She left me a message about an extraordinary fresco in the chapel. I’m sure it holds a key.”

“Listen, our priority is—”

Jouhanneau’s voice hardened. “A lot is at stake. The fresco is apparently a representation of the original sin. Eve’s temptation. The missing link — and maybe a code, a formula — is in there. Call me when you get to Plaincourault.”

Jouhanneau ended the call.

Marcas sipped his hot chocolate. He thought about the Breuil papers and how the man had insisted on a pit with a bare-rooted bush in the center. Was it coincidence that some people referred to the iboga as the Garden of Eden’s tree of knowledge?

They were getting closer. But closer to what? They had two ingredients: iboga and Saint Anthony’s fire. Just one more ingredient and they’d have the mind-blowing cocktail. But Marek had found something on the stone, something relating to a substance that “would seed the mind with prophesies.” The danger was evident. The wrong dosage could mean the difference between heaven and hell, between the gates of horn and ivory.

Marcas pushed his hot chocolate aside. It was all too much, and none of it seemed to be getting him any closer to the reason he was here in the first place — finding Sophie’s killers.

57

Frozen fries dumped in a burning-hot vat of oil of indeterminate age and origin, with greasy sausage on the side. Jade dabbed some ketchup on the fries to give them a pop of color, then scowled.

“Who eats this stuff?” she said.

Marcas looked in the rearview mirror and changed lanes to pass a camper. A little girl in the camper stuck out her tongue. Zewinski made a scary face in return, and the girl screamed and turned away. The parents glared. Marcas sped up, and the fries fell on Zewinski’s pants.

“Careful. This damned junk food just stained my pants.”

Marcas smiled. “Send the cleaning bill to Darsan. He’ll be thrilled.”

“You really couldn’t find anything more suitable to eat?” she said, holding up a limp fry. “This is an insult to gastronomy in general and potatoes in particular. And I won’t even mention this soggy thing they call sausage. It even stinks.”

“There wasn’t anything else at the service station. No sandwiches, no salads, nothing. And you were sleeping. Just another hour, and we’ll be there. We can find something to eat then.”

Zewinski put the food back in the paper bag and tossed it in the backseat. She made herself comfortable. They drove by forests, followed by monotonous fields that she found reassuring.

By the time Darsan had gotten his team to Chevreuse to arrest the Orden members, smoky ruins were all that was left. The firefighters had found six bodies, and everyone in the area sincerely lamented the loss of the people at the French Association for the Study of Minimalist Gardens, especially the nice Dutch gardener.

Zewinski hadn’t reacted at the news of the fire. Darsan wanted to see them for a debriefing, but she had agreed to go along with Marcas’s plan. She told Darsan that they were following a new lead and wouldn’t be back until the next day. Zewinski was thinking about the crazies who had held her hostage and were now running free. A human life was nothing to them, nothing more than an opportunity to practice their absurd doctrine.

In her line of work, Zewinski had seen harsh, compassionless human beings who carried out summary executions, terrorist attacks, and revenge killings. But only once before had she seen such cruelty. That was under an Afghan warlord, General Abdul Rashid Dostum.

These memories were eating at her. Adding to her unease was the fact that she had gotten closer to Marcas in the last several hours. Marcas — why was she surprised? She had always had a thing for men who put themselves on the line.

“Don’t you find something completely off about this story of archives and the Templars?” she asked.

“Off?”

“Yeah. Hunting for an ancient secret that might not even exist at a time when the world has more pressing issues: dictatorships, disease, hunger…”

Marcas just looked at her.

“And here we are, taking a drive in the country on some occult treasure hunt. If it weren’t for the murder and kidnapping, it would be ridiculous.”

“Correction. Two murders, counting Marek — three, if you include your cellmate,” Marcas said, lighting a cigarette. That wasn’t counting the other Hiram-like murders he’d heard about. “And to answer your question, no, I don’t have a problem with our ‘occult treasure hunt,’ as you call it. When you accepted that job offer at the Rome embassy, did you think you’d be taking medicine to sick kids in Africa? Sorry. You’re not working for UNICEF. I’m not either. I’m a cop doing my job. And right now my job’s tracking down those killers, who happen to have an agenda.”

“True enough. But I’m trying to put all this in perspective. With you, I have the feeling that I’m chasing a ghost, running after the wind, trying to grab a fantasy. Indiana Jones chasing the Holy Grail.”

Marcas took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled.

“So you’d really feel more comfortable in a commando operation, where the enemy’s right in front of you with submachine guns, and you’ve got yours pointed back. A modern-day OK Corral, right?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Well, nobody made you come along. Last I heard, you agreed to this. I can drop you off at the next train station, and in two and a half hours you’ll be in Paris.”

Marcas looked bullheaded now.

“Well excuse me for not liking arcane mysteries. I never read your code book. I don’t understand why people get so worked up about Templars, astrology, healers, and the like. It’s fairy tales for adults. And let’s not even get into your Freemason enigmas. There are deadly sects out there that get pumped on that crap.”

“Don’t be so simplistic. It’s easy to enter most sects and very hard to leave. It’s the opposite with the Freemasons. You can leave anytime. And you can choose what you believe. A large number of Grand Orient members don’t have the slightest interest in esotericism. Some are Masons purely for the fraternity and even share your opinion. Other lodges explore symbolism without ever getting into anything related to magic or the supernatural. In any case, there’s a virtue called tolerance, and every individual is free to believe what he or she wants.”

“Not in obscurantism.”

Marcas frowned. “If only you knew how much Freemasonry has fought obscurantism. Did you go to school?”

“Of course I’ve gone to school. I don’t see the connection.”

“The connection? Public school, founded in France by Jules Ferry and open to everyone without class distinction, was inspired by Freemason ideas. The legislators who voted for that law were hoodwinkers, as you call us. The same goes for public education in the United States — it was a Freemason-backed initiative. Freemasons in France created the first collective health insurance system for workers. And Freemasons all over the world are working on programs that improve the lives of millions of adults and children: scholarship programs, disaster relief, hospitals, libraries, museums — you name it.”

“Okay, okay.”

Zewinski watched. The man was getting angry. Finally — he had dropped his well-behaved demeanor. She liked him better this way. She decided to push a little further.

“I get the social interest and all, but there aren’t a whole lot of working-class folks in your lodges. They’re full of doctors and businessmen and politicians. Regardless of the generation and the regime, you guys always side with power.”

Marcas’s fingers were turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.

“You’re probably right about our membership. But it’s absurd to say we’re always on the side of power. Did you ever wonder why all totalitarian systems in the world have systematically forbidden freemasonry?”

“Yeah. Hitler and Mussolini did that, but they banned every kind of organized group, from labor unions to Catholic organizations.”

“Add to that Pétain in France, Franco in Spain, and Salazar in Portugal. Freemasons have been persecuted in practically all communist countries and have had troubles in democracies, as well. Freemasonry, moreover, is prohibited in all Arab countries except Lebanon and Morocco.”

“Thanks for the propaganda — tinged with paranoia, if I might add. But you haven’t bothered to mention all the ordinary people like me who believe you Freemasons have something suspicious up your sleeves.”

Marcas pulled onto the berm and hit the brakes. He turned to her.

“That’s enough. Let me be clear. I’m not a spokesman for freemasonry, and just like any other group, Freemason lodges have their share of bastards. You’re convinced we’re all corrupt. That’s fine by me. Your choice. But I’m not proselytizing, so would you quit busting my balls?”

Zewinski smiled. She had won the match. And he was almost attractive when he was annoyed.

“I suggest that you start driving again. It isn’t safe to stay parked on the side of the highway like this.”

“No, I won’t start driving again. Not until you explain why you’re so hostile to Freemasons.”

Zewinski shifted in her seat.

“I’m waiting.”

Zewinski sighed and told the story of her father’s suicide and the role played by the Freemasons, who had forced him to sell his company at a price that was far lower than its value. When she finished, tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her father and her close friend, Sophie. Both dead because of Freemasons. That was enough to inspire a lifetime of animus.

Zewinski sensed that Marcas wanted to console her, and she almost wished he would reach for her hand. Instead, he waited quietly until she was done crying and passed her a clean and neatly folded handkerchief. He started the car and gradually accelerated as he pulled off the side of the road.

“Not another word until we get there,” Zewinski said, staring out her window.

58

The five men and two woman were sitting on a bench overlooking the rocky bay. They were absorbed in their thoughts. Memories of their last meeting were still fresh in their minds.

The man with steely eyes and gold-framed glasses spoke first. “Sol called earlier. He was still in France. We should start with our regular business, and when he arrives, he’ll fill us in on the Hiram operation. Be brief. Let’s begin with Heimdall.”

