The Lafayette Sword (16 page)

57

Palais Royal

Present day

T
he rain was pouring down, filling the streets as if all the clouds in the sky had gathered over Paris. Cars were inching along, and pedestrians were running for shelter. The exception was a group of tourists, all dressed in blue ponchos, who were waiting stoically in front of a duty-free per
fume shop.

Marcas paid the cab and trotted to the building, a palace built by the Orleans family. By the time he reached the café, he was soaked. Hodecourt, in a dark green trench coat, was already there. He waved, and when Marcas reached him, they exchanged a Masonic
handshake.

“Gold, Marcas. They found pure gold,” Hodecourt said, taking his forearm, as if to
guide him.

Marcas stiffened. He didn't like the man's familiarity, nor his way of still acting like lead. They started down the gallery filled luxu
ry stores.

“Yes, I read the forensics report. They tested twice to make sure. It's in powder form.Surprising. What do you think it has to do with the murders?” Marcas asked. Hodecourt was a good detective, he might have some ideas. He'd hea
r him out.

“I don't really know. According to the lab, either the sword was in contact with gold powder, and it was transferred at the time of the slayings, or the killer spread it when he pulled the sword out of his victims. But the second theory doesn't seem a
s likely.”

“And how can this gold expert of yours help us?” Mar
cas asked.

“The gold was a pure gold, which is extremely rare. It's nothing like the gold you find i
n stores.”

Marcas detected excitement in Hodecour
t's voice.

Hodecourt tapped Marcas's elbow, and the two stopped. They were at the gold trader's shop. Barely two meters wide, it was more of a nook than a shop. Dark drapes were drawn over the window. A worn black sign read,
“Vente et Ac
hat d'Or.”

There was an intercom and a tiny camera to the right of the door. “Canseliet” was written next to it in gol
d letters.

“He doesn't look like he's exactly rolling in gold,” Ma
rcas said.

“Don't let appearances fool you,
brother.”

Hodecourt pressed the button of the intercom. They heard a woma
n's voice.

“Yes?”

“Police Inspectors Hodecourt an
d Marcas.”

The door clicked and opened. A magnificent Asian woman let them in. She had ink-black hair pulled back in a chignon. Her pearl-white skin was a stark contrast against the blood red of her tunic, which was buttoned to her neck. Her tunic was short enough, though, for Marcas to note the impeccable curve of h
er calves.

“Let me take your coats, gentlemen. Mr. Canseliet will see you in his office.” She hung the two jackets on a rack that could have been sculpted by Alberto Giacometti and gestured toward a narrow staircase in the corner of the whitewa
shed room.

“Please f
ollow me.”

They walked up two flights to an armored door flanked by two wall cameras. The door opened, and the men followed thei
r hostess.

Marcas held his breath. There was gold everywhere. Nothing
but gold.

The walls of the vast room were lacquered a dark gold, and the ceiling was a lighter shade. The ebony furniture made the gold displays all the more brilliant. The floor was black marble with gol
den veins.

A large artwork next to a black lacquered Chinese desk looked familiar. It was covered with a grainy golden substance. Marcas was sure it was an Yves Klein and most likely belonged to a series that he'd seen at the Centre Georges Pompidou the prev
ious year.

A tall and thin man with blond hair, probably about fifty, hurried over to greet them. “Edward Canseliet. Welcome to my hum
ble home.”

He turned to the woman and asked her to bring refreshments. He didn't use the ritual Freemason handshake, but sized the two men up with his steel-
blue eyes.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Mar
cas said.

Canseliet waved them to a sitting area, a sofa and two armchairs, all upholstered in black velvet. The sofa and chairs were arranged around a small hardw
ood table.

“Please sit down. I was intrigued by the information the medical examiner sent over. The gold was extraordinarily pure. I have buyers who would spend a fortune for samples such
as that.”

Marcas settled in an armchair. “Can you be more
specific?”

The woman returned with a bottle of champagne, along with a large platter of food and four flutes. She popped the cork and poured the
beverage.

“Before I answer, tell me, Mr. Marcas, what you know ab
out gold?”

“Not much, except that men have fought and killed for thousands of years over it and that women around the world love it. And, of course, it indulges man'
s vanity.”

“You're not wrong. ‘Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.' Ecclesiastes. But I have another way of looking at it. You see, for me gold is the most noble thing on earth. Water doesn't alter it. Air doesn't corrupt it. It has symbolized the sun in every civilization that has dominated the world. An atom of gold has exactly seventy-nine protons. One more, and it would be mercury. One less, and it would be platinum. I would, in fact, like to propose a toast to this number seventy-nine, which brings us togeth
er today.”

