Shadow Ritual

25

A soft wind caressed the leaves of the sycamore trees that had escaped Paris’s gardeners and their pruning rage. Marcas recalled a childhood image of endless streets shaded by the light green of these familiar trees.

A sense of deep lethargy enveloped the neighborhood around the Marché Saint Pierre as the first rays of sunshine gave the sparse clouds above the capital a mauve tinge. Marcas observed the play of colors on the horizon and remembered a discussion with an American police officer — also a Freemason — whom he had met at an international conference. They had talked about the importance of the Orient, the East, in the Freemason initiation rite, when the worshipful master would say, “As the sun rises in the East to rule and govern the day, so rises the worshipful master in the Orient to rule and govern the lodge.”

Marcas liked the allegories that gave precise and even exquisite meaning to events that many people rarely thought about — the sunrise, for example. Every day, light spread from the East, and in the lodge, meetings would begin with the illumination at the east side of the temple.

He experienced a few moments of serenity every time he watched the sun come up. There was nothing magical about the sunrise, but rather a kind of sacred geometry, a mathematical ballet related to the location of the observer, the angle of the sun, and the angle of the darkness. And then the clouds would come into play. It was a phenomenon that involved much more than the sense of sight. Poet Charles Baudelaire had put it this way: “Sound calls to fragrance, color calls to sound.”

Alas, fragrances were not in harmony with the beauty of the sky on this morning. Marcas had to sidestep a steaming and smelly pile of dog excrement on the sidewalk. It was seven o’clock, when man’s best friends took to the streets to empty their intestines under the watchful eyes of their masters. He had just passed a weasel-faced man dragging a grumpy-looking dog.

He turned onto the Rue André-del-Sarte. At the end of the street was the Rue Foyatier stairway to Montmartre, which was popular with tourists and filmmakers looking for an iconic Parisian venue. The steps ended at Sacré Coeur. A real postcard.

The square was empty, and only the Botak Café was open. The staff had already set out chairs that would be filled with tourists and regulars come eleven. He waved to the waitress and ordered his morning drug: strong hot chocolate — lots of cacao thinned with skim milk. Marcas liked coffee well enough, but he always started the day with hot chocolate.

He pulled out the diary and reread the passages that had caught his attention the previous night.

A familiar scraping sound brought Marcas back to the present. He turned to see a street cleaner in his green vest collecting the daily harvest of detritus left the previous night by hordes of tourists who invaded the neighborhood: soda cans, plastic bottles in every color, bright plastic wraps, and shattered liquor bottles. Marcas sighed.

Another ritual slaying — identical to Sophie’s and that of the man in Jerusalem. Was it really the Thule’s signature? What were they after?

He was finishing his second cup of chocolate when his phone buzzed. Zewinski.

“I’ll meet you on the Place Beauvau, in front of the ministry,” he said.

26

The Thalys train advanced slowly across the Dutch countryside, which looked dreary under the light drizzle. It could have been Belgium or northern France. The landscape would have been the same. Settled comfortably in a first-class compartment, he stared at the seemingly endless potato fields. How different from the arid Palestinian soil where his brothers struggled daily to extract a meager existence. It was nothing compared with the land the Jews had confiscated and transformed into fertile fields, thanks to American dollars. If only the Arab countries showed such solidarity with Palestine. His land would be an Eden.

Bashir turned his attention to the three men next to him, pale-skinned Hassidic Jews with light-brown sidelocks. They were wearing black rekels and hats. If they only knew who he was. He beamed at them and chatted about the weather, using a slight Italian accent. The man sitting closest to him joked that he could pass for one of them if he had a yarmulke. Bashir said it would be a great honor and promised to visit their diamond shop in Anvers the next time he was there.

He had another two hours to kill before the train arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris. Time for coffee, Bashir thought, getting up to stretch his legs. He grabbed the leather bag containing the Tebah Stone and headed toward the bar car, going down the aisle between the pairs of seats filled with commuting businessmen. A privileged group in dark, well-tailored suits, tablets and laptops on, financial newspapers folded next to them. So conformist, he thought with disgust. Life would be very boring without the adrenaline rushes he was used to.

In the next car over, a shiver ran up his spine. Something was not right. A tiny alarm was going off in his head.

He stepped into the bathroom to think. What fleeting information had triggered his defense mechanism? He ran his hands under cold water and splashed his face. He breathed deeply to empty his mind and bring his unconscious thoughts to the surface. He’d learned the technique from an old Syrian Sufi.

After a minute or so, a connection occurred in the complex circuit of his neurons. The blue-eyed man wearing a dove-gray shirt in the last row to the right. He’d seen him before, drinking a beer in a bar next to his hotel. Both times, the man had been deeply absorbed in a magazine. What was the likelihood of that man taking the same train? Bashir didn’t like coincidences. It was a loathing that had saved his life on many occasions.

He didn’t want to tip off the operative, so he kept heading in the direction of the bar car. The man was most likely Mossad or Shin Bet. Too blond to be a Jew, but Bashir knew Israeli intelligence recruited many fair-haired agents to track former Nazis in South America. He had probably picked up the tail at the Jordanian border.

Bashir would have to give the man the slip as soon as they reached France. His client wouldn’t be happy that he had been followed. He waited a good fifteen minutes in the bar car and started returning to his seat. The man looked like he was sleeping — peaceful, his eyes closed, ear buds in place. Yes, but he did move his foot ever so slightly as Bashir passed, slowing to check his watch.

He settled back into his compartment with the three diamond merchants, who were busy talking in a mix of Dutch and Yiddish.

The Israeli operative wouldn’t be working alone. Others would be waiting at the Gare du Nord. From there, it would be nearly impossible to lose them. His only alternative was getting off the train in Brussels and trying to give Blondie the slip. He’d find another way to Paris, but it would make him even later.

When the train entered the suburbs of the Belgian capital, Bashir reached for his briefcase and began to get up. Then the Jew to his right push a piece of paper toward him. On it, a single word was written in large black letters — three of them: SOL.

27

Marcas was standing on the stairs in front of the ministry when Zewinski drove up in a metallic green MG.

“Nice wheels, Zewinski,” he said, getting into the car.

“Don’t stain the seat leather.”

“This is going to be fun,” Marcas muttered under his breath.

Zewinski revved the engine. The GPS showed a traffic jam near the Saint Augustin neighborhood, so she headed toward the Champs-Elysées. They hadn’t said another word to each other.

Finally, Zewinski spoke. “Let’s bury the hatchet, Marcas. I want to find Sophie’s murderer. At least talk to me while we drive. It looks like traffic is slow up there.”

“What would you like me to talk about?”

“Brief me on freemasonry. Not to convert me, but to give me a general overview. Like what do you do at those meetings?”

Antoine burst out laughing. “That is impossible to explain. It’s all in the ritual.”

“Likely story.”

“You know, it’s not all that mysterious. We Masons tend to have inquiring minds. We ask questions and do research. Some of us try to find solutions for pressing problems. I know of lodges that focus on education and immigration. They’re like think tanks. In other lodges, the brothers and sisters study symbolism. Just two weeks ago, I listened to a presentation on the color blue. It was fascinating.”

Zewinski turned to him, her eyes full of ridicule.

“The color blue? Whatever. So why are you called the Freemasons, and not the free bakers? Or the free butchers?”

She downshifted abruptly, and the engine screeched. Marcas braced himself against the dashboard. Where to start? He couldn’t possibly summarize the history of freemasonry in fifteen minutes.

“You need to go back to the year 1717, more specifically to the night of June 24, at an alehouse in the middle of London called the Goose and Gridiron Tavern. A small group of aristocrats, lawmen, and scholars founded the Grand Lodge of England. These men chose to adopt the vocabulary and philosophy of medieval construction guilds, because those artisans built the cathedrals, which symbolized the most advanced expression of divine representation found on earth. That’s the origin of the analogy: build man as you would build a cathedral. Enlightened minds found the idea attractive at a time when obscurantism reigned in Christianity. And masons were also architects, experts in geometry, which had been a sacred science since the Egyptians.”

“And were they already adept at keeping secrets back then?”

“Oh yes. Since the Middle Ages mason guilds had used signs of recognition and passwords, which the Freemasons then adopted. Secrecy protected the Masons from both political and religious powers, who looked at them unfavorably. Among the founders were members of the Royal Society, a strange group engaged in esoteric research, alchemy, and the kabbalah — all practices that smelled of brimstone to those in high places.”

Zewinski pounded the horn at a German tour bus blocking the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. “Damned tourist buses should be banned during rush hour.”

When she let up on the horn, Marcas told her that FDR was a Freemason. The bus moved, and Zewinski smirked at Marcas. He chose to believe she was gloating over her conquest of the bus and not making fun of him. He continued.

“Four years later, in 1721, a minister named James Anderson wrote the Constitutions of the Free-Masons, which explored the roots of freemasonry and standardized the rituals and other practices of Freemasons in London and Westminster.”

“Do go on. I get the feeling it just gets better.”

“According to Anderson, freemasonry originated in Biblical times, when key figures were said to have perpetuated hidden teachings based on what was called geometry and accepted as a philosophy of enlightenment. The teachings came from Egypt, were used and advanced by Euclid, and were preserved by the Jewish people during the Exodus to the Promised Land led by Moses.”

“What a tour!”

“Solomon had initiates to this science build his temple. The chief architect was Hiram Abiff, also known as Adoniram. He was the legendary founder of freemasonry. The Tower of Babel, the Hanging Gardens of Babylonia, and the dazzling genius of great scientists such as Pythagoras, Thales, and Archimedes, along with the Roman architect Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, are said to be linked to these Masonic teachings.”

“Is there any historical proof that these great secrets really existed?” Jade asked in a voice that sounded nearly serious.

“No, Anderson’s Constitutions was based on too much myth to be proved.”