Every member of the board had taken a Nordic name at the time of initiation. Heimdall, an attorney who worked in a large practice, pulled a document from his briefcase.

“Our assets in the Miami-based pension fund and the consortium in Hong Kong have reached five hundred million euros,” he said. “Investments in some of our other funds have dipped, but the Paxton steelworks, which we recently purchased, is doing well. Now I have a recommendation. I would like the board’s approval to invest in an Israeli company.”

The other members murmured their disapproval. The man smiled.

“I know we’ve been ethically opposed to investing in anything owned or managed by Jews. But this is an investment I endorse. The company’s performance has been subpar over the last few years, but its holdings have great potential. I propose buying the company and selling off its assets at a considerable profit.”

The man with steely eyes spoke. “It’s out of the question. Anything else? No? Your turn, Freya.”

The woman with short blonde hair cleared her throat. She was a well-known Swedish doctor whose work in cloning had nearly won her the Nobel Prize.

“There’s not much to report,” she said. “We’ve made no progress in prolonging the life of human clones. I don’t see any improvement for the next couple of years. Our incubator in Asuncion is full of embryos. I propose that we sell them on the black market for medical research.”

The other members agreed. The head of the group then pointed to a stocky man. “Thor?”

“Twenty representatives from political groups in both Eastern and Western Europe attended our most recent seminars on the progressive nature of our social program. The trainees seemed to be concerned about high unemployment, which the world’s democracies can’t seem to check. They left with a better understanding of our solution.”

“Is that all?”

“No. We’re having trouble with our white supremacy friends in the United States. The Ku Klux Klan, White Power, and Aryan Nations, which is closer to our movement, are bickering with each other. I recommend additional funding for the latter group.”

The other woman, who was sixtyish and had piercing eyes, spoke up. “No. Why should we keep giving money to those crazies who tattoo swastikas all over themselves, giving our cause a bad name? We got rid of those Nazi symbols years ago. We should jettison the Americans with their portraits of the Führer. Here in Europe, we’ve been successful in furthering our own brand of populism coupled with xenophobia. We hurt ourselves by reconnecting with anything having to do with Hitler.”

The man with hard gray eyes nodded. He had taken the name of Loki, the Nordic trickster god. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll cut them off. Thor, you’ll go to the United States and take care of it. And you, Balder?”

A corpulent man shifted on the bench. “As you know, Sol was in France, at our residence in Chevreuse. Unfortunately, the mansion had to be evacuated because of serious mistakes made by one of our female members. The gardener, one of our most capable South African colleagues, called to fill me in. Some of the team members have gone to London. The woman’s with Sol at a hotel in Paris. Sol will tell us more when he gets here.”

The man called Loki heard the grave tone in Balder’s voice. That woman was his daughter. He knew that Orden statutes were clear: the punishment was death.

59

Marcas and Zewinski were driving through the Brenne region, the land of a thousand lakes. In fact, this region had some twenty-five thousand acres of ponds and lakes. After Mézières-en-Brenne, they took a local road for about six miles and then headed toward the park headquarters, where they would collect the keys to the chapel. Marcas knew the area well. He had dated a woman — a sister — from this area. She was the head of the historical monuments society. He had called her to get authorization to visit the chapel.

The parking lot was half full. Marcas and Zewinski stretched their legs, happy to be out of the car. The sun was still hanging over the large lake beyond the parking area, and a group of people with cameras and giant lenses were taking pictures. Jade walked around the car.

“Look at the paparazzi. Who’s the star?”

“Here the stars are the whiskered tern, the little bustard, the common pochard, and the Eurasian bittern.”

“Bustard sounds like something I’d call you,” she said with a grin.

“So you’re drawn to wild things,” he responded with a wink. “You’ll like this preserve. It attracts birdwatchers from all over Europe.”

They walked toward the park headquarters. A group of kids ran by. Marcas frowned. He missed his son. They entered the building, which also housed a gift shop and a restaurant.

“Take a seat,” Marcas said. “Order us some fried carp. It’s a local specialty. I’ll add a bottle of organic cider. I’ll go get the keys.”

Marcas returned just as the waitress was bringing over their food. He sat down and waited for her to walk away. “Now I’m going to tell you what we’re really looking for in the Plaincourault Chapel.”

60

A gigantic cloud of starlings circled above the Étang de la Mer Rouge, the largest lake in the region. The ballet lasted a good twenty minutes. Then some scouts split off from the flock, and the mass of birds broke up, as if by magic, settling in the surrounding trees for the night.

The sun, master of the dance of dusk, disappeared in the west, and evening took over. Tourists and inhabitants also retreated, leaving no trace of human presence in the immense aquatic space.

The car sped toward the southwest, heading for a village called Mérigny, where they would find the chapel.

“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Jade said. “According to some enlightened Jouhanneau dude, top-tier illuminati of the Grand Orient, the secret to Sophie’s documents lies in this chapel lost in the middle of nowhere, and we’ll find it in a fresco painted in the Middle Ages.”

“Yep.”

Zewinski opened a tourist brochure on the chapel. “Here it says that Plaincourault was built in the twelfth century and belonged to the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John of Jerusalem, who later became the famous Order of Malta. They exercised authority all around the chapel, and until the fourteenth century, only knights were allowed in.”

Zewinski stopped reading. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Sophie told me this was the Templar chapel.”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Marcas said. The answer’s in the Breuil Manuscript. In the thirteenth century, two Templar dignitaries went over to the Hospitallers. Today we’d call them renegades. They became commanders. Breuil found documents confirming this. They were probably the two commanders who had that fresco painted. In any case, the relationship between the Templars and the Hospitallers isn’t all that clear. In Jerusalem, they were at war with each other, but members of the two orders in Europe formed alliances. We do know that when the Templars fell in 1307, many of the knights took refuge with the Hospitallers.”

Zewinski continued to glean information from the brochure. “During the French Revolution, Plaincourault, like all other church assets, was seized by the state and sold to the people. The chapel was turned into a barn and started falling into ruin. In January 1944, a Vichy government worker responsible for historical monuments classified the chapel as a national monument. The building remained locked up and prey to the elements for more than fifty years. Then, in 1997, it was restored. Specialists spent three years returning the frescos to their original state. The chapel’s now part of Brenne National Park.”

They arrived half an hour later, after two wrong turns. The chapel stood on an overlook at a turn in the road. It was next to a field and a large farmhouse.

They parked on a dirt track running all the way around the building.

The site was deserted. The headlights had frightened away two rabbits. A dog barked in the distance.

“Here we are,” Marcas said. He got out of the car and headed toward the entrance without waiting for Zewinski. He pulled out a large metal key, slipped it into the lock, and turned.

“Slow down,” Zewinski called out. “I’m coming too.”

He was already inside and could barely hear her. He flipped a wall switch, but nothing happened. He pulled out a flashlight and swept its beam back and forth.

Zewinski caught up, and they slowly walked past the rows of benches, taking in the paintings, silent witness to the time when Christianity was the most potent force in France and an integral part of the lives of both humble field workers and aristocrats.

On their right, Saint Eloi, wearing a halo, was striking a horseshoe with a hammer under the watchful eyes of two craftsmen. Farther along, angels with blurred faces were gazing at other saints. On the left, near the third row of benches, there was a Middle Age bestiary, with two fighting leopards, their claws splayed. One was wearing a crown.

The flashlight beam revealed a rich palette of colors — yellows and reds, nuanced grays, bluish touches, and alabaster green.

“Marcas, look at this.”

Higher up on the wall, a beaming fox was playing a medieval musical instrument, perhaps a viola, for a hen and her chicks. Next to it, like a scene in a graphic novel, the fox was slitting the hen’s throat.

“I get it,” Zewinski said. “The fox is playing the woman. He’s out to get himself some fresh meat. Those knights had a dark sense of humor, didn’t they.”

“Some sense of humor,” Marcas said. “But the fresco we want is over there, near the altar.”

They walked past a small black railing that marked the entrance to the apse. Marcas angled the flashlight to illuminate the ceiling and the frescos. It created a play of shadows, making the pictures on the ceiling dance.

Jade grabbed the light. “Let me find out what doesn’t fit,” she said.

At first, nothing jumped out at them. A Byzantine-inspired Christ Pantocrator presided over the apse. His right fingers pointed to the sky, and he was surrounded by a traditional tetramorph, four allegorical representations of the evangelists: a lion for Mark, an eagle for John, an ox for Luke, and a man for Matthew.

On either side were frescos about six feet high, separated by narrow windows.

