The Lafayette Sword (30 page)

119

Ninth arrondissement, Paris

Present day

H
e was okay. He'd be home in a few minutes. Still, who had followed him? He quickened his pace, as if it would help him understand. All of his adversaries were dead. And of all the families, only one remained. He was nearly running now. He didn't like the little voice in his head. It brought bad luck every time. And the last time… His heart started pounding at the thought. No, not today. He was a new man. An initiate. And a brother never gave in to superstition. He slowed down. Now he was stronger. He could listen to the voice and not
be afraid.

The voice was saying there was a fourth. How absurd. Never. There had only been the three brothers—three alone who held the secret, who had invented the story to throw people off. It wasn't possible. The fourth didn't exist. It was
a legend.

He broke out laughing. He alone was
the heir.

He slowed in front of his building and looked over his shoulder. No, he hadn't been followed. He was sure of it now. His imagination had played with him. It happened
sometimes.

He typed in the access code. The entrance was deserted. The concierge's lodge was lit, and he saw the man's face. He waved and smiled and hurried up the stairs. At this time of day, his son would be at school, and his wife wou
ld be out.

He had to prepare for a long night. He went down his list: flashlight, knife, cap, work clothes, and the drawing of the three symbols that would allow him to identify the mechanism that opened the sanctuary door. When he studied the pillar video, he recognized the spot immediately. He had to check one detai
l, though.

He dug through a drawer in the dresser and pulled out a map of Paris. He unfolded it, found the Eiffel Tower, and set his finger down next to it, on the exact spot he would have
to go to.

120

Grand Orient Masonic Hall

Present day

I
t was past ten at night when Marcas, Moutiers, and Andrivaux finished putting together Cenevières's genealogy, following members from decade to decade until the Second
World War.

According to the registry, Bernard de Cenevières, a Mason, had changed his name after the war, becoming a Cuvelier in 1945. Marcas knew it wasn't all that uncommon for French collaborators to change their names afte
r the war.

“Fortunately, we keep meticulous records,” Andrivaux said, rubbing
his neck.

“Now we've got to go back to the central database,” Marcas said. “There's still a killer on th
e loose.”

Their search yielded three Cuveliers, all of whom belonged to lodges in the
provinces.

“How old are they?” Mar
cas asked.

“All are arou
nd sixty.”

“That doesn't fit. The killer is
younger.”

No one said
anything.

“There could be a simple solution,” Andri
vaux said.

“Wha
t's that?”

“Maybe our killer isn't a F
reemason.”

“Can't be,” Marcas said. “The bastard knows too much about our habits and our
rituals.”

“All our little secrets have been out in the open for a long time. Just go to any library or buy
Freemasonry for Dummie
s
online.”

“But he is literally fascinated by Fre
emasonry.”

“Fascinated by it isn't the same as being initiated,” Mout
iers said.

Marcas frowned. “You're right. We should look at people who were refused. Those who didn't make
the cut.”

Andrivaux pulled up the list. “We
got him.”

The printer spit ou
t a paper.

Charles Cuveliers. Born on June 21, 1968, married, one son. Residing at 12 Rue de la Grange-Batelière, 75009 Paris. Applied for admission to the Les Enfants de Tubalcaïn lodge. Refused. Although reasons for refusal are not usually given, the worshipful master included the following note: ‘One of the three investigators discovered that Charles Cuveliers had spent time in a psychiatric clinic. The investigator learned that Cuveliers suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and that even though he appeared to be quite normal much of the time, he was capable of bizarre and even violent behavior. After his release from the clinic, Cuveliers refused further t
reatment.'

“Rue de la Grange-Batelière. That's right n
ear here.”

121

Latin Quarter, Paris

Present day

J
ack Winthrop stared at the tourists gathered around the Saint Michel fountain. He had waited for hours and was watching them because he was badly in need of a distraction. Just as another group of travelers arrived, his phone vibrated. Another encrypte
d message.