“Well, that makes it easy. I can invent my own story too. Look at me. I’m descended from Cleopatra. I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“True enough, and many lodges around the world have worked on finding proof. According to Anderson, the chain of transmission of this knowledge was almost broken twice. The first time was when the Germanic Goths and Vandals invaded the Roman Empire. The second was when the disciples of Mohammed spread across Europe. The Frankish statesman Charles Martel was the one who is said to have saved freemasonry from annihilation.”

“Isn’t he the dude who stopped the Saracens at Poitiers?”

“Yes. Unfortunately some nationalistic extremists have embraced him as a founding father. Anyway, freemasonry flourished in France, when the cathedrals were being built. And then it made its way to Scotland and England in an even more secretive form, which lasted until 1717, the year freemasonry was officially founded. And there you have it.”

“You’ll jot down some crib notes for me, right?”

The MG swerved between two vans, sped along for about fifty yards, and jerked to a stop at a red light. They were at the Rue de Washington intersection.

“I bet you didn’t know that Washington, D.C., was designed by a Freemason,” Marcas said.

“No, in fact I didn’t,” Zewinski responded.

Marcas was afraid she was going to hit the horn again. His head was beginning to throb from all the starting and stopping. On both sides of the avenue, the sidewalks were flooded with pedestrians. And on the street, the traffic extended all the way to the roundabout. A classic Parisian traffic jam.

Jade lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and spoke again, “So where does France come in? How did your club of English buddies contaminate our country? Oh, sorry, how did they bring their light to France?”

“The English were in the midst of a war that pitted the Catholic House of Stuart against the Protestant House of Hanover. King James II, a Catholic, was forced to flee to France. He took up residence in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where his followers came to be known as Jacobites. The Jacobites founded the first French lodge in 1726 in Paris, in the back room of an English butcher shop on the Rue des Boucheries.”

“So we could have called you the free butchers.”

“How enlightened of you. The Grande Loge of France was officially created but soon became the subject of a power struggle between the Jacobites and the Hanoverians, who still had strong supporters in England. The Jacobites were nobles, very attached to their privileges and also very religious. The Jacobites even sought protection from the pope before disappearing for good when the House of Stuarts failed to win back the throne of England.”

The MG moved forward about ten feet.

“If the Freemasons were aristocrats, how is it that they were responsible for the French Revolution?”

“That’s another legend that won’t die. Let’s just say that during the first third of the eighteenth century, freemasonry was taking root in France. The duke of Antin was named the first French grand master in 1738, and the order became established throughout France, drawing the elite: nobles, musicians, merchants, army officers, and enlightened clergy. As lodges opened in the provinces, diverging movements arose, the same way diverging forces emerge in political parties.”

“When was the Grand Orient founded?”

All this storytelling was diverting Marcas from his headache, which actually seemed to be going away. He beginning to enjoy himself. He liked talking about Freemason history, especially the tales from the seventeenth century, when the Age of Enlightenment was starting to take hold, and absolutism was wavering for the first time.

“During a conflict of influence, the federating Grande Loge de France disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, and in 1773 the Grand Orient de France was founded in a second attempt to centralize French freemasonry.”

“Fighting among the brothers is nothing new, then?”

“True enough. That’s why the myth of the great Masonic conspiracy doesn’t hold water. There’s never been a supreme grand master or any kind of Masonic vatican that gave orders to all the lodges.”

The car behind them was honking. Zewinski had missed the green light.

“But you really were behind the French Revolution, weren’t you?”

Marcas decided to have a cigarette too. He lit one and continued. “Yes and no. At the time, only the well-to-do frequented the lodges, although there were some from the third estate: artists, writers, and the petite bourgeoisie. In 1789, France had nearly thirty thousand Freemasons, but they weren’t revolutionaries thirsty for blood.

The MG finally arrived at the Place Charles-de-Gaulle.

“In the vote to put King Louis XVI to death, the Freemasons were divided, nearly half for and half against. Freemasonry never promoted any kind of extremism. But it’s also true that Freemason lodges supported the ideals of an egalitarian society. Still, even if there were more Freemasons in the latter group than in the former, they never deserved the blame for the Reign of Terror, which the Church and the aristocracy promulgated. They needed a scapegoat, and the Masons fit the bill.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. I thought Robespierre was a hoodwinker, but you’d prefer to boast about having the good guys, like Montesquieu, Mozart, and Voltaire, and kept quiet about the crazies who’ve been Freemasons.”

“History is full of depraved individuals. Should the Catholic Church be forever condemned for the Spanish Inquisitor Tomas de Torquemada?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jade put on her turn signal.

Marcas continued. “Did you know that the Place Charles-de-Gaulle was built to glorify Emperor Napoléon and is full of Masonic allusions?”

“No wonder driving around it is so chaotic, with cars coming from every which way. What a mess,” Zewinski said. She was busy trying to keep an SUV from cutting her off.

“The Arc de Triomphe celebrates Empire victories and was built by a Freemason architect. Look at it closely, and you’ll see key symbols. The bas-reliefs are plain as day to any initiate. And the avenues that lead away from the Arc de Triomphe bear the names of marshals who served during the Empire. Eighteen of the twenty-six were Freemasons.”

“Are there lots of places like this?”

“Yes. Go take a look at the Vivienne and Colbert arcades, and you’ll find bas-reliefs of beehives and other Freemason symbols.”

Jade stepped on the gas to cut off a motorcyclist and turned onto the Avenue Hoche, which she took as far as the Parc Monceau.

“Oh, and there’s the Parc Monceau. Take the south alley, and you’ll find a small pyramid built by a brother right after—”

“Enough already! I get it. Class over. My head is going to explode.”

Just when his was feeling good again.

They turned onto the Rue de Courcelles and then veered onto the Rue Daru, where Zewinski pulled up to a small gray parking garage. She pressed the entry button and headed down the ramp to four unoccupied spaces that were marked off with faded yellow paint.

“Follow me. We have work to do.”

Marcas took his time getting out of the car. Out of principle. He didn’t want her to get the idea that he was jumping to her orders.

“I have what it takes to motivate you, Inspector.”

“Is that so? What is it?”

Zewinski didn’t say anything for several seconds. As he took his time, she stepped into the elevator. He was still fifteen feet away when she pressed the button and threw out, “I thought you wanted to see the documents Sophie had with her. I’ve got a copy upstairs.”

Marcas swore under his breath and ran to catch the elevator before the doors closed.

28

The elevator squeaked. The paint was peeling off the walls. The carpet in the hallway was threadbare, and the musty smell grew stronger the closer they got to the office.

Marcas understood the reason for the smell as soon as he entered the spacious room. It had obviously been used for storage, and even though much of the disparate collection had been pushed to the back of the room to make space for a few desks, insane odds and ends were all over the place: identity photos, disarticulated skulls, measuring instruments, and, on one of the walls, a poster with a caricature of the devil, its talons grasping the globe, with a single word: Juden. Worshipful master cords and a broken stone sculpture lay in a sagging armchair. Discarded on the floor were pasteboard suns and moons. Marcas had a queasy feeling as he closed the door. The room felt like a dank tomb.

Zewinski sat down in a chair behind one of the desks and slowly stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankle. “Impressive, don’t you think? Nothing has changed.”

“I thought it had all been—”

“Destroyed? No, not at all.”

“How disgusting.”

“The Gestapo occupied this building, and the Ministry of Defense got it back when the war ended. It doesn’t have any administrative function these days. It’s used mainly by black ops. As for the junk, nobody ever did anything with it.”

“That can’t be.”

“Yep, for the most part, these are relics from the infamous anti-Freemason exhibit held in the Petit Palais in 1940. I checked.”

Marcas had to breathe deeply to control his anger. He was sure Darsan had assigned them this office space on purpose — a gratuitous jab.

“How could all of this still be around?” The exhibition was infamous. Every Mason knew about it. Posters at the entrance accused Freemasons of “ruining and pillaging the nation.” Inside, there were brochures, fliers, more posters, items seized from Masonic lodges, and a number of propaganda films aimed at Masons and Jews.

“I heard that General de Gaulle needed some persuading to legalize Freemason societies again,” Zewinski said. “Even today, you dudes aren’t all that popular. The building has some cupboards filled with bad memories from other periods too. On the second floor, there’s an electric dynamo from Algeria — you know, the kind used to torture people. And there’s an ingenious bathtub invented by the French Gestapo in their Rue Lauriston headquarters. It has a tipping chair. It could be that some of your buddies got baths in that.”

Marcas just looked around, feeling like a lost child. Zewinski’s eyes softened.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was obscene. Really, I find it unbearable too.”

“Stop!”

Her eyes hardened as quickly as they had softened. “No, you listen! I’m fed up with this stupid war between us. I have a friend’s murder to avenge.”

“And I, a sister’s,” Marcas said.

“I know. I’m tired. I can’t sleep. Sophie, she was—”

The pressure Zewinski had felt since Sophie’s murder was finally causing cracks in her veneer.

“More than a friend?” Marcas suggested.

The blood drained from Zewinski’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me about before—”

“Before what?”

Zewinski jumped to her feet. “We’re not focused. You want the documents?”

She walked over to a shelf and grabbed a pile of papers. “Here they are. And please, stop looking at my legs. Every man I meet does that.”

Zewinski brushed past Marcas and spread the photocopies on the leather-topped desk. Marcas didn’t say anything. He sat down at the desk, noticing that his heart was beating much faster. Was it because of what he was about to see, or was it something else?

There were fifty or so sheets filled with signatures, seals, and diagrams. They meant nothing to a profane, but were a treasure for him. And for someone else: Sophie’s murderer.

Zewinski seemed to sense his excitement. “That’s not all,” she said. “Sophie wrote a commentary on these documents. I… Well, I didn’t give these to my superiors. Here they are, for you.”

She waved the papers in front of him so he’d take them.