“What’s that?” Marcas said. “Let’s see what I can remember from catechism. Here is a crucifixion, there the Virgin Mary with child, a whole bunch of souls, and over there, to the far right, Adam and Eve surrounded by… Well, well, what is it that I see? It’s a—”

Marcas let Zewinski say the magic word.

61

The wind had been picking up since nightfall. The forecast was storms over the Adriatic. Boats were returning to port. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by thunder.

Fascinated by the show of unbridled elements, Loki was sitting on the bench at the edge of the overlook. He was holding a cell phone to his ear and talking to his master, Sol.

“A good omen. Thor is wielding his hammer. The board isn’t happy with your explanation regarding the Hiram operation, except perhaps Freya. They respect you and would never dare to question your word, but—”

“But what?”

“They belong to another generation. They share our political ideas and love the organization’s power, but remain deeply skeptical. They don’t think Operation Hiram will yield anything. And the loss of one of the order’s houses galls them.”

Loki looked out at the rumbling sea. Sol’s voice grew stronger.

“But they were initiated. They know that the spiritual side is most important. If Operation Hiram succeeds, we’ll be at the dawn of a new era. The Thule will be back. Don’t they understand?”

“In theory, yes, but discussing anything related to the divine is too abstract for them. Heimdall even wondered if you were getting senile.”

Sol was shouting now. “They’ll see if I’m a crazy old man! When I think about what their forefathers sacrificed. They’re gutless wonders, every one of them. Their entitlements are all that they care about. None of them would have made it into the Waffen SS, like I did. They’ve lost the taste for blood. I made a mistake giving them power. We need to replace the board. You’ll do that for me. I need to finish Operation Hiram. When it’s all over, we’ll be witness to a new night.”

“A night?” Loki asked, watching dark clouds roll over the coastline. Sol’s voice sounded like a metallic echo.

“A night of long knives. Like the Führer’s. More pleasures await your Iron Maiden. I have to go now. I’m meeting some very interesting people. And by the way, your daughter says hello.”

He ended the call.

62

“A giant toadstool.”

Marcas nodded. “A superb Amanita muscaria, or fly amanita,” he said.

Jade and Marcas stepped closer to the mural to get a better view.

Adam and Eve stood naked, their hands covering their genitals. Between them, five long-stemmed mushrooms rose from a single spot. A snake was wrapped around the central stem, its head toward Eve.

Jade leaned in. “Amazing. A shroom instead of an apple tree. That’s an intriguing depiction of the original sin. It must have been a shock for the worshippers.”

“Maybe not. The worshippers weren’t ordinary people, you know. This chapel was forbidden to commoners. It was used exclusively by the Knights of Hospitaller for two full centuries.”

Marcas pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of the mural while Zewinski examined the details.

“What’s this got to do with the Breuil Manuscript?” she asked.

Marcas put his cell phone back in his pocket. “Remember, Breuil bought this chapel and the land around it, so he must have seen the mural. He came back from Egypt and wanted to create a completely new ritual, change the bitter initiation wine, and dig a pit in the middle of the temple for a bush. Take a good look at the mushroom. Doesn’t it look like a fruit tree?”

“It looks like a mushroom to me.”

“Yes, but Breuil, like many other Freemasons, was skilled at using parables and symbols. I think he wanted to use this mushroom in his ritual. It’s the missing ingredient.”

Zewinski shrugged. “Why this mushroom?”

“It’s not just any mushroom. It’s a magic mushroom. It’s known for its hallucinogenic properties. Many religions and other belief systems have used mushrooms since ancient times to commune with the divine. So according to this painting, Adam and Eve were chased out of paradise for eating a mushroom, not an apple.”

“I’ve heard of South and Central American cultures that have cults based on sacred mushrooms.”

“Shamans in many cultures rely on psychedelic mushrooms. The psilocybin mushroom was an integral part of Aztec religious ceremonies in Mexico because of its hallucinogenic properties. They called it teonanacatl, which means ‘God’s flesh.’ And as far back as 1,000 BC, there was a Mesoamerican mushroom cult in what is now the Guatemalan highlands.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I listened to one of our brothers, a botanist, give a brilliant presentation on the role hallucinogenic mushrooms played in Central American religious ceremonies. He suggested that the visions recounted by Christian mystics were identical to hallucinations experienced by Mayan and Aztec priests.”

Zewinski smiled. Finally, a rational explanation from a Freemason. Maybe she could even like him someday.

“Did he have anything to back up his theory?” she asked.

“He talked about experiments conducted in the nineteen sixties in the United States. A Dr. Walter Pahnke gave psilocybin to Christian theology-student volunteers. After absorbing a purified form of the mushroom, three of the ten said they had experienced intense mystical visions. They had the feeling of being one with Christ and the Virgin Mother. They really saw Jesus and Mary.”

“How’d that work?”

“The molecules in the plants have a chemical structure similar to neurotransmitters. They basically replace the brain’s neurotransmitters, causing what you might call a big bang in the head.”

Zewinski looked at the mural again. “Is there anything else to discover?”

“Sophie came here and found something else. But what? It must be in the details. There must be some coded formula or a partial one, probably in numbers.”

Zewinski stared at the wall. “For the code to the safe at the embassy, Sophie insisted on using the Templar spelling of the word Plaincourault. She added two letters to get fifteen.”

Marcas bit his lip. “What if we focus on the number fifteen in this mural. There are five mushroom caps atop five stems.”

Zewinski shook her head. “No, look. Two other thinner stems branch off from the central trunk and support the main cap. That’s five caps and seven stems.”

Marcas scratched his head. “Five and seven. We don’t have fifteen.”

Jade grinned. “I know. Five plus seven plus three equal fifteen. So three would be the number. Look, the snake is wrapped around the stem three times.”

“Congratulations. A-plus in symbolism.”

“So why three numbers?”

“My turn now. In Freemasonry, every grade or degree is symbolized by a number: three for the entered apprentice, five for fellowcraft, and seven for master.”

“I gather that each ingredient gets a number: three for one, five for the other, and seven for the third. But which ingredient gets which number?”

“Good question, but what I want to know is this: where’s the pit? Breuil underscores the importance of the pit, where the roots take hold. It was only in the birth of life underground that the seven heavens could be attained. The key enlightenment lay in the earth, or the womb, or something of that nature.”

“Could three, five, and seven help us find it?”

Marcas and Zewinski began counting steps from the base of the mushroom in various directions, testing different combinations of the numbers.

“Maybe the numbers have nothing to do with it,” Zewinski finally said. “You and your Freemason symbolism bull are getting us nowhere.”

Marcas moved back to the mushroom and started feeling the wall.

“Hold your horses,” Zewinski said. “You may be a cop, but this is historical property that belongs to the people of France, and you’re getting your greasy fingers all over it.”

Marcas smiled but continued working on the flagstones at the base of the fresco. “Look, one is crooked. Give me a hand.”

Zewinski looked around the chapel for a tool and found a candle snuffer. She gave it to Marcas, and he pried the stone up, using the snuffer’s long handle. Something in a dirty canvas-like cloth was under the stone.

“Well, look at that.”

Marcas unwrapped two wax-sealed vials containing a murky liquid.

“Do you suppose that’s the God brew?” Zewinski asked.

“Anything is possible.”

Marcas sat down on the step beneath the altar. The heat collected in the building’s thick stone walls during the day was dissipating. Zewinski sat down next to him, and he became very aware of her presence.

Jade was looking at the night sky through one of the narrow windows. It was dark inside, except for the glow of the flashlight on the floor.

“What a perfect place for this mysterious crap,” Jade said. “I can just see the knights in their long capes kneeling before this heretical painting.” She shivered. “And we’re still no closer to finding Sophie’s murderer.”

Silence filled the chapel. Marcas put his arm around her. Jade took his hand and moved closer.

No sooner had she done this than a voice rang out in the darkness. “Look at that. Adam and Eve back together in front of the Tree of Knowledge. What a scene.”

63

Marcas and Jade shielded their eyes from the harsh light the man was aiming at them.

“Fly amanita grows in round formations called witches circles,” the man said. “This region has always been known for its witches. Leave the vials where they are, and put your hands up. Now slowly move away from the painting.”

Four threatening figures moved toward them, one limping. Marcas regretted leaving his gun in the glove compartment of his car.

The group stopped in front of them, where Marcas and Jade could make out their faces. In the middle was an older man with white hair and an expressionless face. Jade recognized the person to his left: Joana, who was waving her bandaged hand. On the other side of the leader was a younger man with short hair and a detached look in his eyes. He was pointing a MP5 submachine gun with a sound suppressor in their direction. The fourth man stood in the shadows. The leader lowered his flashlight.

