The Lafayette Sword (15 page)

53

Place de Clichy, Paris

Present day

T
he impatient moviegoers were waiting in two long lines to buy their tickets. Antoine Marcas and his son had joined the first queue ten minutes earlier, and they hadn't made much progress. What was th
e hang-up?

Marcas was still shivering from the excitement of finding the marquis's sword, with the clue engraved on the blade. He would have spent the rest of the day pursuing this lead, but it was his afternoon with Pierre, and time with him would always c
ome first.

“You could have reserved the tickets, Dad. I hate standing
in line.”

“Consider yourself lucky that I'm taking you to this piece of c
rap, kid.”

“
Captain America: Civil War
a piece of crap? Get with it, Dad.” Pierre pulled out his phone and consulted a review. “Look, it says a ‘decidedly noncartoonish plot and the courage to explore thought-provoking
themes.'”

“Okay, you win, son. I'm all for thought-provoking themes. You know that.” Marcas grinned and tousled the b
oy's hair.

“Dad, enough with the hair, please. I'm tw
elve now.”

“Oh my gosh, twelve already? How did that happen?” He punched his son's arm lightly, and the boy feigned a
n injury.

Marcas bought the tickets, and they found their seats. Ten minutes into the film, his mind was back on the Lafayette sword and the inscription on
the blade.

“New York, where, in turn, speak brothers of all ways, truth lies in the center of the ancient ga
ze. 1886.”

He would have to call that Archambeau woman in
America.

“Hey Dad, pay attention. There's gonna be a qu
iz later.”

“Sorry. I got distracted.” Marcas straightened in his seat and looked around. The cinema was nearly full, and everyone was focused on the action. No sooner had he done this than he had the odd sensation of bein
g watched.

“You're just being paranoid,” he told himself. “You've been that way ever since your stroll in the c
atacombs.”

He tried to focus on the movie, but all he saw was the cold glare of the killer behind
his mask.

“Dammit.”

Thoughts and questions were bouncing in his head. Nothing made sense: New York, Lafayette's descendants, and that enigma. What if Paul had actually gone senile? Marcas had no head for this kind of game. No, to figure it out, he'd need a younger mind, one not yet so rational, not one of a fortyish grump
y divorcé.

“Dad, I've got to go to the bathroom. Fill me in when I get back.” Marcas let Pierre climb over his legs and watched as his son headed out of th
e theater.

He slipped back into his thoughts. He hadn't yet told Hodecourt about the flash drive. And now that he'd gotten started on it, he imagined that his colleague would be annoyed that he hadn't said anything. But the doctors had cleared Marcas to return to work, and he was now the lead investigator. Hodecourt just had to ac
cept that.

On the screen, a character was getting
tortured.

“My dear brother, showing your son all this violence isn't a good thing.” The voice, coming to him in a whisper, was one he would never forget. It was the last voice he had heard before nearly drowning. Marcas stiffened. Through the back of his seat he could f
eel a gun.

“You're a very caring father. I watched you in the metro and in line at the ticket window. It's really quite touching. You know I have chil
dren too.”

“He'll be back any minute now. Get out of here. He has nothing to do w
ith this.”

“Now, now, brother. Calm down. I'm sure we'll get along. You just want to protect the flesh of your flesh. What could be more natural? I would do the same in your shoes. In fact, I would be very coo
perative.”

“What do
you want?”

“What do I want? Oh, not much. Just a sign from the past. A message from beyond the grave. A forgotte
n answer.”

“Damn
it, you…”

Marcas felt the barrel against his neck and recognized the sound of t
he safety.

“Stop acting dumb. You know what I want. The message on the sword that belonged to our dear L
afayette.”

Marcas kept his eyes on the entrance to th
e theater.

“I don't understand. You're the one who stole it from th
e museum.”

The man nestled against his ear. “Wrong answer. Do that one more time, and your son gets a hole in his angelic
forehead.”

“Let's go outside, and I'll tell you ev
erything.”

Pierre entered the theater. He was entirely focused on t
he screen.

“Here's how it's going to go down,” the man whispered, articulating each word. “If you turn around, you die. If you tell him to run, he dies. If you don't answer in the next twenty seconds, you
both die.”

Still absorbed in the movie, Pierre was making his way back to
his seat.

“Only ten seconds left. I'll shoot him in the thigh first, just for fun, although at this distance I could miss and hit him in t
he chest.”

Marcas watched his son g
et closer.

“‘New York, where, in turn, speak brothers of all ways, truth lies in the center of the ancient ga
ze. 1886.”