The three men raised their glasses a
nd sipped.

“Back to our subject,” Edmond Canseliet said. “Gold on the market varies in quality, and it's measured by purity. A karat refers to the amount of gold in parts per thousand. There are four grades, more or less. Twenty-four-karat gold is the purest, but it's too malleable to be sold as is. It's usually mixed with copper or silver to get the three other common grades: 18-, 14- and 9- or 10-karat, depending on what part of the world you
live in.”

Hodecourt took off his wedding band and handed it to the expert. “Can you tell me which one this is by looki
ng at it?”

The man took the ring and examined it. “I'm sorry, my friend,” he said after a few moments. “If they told you it was 18- or 14-karat gold, they took you for a ride. It's only nine karats.” He gave the ring back to
Hodecourt.

“How could you tell?” Marcas asked. “By t
he color?”

“No, some pieces of gold jewelry bear an icon—a heart or a bell for example. And often the karats are engraved on the back or inside a piece. In the case of this ring, there was neither. It just took an ex
pert eye.”

“And our p
ure gold?”

“Well, that's what's odd. It's purer than twenty-fou
r karats.”

“Have you ever heard of gold l
ike this?”

The man locked eyes with Marcas. “Yes, there are many treatises on it. It's gold of the thousandth
morning.”

Marcas and Hodecourt set their champagne glasses down at the
same time.

“Yes?”

Edmond Canseliet looked away. “The gold of the thousandth morning. The legendary gold of al
chemists.”

58

Nicolas Flamel's shop

March 21, 1355

L
ady Perenelle was still waiting for her husband to return. He was certainly being questioned. That didn't worry her. What did worry her was that she had awakened to an
empty bed.

The fire in the hearth was nothing but embers. She tossed some wood in the fireplace and picked up the bellows. The routine helped to
calm her.

She looked at the door leading to the cellar. Only once had she gone down the narrow stairs to that damp place—to inspect the wine vats. That was when she had seen the cabinet where her husband kept his books. She never understood how he could stay down there for hours, reading in the flickering light of a meager lamp while demons roamed on the other side of the thick stone walls. At least that was how the old women described it. The cellars under Paris were connected via labyrinthine tunnels, secret passageways, and hidden doors, ideal for devil's play. Lovers and heretics used them, and those who returned to the surface always told tales of antique Roman quarries and undergro
und lakes.

Lady Perenelle made the sign of the cross. In his haste, Nicolas hadn't locked the cellar door. It was tempting. She signed herself again and took a deep breath. She was sure that condemned souls held their Sabbath underground, that those stairs put one closer to the kingdom of the dead. Since the plague, death was omnipresent, ready to pounce at any time. The priests talked about death as though it were a living creature: an emaciated form riding a black horse and brandishing a sickle, ready to cut down sinners and the holy, the rich and the poor. Nobod
y escaped.

Lady Perenelle said a prayer. She sometimes dreamed of death, but it didn't take the form of the grim reaper the priests talked about. Instead, death came as a young woman seeking a dance partner. As soon as she found her partner, she became a corpse, and it was too late. It was the same image found at the entrance to the Innocents Cemetery, with skeletons dragging the living straight
into hell.

The fire crackled. Lady Perenelle threw in another log. Blue flames rose up, and sparks sprayed the floor. The room vibrated with light. Once again, the door to the cellar dre
w her eye.

She got up, as if she were hypnotized, and walked over to the stairs leading into the darkness. She didn't know what her husband was seeking, but if she went down those stairs and opened his secret hiding place, there would be no tur
ning back.

She went down the first step. The darkness was heavy wit
h silence.

She
hesitated.

She might never have this opportun
ity again.

The shadows drew her further down t
he stairs.

59

Palais Royal

Present day

“D
on't tell me you believe those stories,” Marcas said, shifting in his seat. “Alchemy is an illusion that modern science has sw
ept away.”

Edmond Canseliet frowned. “Don't be so sure. I'm surprised that a Mason like you is so dismissive. Many lodges focus on alchemy. It's a symbol of the quest for personal perfection. Through the centuries, many have held that the legendary philosopher's stone, the substance capable of changing ordinary metals to gold, also had the power to transform human beings. Some even believe that one who possesses it can achieve immortality. Spagyric philosophers in the Middle Ages had a much better understanding of human nature than peop
le think.”