“I happened to overhear your fascinating conversation about the amanita. Its nefarious reputation as a poisonous mushroom dates to the beginnings of Christianity. But before Christianity took root, it was considered the plant of immortality. It was used as early as the latter part of the Paleolithic Period. You mentioned God’s flesh. Shamans and pagan priests venerated each mushroom as a little piece of divinity on earth. But when the Church took power, these mushrooms became witches ware. Did you know that Saint Augustine wrote a text denouncing the use of these very special plants? But I’m digressing. Klaus, can you hold my flashlight?”

Rubbing his hands together, the old man stepped in front of the fresco.

“Absolute blasphemy. A hallucinogenic mushroom replacing the apple. The knights were taking a great risk during the Inquisition.”

“Who are you?” Marcas asked.

The white-haired man continued to contemplate the painting. “My name is Sol. That name means nothing to you, but the name of my order should.”

“The Thule, right?”

The old man turned around. “Good. Very good. So there really are a few Freemasons who know something about world history. For that matter, I want to thank you, Inspector. We started following you after your tête-à-tête at the Interior Ministry. What interesting meetings you’ve had, especially at the Grand Orient Lodge. You were such an easy target. We stayed on your tail, even when you were picking up your charming friend not so far from our compound. If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t be here having this nice little chat. And I wouldn’t have found what I was looking for.”

Sol picked up the vials, his eyes glistening.

Marcas spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “So you weren’t surprised by the presence of this mushroom.”

“No, I figured it would be one of the ingredients in the brew. Fly amanita contains ibotenic acid and muscimol, long-range missiles that directly target neurons. I was hoping to know how much of each ingredient to use, but now, because you’re so clever, we have something even better: the actual mixture. Hans, take it to the team and have them make up a fresh brew.”

Sol turned back to Marcas and Jade. “All we need is to do now is lay the groundwork for the ritual.”

Joana interrupted, “Leave the girl to me. I’ll take care of her.”

The old man raised a hand. “Later. We’ll keep our Adam and Eve together for a moment. I still need the Mason for the ritual. We’ll be having a very special ceremony.”

Marcas interrupted. “Then what? Will you kill us? Like Hiram?”

Sol’s lips curled into a smile. “Perhaps. But we’re not there yet. Let’s go.”

The bodyguard moved toward them.

“Who are you, really?” Jade’s voice echoed in the chapel.

“My real name? It’s François Le Guermand, once French, like you.”

“And now?”

“Nationality is of no importance. Only race counts.”

64

Jade and Marcas were in the back of an SUV, their hands and feet bound. After about an hour on the highway, the vehicle turned onto what felt like an unpaved road. Centuries-old oak trees cast ominous shadows under the moonlight.

“Where are we going?” Marcas asked.

Sol turned around and looked at him. “The Orden has a small property in the Perigord-Limousin Natural Park. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”

A two-story stone house stood at the end of the forest road, next to a tumbledown dovecote. The brown shutters of the house were open, and the lights on the first floor were on. A man in a hunting jacket drew back the curtains and waved. Jade stiffened when she saw him.

The bodyguard, who had been driving, parked the vehicle in front of the porch. He hopped out, made his way around the car to open the door for Sol, and then opened the back, untying the bindings around Marcas’s and Jade’s feet. The man emerged from the house and started down the grassy path. He was smoking a pipe.

“Look, our friend the gardener is coming to say hello,” Sol said.

Joana made a face. “How kind of him. I could have done without.”

“Now, now. Be nice. He’s prepared the house for us.”

“What devotion.”

The gardener reached them and greeted Sol. He ignored Joana.

“I’m happy to see you again. I’ve prepared a buffet, and rooms are ready for you and our honored guests.”

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to mention your efficiency to the board. We won’t be here long. Bring our guests in for dinner.”

The man rubbed his stubbly cheek. “Really? I thought I would spend a little pruning time with them.”

“Do as you’re told.”

“What about her?” the gardener said, pointing his chin at Joana.

“She’s seconding me in this operation. Consider her your superior.”

Joana snickered. “Did you hear that? Do your duty. Bring the prisoners.”

The man glared at her. “We’ll see once this mission is over. Believe me.”

He stepped aside and let Sol and Joana enter the house. Then he took Marcas and Zewinski in. The walls of the entry hall were filled with stag trophies, and under each mount was a copper plaque indicating the year the animal was bagged. Some were more than a century old.

The gardener freed their hands.

In the main room, a man was adding two place settings to the table. The walls were hung with paintings of local squires in eighteenth-century hunting gear. The landowners were staring into the room, looking suspicious of any visitors. Farming tools were laid out here and there, adding a finishing touch to the rustic look of the room. Sol sat down in one of the carved chairs and looked around. He pointed to two empty chairs.

“Come, my friends. Join us for something to eat.”

Marcas and Jade looked at each other, then sat down in silence. Large platters full of carrots, beets, lettuce, chicory, radishes, and tomatoes were lined up next to a soup tureen filled with an orange-colored liquid and a large bowl of boiled potatoes.

Marcas helped himself to some vegetables. “I’m surprised. You’re not much of a carnivore.”

Sol was serving himself generously. “True. Meat is forbidden. I haven’t eaten any in sixty years. It’s a secret to longevity.”

Jade wasn’t touching any of the food. She looked at Sol. “You do know what happens when law-enforcement officials are kidnapped in this country, don’t you? Every police officer and gendarme in France will be looking for us. You won’t get away.”

“Shut up,” Joana interrupted. “One more threat and I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

“With just one hand?”

Joana shot up and grabbed a knife with her left hand.

“Enough,” Sol bellowed.

Glaring at Jade, Joana held her position a few seconds. Then she slowly sat down again.

Sol turned to Marcas. “Yes, we were talking about meat. It contains toxins that cause disease. Fruits and vegetables, however, are extraordinarily nutritional. I recommend the pumpkin soup to your right. It’s excellent.”

“Is that what the Thule teaches?”

“Among other things.”

Marcas observed the old man and then said, “Since you honor us with such fine food, would you also be kind enough to shed light on some obscure points?”

“Why not? I rarely have the opportunity to talk with Freemasons. I usually kill them.”

“What is the Thule’s goal?”

“That is an exhaustive subject, but in short, our goal is preserving the superiority of our bloodline. I’m honored to be part of this organization, which is focused on stopping the invasion of blacks, Arabs, Jews, Chinks, Japs, and mixed breeds of all kinds.”

“Oh, so the Thule’s a kind of animal-rights organization,” Jade said. “Although I wouldn’t put you and the Fund for Animal Welfare in the same league.”

“How did you find out about the Freemason archives?” Marcas asked.

Sol waved his hand. “I prefer to tell you about our order. Perhaps you’ll understand better, but considering the group you belong to, I doubt it. Take a look at the bust behind you.”

Marcas and Jade turned around and saw the sculpted head of a man with a receding hairline, double chin, and long, straight nose. The stand it was on was decorated with a circular swastika atop a dagger.

Sol lit a cigar. “That was Rudolf Grauer. We owe him everything. You’ll find his bust in each of the order’s properties. He created the Thule society long before the birth of the Nazi Party. He was a genius, and he changed the face of the world. Compared with him, Hitler was a no-account. Grauer was born in 1875, the son of a locomotive engineer. As soon as he was old enough, he became a merchant sailor. In 1900, he settled in Turkey, where he made a considerable fortune before returning to Germany, certain of his path in life. He was quickly adopted by the aristocracy and became Count Rudolf von Sebottendorf. At the time, a nationalist movement was afoot in Kaiser Germany, embodied by various patriotic and anti-Semitic groups given the general name völkisch.”

Marcas was listening carefully. “Anti-Freemason too, I suppose?”

“What do you think? At the time, our founder was part of the Germanenorden, and he rose quickly in the ranks. He left for Munich in 1918 to found a lodge called the Thule-Gesellschaft. In less than four months, he managed to recruit the elite and start two newspapers, including the Beobachter, which the Nazis would later use. He was quite influential, and he used the same operational approach as the Freemasons, which, of course, he had studied carefully. But his was based on Norse paganism.”

“And that’s your symbol?” Marcas asked, pointing below the bust.

“The Thule’s emblem incorporates a circular swastika — the Thule was using that swastika when Hitler was begging people to buy his paintings on the streets of Vienna — and a dagger of revenge.”

“How interesting. The same kind of weapon is sometimes used in Freemason ceremonies.”

Sol went on. “Very quickly, Sebottendorf dictated the first and only commandment: the white race must rule the world. He was a visionary with one word as a credo: Halgadom.”

Jade was shifting in her seat.

Sol went on in a soft voice. “Halgadom means sacred temple. You Freemasons want to recreate the Jewish Temple of Solomon, and we want to build a temple for all the people descended from the Aryan Thule race — Nordic, Germanic, Saxon, Celtic, and, well, French. All those with blood in their veins from the migrating Germanic tribes, the Goths and the Francs.”