“Are
you sure?”

“Yes
, dammit!”

“I hope so for your sake. I can find you anywhere, and then you know what wil
l happen.”

The killer stood up. “Stay seated while I leave, or I'll get rid of the whole little Marcas family. Is that un
derstood?”

“Yes.”

Pierre plopped back down in his seat. Marcas heard a coat rustle to his right. He kept his eyes on the screen out of fear fo
r his son.

54

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

L
ady Perenelle went inside, leaving Master Maillard and Flamel to themselves. A palace secretary had just arrived and set up his writing table at the window of the house across the street. He was preparing to take the witnesses' statements. A servant had found the torturer's mutilated body when she arrived in the morning. Her screams had awakened the neighborhood, and the crowds had gathered to catch a glimpse of the
dead man.

“It's the work of the Devil,” one of the gu
ards said.

The crowd murmured in
agreement.

“Devil or not, I'm sure this murder has something to do with the pyre the other night,” Maillard said. “What do you think, neighbo
r Flamel?”

Flamel was watching the secretary, who was writing down the servant's statement. He shivered when he realized that the secretary was a double o
f himself.

“Are you cold?” Maillard asked. “Or is it this sordid story that's affecting you? And you haven't even seen the body. If you had, a
s I have…”

Maillard didn't have time to finish. The king's officer had just come out of the house. Flamel recognized Sir Guy de Pareilles, the leader of the kin
g's guard.

“Sirs, I would like to question you. Who among you is the victim's closest
neighbor?”

“I am,” Fl
amel said.

“Come in, then. I hope you don't have a delicat
e nature.”

The room was filled with people. Guards were watching the door. Bernard de Rhenac's men were searching the drawers, and the secretary was noting e
very word.

“Y
our name?”

“Nicolas Flamel, publi
c scribe.”

“Do you know the deceased well enough to recog
nize him?”

It was no time to hesitate. “I believe so. He usually wore his henchman's hood, but he did have a physiogn
omy that…”

“One didn'
t forget?”

Flamel felt the same unease he had felt in the tortur
e chamber.

Guy de Pareilles turned to the servant, who was speaking quickly in a high-pitc
hed voice.

“That woman is old and nearly blind. All she could identify was
his hood.”

“I don't understand. Even if you can't see well, he had a face you couldn'
t forget.”

Guy de Pareilles motioned for Flamel to f
ollow him.

“Something of his face would have t
o remain.”

55

Ninth arrondissement, Paris

Present day

T
he small café on the hill was nearly empty. Three months prior, Roger, the owner, had spent all of his savings on refurbishing the place. Gone were the laminate tables and zinc countertops. In were the marble surfaces, white walls with black accents, and pendant lighting. Roger wanted a business that would attract a young and dynamic clientele, as the new marketing manager had suggested. Now, three months later, Roger looked completely out of place in his sleek new space, and so did his patrons. They were the same ones who had always arrived at eight in the morning for their first glass of wine and at nine in the evening for their last. But instead of watching news and sports on the television, they just stared at big screens that showed rap-music clips with gesticulating women in latex mi
ni-skirts.

Stirring his coffee at the back of the room, Marcas had to give the regulars credit. They hadn't let the renovation chase them away. He liked this little corner of the Pigalle neighborhood, where the two old men who sold porn on the street always gave him a respectful nod, and Roger invariably greeted him as “Monsieur le commissair
e Marcas.”

Marcas hadn't been able to sleep the previous night, not after the killer had left him in the movie theater. As calmly as possible, Marcas had dropped off his son at his ex-wife's house. He told Isabelle, again as calmly as possible, that he had received some anonymous threats. She still had the reflexes of a cop's wife and hadn't protested when he suggested that they leave the city for a while. School vacation would be starting soon. Until then, he would make sure a police unit kept an ey
e on them.

Marcas finished the coffee and pushed the cup to the center of the table. Guy Andrivaux hadn't given him a list of all the Freemasons who had reached the ninth degree. They'd sent out requests all over France, but it would take time to collect the names. His only lead was the American, Joan A
rchambeau.

He left two euros on the table and gave Roger a nod before leaving. Outside, a cool wind hit him, and he felt raindrops as he headed to the Avenue Trudaine to h
ail a cab.

Once home and in front of his computer, he typed Joan Archambeau into the search engine. She was an attorney who specialized in environmental law. She worked for a firm on Madison Avenue that was well known for its class-action suits against chemical companies. A few business law journals showed up, and she was included in an article in the
New York Times
about high-profile lawyers. All in all, she appeared to be good at her job, but she wasn't fond of the limelight. He did find one photo of her. She had shoulder-length brown hair and very
dark eyes.

