The Lafayette Sword (27 page)

103

Aurora Security to Aur
ora Source

Operation Chimera.
The unknown person has just reappeared—alone. Send instructions. Photo
attached.

Aurora Source to Auror
a Security

Operation Chimera.
Change of priority. Abandon target 1 and follow
target 2.

104

Paris

April 25, 1382

N
icolas Flamel passed through the city gates in the middle of the day. He had returned from his pilgrimage to find that his wife had thoroughly immersed herself in running the business. She was managing the apprentices and negotiating with clients. He didn't see the need to change anything. His wife was enjoying what she was doing, and he was happ
y for her.

Flamel actually preferred staying in the background, even though everyone had forgotten the murder of the torturer. His alchemical quest, the magnum opus of his life, required solitude and patience. Patience was the most important quality, because he had quickly realized that the projection powder that Flore had given him would only work when all the phases of the alchemical process were successfully
completed.

This was how he spent many years—searching, trying, being disappointed, and sometime even feeling despair. Despite all the changes in his life, he couldn't banish the incipient fear that ghosts from the past would emerge. Every time he heard horses in the street, saw a crowd form, or greeted Maillard—who, as before, always seemed to have some urgent news—his heart w
ould race.

He set up his alchemical instruments in the back room, where there was barely enough space. His wife had forbidden him to use the cellar. Slowly and methodically, he set up his laboratory. Soon, however, the room was too cramped with metals and stoves to accommodate h
is needs.

A few months later, his wife inherited some land from an aunt just outside the city, near a bend in the Seine River. The land was covered with grapevines, and the sun-filled hills above the Seine provided much wine to th
e capital.

Flamel shared his wife's enthusiasm, especially for the cellar, with its vats, press, and old oak barrels. Nearly every day, he would leave the shop and spend time laboring in
the vines.

One day, he took Maillard with him to weed the vines and prune the shoots—without ever visiting the cellar. When the furrier returned, he told everyone how well the vineyard was doing, which was exactly what Flamel wanted
him to do.

It took a good hour to reach the vineyards on foot. Local farmers called the soft hills the Champs de Mars. A monk told Flamel that the Romans had once conducted combat rituals here to honor of the god of war, and the Champs de Mars name had stuck. But Flamel had no interest in this folk tale. The tranquility of the land was what he liked
the most.

Flamel looked around before heading into the cellar. The vineyards were deserted, and the sky was a washed-out blue—a real winter sky. Crows were zigzagging high above the thin columns of smoke rising from a hamlet on the other side of
the river.

He made the sign of the cross. He wasn't an overly superstitious man, but today he interpreted everything he saw. And it worried him that he had seen the crows right before opening the cellar doors. He doubled-checked his pocket for the small canvas bag. He took a deep breath to slow his heart before going in. He had carefully measured the powder and knew he would have enough for one projection an
d no more.

If the transmutation was successful, it would no longer be an issue. The authors agreed that the powder would multiply as soon as the operation succeeded. All he would have to do was collect the brown gangue that surrounded the pure gold and make more powde
r with it.

He just had t
o succeed.

Flamel entered the room and crossed himself again. He would fin
ally know.

105

Under the Statue of Liberty

Present day

M
arcas leaned over Robinson and examined the man's wound on the left side of his abdomen. He was having trouble breathing, but was
conscious.

“If he hit an organ, I'm done for. To think I escaped all those assholes on the streets to end up being shot by a brother. Shit,
it hurts.”

“Shut up. You're going to be okay,” Marcas said, using his jacket as a makeshift compress. “Hold this over your wound while I take a look around. I'll get us out
of here.”

He got up and walked over to the entrance of the room. He heard the hand cart pull away. There was no sense in running after it, as the murderer had probably closed off access to th
e tunnel.

Marcas returned to the center of the rotunda and worked methodically, inspecting every inch as he searched for a hidden passage. “Use reason,” he said under his breath. “Don't let yourself get dis
couraged.”

Passing Joan's body, he noticed that a cigarette case had slipped out of her pocket. He looked back at Robinson, who was moaning, and then up at the ceiling encrusted with quartz and mica. The minerals sparkled l
ike stars.

They were some thirty meters under the statue. There just had to be
a way out.

He looked back at Joan's body. He picked up the cigarette case and pulled out his Freemason lighter. He removed a cigarette, lit up, and inhaled. A moment later he exhaled and watched
the smoke.

Instead of rising, the smoke was drifting toward the two pillars. Marcas took another drag, exhaled, and followed the smoke. It went up the pillar on the left, like a vine climbing a tree trunk. He looked all around the pillar, and at the base he found a grate nearly a meter across. He looked at the top of the column and discovered a large pipe connected to the ceiling. No wonder it didn't smell moldy
down here.

Marcas rushed to Robinson. “Ray, we have a chance. I found an air shaft in one of the pillars. It must go all the way to the surface of th
e island.”

“Great… Go ahead without me. I can hardly sit up. My head is
spinning.”

Marcas knew Robinson was right. Their only chance was him making it through the vent—if it was anything more th
an a pipe.

“Get out of here. Go on. Don't waste your time!” Robinson said. “From noon to midnight,
brother.”

Robinson let out a final breath, and his eyes gl
azed over.

“From noon to midnight, my brother,” Marcas said. “I'll come back
for you.”