“Our temple is one of fraternity, equality, and all humanity.”

“Right. Your lodges are as elitist as they come,” Sol said, pouring himself a glass of water. “Sebottendorf knew that only the proletariat could renew the Aryan race, and he wanted to spread his ideas through the working class. One of his associates, Karl Harrer, founded a group for that. In January 1919, Anton Drexler rose to the top of the German workers party, which Adolf Hitler would later join and turn into the Nazi Party.”

“Hitler prospered on the ruins of the armistice, because of endemic unemployment and heightened nationalism,” Marcas countered.

“Yes, but the Thule was in the background. Although we had no direct control of Hitler, we did infiltrate the ranks of his dignitaries and others close to him. Hess, Rosenberg, Himmler, and others. Do you think Hitler would have risen to power without financing from German industrialists? Many were members of the Thule. But Hitler failed because of his megalomania. We overestimated him.”

“Millions of Jews were reduced to slavery and exterminated,” Jade, her cheeks flushed with anger, spit out. “That was a fine program you had.”

Sol nodded to his bodyguard. “Miss, do I need to have my bodyguard shoot you in the head?”

Marcas touched Jade’s thigh to calm her. He picked up the conversation.

“But you’re French. What are you doing mixed up in all that?”

The old man smiled. “It’s very simple. I joined the Waffen SS during the war, and members of the Thule chose me for initiation. I was sponsored, like a Freemason.”

Marcas’s face hardened.

Jade spoke up before he could say anything. “Perfect. Just like a game of Happy Families. In the Nazi family, I want the grandfather, the French SS officer. How many woman and children did you kill?”

Joana stood up and slapped Jade with her good hand. The bodyguard grabbed Jade’s arms to keep her from retaliating. Sol’s eyes filled with disdain.

“The Charlemagne Division fought at the front and defended Berlin. We had nothing to do with the concentration camps. It was because of my bravery that I earned the rank of obersturmbannführer.”

“And then?”

“My mission consisted of hiding Freemason documents pillaged from France. They were highly prized by the order. Do you understand now?”

“But why?”

“One of the Thule branches in the SS, the Ahnenerbe Institute, was doing research on Aryan India and discovered the existence of the sacred drink, the soma. Very soon thereafter, they conducted experiments with hallucinogenic plants at the Westphalia castle. They had recruited archeologists and biologists to figure out what was in the soma. It was tested on Russian prisoners. The mixtures had spectacular effects.”

Zewinski guffawed. “What a bunch of crazies. You just wanted to get high.”

Sol slowly put down his cigar and turned to her. “You do know that in the nineteen fifties and sixties, the CIA was doing the same experiments, don’t you?”

“The Americans?”

“The CIA financed advanced research on LSD. A certain Dr. Sidney Gottlieb headed up the experiments. Gottlieb and select associates laced fellow researchers’ coffee with LSD to test their reactions. Later on, he expanded his research to include prostitutes, prisoners, drug addicts, and mental patients — people who wouldn’t be believed if they told their story. Some of the subjects reported that they felt like their flesh was dropping off their bones.”

“The flesh falling off the bones,” Marcas said in a half whisper.

Sol looked at him. “What is that, Inspector?”

“Those experiments ended a long time ago,” Marcas said. “So you’re after some mind-control drug. Is that it?”

“Oh, Inspector Marcas, you so underestimate the power of the soma. With it, the Thule will be reborn, and the Aryan race will rule again.”

Jade rolled her eyes. Marcas kicked her under the table before she could speak.

“What does this have to do with the Freemason archives?” he asked

“We’d been looking for the Freemason secret for a long time. Then, in the archives from France, researchers at the Ahnenerbe found a document that referred to a ritual based on a divine drink.”

Marcas pursed his lips. “The shadow ritual.”

Sol lit another cigar. “That’s right. The Ahnenerbe had a French neurologist and Freemason, Henri Jouhanneau, transferred to Berlin to go through the archives lifted from Paris. He found scattered fragments of the ritual. There was a study on rye ergot and a manuscript by a man named Breuil.”

“Where do you come into this?”

“In 1945, my convoy ran into a Red Army roadblock, but I managed to escape with a handful of documents, including part of the Breuil manuscript that mentioned three ingredients, one being a plant from the East. In it, he described a trip to Egypt. I hid the papers under the altar of a church in a ruined village, and I headed for Allied lines. When Jouhanneau’s son got that call from the Jewish archeologist in Israel, we were ready.”

“The Tebah Stone?”

Sol nodded. “Yes. Then you did the work for us. I never will be able to thank you enough for the chapel.”

“And now? What are you going to do?”

Sol yawned and stood up. “Joana here is quite impatient to take care of your girlfriend, but I still need the two of you. I’m tired now, and I need my rest. We’ll see each other in the morning, and we’ll discuss the ritual then.”

A vestige from another era, Sol was looking very old. Marcas asked one more question.

“Why the name Sol?”

“It comes from the sun god revered during the Roman Empire: Sol Invictus — the unconquered sun. It relates to the winter solstice, December twenty-first, when the sun is reborn, and the days get longer. Christians turned the solstice into a celebration of the birth of Jesus. Like the sun — and unlike Jesus, who was crucified — I will go unvanquished.”

65

The bodyguard ushered Marcas and Zewinski into a bedroom, sat them down in chairs, and bound their hands and feet again. Then he left.

“What do we do now?” Zewinski asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Marcas said. “I suppose we should get some rest too.”

They sat in silence.

“What do you think about this secret mystical drink?” Jade finally asked.

“Freemasonry isn’t about magic for me or about power. What counts is the work that you do in the lodge. There’s no elixir, no secret potion, no single key that gives access to the divine. The light comes from understanding the beauty of symbols, knowing how to find traces of overall coherence in the human world.”

“The rest is just fantasy then?”

“As with a lot of things, people think the Freemasons have much more influence than we really have. Take the seal on the dollar bill. You’ve seen the pyramid with the eye at the top. It’s recognized as a Masonic symbol, and, indeed, many of the founding fathers were Masons. It’s not likely, though, that they had any big scheme in mind. At the bottom of the seal, there’s a Latin expression, novus ordo seculorum, which means ‘new order of the ages.’ Some people think there’s some mysterious message in this. But the phrase probably refers to the establishment of a democracy in the new world — that’s all.”

“But what’s all the secret mumbo jumbo then?”

“It’s about ritual, ritual that hasn’t changed since the eighteenth century. The initiation ritual, for example, has the candidate being purified — symbolically — by the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. Since ancient times these elements have represented both man and the universe, and they symbolize stages in a person’s journey toward truth. As you go through the ceremony, you move from chaos to the road of creation. Earth is the place of preparation for the trials ahead, a place of passage; water, the origin of life; air, the quest for knowledge; and fire—”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Being pedantic. Meanwhile, we’re tied up with crazy killers down the hall.”

“Yeah. I hadn’t forgotten that.”

They spent the rest of the night shifting fitfully in the chairs, dozing on and off.

When the first rays of sunlight came through the window, they heard movement in the hallway.

“Hey, anyone out there?” Jade shouted.

The door opened, and the guard came in.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Jade said. “Do you understand?”

The man shook his head. “Nein, nein.”

Jade put on her meanest look and shouted, “Sol, schnell.”

The man hesitated, then left the room, locking the door behind him. Marcas turned to Jade.

“Is that the best you’ve got? I mean, doesn’t embassy security implant some secret GPS emitter in the heel of your shoe or something like that?”

“Yeah, right. And you, don’t you have some telepathic connection with the Grand Architect of the Universe who could alert your brothers?”

“What a couple we are,” Marcas said. He looked at Jade and saw how pale she was. He didn’t want to think about how ghoulish he looked. He needed a shave, and he probably had dark rings under his eyes.

The key turned in the keyhole, and the door opened. The guard appeared with Joana.

“Sol is still resting. I’m here. Talk,” she said, walking over to Jade, who reared back.

“We want to go to the bathroom and wash up,” Marcas said.

Joana took cutters out of her pocket. “We’re not monsters. Klaus will go with you, but first, I will borrow one of your girlfriend’s little fingers. The gardener’s not entitled to all the fun.”

Before Jade had time to react, Joana clipped off the finger. Jade shrieked in pain. Marcas fought to free himself.

“Stop!”

“Shut up, dog. That is nothing, compared to what she did to me,” Joana said, holding up her crushed hand. “Soon enough, when we are done with you, she will beg me to kill her.”

Jade kept screaming in pain.