“This is the last thing Sophie wrote.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Zewinski said, “I’ll leave you alone. I’m going to hit the gun range and blow off some steam.”

Marcas watched her leave. He felt thrown off by so much complexity. She was as solid as a rock — as tough as jade. The name fit — and she had a hard, unrelenting job. Yet was sensitive to details like men looking at her legs. He shook himself. He’d been staring at them too.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Zewinski smiled, and for an instant she looked shy. She walked away, closing the door behind her. Marcas settled into his chair, hoping to mentally distance himself from the nightmarish ghosts in the room and focus on the papers in front of him.

29

The train was at a standstill, having arrived at the Brussels station. The three Jews were staring at Bashir, their eyes filled with condescension, as if he were some boy caught in the act. The compartment door was closed, the curtains drawn. He was alone among potential enemies. How had these three gotten their hands on his client’s code name?

Bashir’s mind was reeling. Had Sol sent them? If they were Israeli agents, then they knew about Sol. Would they take the stone and kill him? But why were they dressed as Orthodox Jews, who stood out like imams in a crowded marketplace?

The only certainty was that he was more vulnerable than he’d ever been. The stone brought bad luck.

The eldest spoke. “We’re here to take care of your problems. So you’ll obey us calmly and quietly. You’ll stay here until we reach Paris. We’ll keep you safe.”

Bashir didn’t like the man’s tone.

“Who are you? Mossad? Shin Bet?”

The three men looked at each other and laughed. The eldest spoke again, sounding more affable this time. “Do we look like Jews, my friend?”

The Palestinian looked them up and down. These guys were crazy.

“Stop jerking me around. I asked you a question.”

The youngest stopped chuckling and spoke up. “Enough. We had our fun, but we’ve got work to do. Hans, show him.”

The man closest to the door of the compartment glanced into the aisle and turned to Bashir. He removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair, taking off a nearly invisible net with sidelocks attached. He used his other hand to pull off his beard. In less than a minute, he had morphed into a smooth-faced, ordinary-looking man, were it not for his piercing eyes.

Fake Jews. At least they weren’t the enemy.

One of the three spoke up. “You see, my friend, there’s no need to worry. Sol sent us. When you informed him that you would be late, he told us that you were in Amsterdam. We were assigned to your security.”

“I don’t need your help.”

The youngest turned to the others and said, “The problem with Arabs is arrogance. In the end, they get screwed by everyone. It’s no surprise the Jews have been crushing them for decades.”

Then he turned to Bashir, making a fist.

“Listen to me. Two pros started tailing you in Amsterdam, and one of them is on this train. He’s no friend of Palestine, I can tell you that. He’s probably an Israeli agent. We’ll take care of him. That’s why we’re wearing this shit disguise.”

The man sitting next to Bashir added, “Fifteen minutes before we arrive in Paris, we’ll get rid of him, and you’ll continue on to your meeting.”

“Will I be seeing you in Paris?”

Hans was conscientiously putting his beard and sidelocks back on. “No, our assignment stops here. We’ll take the next train out — in getups that are more civilized.”

The two others laughed again. Hans interrupted. “Now let’s play some cards to find out which of us is going to bump off the real Jew and help our oppressed Arab friend. We’ve got a good ninety minutes before we get there.”

Bashir felt the artery in his temple pulsing. Here he was, stuck in a train compartment with three fanatical racists. He was crazy with rage over the way they uttered the words “Jew” and “Arab.” Bashir was someone who made his enemies tremble, who had killed men the world over. Now he was obliged to put up with these pigs. Once he got paid for this gig, he’d avenge his humiliation.

What bothered him the most was that they had played him. And even though he had spotted the agent in the other car, he hadn’t picked up the slightest scent of the team following him in Amsterdam. His senses were dulling, and he had committed unforgivable errors.

His three helpmates seemed to have completely forgotten him as they slapped down their cards and exclaimed in Dutch.

30

Missed. Zewinski lined up her Glock, planted her feet, and distributed her weight. She held her breath and pulled the trigger. The bullet shot out of the barrel at more than sixty miles an hour, piercing the bicep of the human form on the paper target. Missed. She had targeted the elbow.

Her time was up. What a crappy session. She’d hit twelve out of twenty. She was getting sloppy. She kept seeing Sophie’s smashed face. And worse, she didn’t believe for a minute that they would find her friend’s murderer. How could they identify a killer in Rome when they were in Paris? Jade set her weapon and ear muffs on the small counter to her right and signaled to the shooting-range manager that she was finished.

On her way out, she saw a former lover, a special ops commander.

“Jade? How are you?”

“Fine. Just back from Rome, and you?”

“Shh, state secret.”

“You can cut the act. I know what happened in the Ivory Coast last year. I heard you were there. It wouldn’t have been you who took out those two Sukhoi planes at the Abidjan airport?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, right before the Ivorians bombed one of our bases, killing nine French soldiers.”

“Really?”

“Too bad for you. I could have told you who took out the two Belarusians who piloted the planes. It happened in a Budapest whorehouse.”

“You can’t get me to talk.”

“Go to hell. But give me a call if you’re in Paris for a while.”

“Promise. Later.”

Jade watched him walk off. She missed special ops, and the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if making the switch to security had been the right decision. It had seemed like a good idea, but now she was back in Paris and couldn’t get her bearings. Too many years on the road, running from her past. Her sinister offices made her stir-crazy, and her apartment felt too small.

And then there was Marcas. Every time she saw him, she wanted to slap him, just for fun. He acted so superior, and his sententious Freemason history lessons were seriously getting on her nerves. She had pulled up his file — and was sure he’d pulled up hers. He was divorced, lived alone, and appeared to be interested in only his job and Freemason history, although she did note that he wasn’t averse to an occasional one-nighter.

Definitely not her type. He was pleasant enough to look at, but not boy candy. He seemed so steadfast, in a soothing kind of way. But he was a damned Freemason. Her first reaction was to run.

He brought back memories of that horrible day, seventeen years earlier.

She had skipped school to stay home and listen to the new Cure album. Her mother was a doctor and was away on a weeklong conference. Her father, a chemical-products trader who ran his own business, left early every morning.

The day had started off beautifully. Sunlight was filtering through the trees in the heavily wooded yard. She opened the door of the large, silent house to let some air in and started heading up to her room. She stopped when she heard a noise in her parents’ room at the end of the hallway. She was paralyzed. She had assumed that her father was gone, but what if he was running late and was still in the house? She would be in huge trouble if he found her. He would ground her, and she’d miss that weekend trip to Normandy with her friends.

But what if it wasn’t her dad? Maybe it was thieves. She panicked, ran into her room, and hid under her bed. She heard someone walking in the hallway, past her bedroom and down the stairs, toward her father’s office. One person. She crept farther under the bed and tried to make herself tiny. She heard the steps again. It was her father. She was sure from the way he was walking. But then again, maybe not. She hoped he would leave soon. Things hadn’t been going so well for him. Some people had come twice to take things away, and she had overheard her parents talking about closing the business.

Jade waited twenty minutes. Then a shot broke the silence. She slid out from under her bed, rushed down the stairs, and opened the office door.

Paul Zewinski lay in his old leather chair, his head to one side, his eyes wide open, blood pooling on the floor. She screamed and ran out of the house. She ran and ran until she collapsed. If only she had forced herself to crawl out from under the bed instead of hiding. If only she hadn’t been so afraid. She could have saved him.

The family attorney had explained that a competitor had conspired against the family, and the court had liquidated the business to pay off its debts. The attorney added that the two people behind all of this were Freemasons. At the time, Jade didn’t know who Freemasons were, but the word sounded like an insult. As far as she was concerned, her own cowardice had played as much a role in her father’s suicide as the Freemasons. She dealt with her lack of courage by choosing a high-risk profession. But she still needed to take care of the Freemasons. She had a score to settle.

31

Sophie Dawes had been an excellent archivist. Each document was identified, numbered, and described in detail.

Her analysis was systematic and thorough. She had followed every lead and had run all her theories through to the finish. She was clearly passionate about the subject.

In any case, he understood why these documents had intrigued her. The first papers were ordinary: archives dating from 1801 and 1802 that had belonged to a lodge in the provinces, near Châteauroux. There were presentations, architectural plans, and internal letters, all by the same person: Alphonse du Breuil, the worshipful master of the very respectable Les Amis Retrouvés de la Parfaite Union lodge.

Sophie Dawes had done a comparative study of the lodge’s name without finding anything unusual. From the beginning of the empire, lodges were founded with names related to the virtues of fraternal friendship. It was a way to move past the rifts of the revolution and celebrate a new era.

Worshipful Master Alphonse du Breuil was an archetypal Freemason of his times. He had been initiated before the revolution and in 1793 had joined the army of the French Republic. He participated in the Italian campaign in 1796 and was promoted to lieutenant after being wounded in the leg. In 1799, he took part in the Egyptian expedition as a military attaché with Napoleon Bonaparte’s scientific corps. He reappeared in France at the end of 1800, having left the army as a captain. He purchased land in the Brenne region in central France and declared his support for the new constitution and the first consul, Napoleon Bonaparte.

When the Napoleonic Empire was established four years later, he sought to establish a lodge and requested approval from the Grand Orient of France, the only official Masonic authority in the country.

Marcas could see that this was where things had gotten complicated for Sophie. She had transcribed all the letters between Alphonse de Breuil and the heads of the Grand Orient de France, who were responsible for verifying every lodge. It was clear that neither side was listening to the other.

Breuil wanted to use his own rituals and create his own temple on his land in a hamlet called Plaincourault. That sounded reasonable enough, but the blueprints for the temple had shocked the Grand Orient. Breuil wanted a temple shaped like a screw — at least that was what came to Marcas’s mind when he saw the drawing.

When the Grand Orient expressed its doubts, Breuil asserted that the temple was inspired by religious buildings he had seen in Egypt. Sophie had added “incoherent” in the margin.