Aurora Source to Auror
a Security

Operation Chimera
: Tail canceled. Go immediately to the Quai Branly, near the Eiffel Tower. Bring a weapon. Contact me when you get there, using the number below. Then wait for further ins
tructions.

He felt for the familiar shape of a pistol under his leather jacket. A fabulously hot woman had walked up to him earlier. She had leaned in and whispered that she had something from Aurora. The woman had handed him a gift-wrapped package. Too bad it was a Zastava M57, a Serbian weapon that the Eastern European mafia loved. He himself hated
the gun.

A police car slowed in front of the fountain. Jack stood up slowly and headed toward the Cluny museum. He had decided to give it all up and take care of his family, but here he was, walking the streets of Paris with a gun in his belt. This was crazy and dangerous. And opening fire under the Eiffel Tower would be
suicide.

Of course, disobeying the head of Aurora would also be the end of him. Just then, he passed a store that specialized in equestrian clothing and equipment. He looked in the window and stared at the reins and helmets. A whip! It could be a highly effective weapon—and even more versatile t
han a gun.

122

Rue de la Grange Batelière

Present day

M
arcas pushed open the building's gate. He walked across the marble floor to the concierge's quarters. A young woman with blond hair opened
the door.

“What do you want?” She had a heavy Russi
an accent.

“Police,” Marcas said, forcing his way into
the room.

The woman looked flustered. “I… I'm just a
student.”

“Don't worry. I'm not interested in your immigration status,” Marcas said, closing the door behind him. “I just want some information about Mr. Cuveliers. He lives in the buildin
g, right?”

“Yes, on the sixth floor. Well, ye
s and no.”

Marcas narrowed his eyes and stared at her in silence, something he had mastered over many years of inter
rogations.

“That's not an answer,” he fina
lly said.

The woman was wringing her hands. “He… He lived here until the accident. Since then we haven't seen him very much. The poor man. But I just saw him. He left a short w
hile ago.”

“The
accident?”

“It was terrible. You must have read about it. Someone broke into Mr. Cuveliers's apartment one night when he wasn't home. His wife and son were murdered. Can you imagine? In a building like this. The poor man completely broke down. He was in a psychiatric hospital for six months. He wasn't the same when he c
ame back.”

Marcas folded his arms in front of his chest. “Can you be more
specific?”

“Well, when I vacuum sometimes, I can hear him talking to himself. I think he believes he's talking with his wife and son, as if they were still alive. And when he comes back from his trips he brings stuffed animals. They have to be for
his son.”

“Does anyone come around to chec
k on him?”

“Not that I know of. But I try not to be too nosey. He pays his rent on time, and he acts normal for the m
ost part.”

Marcas looked at his watch. “Do you have an extra set
of keys?”

“I can't let strangers in. Don't you need a warrant to go into someone
's house?”

“That's an American thing. In France it's another paper from another kind of judge. I don't have one of those papers, but I don't need anything from a judge to check your immigratio
n status.”

She dug around in a drawer and pulled out a se
t of keys.

Marcas jogged to the sixth floor. He unlocked the door of the apartment and turned on the light. It was huge and luxurious, with contemporary art lining white walls. On the fireplace mantel there were photos of a fortyish woman with a boy who was probably ni
ne or ten.

He started down a hallway that appeared to lead to the bedrooms. A stuffed animal was propped by one of the doors. He opened the door and found a child's room decorated with posters of soccer stars and
Star Wars
heroes. Clothes and toys littered the bed
and floor.

How would he react if someone harmed his son? He suddenly felt sorry for the killer. He was no longer a cold murderer, but a poor man who had gone crazy with pain, a man who was living an illusion of still having a family, of being a Freemason, of having control over his destiny and influence ov
er others.

Marcas opened the final door and turned on
the light.