66

The candles illuminated the small crypt under the castle. Loki was contemplating the piece of black marble engraved with a circular swastika. It was used in the solstice ceremonies. He hadn’t had any news from Sol in twenty-four hours and was beginning to worry about his daughter. His fellow board members had been looking at him oddly since his last conversation with Sol. It didn’t matter. He’d be rid of all those incompetents soon enough.

Heimdall had wanted to speak to him alone.

Loki heard heavy footsteps echo in the stone stairwell. He turned and saw Heimdall with a security guard.

“I thought you were coming alone.”

“Loki is the trickster god. I never forget that. Operation Hiram is canceled.”

Loki moved closer to the altar. “How is that? Sol will be furious.”

The two men came toward him. “The board took a vote earlier.”

“Impossible. I wasn’t there.”

“You are no longer part of the Thule.”

Loki regretted not having a weapon with him. “That can’t be.”

“Your cell phone was tapped. We’re aware of Sol’s intentions: the night of long knives. You can understand our displeasure.”

He heard other footsteps. Two armed men entered the crypt. Loki held onto the altar.

“You don’t understand. Operation Hiram is vital for the Thule.”

“Sol is a senile old man chasing ghosts, and he nearly got us made by the French police. He has committed too many errors. These Freemason assassinations are stupid. As for his Palestinian killer, it wouldn’t have taken much for the Israelis to connect him to us. Have you forgotten von Sebottendorf’s principles? Our strength lies in our invisibility. That is how we prosper and remain untouchable.”

“I know that better than you.”

“Enough. Orders have been given to get rid of Sol and your daughter, as well as their prisoners. As for you, we’re going to take you to see your friend.”

Loki stared at him, uncomprehending.

“A maiden.”

“You can’t!”

“The Iron Maiden.”

67

Sol came in next.

“I’m hoping you’ll be amenable to talking now.”

“You’re animals,” Marcas said.

“Joana, show him our merciful side, would you? Bandage up the woman’s hand.” Then Sol focused on Marcas. “The original plan was to organize a full Orden solstice ritual in June, but our schedule has been bumped up. I need your input.”

“Never.”

“My brother — if I may call you that — how much would you like to see this woman of yours suffer?”

Marcas glared at him.

“Our friend Breuil talks about a temple with a pit and a plant. Where do you think we can find that?”

Marcas had already given this some thought, but he was still confused. He glanced at Jade. Her eyes were pleading. He turned to Joanna, who was fiddling with the pruners.

Marcas looked Sol in the eye. “Okay, let’s go over what we know. In Breuil’s ritual, there was a bush with exposed roots, something about life coming from underground to reach the heavens. And we have the brew. That’s not a lot to go on.”

“I’m sure your advanced Masonic knowledge will help you find the answer.”

“There wasn’t anything else about the ritual per se, but he did pay attention to the bitter drink. If I recall, he said that initiation had become a parody.”

“Initiation?” Jade managed to say.

Marcas looked at her. Something clicked. “Yes, initiation. That’s it. The four elements are key to initiation: fire, air, water, earth. Fire, Saint Anthony’s fire, ergot; air, Amanita muscaria, the fly amanita; and water, the primordial element. In the Bvitti cult, iboga led initiates back to the roots of their existence.”

“And earth?” Sol asked.

“Earth would be the place of preparation and passage.”

“So we dig a pit?” Joana said.

“The pit was symbolic,” Marcas answered. “You’d want some sanctuary, a temple, or, I suppose, a cave. Prehistoric people used them for religious rituals. Some scholars believe painted caves were sacred spaces reserved for connecting with another dimension, like our temples.”

Sol was smiling now. “So we need a cave-temple. And as I’ll be communing with the gods, I want the best possible cave-temple. What do you suggest?”

Marcas was drawing a blank.

“Well?” Sol said. He turned to Joana, “You may be in for some more fun.”

Marcas’s eyes darted from Jade to Sol and Joana as he tried to come up a cave-temple. “You said we’re in Perigord?”

“Not exactly, but close enough.”

His mind was racing: Perigord, southwestern France, truffles, foie gras, Sarlat, Dordogne. “Lascaux,” he finally said.

Sol’s eyes gleamed. “I was right about you, Inspector. Lascaux is perfect. It’s the Sistine Chapel of prehistory. A singular place, ideal for testing the soma of the gods.”

68

The convoy was ready. There had been some commotion in the afternoon, when Hans came and went again. Sol had decided to delay their departure until evening. He wanted to avoid the tourists and Lascaux workers. He needed privacy for his ritual. Sol was wearing a satisfied look as the prisoners, still bound, were brought outside. He nodded at Klaus, the guard, who freed Marcas’s hands and then pointed a gun at Zewinski.

“Don’t try anything stupid, now,” Sol said, handing Marcas a cell phone. “Call one of your Freemason contacts and get us into Lascaux. I want the real caves, not the tourist replica.”

Marcas punched in the number for the worshipful master of his lodge and, keeping his voice as calm as possible, politely inquired about the weather. “I’m so sorry to hear it’s raining in Paris. I’m in Dordogne and I’d like to visit Lascaux — the real cave — this evening. Can you pull some strings at the ministry for me? If that doesn’t work, call my buddy Jaigu. He’s always trying to fix me up with women. Maybe he knows a good-looking blonde at the Committee for the Preservation of Lascaux. That’s right. Tonight. Nine p.m. There will be two of us.”

Marcas ended the call, and Klaus bound his hands again.

“I’m looking forward to the drive. We haven’t finished our discussion,” Sol said. “But first, let’s thank our host, the gardener, for his hospitality.”

Klaus pushed the gardener in front of Sol. The man’s face was covered with blood.

“Our protector of plants and flowers had a strange notion to kill us while we were resting last night. Fortunately, Klaus was watching over us. I suppose he received his orders from the board. Joana, would you take care of him?”

Joana, knife in hand, walked up to the gardener. She plunged the knife into his lower abdomen and pulled it up and to the right. Shrieking, the man collapsed. Sol marched to the SUV without looking back.

“Amazing how much dexterity that girl has even in her left hand. I’m pleased our Joana hasn’t lost her touch. It’ll take about twenty minutes for him to die.”

The gardener was twisting on the ground like an earthworm cut in half.

Klaus pushed Jade and Marcas into their seats in the back. Sol and Jade took the middle row of bucket seats, and Klaus slid behind the wheel. Sol whistled as he studied a road map.

Marcas decided to start the conversation again. “You didn’t tell us how the war ended for you.”

Sol looked back at him. “It was quick. I escaped from the French patrol that intercepted me, and I made it to Switzerland to contact our Odessa network.

“Odessa?”

“And here I thought you knew your history. The SS and Thule realized well before the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943 that defeat was coming. Of course they set up an evacuation network to neutral countries. Mostly South Africa, but also Syria and Egypt.”

“Odessa was the operation’s name?”

“Odessa for Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or Organization of Former SS Members. The SS had used its war booty to buy businesses in the countries that would take in the ex-officers. Bank accounts had been opened in respectable places like Switzerland, naturally.

“So I guess Hitler didn’t know about the plan,” Jade said. “If he had, he might have opted to spend a pleasant post-Reich retirement in some obscure South American village instead of killing himself.”

Sol smiled, “You are so right. Hitler was a criminal. We had no desire to help him save his own skin.”

“What?”

“Our precious blood was spilled in that war. Millions of Aryans died because of him.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Sol smiled again, as if he were talking to a child too young to understand. “Of course you don’t share my point of view. The Thule had no direct power over the Führer, and at best could only influence certain decisions. The Thule had even less influence when madness took hold of him.”

“And you?” Jade asked.

“I started another life, and I rose in the Orden ranks. When communism fell, we recovered the few Masonic papers that I had hidden, and we analyzed them.”

Sol’s eyes were glistening. “That was when I understood how priceless they were.”

“But for what?” Marcas exclaimed. “Do you really want to contact God?”

“Not your God, my friend, but mine, which is infinitely more powerful.”

69

They were parked in the center of Montignac, the small town closest to Lascaux. Marcas and Zewinski, still tied up in the back of the SUV, said nothing. Outside, Joana hung up her phone. Sol rolled down the window.

“They picked him up this afternoon, and he should be here shortly.”

Marcas shot Zewinski a questioning look.

“Who?” Marcas asked.

Sol stepped out of the car and stretched his legs, ignoring the prisoner. “Marcas and I will go on ahead. You and Klaus wait here with the lady. When our friends get here, have them drive you to the caves. Klaus, give me the package Hans dropped off.”

The bodyguard handed a small bag to Sol and yanked Jade out of the car.

“Let go of me, dammit,” Jade said, shaking off his grip. He had a gun at her back. “I’ll stay here. What the hell else would I do?”