Breuil mentioned the design in only one other letter, where he specified that the center of the temple, where there was usually a mosaic, would have “a pit with a bush and exposed roots.” This pit was a key symbol, he said, because it was only in the birth of life underground that the seven heavens could be attained.

According to Sophie’s research, there were no other traces of the ritual envisioned by Breuil, even though it evidently existed, because several letters from the Grand Orient mentioned the rite. In one letter, an official expressed surprise at the importance Breuil gave to the traditional bitter drink initiates were required to consume as a symbol of the difficulty of following the true Masonic path.

For Breuil, the bitter drink was a crucial element of the Masonic mystery. “The cup represents the door opening to real life. It is the path. Our rituals have strayed. We are mimicking initiation and not experiencing it in its fullness. The journey a neophyte takes is nothing more than a pale reflection of the true initiation that opens the gates of horn and ivory.”

The gates of horn and ivory. Yes, Marcas remembered them well from Homer and Virgil. Both gates supposedly leading to the beyond. But he didn’t know if they opened to paradise or hell.

Marcas put the pages down. He was imagining the faces of the non-Mason Soviets translating these documents. A decadent bourgeois delirium tainted with reactionary mysticism. No doubt, they had wondered why the members of this secret sect had wasted their time with such religious playacting.

He jumped when Zewinski came back in the room.

“So?”

“Your friend did a thorough analysis. But it looks like it was in vain.”

“Why do you say that?” She looked disappointed.

Marcas glanced at the photocopies. “These are just wild esoteric imaginings. Nothing of real interest. A brother with a dream of renewing freemasonry. There have been many just like him. It’s our messianic side.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The papers are from an officer during the empire. He’d been to Egypt with Bonaparte, and he wanted to establish his own lodge with a new Egyptian-inspired ritual.”

“What’s that got to do with freemasonry?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. At the time, there was an Egyptian craze that extended to all sectors of French culture, including freemasonry. Dozens of Masons created Egyptian rites: the Sophisiens, the Rite Oriental, the Friends of the Desert, and many others.

“So did it all disappear?”

“No, there’s an Egyptian freemasonry even today. The Memphis-Misraim still uses the initiation rites. But at the beginning of the empire, it was trendy. I really don’t think your friend died because of these papers. There’s nothing in them.”

32

The train was crossing the fields north of Paris. The three men set down their cards and got up, as if someone had given a silent order.

The one who had won the game removed a large signet ring from a black pouch. It had a silver band and a fine diamond mount. Then he removed a white flask with a pipette from the pouch. He applied a small drop of the white substance to the diamond and slipped the ring on his finger.

The three men opened the compartment door and stepped into the aisle without even glancing at Bashir, as if he didn’t exist.

Just before they went off, the eldest turned to him.

“When we pull into the station, take your time getting off. You don’t want to miss the show.”

The men left, leaving Bashir alone with his dark thoughts.

The train arrived at 11:35 a.m. at the Gare du Nord. Bashir got off ten minutes later, just in time to see two paramedics rushing along the platform with a gurney. Bashir spotted Blondie convulsing wildly inside the train. He was foaming at the mouth and shouting incomprehensibly while throwing himself at the window. Other travelers were huddled around him, gawking.

With bloodshot eyes, the man stared wildly at Bashir, who instinctively stepped back. The man was now hitting his head against the glass, a dark stream of blood flowing down his face. The bystanders outside the train groaned in shock and disgust. The train attendant pulled down the shade.

Bashir moved away, wondering what kind of delayed-reaction poison the killers had used. He shivered at the thought that he might be targeted once his assignment was completed. He’d been made and was now a potential threat. In Palestine, he could have found a safe house immediately, but Paris was hostile territory. He didn’t have any contacts.

At the end of the platform, Bashir took the first escalator to the luggage counter. A guard inspected his bags before Bashir chose a locker. He would take the stone and leave the papers — an insurance policy if his client decided to bump him off after he delivered the artifact. He memorized the locker number and headed to the metro, scanning the environs to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

For the first time in a very long while, Bashir felt the same sensation he had inflicted so often on his own victims: fear.

33

Jade hesitated. “That’s not what she told me when I saw her in Rome,” she said after a few seconds.

“What did she say?”

“Something about some Breuil dude. That he’d found a secret. It was in the papers.”

Zewinski examined the documents again, looking lost. “That’s all? I really thought something was going to click, that you’d find some secret formula that only a Freemason could decipher. And you’re sure the crazy old geezer was nobody special?”

“No, a bourgeois who got rich on the revolution. He bought some land in—”

Marcas shuffled through the papers, his hands coming dangerously close to Zewinski’s.

“…in Plaincourault, near the city of Châteauroux.”

Jade pulled away.

“You’re joking.”

“About what?”

“That name.”

Zewinski was breathing quickly.

“When I put the papers in the embassy safe, Sophie asked if we could change the code just for the night. I teased her about being paranoid, but she seemed really worried, so I said we could. She chose a word.”

“Don’t tell me…”

“Yep, it was the name of that village. The access code needed to have fifteen letters.”

Marcas frowned. Something wasn’t right. He picked up Breuil’s papers again and counted each letter. He shook his head.

“There’s a mistake. Plaincourault has thirteen letters.”

“When Sophie put in the code, she spelled it P-L-A-I-N-T-C-O-U-R-R-A-U-L-T. She added two letters: a T and an R. She said that was the original spelling.”

“What original spelling?”

“The one used by the knights of the Order of the Temple. The Templars.”

Marcas let out a chuckle. “Peekaboo, there they are again. It’s been a while,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone always goes and brings in the Order of the Temple. It’s bull if you ask me. We’re back to square one. We’ve got two identical murders: one in Rome and one in Jerusalem. Sophie was on her way to see someone in Jerusalem, presumably the dead man. Someone — or a group of people — wanted something from them. And it’s very possible that whoever it was has it in for the Freemasons. In other words, exactly what we knew before. In any case, the papers are clearly incomplete. What was she going to do in Jerusalem?”

“When I asked, she was cagey and got even more nervous. She said she’d been working with someone there.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“Not really. Come on, she was stressed and paranoid. I didn’t give it much thought.”

“Try to remember. What exactly did she say?”

“She’d gone on and on about the secret, which had been guarded for thousands of years. I told her to take a vacation, that the occult Mason stargazing was affecting her reason.”

Marcas nodded and looked back at the papers.

“Is something wrong?” Zewinski said.

“It’s this manuscript.”

“What about it?”

“Look here: ‘Only the shadow ritual will lead to the light.’”

Marcas was quiet for a moment. “I don’t like that expression: the shadow ritual,” he finally said. “It sounds dodgy.”

34

The hotel lobby was buzzing. A pack of photographers was milling around, and three security guards were at the entry. Bashir grumbled as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

“Contact Tuzet at the Plaza Athénée. Ask for the keys to his Daimler.” Sol’s message had been enigmatic, to say the least. Bashir headed toward the reception desk. At the entrance to the bar, he saw a sign announcing that P.F. Tuzet was the day’s entertainment. Tuzet was apparently a French crooner who rehashed fifties ballads by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. A singer as a contact? Why not?

He asked for the performer. The gracious blonde hostess smiled and nodded in the direction of a man standing at the bar, next to a beautiful woman of color. She was wearing a form-fitting black satin dress, and her hair was pulled back in a bun. Bashir headed toward the crooner, eager to dump the stone and disappear.

A flute of Champagne in her hand, the woman was singing.

Stroking the woman’s arm, Tuzet joined in. “Willow weep for me.” It was a classic that had been recorded many times over. His eyes shining, Tuzet took another sip of bourbon. What a showoff, Bashir thought.

“Sorry to interrupt your cooing, Mr. Tuzet, but we need to talk.”

The singer shot him a disdainful look.

“Boy, I’m not finished with my beauty here. Call me in ten years,” he said, turning back to the woman. “People are so rude today.”

Bashir cut him off, his tone threatening. “The keys to your Daimler, Tuzet.”

The crooner’s expression changed. He grinned. “You should have said so sooner. Don’t get huffy. Excuse me, my dear. I’ll be right back.”

Still smiling, the singer led Bashir out of the bar to a secluded spot near the elevators. He let a couple of people pass and grabbed Bashir’s arm. He dropped the smile.

“Dammit. You were supposed to arrive yesterday. I hung out all evening after my gig.”

Bashir pulled his arm away. “I don’t have to explain myself,” he said. “Here’s the package. My job is done.”

Bashir reached for the stone, but the singer stopped him.

“No, not here. Take the keys to my Daimler. It’s parked in the garage, near the service elevator. Put the package in the trunk, and leave the keys at the reception desk.”

An alarm went off in Bashir’s head. He didn’t like the arrangement. Parking lots were perfect for bumping someone off. He’d done it himself once or twice. The mistake in Amsterdam was one too many. There would be no faux pas in Paris.

“Sorry, buddy, but I’m not going into your garage. Take the package, and don’t keep your fans waiting.”

“I can’t. My orders were very clear.”

“I don’t give a shit about your orders. I did my job.”

With that, Bashir handed him the bag containing the Tebah Stone as if he were handing off a bag of garbage. He turned around and focused on vanishing.

He was sure Sol had other employees in the hotel. Three in Amsterdam, so there would be at least as many in Paris. He had no illusions. He knew that having been followed made him an unacceptable risk to Sol. Bashir would have done the same in his place.

He scanned the lobby. A man with the square shoulders of a wrestler was approaching him, looking hostile. Another man in a gray suit who had been standing near the entrance was walking toward him, as well, making eye contact with the other man. It was a trap.

All of the sudden, shouts and cries rose up from the crowd in front of the hotel. Photographers dashed toward the doors, pushing everything and everyone out of their way.