123

Seventh arrondissement

Present day

A
ndré Surgens asked the taxi driver to drop him off at the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to see the majestic beauty again. She always captivated him, the same way she enchanted the tourists. And she was even more impressive at night, lit up with her billions o
f lights.

He walked under the gigantic arch. Gustave Eiffel had been a genius, overcoming petty battles to accomplish this titanic achievement. Surgens, who knew the history of this structure like the back of his hand, regretted that posterity had forgotten other key people, most notably engineer Maurice Koechlin, who initially proposed construction of the tower. Koechlin had worked on it for years, and before that he had worked on another superstructure: the Statue o
f Liberty.

Surgens picked up his pace and headed toward the Champ de Mars, which was nearly empty at this late hour. He passed two joggers and a man walking a Labrador. Just before reaching the Wall of Peace, he veered left. He passed a deserted merry-go-round and reached his destination: the Monument of Human Rights. It was a surprising work installed in 1989 for the bicentennial of the French Revolution. Ivan Theimer, a Czech-French sculptor, had created it. The work memorialized the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen, a fundamental document of the French Re
volution.

Despite its importance, the monument seemed almost lost in this corner of the Champ de Mars. It looked like a mausoleum, with two obelisks in front of a wall. There were bronze figures on both sides. Sculptures of a woman and child wearing an odd cylindrical hat were on one side. A man in a toga was on the ot
her side.

Many Parisians called this public artwork a Masonic monument, but how many bothered to note the mix of Masonic symbols and emblems of the
Republic?

He made sure no one was around before climbing the steps to the two obelisks. He bent down and pressed an engraving of a pelican with its beak touching its belly. It gave way under his touch. Then he pressed a triangle with an inner eye. The triangle also
gave way.

He walked to the other side of the monument, where there was a brass door. Surgens glanced over his shoulder and approached it. He pressed the third symbol, a sword pointing to the sky. There was a metal click, and the door opened. He slipped inside, and the door closed behind him. A six-foot-long rectangular opening in the floor held a flight of stairs descending deep into
the earth.

124

Rue de la Grange Batelière apartment

Present day

M
arcas stiffened when he finally saw the killer's face. A life-size portrait took up most of one of the walls. Smiling at Marcas was a man with blond hair. He looked like he was between forty and fifty. Marcas recognized the almond-shaped eyes that he had seen under the mask. The man was wearing a Freemason apron and holding a sword. And he was standing on a checkered floor between two pillars—Jachin and Boaz. Behind him were traditional symbols: a compass, a square, a skull, and a p
lumb line.

Marcas looked away from the painting. On another wall there were bookshelves holding dozens of books on Freemasonry, including volumes on symbolism and the higher degrees. A large map of Paris tunnels was on the t
hird wall.

Marcas went over to the desk. He opened the first drawer and found bills in Cuveliers's name, including one for a phone line for a second home in the Essonne. Two cell numbers were listed. Marcas put the papers in h
is pocket.

He opened the second drawer and found just three things: a video disk, a map, and a slip of paper with three symbols. He pulled them out and studied the symbols under the desk light. Something about the symbols resonated. He had seen them. But where? He looked at the map. The killer was headed someplace, but Marcas didn't ha
ve a clue.

He turned to the portrait and saw the faces of Paul, the innocent initiate, Robinson, and Joan. Marcas felt the blood rushing to
his head.

“So where are you, you arrogant bastard? When I find you…” Marcas stopped and shook his head. Despite all the man-hours he had spent chasing down this killer, what was the likely outcome? Cuveliers would plead insanity and end up in an asylum. He would escape justice, and his victims would never b
e avenged.

Anger ate away at Marcas. Revenge had nothing to do with justice. It was an obscene parody of what was right. Marcas
knew that.

The murderer had used it—he had used his alleged vengeance degree to justify his sick, murder
ous urges.

Marcas stared at the portrait for five lon
g minutes.

He pulled out one of the phone bills and entered the killer
's number.