Shadow Ritual (18 page)

“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.”