Amid the excitement, a flashy Italian actress appeared, followed by two bodyguards and three assistants, a cell phone glued to her ear. The hit man in the gray suit was caught by surprise and shoved aside by one of the star’s bodyguards. Bashir rushed to the entrance, knocked down a fan, and spilled out the door.

He had gotten past the security guards but now faced a pack of screaming fans taking pictures with their cell phones. A human wall. He looked back. The two goons were still inside, trying to get out.

He took a deep breath and rushed the crowd like a bull charging into an arena. He punched a teenager in the stomach. The boy howled and crumpled over. Bashir elbowed left and right, stepping on toes and kicking shins. The cries of pain were lost in the overall hysteria. In fewer than twenty seconds, he had made his way through the crowd. But the game was not over. The others would follow his lead.

He ran across the Avenue Montaigne and flattened himself inside a porte cochère between two streetlamps. They had just made it onto the street. They didn’t seem to see him. He heaved a sigh. Ten more seconds, and he would have been dead meat. He’d just wait for them to give up, and then he’d vanish.

Suddenly a voice rang out of the intercom just five inches from his head. “Sir, are you a resident or a visitor?”

Bashir jumped, glanced around, and spotted a camera above the door. An infrared detector had signaled the security guard.

The voice deepened. “You cannot loiter in front of this doorway. You must leave, or I’ll call the police.”

“I’m just waiting for some friends.”

“Wait for them on the sidewalk. This is private property. This is your last warning.”

Across the street, he saw one of his assailants pointing in his direction. It was too late.

35

Marcas had left Zewinski at the black-ops offices and was heading toward the Grand Orient headquarters on the Rue Cadet. He wanted to look into the shadow ritual. He had called ahead to tell the worshipful master that he would be coming, and the man met him at the entrance.

“Tell me, Antoine, I hear you’re in charge of investigating the murder of our sister in Rome.”

This was the first time the worshipful master had broached the subject of his police work, and Marcas was surprised that the man knew exactly what he was doing.

“You have eyes and ears everywhere, don’t you?” Marcas said.

The master smiled. He’d headed up the judiciary brotherhood for ten years.

“I also heard a rumor about you answering to a tough-as-nails security chief who’s not too crazy about you. And the interior minister has assigned Darsan to follow the case. He’s not really a friend of ours either.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s got a reputation as a hard ass. I think he’s a bit of an anarchist.”

Marcas’s laugh echoed in the hall.

“Reactionary or anarchist? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Between the two of them — Darsan and that special agent — you’ve got your work cut out. Later on, I’ll introduce you to one of our brothers. He’s pretty high up—”

“Just how high?”

“He’s the official grand archivist of our jurisdiction, Marc Jouhanneau.”

“Jouhanneau, you say?”

“You know how it works. Put on your best brotherly smile, and listen attentively. He’ll be here later. In the meantime, the archive conservator is waiting for you.”

A few minutes later, Marcas was standing in front of hundreds of boxes on gray metal shelves in a large room on the seventh floor of the Grand Orient headquarters. Each box had a large label in black Cyrillic script. The seals on most of boxes had been broken. They had traveled from Paris to Berlin, to Moscow, and then back to Paris — an incredible journey of found memories.

Marcas returned to the doorway, where the conservator — a man in his forties, his beard speckled with white — was standing.

“It’s moving to see these archives when you know their history,” Marcas said. “How long will you need to go through all this information?”

“Years, probably. Fortunately, the Russians made it easier by doing an exhaustive inventory. Starting in 1953, Russian government workers studied our documents page by page, probably without understanding their scope. Perhaps they only translated the work done by the Germans.

“What were they looking for?”

“They were looking for political documents and trying to understand how lodges were organized. They might have suspected that we had our own spy network. The communists didn’t like us much.”

Marcas nodded. “It’s not easy being a Mason. Between the Nazis and fascists, the communists, the reactionary Catholics, the monarchists, and all nature of nationalists, it’s a wonder that we’ve managed to survive.”

“Yes, it is hard to please everyone.”

That was an understatement, Marcas thought. “Or anyone, for that matter,” he said.

The archivist continued. “These documents have little political value. They’re mostly of historical interest. And in that respect, some of the papers are priceless. Look at this.”

The conservator handed Marcas a yellowed piece of paper covered in fine, old-style writing.

Marcas’s eyes widened. “That’s Benjamin Franklin’s lodge. Remarkable.”

The conservator smiled. “Makes you think, doesn’t it. But what can I do for you?”

Marcas began by asking about any suspicious deaths similar to Hiram’s murder. The conservator scratched his beard.

“You should look at the book that inventories the Russian boxes. If you find what you’re looking for, give me a call, I’m in the office down the hall.

Marcas sat down and opened the binder. The inventory was a real hodgepodge, with lodge receipts from 1930, presentations from 1925, and meeting minutes from 1799. He patiently went down the list. His eyes were stinging a half hour later, and his legs had fallen asleep. That was when he found an odd listing: Dissertation by Brother André Baricof, from the Grenelle Étoilée Lodge, about Freemasons persecuted throughout history. Dated 1938. Series 122, section 12789.

Ten minutes later, Antoine had a large box in front of him. He broke the string that secured the box and took off the musty cover. Inside, he found folders containing manuscripts and tables filled with numbers. He went through them one by one until he found what he was looking for.

He took out the Baricof file and set the box on the floor next to the desk. The file was a dozen pages long. The man, a newspaper journalist, had drawn up a morbid list of Freemasons who had experienced violent deaths. Marcas went through it quickly. On page four, his heart skipped a beat.

There’s been considerable concern among our eldest brothers regarding murders identical to Hiram’s slaying. The first ones are said to have taken place in the eighteenth century in the Westphalia region of Germany. Twelve German brothers from the same lodge were found dead in a clearing. They bore stigmata corresponding with Hiram’s death: dislocated shoulders, broken necks, and crushed skulls. Police investigators linked the slayings to a worrisome secret organization led by the Saint Vehme, which was composed of judges and army officers and dedicated to punishing enemies of Christianity. The authorities, however, never made any arrests.

I found similar murders, also in Germany, right after World War I. The first ones took place in Munich after the failure of the Spartakiste revolution, when communist extremists tried to take power in Bavaria. The Oberland, a right-wing militia led by a racist brotherhood called the Thule, retaliated. Several Freemasons were among the hundreds of people executed. The brothers were slain in accordance with the same ritual. There is evidence of another murder, in Berlin this time: a worshipful master of the Goethe Lodge who was left to die on a sidewalk with the same blows to his body. It would be interesting to know if the Nazis continued these practices, but since lodges have been banned, and detention camps have opened up, we don’t have any more contact with brothers over there.

The text went on to explore the tense relationship with fascist regimes. Marcas was adding to the notes he had started in Rome. There was no longer any room for doubt. It had all started in Germany and had continued over the course of centuries. The rite was a bloody parody of the death of the most respected Freemason, Hiram.

36

Bashir sprinted past the boutiques on the Avenue Montaigne, heading toward the Champs-Elysées. Famous names — Cerruti, Chanel, Prada — flashed before his eyes. He shoved aside a group of young women. The Rond-Point Marcel-Dassault was about three hundred yards away.

The two goons were closing in on him.

Bashir dashed to the other side of the avenue as the light turned red, leaving the two men stuck on the other side of traffic. This gave him time to reach the restaurant l’Avenue, a hot spot for models, actresses, and TV personalities. At the corner he veered onto the Rue François-Ier and then onto the Rue de Marignan, which led to the Champs-Elysées. He hoped to catch a cab there, but he realized that traffic was at a standstill.

The men were closing in again. A very long minute later, he reached the wide central avenue. The sidewalk was filled with tourists. A light turned green, and engines revved, warning pedestrians to get out of the way. The vehicles started moving toward the Place de la Concorde.

Bashir had to get across the boulevard. The Champs-Elysées was much wider than the Avenue Montaigne — three lanes of cars moving in each direction. The risk of getting hit was three times higher. Bashir took a breath and dashed to the central island halfway to the other side.

A motorcyclist slammed his brakes just inches from his feet. A bus came to an abrupt stop, and a concert of honking broke out, but he arrived safely at the thin strip of concrete in the middle of traffic. It was mobbed by tourists clicking photos of the Arc de Triomphe. Bashir looked behind him. The two men were standing exactly where he had been thirty seconds earlier, blocked by moving cars. One was smirking at him. The other was waving like a long-lost friend.

Bashir glanced the other way, at the brightly lit signs and movie posters promising thrills and adventure. He had already bought the ticket — he was running for his life. Green turned to orange. It was time. Bashir threw himself in front of the moving cars. A gray convertible banged his knee. Pain shot through his leg, but he kept running.

A scooter swerved to avoid him and skidded, crashing into a double-parked delivery truck. The honking intensified, but he reached the sidewalk.

Bashir slalomed between passersby and ran up the Rue du Colisée at full speed. Sol’s men were about fifty yards behind and gaining. His pulse accelerated. His legs were burning, as if his blood were spitting acid into his muscles. He turned onto the Rue de Ponthieu and focused on his environment. An entrance to a parking garage was ten yards ahead. He looked back just as he slipped into it. He didn’t see the goons.

He moved deeper into the shadows, caught his breath, and pulled an old paper napkin from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. He waited a good twenty minutes, savoring his freedom. Once again, he’d escaped death.

Bashir considered his options. Grab a cab to the Gare du Nord and pick up his bag? Too dangerous. Someone could have seen him leave his luggage behind. A hotel room for the night? That didn’t feel safe either.

He decided on an alternative. He’d catch a train to another city. Too bad for his bag. He’d pick it up another time.

Allah was great and generous with his servants.

Bashir was eying a convertible parked nearby when unbearable pain blazed in his head.

He crumpled to the ground. He turned his head and could make out a blurry face leaning toward him.

“You really thought you could escape us?” the man asked.