Klaus hustled her toward Joana, who took up a position in the shadows, near a tree.

Sol climbed into the driver’s seat. “Klaus, make sure Joana doesn’t get carried away — not until I say so,” he said as he drove off.

A cool wind had risen with the stars. The conservator of the cave was standing at the entrance, giving the unexpected visitors a final look-over. Visits were usually scheduled months in advance. The few people who received permission to see the actual cave — and not the replica created for tourists — had to slalom past a multitude of administrative obstacles before the Ministry of Culture would approve the visit. The process was long, and he, as conservator, followed procedure. Nobody entered Lascaux without clearing all the flags. And everyone who made it to the end, mostly eminent researchers and high government officials, was aware of what a privilege — miracle even — it was to be there. They entered this sacred space with both humility and childlike expectation.

These visitors did not fit the bill. One was an arrogant-looking old man who appeared to be well past the age of retirement. He was wearing a dark trench coat, and a wool scarf was wrapped around his neck. He was carrying a walking stick and a small gray bag. A younger man had a muscular build and a full head of black hair, but he hadn’t bothered to shave. He face was drawn and tense. They didn’t seem to be important researchers, and they didn’t look like government bureaucrats.

Whoever they were, they apparently had some clout, and the conservator had to let them in, no matter what he thought. Four local boys had found the cave and its paintings in 1940, and after the discovery, as many as a hundred thousand people poured into the underground space every year. That was until the early nineteen sixties, when it was closed to the public because of the damage done by artificial lighting and carbon dioxide exhaled by the visitors. Destructive layers of algae, calcite crystals, and bacteria had formed on the walls. The cave was restored, and entry was limited.

Sensors had been placed throughout the galleries. They were connected to a computerized system that constantly measured humidity, temperature, and carbon dioxide. Lab techs working some distance from the site would know immediately if an unauthorized man or animal entered the sanctuary.

If it had been up to the conservator, anyone who entered would be forced to wear space suits. As it was, they were required to wear sterile caps, gloves, and coveralls.

He had received a fax from Paris that evening. The conservator was ordered to be at the cave at nine and to show two men in. He was to leave them alone when he asked to go.

“And what time should I come back for these unexpected visitors?” he had asked, emphasizing the word “unexpected.” As far as he was concerned, this visit was blasphemy, and he was having a hard time concealing his anger.

“When you are told to!” was the only response.

The conservator had ended up calling the Périgueux police prefect’s office. He was worried and asked the prefect’s chief of staff what he thought. They’d known each other for years.

He got a quick answer. “My dear friend, remember that we are simply government officials. That’s all.”

At nine precisely, the conservator handed the visitors their sterile gear and opened the security entrance to the cave.

70

Sol and Marcas were following the conservator.

“The main cave is nearly seventy feet wide and sixteen feet high. There are several smaller galleries. We’re now in the Hall of the Bulls. To the right is the passageway that leads to the nave and the apse and then to the Chamber of the Felines.”

Marcas saw Sol tighten his grip on the pouch. Then he looked around, his eye catching a long line of aurochs and horses. There was a frieze of bulls and what looked like a bear. A whole bestiary in bright colors that looked like it had been painted the day before.

“Magnificent!” Sol said.

The conservator seemed to relax a little. “Lascaux is unique, a masterpiece of the Magdalenian period some eleven thousand to seventeen thousand years ago.”

“How can you be so precise?” Marcas asked.

“Researchers collected more than four hundred tools and bone fragments in the cave and carbon dated them.”

“Incredible. Are there only animal representations?”

“No. That’s what makes Lascaux so mysterious. Look, there’s a unicorn near the entrance.”

“A mythical animal?”

“Yes, the Magdalenians dreamed, just as we do.”

Marcas recalled the tapestry La Dame à la licorne at the Cluny Museum in Paris. Biologists specializing in plants of the Middle Ages had suggested that some of those depicted in the tapestry might have had hallucinogenic properties.

“What’s most intriguing are the geometric symbols. There are several hundred of them, like checkerboards or grids. We don’t know what they represent.”

“Could they have some spiritual significance?”

“Perhaps. They don’t appear to correspond with anything tangible, like animals. Not all scholars agree, but they could well relate to ritual ceremonies held here.”

“Do you think that Lascaux was some kind of sanctuary?”

“I personally think it was a temple, yes. I’ll show you why.”

The conservator guided his visitors down a gallery to a semicircular area and then through a narrow passage that led to a deeper area.

“This is the Shaft of the Dead Man. Look at the scene.”

On the wall, a man with what looked like an erection was sprawled out in front of a bison.

“He has the head of a bird. It’s quite possible that this was a shaman,” the conservator said.

“A shaman?” Marcas asked.

“Yes. Prehistoric humans most likely came here to commune with the spirit world. The shaman was their intermediary.”

Sol was examining the man with the bird head. “But he looks dead.”

“A death preceding a spiritual rebirth. That’s what the bird symbolizes. The shaman’s life force has been freed to journey into the beyond.”

Sol looked totally absorbed.

“We have come a long way since theorizing that Lascaux was simply a place where men came to make art,” the conservator said. “I, as well as many others, believe that the humans who did these paintings were infused with a sense of the sacred.”

“What do the animal representations mean?”

“Some researchers hold that these creatures were visions or hallucinations seen during ritual ceremonies.”

They headed back toward the Hall of the Bulls.

“What’s over there?” Sol asked, pointing down a dark tunnel.

“The Painted Gallery. It has the great black bull, bison, ibexes, and a—” The conservator looked at his watch. “Listen, it’s getting late.”

“And a what?” Sol asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said ‘ibexes and a—.’”

The conservator was close to the exit. “And a horse,” he said. “An upside-down horse. It’s coming out of a crack, as if it has crossed through a wall. Perhaps another vision.”

“Leave us now,” Sol said.

The conservator hesitated.

“Now,” Sol growled, and the man left.

Marcas heard the door close with a click. He turned around. The paintings shone brilliantly against the pale limestone walls. Sol was pointing a gun at him.

71

“So here we are, Inspector. A perfect place for the shadow ritual. Remember, no funny business. You know how Joana feels about your woman. They should be here soon. If you want to see Ms. Zewinski alive again, you’ll do what I say.”

Marcas felt entirely cut off from the world and about as insignificant as a dust mote in this cave haunted by the ghosts of humans who had lived some fifteen thousand years earlier. Even during his Freemason initiation, when he was by himself with the ritual skull, he hadn’t felt so alone. The bulls and bison on the walls would survive long after his own bones were gone. And that could happen sooner rather than later if he didn’t find a way to control this madman and his sidekick Joana.

Sol was waving the gun at him. “Go on. Prepare the ritual.”

Marcas set out to recall the details in the Breuil Manuscript. The basics were like any other Freemason ritual. Then the image of Sophie Dawes’s body flashed in his mind, followed by the list in his notebook of the ritual slayings of his fellow Freemasons. Anger was boiling up inside.

“No dawdling, Inspector.”

Marcas unfolded the map of the cave the conservator had given them and found the east, which he marked with a stone. Opposite it, he placed two other stones symbolizing the pillars Jakin and Boaz, marking the entrance to the temple. Using another stone, he drew a rectangle in the middle, as indicated by the Breuil Manuscript. He used the same stone to scrape out a small pit.

“In theory, you need to leave behind any metal before entering the temple,” Marcas said, looking at the gun.

“Nice try,” Sol said, still pointing the weapon at him. “Over there.”

Marcas stepped aside as the old man walked toward the pit, opened the pouch, and pulled out the old vials they had found, along with two matching new ones.

72

The on-call tech flushed the toilet and pulled up his zipper. His shift would last another hour. He was tempted to leave now, as the probability of an incident in the Lascaux cave was as close to absolute zero as you could get. In the eleven years he had been monitoring the sensors and maintaining the instruments, he had never once experienced an alert. Well, there was that time in the Hall of Bulls. A government minister and his mistress, on a tour with other dignitaries, had ducked into the hall for a quickie. The sensors had immediately picked up the rise in their body temperatures and the cave’s carbon monoxide level, but because the tryst was over as soon as it started, the heavy breathing hadn’t harmed the bulls.

The technician went back to his office and continued to take apart one of the sensors he had been working on. With a little luck, he’d be able to change the diode and test it before his shift was up. He was opening the instrument with a Philip’s screwdriver when an alarm rang out in the control room. He set down his tools and opened the sliding door. He walked over to the control panel, cut the alarm, and checked the parameters. The carbon dioxide measurements indicated that several people were in the cave. A VIP tour. He had been notified. But he had been told that only two guests and the conservator would be in the cave. He clicked on the application to convert the carbon dioxide units into the number of visitors.