He thought for a moment and then wrote an e-mail summarizing the circumstances of Paul's death and the pieces of the puzzle in his possession. It was half past noon, which made it six thirty in the morning in New York. She probably wouldn't read it for another couple
of hours.

He clicked send, and his phone vibrated. He recognized the number right away.
Hodecourt.

Marcas answered. “What can I do for you,
brother?”

“I'm checking in. Have you gotten
anywhere?”

“No,” Marcas said, sounding as nonchalant as
possible.

“Well, it seems the medical examiner has found s
omething.”

Marcas was annoyed that the examiner hadn't called him first, but he bit his tongue. “Yes, what
was that?”

“There was gold in the sword wounds. An incredibly pure gold. The examiner ran the lab tests twice, and there was
no doubt.”

“Gold? You're jokin
g, right?”

“No joke. It
was gold.”

Marcas paused. His heart was pounding, but he maintained his composure. “Send me a copy of th
e report.”

“Will do. I already sent it to a brother I know who's an expert on the metal. Meet me in front the Nemours café, near the Comédie Française, in half an hour. He's expe
cting us.”

56

Rue Saint Jacques de la Boucherie

March 21, 1355

T
he man was lying on the bedroom floor, his face covered with a g
ray cloth.

“We're waiting for the king's doctor,” Pareilles said. “He'll decide, but I think we'll need to do an
incision.”

Flamel looked at Pareilles. “I thought it was a sin to excavate the body of a C
hristian.”

“It is, unless it has already been done.” Pareilles pulled off the g
ray cloth.

The man's face was an o
pen wound.

Flamel looked at the bloody mess. The eyes were gone, and the two cavities were giving off an atroci
ous smell.

“They were removed, or they melted,” Pare
ills said.

“It's as if someone wanted us to understand that the torturer lacked vision,” the head g
uard said.

“May God save his soul,” Flamel said. After a moment, he added in a weaker voice, “But that horrible smell isn't normal, even in death. What is that grainy liquid coming ou
t of him?”

“It's not blood,”Pareilles said. “That I know. But the only thing that interests me at this point is confirming that this is the
torturer.”

Flamel looked at the b
ody again.

“I can't tell
for sure.”

The head guard smirked. He started to say something but stopped when the door opened. A man in a black coa
t came in.

“Sirs, I see you are in good
company.”

“Doctor, we were trying to identify the body. Look at the state of
his face.”

The doctor glanced at the body. “Have you looked at h
is nails?”

“No, but I d
on't see—”

“Don't argue. Do wh
at I say.”

Guy de Pareilles leaned over the body and picked
up a hand.

“So, what do you see?” the doctor asked as he removed oddly shaped instruments from a leat
her pouch.

“His nails are covered with a bla
ck crust.”

“Do you think it's filth? Co
llect it.”

The head of the royal guard frowned. He didn't seem to like taking orders, but the pecking order was clear: the doctor could enter the king's chambers unannounced. He was in ch
arge here.

“How?”

“With yo
ur teeth!”

Nicolas looked on, wondering if this was some kin
d of joke.

“What are you waiting fo
r? Do it!”

“D
octor, I—”

“Does it have a bitt
er taste?”

“Yes.”

“Chew it.”

“Certainly you don't want me to
chew it.”

“Do what I tell you. Is it
crumbly?”

“Yes.”

“So
swallow.”

“But Doc
tor… Why?”

“Because it's not filth, and it won't
hurt you.”

The doctor examined the body. The skin was turning blue. “In fact,” he continued, “some ancients even reco
mmend it.”

“Recommend what? As if we don't have enough mysteries this
morning.”

“Consuming hum
an blood.”

The royal guard grimaced and spit out the contents of his mouth. “You're out of y
our mind.”

“Not at all. You wanted to know if this is the torturer. Seeing his blackened nails, I needed to verify that it's human blood and thus traces of
his work.”

“You had me taste the blood of his
victims?”

The doctor shrugged. “We needed to confirm it. Tasting is the only way. So now I can state definitively that this is the torture
r's body.”

Flamel started when Pareilles regained his composure and called out his name. “Master Flamel, my clerk is busy hearing witnesses. I requisition you in the name of the king. Go get pen and parchment from t
he clerk.”

“I… But
for what?”

Guy de Pareilles had already turned back to the doctor. “Milord, I see you have the instruments of
your art.”

“Yes.”

Pareilles walked over to the body and contemplated it for a moment. “So,
open him.”