He closed the dead man's eyes and covered his face with his blood-stain
ed jacket.

He returned to the pillar, examined the vent, and kicked it open. He flashed his light up the vent. It was hollow and large enough for a man to shimmy up. He began
his climb.

As he rose inch by inch, he watched the emptiness grow beneath him. He stopped to catch his breath about three quarters of the way up. His arm and leg muscles were burning. He slipped as he started climbing again, and he barely caught himself. He aimed his flashlight above him. A little farther up, the vent mad
e a turn.

He reached the elbow in the vent and pulled himself into a passageway that was just wide enough for him to creep through. He made his way up the steep incline, hitting his head several times. It was an exhausti
ng effort.

Suddenly, a familiar smell struck him. The sea breeze, with a slightly salty taste. The surface had to be near. He felt a vibration. He aimed his flashlight ahead of him and saw an air-extraction fan about ten meters away. Buoyed, he picked up his speed. The sound of the blades rose as he closed in. Finally, he tossed the flashlight into the fan, causing it to come to a screeching standstill. He could ge
t through.

In a few minutes he was in front of a larger grate filled with dried bird feathers. He pulled out the cigarette lighter, and summoning every ounce of calm he had left, he used one of its metal edges to unscrew t
he grate.

Pushing it open, he slid out and collapsed on wet grass. Then he looked up and
saw her.

She dominated the scene in all her splendor. Marcas was dizzy and nauseated. Still, he could make out her draped toga and her face with full lips, straight nose, and somber eyes. On her head, a magnificent crown pierce
d the sky.

He wanted to stand up, but he couldn't. He cried and fought to stay awake. But he slipped into
darkness.

106

Champs de Mars

April 25, 1382

L
egend had it that the quarries under the Champs de Mars had served as fortifications when barbarian hordes attacked Paris. These stories always made Nicolas Flamel smile. His modest cellar wouldn't have held more than a handful of men. But for his work it was big enough. In the center, like a throne, was his stove, the heart of his alchemical work. The ancient Arab texts called the instrument an athanor. Flamel had constructed it himself, using refractory bricks. It was a double oven, with one on top of the other. The first level, on the stone floor, was where he built the fire to heat the upper level, which contained the round
ed retort.

For a long time, Flamel thought that it was in this glass egg-like device that the alchemy took place. But in fact, everything happened on the lower level, in the fire. Flaming or smoldering, the fire was what allowed for the alchemy. Flamel had spent years understanding why initiates always mentioned the dragon—whether it was sleeping or angry. Domesticating it was key to the whole process, they said. The fire! Everything went through the fire, which one had to handle like a child: putting it to sleep, waking it up, nourishing it, and edu
cating it.

And most important, the fire could never go out. That was how one went through the various stages:
nigredo,
or blackening,
citrinitas,
or yellowing,
albedo,
or whitening, and finally
rubedo,
or
reddening.

Flamel remembered very well how he had reached the white stage two months earlier—on January 17, to be exact. Nurtured by the unceasing action of the fire, the matter had gone from ash gray to ink black. This had worried Flamel, because it seemed that he was going in the wrong direction. But then a milky circle developed around the dark mass, like a saint's halo. A nimbus became clearer and clearer, and the matter turned a shiny white. At that point, Flamel knew he had only one more step
: the red.

He'd been preparing for this for two months. Every day, he examined the tiny variations in the matter, in its color and mass, but it seemed to be sleeping, like a fertilized egg tended by an invisible force. During this period he needed to keep close watch over the fire. He would sometimes spend an entire night with the fire, blowing on it and poking it to regulate the te
mperature.

And then, one night a simple iridescence troubled the silvery matter. It was nothing more than a slight trembling, but Flamel knew that the matter had entered the peacock phase. In a few hours it would take on an astonishing array of colors. The moment to use the powder
had come.

Flamel felt the sack a final time. The retort burst with colors, like a summer sky after a storm. The matter looked like a crystal emanating a thousa
nd colors.

He untied the knot on the canvas bag and ran his fingers through the powder. He hesitated. Blood was pounding in his temples. With his other hand, he opened the retort. His pulse accelerated. For months, the matter had had no contact with the air. He feared the reaction would stop short. But no, the matter continue
d to glow.

He poured the contents of the bag into t
he retort.

This time…

Mist filled the retort. The colors disappeared. An icy shiver ran through Flamel. He couldn't move. Behind the glass walls, a heavy steam settled in, destroying all t
he matter.

This time, there was no more hope. The reaction had failed. Flamel stepped back. The weight of so many wasted years fell on his
shoulders.

A thick acrid smoke escaped from the top of the retort. Flamel could make out a dark residue at the bottom of the glass—a piece of old wood devoured by the flames and ready to b
ecome ash.

Thick tears rose in his eyes, and he wept. The coal finished burning. It had all been said and done. Now there was nothing to do but leave and forget, if
he could.

When Flamel opened his eyes, the fire under the athanor had died. Obscurity reigned. He would have to feel his way across the cellar and find his way out in the
darkness.

But just as he was taking his first step, a flare caught his eye. He looked back. Another flare followed, ripping through the darkness. Then another, a purple-orange one, lit the retort. Flamel rus
hed to it.

The matter was palpitating. Under the carbonized shell, a blood yellow fruit was ripe
ning fast.

Nicolas fell to
his knees.

The gold shone li
ke a star.