The number seven flashed on the screen.

He located the visitors. Two were in the shaft, while the others were walking in that direction. The technician swore and turned off the computer. He was always the last to be told. A guided tour for two turned into one for several more and nobody had bothered to say anything. Well, too bad. He wasn’t about to put in any overtime watching a half dozen VIPs on yet another magical mystery tour.

73

Loki fought back with all his strength, but the Russian cuffs hindered his hands and feet, giving him no room to maneuver. The guards were carrying him like a sack of potatoes. He begged for mercy, even though he knew it would make them even more contemptuous. Like them, he had never felt the slightest compassion for anyone.

The sound of the waves slapping against the cliffs rose in the starry night, mixing with the song of nightingales perched in the yew trees that lined the overlook.

The small group made its way to the chapel, the scene of so many horrors, the walls soaked with the memory of countless torture victims.

Loki hoped the maiden would be set for a quick death.

Under the crucifix, the board members formed a half-circle around the bloody maiden. Loki was placed in the device. He held back his tears and spoke to his companions. “I take responsibility for my actions and remain a loyal servant of the Orden. I worked all my life for Halgadom. Grant me a quick death.”

The group moved in closer. Heimdall was the first to speak. “Do you recall the leniency you extended to our brother from London the last time you officiated at a ceremony with this instrument — an instrument that you yourself placed in this chapel?”

“No! He embezzled from us!”

“He was a good friend. I didn’t say anything to save him, because Orden comes first. But in his memory, you will meet the same fate. Think about Sol and your charming daughter, Joana, who is already in Valhalla if the gardener has carried out his orders. We will remove all traces of Operation Hiram and become what we were meant to be: invisible, working in the shadows. And then the day will come when we reveal ourselves to humanity.”

The metal creaked as the guards closed the cover on Loki.

Through the crack between the lid and the maiden’s side, Loki saw the pious move in even closer, and he heard Heimdall’s final words.

“You have twenty minutes to live. Experience the maiden’s bite to the fullest.”

Darkness filled the space around him.

74

There was a commotion at the entrance. Marcas looked up and saw Joana pushing Jade in front of her and Klaus with another man. Marcas tensed and stepped toward them.

“Inspector, this is a Glock 19, and it’s still pointed directly at you,” Sol said. He turned to the new arrivals. “Welcome. Did you have any trouble getting in?”

Joana pushed the two captives next to Marcas, “Not at all. Klaus knocked the conservator down the stairs leading to the entrance and we took his keys.”

The newcomer turned to Marcas. “I’m sorry, my brother, for dragging you into all of this. I fear it is raining hard.”

Marcas nodded. He had used the term himself. “Raining” was Freemason code for imminent danger.

“My brother, I’m the one who involved you.” Marcas turned to Sol. “Let him go. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

But Sol had Klaus bind the man’s wrists.

“Oh, but he does, more than you imagine. We’ve been watching him for years now — the son finishing his father’s work. When you met in Paris the other day, he did tell you all about it, didn’t he? Mr. Jouhanneau knows so much about us, Inspector. It would be a shame for him to miss the finale. And besides, do you really think I would try this without a guinea pig?”

Jouhanneau looked at Marcas. He nodded but said nothing. Jade glanced at him, grimacing. Jade’s face was drained of all color. Her hand had to be hurting. And Marcas knew Sol would kill them without giving it a second thought.

Joana led Jouhanneau to the center of the temple and forced him to sit. Marcas started to struggle, but Klaus kneed him in the stomach.

Jouhanneau turned to Marcas. “This is my path, brother.”

Sol opened one of the new vials and brought it to Jouhanneau’s lips, pulling his head back by the hair and forcing him to drink. The man choked, then swallowed. Sol unbound his hands and helped him lie down on the cold ground as everyone else looked on.

Marcas felt he had reached the end of a long journey. He could see no escape.

Nothing happened for a few minutes, and then Jouhanneau began to jerk. He looked around, his eyes wide with fear. He cried out and seemed to be trying to lift his arms and legs. But he couldn’t.

“I can’t… I can’t…” His whispered words became a shriek of alarm. “The flesh falls from the bones.”

75

The group stood in silence for a long moment, until Jouhanneau coughed and moved. Everyone stared at him as he sat up without any sign of emotion. He lifted his arms and formed a triangle in front of his lips. He was smiling.

Sol walked over and stood in front of him.

“What is it like to fuse with the gods?”

Sol nodded to his guard, who pushed Marcas and Jade against the wall. Joana stood back.

Jouhanneau was as still as a statue. He didn’t seem any different, but something had changed in his face. His eyes were emanating a dull energy. Marcas had trouble looking at him.

Sol apparently hadn’t noticed. He grabbed the second vial and waved in front of his guinea pig. “Your silence doesn’t matter. The bad side effects of the drug seem quite limited. I, too, will complete my quest in this sacred place, built by pure men who believed in the forces of nature not yet contaminated by the God of the Jews and his bastard son.”

Jouhanneau turned to him. “You know nothing about what is, what was, and what will be,” he said in a toneless voice. “The veil of knowledge will not rise for you.”

“Is that so? We’ll see about that.”

Sol poured the liquid down his throat. He licked his lips, then coughed and closed his eyes. A twisted smile formed on his face.

Marcas and Jade inched closer together.

Seconds later, Sol opened his eyes, grabbed his walking stick, and pointed it at Jouhanneau.

“On your knees, Freemason.”

Jouhanneau’s voice rang out. “No. A free man kneels before no one.”

Sol gave the guard the signal. A shot rang out, echoing in the cave.

Jouhanneau collapsed, clutching his stomach.

“You bastard,” Marcas roared.

Joana pistol-whipped him. Marcas stumbled against the wall. Jade tried to help but her hands were still tied.

Sol stood over Jouhanneau. “I feel an incredible force rising in me, as if I were young again.” His faced was a mask of cruelty. “I am an SS again, marching for the glory of the West. Tell me, Mason, before I do away with you for good, what did you feel? Did you see your God?”

Jouhanneau stared at him.

“You couldn’t understand. I saw myself. That is all.”

“You’re lying, dog.”

Sol raised his stick and brought it down on Jouhanneau’s shoulder.

“No!” Marcas shrieked.

But Jouhanneau did not scream. Sol seemed possessed.

“In prehistoric times, shamans sacrificed animals to win the favor of the gods,” Sol shouted. “It’s all here in the paintings. You’re just an animal. I’m burning up. My strength is taking over.”

He brought the stick down again, this time on Jouhanneau’s neck. Marcas and Jade both struggled to free their hands as Sol shrieked, “Are you going to tell me what you experienced?”

Jouhanneau was lying on the ground, straining to hold his head up. Marcas could tell he was gathering his last bit of strength for the final blow.

“I will die like my father and like my master before him, Hiram. It is an honor. As for you, you could never understand. You must have a pure heart, or…”

The grand archivist stretched out his hand.

“Antoine, my brother. I am not afraid. That is the secret of the shadow ritual. If you knew, Antoine… I crossed through the darkness, and then there was… No, not the Grand Architect, no, just me. I am no longer afraid. Never again.”

Sol was laughing like a madman. He raised the stick the final time and brought it down on Jouhanneau’s skull.

“Why? Why him and all the others?” Marcas cried out. “Why the same way Hiram was killed?”

Sol strode over to him.

“It’s an ancient custom. Nobody knows who devised this blood ritual. The founder of our order, Count von Sebottendorf, called on us to use it. When the Thule chose to become invisible during the rise of Nazism, we decided to send a chilling message. Maybe no one could see us, but we were there, in the shadows. What finer way to demonstrate our secret power than to kill you Masons the same way Hiram was slain? But I’m wasting my time. I have much to do. I’m fulfilling my destiny.”

He staggered and looked drunk. Klaus reached out to support him, but Sol pushed him away. Joana moved toward him too, but the old man spit at her feet.

“It’s nothing. I’m going to sit down now. Take care of those two. I am no longer afraid. That’s what he said. ‘I am no longer afraid.’”

Before anyone could act, Sol keeled over. He twisted on the ground and foamed at the mouth. His voice was filled with anguish, “No! Not them! They’re all around me. Not that! Can you see them? Can you see them? Don’t let them get near me. Get back. I’m an SS officer. You must obey me. No!”

Joana rushed to Sol. His henchman pulled out a gun and pointed it at Marcas and Jade.

Marcas turned to Jade. “I’m sorry,” he said. He shoved her out of the way and closed his eyes. “I’m no longer afraid.”

A shot rang out, then another. Marcas collapsed on the ground. His last image was Sol writhing nearby, like a rabid beast.