Was that the Tebah Stone in his hand? Bashir’s world turned black.

37

As soon as Marcas was gone, Jade called her friend Christine de Nief and invited her to a late lunch. Jade wanted to know more about the Templars but refused to ask the cop, who would have been all too happy to show off his knowledge. She had typed “Templars” into a search engine and pulled up twelve thousand pages — enough to scare anyone off. The few pages that she did read didn’t encourage her to read more. They were stories of buried treasures, secrets lost since the time of Jesus, doomsday conspiracies, and secret societies of all types, including the Freemasons. Unable to separate what was believable from the rubbish, Jade gave up. Christine, however, could help her. She was a historian who worked as a television and radio consultant.

Jade arrived at the trendy Porte d’Auteuil restaurant, which was full of well-off young people. Christine had chosen it. She loved to be seen.

Jade left the keys to the MG with the valet and stepped into the crowded restaurant. She spotted Christine deep in conversation with a dark-haired man at the next table. Jade had seen that face somewhere. Christine looked up, saw Jade, and abandoned her neighbor. She waved her over.

“Darling, what a pleasure to see you. What have you been up to?”

“Shooting this morning. It was divine.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“Same old you, just the way I love you,” Christine said.

Jade leaned in and whispered, “Who is that handsome man next to you? I’ve seen him before, haven’t I?”

Christine looked serious. “You didn’t recognize Olivier Leandri, the news anchor on the rise? Well, you do spend most of your time in Rome these days. Olivier and I had a thing awhile ago. I’ll introduce you if you’d like. He’s charming.”

Jade smiled. “No, not interested at the moment. I’m working on a case.”

“Darling, you’re always working. At some point you’ve got to make time for a man — someone not so high-risk. You should try brains over brawn for a change.”

“I appreciate your concern, Christine, but you and I both know that I’m not a nun. I’ve had my share of lovers, thank you. Maybe I’ll ask you to introduce me to one of your hot celebrity friends someday. But, as I said, I’ve got a case to solve, and I hope you can help me. Tell me about the Knights Templar.”

Her friend looked surprised. “Since when have you been interested in history?”

“I’ll explain. But let’s order first.”

The waiter took their orders, and they started off with a glass of Champagne.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“The basic story and then a few specific details.”

“The order was created at the beginning of the twelfth century by nine knights in Jerusalem, in the ruins of the former Temple of Solomon. The order became powerful in Europe — and rich. It established hundreds of command posts. Then, two hundred years later, it experienced its downfall. The king of France, Philippe le Bel, pressed Pope Clement to ban the order, which led to the bloody persecution of its members. The order’s command posts were requisitioned, its assets were seized, and the knights were imprisoned and tortured. The Templars vanished. Of course, such a tragic end has inspired wild theories and imaginative stories for lovers of cheap mysteries and esotericism. Does that answer your question?”

Christine looked at her as she nibbled a thin slice of duck magret.

“Yes. So how are the Freemasons linked with the Knights Templar?”

“Historically speaking, there isn’t a link. There isn’t a single serious historian who has proved that the two groups are linked. But Freemasons, or some of them, at least, seem convinced that there is a connection. As far as I’m concerned, they’re in a parallel universe where the study of symbols and rituals counts for more than solid research.”

“So all those stories of treasures and secrets are just hot air?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just saying there’s no proof. But who knows? Anything’s possible.”

Jade frowned. Possible wasn’t good enough.

38

Marcas made his way down the stairs of the lodge, mentally preparing to meet the grand archivist. Grand archivist wasn’t an official Grand Orient position. Rather, it was an honorary one, created because an increasing number of brothers were showing an interest in Freemason history and research. The man’s role was to oversee the jurisdiction’s research. Marc Jouhanneau, the Grand Orient’s grand archivist, was a specialist in the history of religion.

After the usual introductions and ritual embrace, Marcas sat down next to the slender, pleasant-looking man of indiscernible age. He was wearing a suit and a black bow tie.

“Are you related to Henri Jouhanneau? Special Envoy Mareuil gave me part of his diary to read.”

“He was my father.”

“What happened to him in 1941?”

“He was rounded up by the Germans because the Nazis needed neurologists. He was sent to do research for the Luftwaffe, Germany’s air force.”

“What kind of research?” Marcas asked.

“The Germans were looking for ways to increase survival rates for pilots shot down over the North Sea. At the time, it was impossible to last more than two hours. The SS headed up operations, and the guinea pigs came from neighboring concentration camps. They were dumped in icy water, and the researchers used various methods to revive them. In 1943, my father was transferred to another camp controlled by the Ahnenerbe and then to Weweslburg Castle, their so-called cultural headquarters. SS physicians were doing advanced brain research, and apparently they were quite a bit ahead of everyone else. They were especially interested in the various levels of consciousness. They had recruited a multidisciplinary team that even included psychoanalysts. Ironic, considering what Hitler thought of Sigmund Freud.”

“It’s no news that the Nazis had some crazy theories and conducted a lot of horrific experiments,” Marcas said.

“I could go on and on about those experiments and theories. In the death camps, Dr. Mengele injected chemicals into people’s eyes to make them blue. As for the theories, some Nazi scientists held that the Earth was hollow. There’s a tale that the Germans sent an expedition to Antarctica, where they found an underground network of caves and rivers as far as thirty miles down. They were ordered to begin building a fortress there, and some claim to have made contact with extraterrestrials. Believe it or not, there were people who bought that story. We do know for a fact that the Germans sent an expedition to Tibet because of their interest in the occult.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Much has been written over the years. And I have personal knowledge. My father ended up in Dachau. During his final days, he shared everything with a brother. A Jewish brother, a Freemason who forgot nothing. That man, Marek, survived. Until two days ago.”

“Come again?”

“He was murdered in Jerusalem. Marek, an archeologist and expert in ancient inscriptions, was killed the same night as Sophie Dawes. He was the man Sophie was going to see in Jerusalem.”

So this was the man Darsan had told them about.

“Listen, my brother, if I’m going to nail the identity of this killer — or killers — you have to tell me exactly what she was working on,” Marcas said. “What was so interesting in that batch of papers? They were ordinary, as far as I could tell. All I saw were some wild imaginings of a brother with an Egypt fixation. I picked up a shadow of the Templars between the lines. But people wouldn’t kill for that.”

“People would kill for a secret, a secret that could have been in the temple.”

“That again. You know as well as I do that our rituals have nothing to do with the Templars. Any supposed links are fabrications dating from the beginning of the nineteenth century, when scholars had access to archives pillaged during the revolution. Petit-bourgeois parvenus wanted lodges based on knightly traditions. It was a way of giving themselves a noble genealogy. Vanity. Just vanity.”

Jouhanneau raised his voice. “I don’t know enough to judge. Listen, I’m an old crank convinced that it’s my duty to get at the truth. And that truth is the Freemason truth. I’ve been researching our collective memory for years. All we have are scattered fragments. We have no serious and complete scientific study of our roots.”

“And therefore, of our present,” Marcas said.

“That’s right. Since the creation of Freemasonry, we have become one of the most listened to and sometimes most feared forces in the world. And yet nothing seems to justify this kind of reaction. Why has freemasonry become such a powerful entity in the eyes of the world? How has it survived revolutions and dictatorships? These are the questions I ask. And I’m not the only one who is asking.”

“And the answer?”

“The secret! The fabled secret that no one has unlocked. We Freemasons are said to have access to this hidden knowledge without even being aware of it.”

“A secret? Of course there’s a secret,” Marcas said. “Every real Freemason experiences it without being able to explain it. We all know that initiation changes a person. A new dimension opens, and the initiate is transformed, refined like a rough stone under an artisan’s chisel. The secret lies in the ritual.”

“Yes, that we agree on,” Jouhanneau said, leaning forward in his chair. “But why are people killing for those papers? Some believe there’s another secret. Something material. A secret lost but probably found again by the Templars.”

“Here we go again, back to the quest for the Templar secret. It’s a fantasy, like Jesus’s son and the Holy Grail,” Marcas said.

Marc Jouhanneau looked Marcas in the eye. “There’s no room for cynicism here. I’m like you and prefer to leave the Templars and their great mysteries to the profane, who love esoteric secrets. But I do believe they succeeded in getting their hands on a hidden piece of information.”

39

A dirt-like taste filled Bashir’s mouth. His salivary glands tried to fight it off.

The room smelled of mildew and something rancid. Although it was dark, he could make out crates and broken wine racks. He was in a cold, dark cellar. One wrist was handcuffed to the wall and his head hurt. With his free hand, he felt a painful lump behind his ear.

Bashir tried to get up, but his legs refused to function, and with his hand cuffed to the metal bar, he had only four or so inches of maneuvering room.

He collapsed on the stinky mattress and tried to retrace the events: the beating, being chased by the two goons, the crooner at the hotel.

His blood was beginning to circulate again, first in his ankles and then in his thighs. But his legs still felt as though they were caught in a vise. The bitter flavor dissipated, and his eyes adjusted to the shadows. Not more than a yard away, he made out bars. He was in a cell in this basement.

He tried to get up again and felt a sharp pain in his calves. He looked down and saw that steel cables were wrapped around his knees and attached to a ring on the gritty wall. He was barefoot.

Bashir didn’t persist. It was an ingenious mechanism. The more he pulled, the tighter the bonds got. At one point, they would cut off his circulation.

He searched the cell with his eyes, trying to find something he could use to break free, but other than a few shattered bottles, there was nothing useful. He settled into the prone position.

Bashir didn’t understand why Sol hadn’t killed him then and there, once he had delivered the stone. The three fake Jews could have poisoned him on the train and left with it. Why wait? Why the setup at the Plaza?

He would probably have answers soon. There was no sense in torturing himself.

He heard footsteps on the other side of the bars and looked up.