Marcas didn't blink. “I'm more with the Masons who descended from the Age of Enlightenment. For me, the Middle Ages was a period of obscurantism. Brothers who spend their time researching sulfur, mercury, and the symbolism of athanors aren't my concern. Let's go back to the test
results.”

Edmond Canseliet stood up and walked over to a lacquered Ming Dynasty-style armoire, from which he removed what looked like an antique book. The binding was gilded leather. A Medieval-looking sun was in the center of the cover. Canseliet put the book on
the table.

“This is an extremely rare fragment of the
Book of Adam
. The complete version belonged to Nicolas Flamel, but it has been lost. Only two copies of this fragment ever existed, and the second disappeared during World War II. I inherited this one from my grandfather, whose name I bear. He was the last alchemist of modern times. His peers thought he was crazy, and yet he continued his quest for subl
ime gold.”

“I heard of him at a lodge presentation on the symbolism of metals,” Hodecourt said, ogling
the book.

“This book uses complex allegories to describe the production of gold with unparalleled purity,” Canseliet said “It's a perfect alchemical manuscript, except that no one, except perhaps my grandfather, has been able to dec
ipher it.”

“I suppose he also handed down his taste for gold and a colossal fortune,” Ma
rcas said.

The man smiled. “He died poor and forgotten by everyone. But I inherited something far more valuable: my desire to know all about this precious metal and what it has meant to
humanity.”

“So he never found out how to make gold, and we're no further in our investigation,” Ma
rcas said.

“You are mistaken,” Canseliet said. “He died poor, yes, but before he went to his grave, he told his son—my father—that a stranger had come to see him and had provided him with proof that the alchemists weren't working in vain. He gave my grandfather a small nugget of gold that he then handed down to my father. You're looki
ng at it.”

Canseliet pressed his finger just left of the sun and dislodged a piece of gold, which he
held out.

“Ten years ago, when my father felt his time coming, he gave me this book and this piece of gold from his alchemist father. I had it tested. It's extraordinarily pure: one thousand karats per one thousand parts, far purer than even 24-karat gold. That's unheard of. It too is the gold of the thousandth morning, the poetic expression used by alchemists. In scientific terms, it's a gold isotope, which is normally unstable. I have never found another gold like this. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw your test
results.”

“Incredible,” Hodecourt said, staring at t
he nugget.

“May I ask where you found the gold that was analyzed?” Cansel
iet asked.

Marcas and Hodecourt looked at each other, h
esitating.

“I won't tell anyone,” Canseliet said. “Do you really understand the consequences for
mankind?”

“It's confidential for the moment,” Marcas finally said. “And no, I don't understand the consequences. It's likely that the person who has the secret will become immensely rich. Just another filthy-rich capitalist and consumer of luxu
ry goods.”

Canseliet stiffened. “You don't understand. What's rare is precious in our economy. At present, twenty-five hundred tons of gold are mined annually, which is sufficient for demand and doesn't cause too much fluctuation in trading prices. If the alchemists' secret were uncovered, our entire world would turn upside down. Everything you see in this room would be worthless. Gold would be as commonplace as
plastic.”

“Okay, maybe gold wouldn't be precious anymore,” Marcas said. “But I don't see the world turning ups
ide down.”

“Believe it, brother. The world economy is in part based on gold reserves in major industrial countries. They guarantee the stability of international currencies. Even if currencies are no longer indexed on the price of gold, the connections are still strong. Gold is a kind of insurance policy in the event of a serious crisis or w
orld war.”

Hodecourt was sitting on the edge of his seat, like a dog that had sniffed an unexpected odor. “So a massive injection of gold would immediately throw the world's economic balance of
f kilter?”

“Exactly. Trading prices would plummet, and gold stores would be massively devalued, along with currencies. The alchemists' philosophical dream would inevitably lead to an economi
c crisis.”

“We could substitute another precious metal,” Ma
rcas said.

“Platinum is the only metal that could offer the same guarantees, but the world's major governments would need too much time to build up their reserves. Europe, the United States, and Asia would all be racing to acquire it. Prices would spike. You can imagine the potential conflicts, even outright warfare. So I ask you again, where did you find t
his gold?”

“In two dead men,” Hodecourt said. Marcas glare
d at him.

Edmond Canseliet stood up and walked over to the enigmatic Klein painting. “So then, Inspectors Marcas and Hodecourt. Your dead men will make this world a liv
ing hell.”