He saw two men walking toward him but couldn’t make out their faces. A key clinked, and the cell door opened slowly. One of the men flipped a switch, and light spread out from a bulb in the ceiling. Bashir blinked.

One of the men was grinning. He seemed almost friendly. He was medium in height, in his sixties, and had a double chin and a thick gray moustache. A canvas apron was tied around his waist. He looked like a bon vivant, with a stout middle giving away a weakness for the pleasures of the table.

Bashir recognized the man’s partner. He was one of the men who had chased him.

Moustache Man approached. “Hello, I’m the gardener. What is your favorite flower?”

Bashir stared at him. He must have misunderstood. “Who are you? Free me now and tell Sol I want to talk to him.”

The jovial man sat down on the edge of the mattress and tapped Bashir’s imprisoned legs.

“Calm down, my friend. You didn’t answer my question. What is your favorite flower?”

The man was crazy. Bashir raised his voice. “I don’t give a damn about your flowers, old man. Go get the boss.”

The man’s eyes seemed to fill with sadness as he reached into a pocket of his apron. He pulled out a pair of pruning shears and opened the safety latch. The blades sprang open. Still smiling, he grabbed Bashir’s left foot and inserted a toe between the blades.

The Palestinian stiffened. “Wait. What do you want?”

The bon vivant shook his head. “I didn’t ever lie to you, did I?” he said.

Was this some kind of funny farm? The man wasn’t making sense. “Lied about what? I don’t understand.”

He barely had time to get it out before the man snipped off his little toe, just like that. It fell to the floor, and blood squirted from Bashir’s foot, splattering the torturer’s apron. Bashir howled.

“I told you. I am the gardener. And an expert gardener uses the right tools. So let’s not spend all day here. I’ll ask my question again. What is your favorite flower?”

Bashir was struggling to free himself, but the metal restraints were just getting tighter.

“You’re out of your mind. I… Roses.”

The gardener gazed at the ceiling, as if he were contemplating Bashir’s response. Then he looked back at Bashir and shook his head. “Wrong answer, my friend. It was the tulip.”

With one slick movement, he chopped off the next toe. Bashir shrieked like a madman and nearly fainted. The second man walked up to him and gave him a hard slap. Now fear was eating away at Bashir like acid. It was stronger than the pain.

“Stop, please. I’ll tell you what you want.”

The gardener stood up, put the pruning shears in his apron, and pulled out a pipe from the other pocket. He took his time filling it with tobacco while Bashir’s blood spurted on the floor.

“Please. I’m going to bleed out.”

A smoky caramel aroma filled the room as the man took a few puffs and looked into the distance.

“I’m the gardener. I told you that, didn’t I?”

Bashir felt himself becoming weaker as the blood drained out of him. The nerves in his foot were screaming, but worse, his mind was starting to go. He had to find a way to soften up his torturer.

“Yes, I know. It’s a fine job.”

The gardener’s face lit up.

“Do you really think so? You’re not just saying that to make me happy? I’m pleased. People have no respect for manual labor these days.”

Bashir’s vision was blurring. He was losing consciousness. He thought he had lost a quart of blood already. The man’s acolyte didn’t say anything, but administered a few more slaps. The gardener took out the shears again and set them down on the mattress.

“No!” Bashir cried out.

“Now, now. Calm down. We’re going to bandage that up to stop the flow,” he said, pulling out some gauze, a small bottle of alcohol, and surgical tape.

His assistant carefully bandaged the foot. The blood stopped flowing.

“I now have enough soil for my little protégés. By the way, you don’t have AIDS or some other virus like that, do you? My flowers are very sensitive.”

“I don’t understand.”

The gardener stood up and pulled out a trowel and a plastic bag filled with something.

“What we have here is some soil that I’ve enhanced, so to speak,” he said, plunging the trowel into the bag. “You see, my biologist friends have explained that blood is an excellent fertilizer for my flowers. I’ve been testing this theory for a number of years, and to tell the truth, I’m quite pleased with the results.”

Bashir stiffened. How many people had he tortured?

“I was just teasing you with my question about your favorite flower. Regardless of your answer, I would have cut off your toes. It’s more poetic that way. So this is what’s going to happen. You’ll rest up a bit while I take care of my roses, and then I’ll come back.”

Bashir didn’t dare say anything. He was too afraid the gardener would cut off another toe. The man touched his foot gently.

“You have another eight more toes, and then you have ten fingers, so let’s make the most of it.”

The two men left the cell, locking him in.

Bashir cried out, “What do you want, for God’s sake?”

The gardener looked back at him as if he were a child who didn’t understand.

“I don’t know about the others, but I have a hundred or so roses to feed,” he said.

He took a step back toward the cell.

“I wasn’t being entirely honest.” The gardener’s voice sounded dreamy.

“I don’t cut off just toes. I keep the best for last.”

Bashir shrieked.

40

Marcas stood up and started pacing the room.

“Why do you think there’s some secret information?”

“My father worked on experiments linked to that secret.”

“What exactly? We’ve already established that the Nazis did a lot of god-awful experiments.”

“They were looking for some way to connect with the gods. But like all doors to the infinite, it could lead to either heaven or hell.”

“I’m not following,” Marcas said, looking at his watch.

“Imagine a celestial drug that would allow you to communicate directly with the origin and power of life, with what we Freemasons call the Grand Architect of the Universe. And imagine what the Nazis could have done with that. For them, it was the soma, a Vedic ritual drink. It was an Aryan grail. That substance was believed to be an integral part of a lost Freemason ritual: the shadow ritual.”

“That’s crazy,” Marcas said. “A secret lost in antiquity, a kind of ecstasy to the power of—”

“To the power of infinity.”

“No, I don’t buy it.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, but my father died for this secret, and Marek consecrated his life to the quest — he had vowed to uncover it to honor my father. Last month he found an engraved stone, the Tebah Stone, which mentioned a substance similar to the one the Nazis were looking for. He was murdered, and the stone is gone.”

“Okay, let’s go over it again. We’re talking about an ancient secret, a kind of philter, a drink that people knew about and then lost. It was the famous soma of the ancients, the drink that makes you resemble the gods.”

Jouhanneau smiled. “That’s right. Since time immemorial, we’ve known that certain plants — well, the molecules in the plants — reveal things about the human soul.”

“And do you know which plants were in this drink?”

“Sophie identified one of them in a document we got back from the Russians. The first person to have access to the formula could, in theory, produce a one-of-a-kind elixir that would open new doors of perception, as Aldous Huxley called them. And it would be good or evil, depending on who performed the ritual.”

“Okay, so tell me the ingredient that you know about.”

“Have you heard of Saint Anthony’s fire?

“No.”

“In 1039, in central France there was an epidemic of ‘holy fire,’ as it was called, and hundreds of farmers went crazy, suffering unbearable hallucinations.”

“What caused it?”

“Claviceps paspali or Claviceps purpurea. It’s an ergot fungus that grows on cereals including rye, wheat, and barley. In 1921, scientists isolated hallucinogenic alkaloids from this parasitic fungus. In the nineteen forties a chemist purified them and came up with lysergic acid diethylamide, also known as LSD, the drug of choice for hippies in the nineteen sixties and seventies. It’s very powerful. In the Eleusinian Mysteries dedicated to Persephone, the Greek goddess of hell is represented with a sheaf of wheat.”

“And Sophie’s discovery?”

“After finding the first archives that mention ergot as part of the lost ritual, Sophie alerted me, and we refocused our research. I contacted Marek, and he made the connection with what my father had told him about the Nazi experiments. A month later, Sophie found the coveted Breuil Manuscript and realized that it held information about the other ingredients, and at just about the same time, Marek found the Tebah Stone. Sophie headed off to visit a chapel in a place called Plaincourault, and then she boarded a plane for Rome. I never saw her again.”

41

“You know, there are still mysteries about the Templars that haven’t been fully explored,” Christine said before they said good-bye. “Who knows? Maybe there is some key to be found.”

Jade’s cell phone buzzed as she was about to slide behind the wheel of her car.

“Antoine here.”

“I don’t know an Antoine. Sorry.”

“Antoine Marcas. Remember?”

Jade grinned. He didn’t look like an Antoine.

“Sorry, Marcas, but I never connected you with a first name. Maybe one day. So?”

“I checked out the archives and spoke with an official from the lodge. We need to make a trip to Plaincourault.”

“No kidding. Got any real news?”

“Well, pack a bag. I’ll find a hotel where we can stay.”

“Make sure it’s two rooms, buddy.”

“In the meantime, we’ll need access to Interpol and antiterrorism files. I’ll get on it with my contact at the ministry.”

“You mean Jaigu?”

“Listen, we need him. Don’t make a fuss. There’s more, too. We may have a lead on who ordered the kill and why.”

“Go on. Spill the beans.”

“It’s a long story. I suggest that we meet at the office. See you in an hour, okay?”

“Fine. Listen, I wanted…”

“What? Hurry up, I’ve got to go.”

“Nothing. I was almost going to be nice.”

Marcas was silent for a few seconds.

“Be careful,” he finally said. “If you keep that up, I might think you want to become a Mason or something.”

She changed her tone. “I’d rather die. Go to hell.”

She ended the call and headed to her apartment to pack a bag, not all that unhappy about letting him take the lead.

42

Nobody on the upper floors could hear the Palestinian’s shrieks and wails. The soundproofing and overall calm gave the manor house a cocooned feel. The little Plessis-Boussac château, nestled in a charming valley just south of Paris, harbored the headquarters of the French Association for the Study of Minimalist Gardens. The few curious souls and botany enthusiasts who called the telephone number that was listed always got a message. Those who peered through the gates could see people gardening and taking care of the surrounding fields. A small team of volunteers regularly ordered supplies from the neighboring village and always held an open house to show off the superb greenhouse next to the château, which was known for its exotic plants and magnificent roses.

The association’s president, a rose specialist who appreciated the good things in life, always made donations to the local Red Cross. Everyone in the area called him the gardener, which made him happy. He was from South Africa and had settled in the region at the end of the nineteen eighties, after a handful of nature-loving European investors bought the château. From time to time, some of them would arrive for a retreat.

Those would be higher-ups in the Orden, who used the manor house as a stopover when they were in transit to other countries. It was one of the lesser houses that Orden owned.

The tower had been entirely renovated. The large guest room was on the second floor. It was filled with Empire-style furnishings, including a canopy bed and a sumptuous carved desk.

The Tebah Stone sat on a red-velvet stand, which brought out the rock’s black luster.

Sol was contemplating it. Finally, it belonged to him. This was the beginning of a new life. He weighed the stone in his hand and ran his fingers over the Hebraic letters that were thousands of years old. The stone seemed to vibrate with energy. It hypnotized him.

He broke the spell and looked at himself in a small mirror on the desk. Eighty-five years and counting. His body was declining, but his mind was as sharp as ever. How much longer did he have on this planet? Five, ten years at most. But his life was going to change radically. The words on the stone and the documents he had kept for so many years were finally going to lead to a door that opened to an astonishing power — the power of the gods.

He ran his hand through his hair and adjusted his collar. He felt a dull rumbling — a tractor going out to the fields — and a distant memory rose to the surface. A memory from another country and another life.

Sol closed his eyes. He recalled the man he was, the dashing Obersturmbannführer François Le Guermand. He remembered his last night in the bunker before the mission that would change his life. Those marvelous nineteen forties, when blood pulsed in his veins. Having enlisted well before he was of age, he had been heady with excitement, too young to understand the risks and possible consequences.

During his years of exile in South America and other friendly countries, he watched the world change and progress, but he never felt the excitement of those years of iron and fire, when his adopted country — Germany — came that close to building the most powerful empire the earth had ever known.

The thought brought him back to more mundane concerns. He speculated that the Palestinian had already gone through the gardener’s hands, or rather, his pruners. Sol didn’t especially like torture, but he recognized its effectiveness. The gardener’s protocol always worked, even on the toughest victims. The combination of absurd behavior, violence, and meaningless chatter disoriented the victims, pushing them into an extraordinary state of submission.

Sol picked up the Tebah Stone again and took a long, deep breath, as if he were trying to communicate with its ancient soul. Then he gently set it down and rose from the desk.

He needed to talk to Joana. A piece of the puzzle was missing, and the Freemasons had it.

How he hated that lot.

François Le Guermand owed his life to the Thule, as did so many other former members of the SS. After the war, the network had saved him, giving him a new identity and setting him up in Argentina and then Paraguay. He had married and taken over an electronic-parts company that belonged to a member of the Orden. He was a sleeper agent. He was awakened in the nineteen fifties and ordered to coordinate a freemasonry-watch unit. Over time, he took on increasing responsibilities until he was playing a central role in the Orden.

Le Guermand had witnessed the Cold War, rockets to the moon, the fall of communism, and inventions he could have never imagined. And now, at the end of the road, he was finally going to achieve what he had most longed for.

Le Guermand had been ordered to steal the ultimate secret. The seed of the world. And he was on the verge of success.

43

Joana had been staked out on the Rue de Vaugirard since morning. She’d tossed Zewinski’s apartment to no avail and was now waiting for her to return. She had just ordered coffee at the café across the street when her phone buzzed. It was Sol.

“Any news?” he began without any greeting.

“Nothing in the apartment. I’m waiting for her. Did you get the Palestinian?”

“Yes, he’s in the gardener’s hands now.”

“Why are you torturing him?”

“I need the old Jew’s notes and documents. And I need to make sure he didn’t talk to anyone. This supposed professional got himself tailed by the Israelis when he crossed the Jordanian border, just like a beginner. Fortunately, we started watching him in Amsterdam.”

“Why was he followed? Do the Israelis know you’re after the stone?”

“No, a border patrol recognized him. He’s a wanted Palestinian activist. The Jews are eager to identify his network in Europe.”

Joana sipped her coffee as she surveyed the street.

“How do you know that?”

“My dear child, we kidnapped the agent that was following him as soon as he arrived at the Gare du Nord. Two nurses picked him up after he had a sudden attack of epilepsy.”

“I suppose our gardener friend got him to talk.”

Sol chuckled.

“We can’t hide anything from you. Alas, our friend of the plants doesn’t like Jews much. I’m afraid he may have gone overboard. All of the man’s extremities went under the shears. The Palestinian will balance things out nicely. Nobody will accuse us of taking sides in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.”

Joana could hear him snickering over the phone. She prayed that she would never fall into the gardener’s hands.

“Now let’s talk about your orders. Go get the woman from the embassy, and bring her here. We’ve lost enough time as it is. I need those papers to finish what I started.”

“And then?”

“She’ll meet the gardener.”

Joana knew Sol was in a hurry, but she had a question. “Why did you want me to kill that woman with those three blows?”

“Good-bye, my dear,” he said, ending the call, “Make haste.”

44

Jade parked her car down the street from her place and hurried along the sidewalk. It was midafternoon, and the sidewalks were crowded. At one point she had to elbow her way around a woman wearing heavy perfume who was paying no attention to where she was going. The bitch had even scratched her. Welcome back to Paris, Jade thought.

Jade couldn’t decide how she felt about Marcas. The man irritated her but intrigued her, too, with his strange mix of smugness and mystery.

Argh, she was coming off like a Harlequin heroine.

The stories of esoteric Freemason murders perplexed her. There were so many gray areas in the case, nothing could be eliminated. And Marcas was like a fish in water when it came to secret societies. There was no trusting him. She couldn’t even be sure that her contacts in intelligence weren’t connected with the Freemasons. The hoodwinkers were everywhere.

Pure paranoia. It was hard not to be paranoid. But her orders were clear. She had to work with Marcas. Sophie’s face wasn’t so clear anymore. Her murder felt like nothing more than a bad dream. Yet her tortured body lay in a cold tomb in the suburbs of Paris. It was very real. Sophie never should have joined those tricksters, with all their hocus-pocus. Jade had one more reason to hate the bastards.

But orders were orders.

She started to cross the avenue and hadn’t made it halfway when her head began to spin. She could see the other side, but her senses were dulling. The sidewalk seemed to go on infinitely, like the horizon. She stumbled along like a sleepwalker. She was having trouble breathing. She could hardly keep her eyes focused.

Jade panicked. Controlling her body was vital to her job, and the slightest change in perception turned on all the alarms. She tried to apply the advice her instructors had repeated time and again during her training: breathe deep, empty your mind, chase away the fear.

She had panicked once before. It was during a dive simulating an underwater commando attack. When she had set a fake magnetic explosives on the hull of a ship, her regulator had malfunctioned, and she couldn’t get any oxygen. It was the nightmare of nightmares. She was losing consciousness in slow motion, knowing full well the inevitable outcome. The instructor had saved her in the nick of time.

But today, in the middle of the fifteenth arrondissement, surrounded by a bustling crowd, nobody was offering any help.

Her leg muscles were slowly stiffening. Her arms were numb. She didn’t have any feeling in her mouth either. Anxiety, moreover, was paralyzing her ability to think, as it had in the dark, muddy waters off Normandy. She couldn’t control herself. She was failing. She was going to collapse on the concrete, and nobody would lift a finger.

As she struggled to reach the sidewalk, she felt a supportive arm slide around her back and clutch her side. A miracle. Someone in this anonymous crowd had seen that she was in trouble.

“Don’t worry, miss. I’ve got you.”

It was a woman’s voice. Friendly, warm. She had to get control again. She saw a café just across the street.

“Help me get over to that café. I’m just a little tired.”

The woman propped Jade up and held her tight to keep her from falling. She couldn’t see her guardian angel’s face. All she perceived was a sweet-smelling perfume, a vaguely familiar fragrance. The panic receded. She felt safe.

The voice was smooth. “Lucky for you I was right behind you.”

Cars were honking. Jade and her rescuer were in the street, blocking traffic. Jade vaguely perceived a taxi driver angrily gesticulating at them.

She let herself be led. Saved at the last minute. What luck. She’d have to get the woman’s address to thank her. Who would believe it: the special ops commando fainting in the middle of Paris. What a joke.

A young man with a thin strip of a beard approached them. “Do you need some help? Your friend’s not looking so good—”

Jade wanted to answer, but the woman was faster.

“No, it’s nothing. She’s diabetic. I have to give her some insulin. I’m parked right over there. Thank you for offering.”

Then the woman addressed her directly. “Come on, Jade, help me out here.”

Jade’s mind was reeling. Who was this stranger who claimed to be a friend and knew her name? And what was the bullshit about being diabetic? She tried to talk, but nothing came out.

A wave of terror rolled through her body. She was as vulnerable as an infant. She saw the young man walk off. She watched the café tables begin to recede. She wanted to reach out and grab a chair, but they were too far away.

“Le… Let me go. I—”

Her body wasn’t responding. She’d been drugged. All she could sense was the heavy perfume.

That perfume. The woman she had elbowed her way around. The scratch on her arm. A classic maneuver.

“Don’t worry, Jade. Everything is going to be all right. I’m going to take you to a place where you can rest. We have so much to talk about.”

“I… I don’t know you… Leave me…”

Passersby were scowling at her, as if she were drunk. The door of a black car opened, and she was pushed into the backseat. She was now entirely paralyzed and couldn’t make out colors or shapes anymore. Everything was becoming a grayish blur.

The woman’s sensual voice resonated in her head. “Rest assured, Jade. The drug will take you away to dreamland.”

She felt a kiss on her forehead. A wave of panic rolled through her paralyzed body. The perfume was making her queasy.

“Sleep well. Oh, I did forget to introduce myself. I’m Joana, your new friend. I hope we’ll get along during the little time you have left.”

Jade fell into an ink-black sleep.