The Lafayette Sword (31 page)

125

Champ de Mars, seventh arrondissement

Present day

T
he taxi dropped off Cuveliers at the Eiffel Tower. He quickly scanned the tower from bottom to top and then looked just left of it, where he found what he was looking for. He tossed the sports bag over his shoulder an
d set out.

The cream-colored public toilets were hidden behind trees so as not to ruin the view. Cuveliers opened the door and slipped in. The stall was tiny and smelled li
ke bleach.

He opened the bag and removed the flashlight, knife, rope, cap, and white work suit, which he put on over his clothes. He checked his image in the mirror. Yes, he could pass for a City of Paris maintenance
worker.

The simple emblem on the work suit was always enough to get him through. No one really paid attention to him anyway—at least not when he was doing his maintenance-man gig. The Masons were all wrong about equality and fraternity. Equality and fraternity were empty words that allowed them to ignore the fact that they belonged to the most closed and powerful of all societies. But he knew the truth. The Masons were arrogant and condescending. He doubted that any Freemason would so much as look at him while he was sweeping up th
eir trash.

He had to purify Freemasonry, and that was what he intended to do when he was the master of gold. The killer added a tool belt to his costume. He returned his flashlight, knife, and rope to the bag and slipped his cell phone into h
is pocket.

Outside, he walked confidently among the tourists admiring the lit-up tower. His phone vibrated.
A message.

126

Rue de la Grange Batelière apartment

Present day

T
he killer hadn't answered. Marcas had left a message that he now regretted. The killer knew he was still alive. He was once again a target. A witness to eliminate. What an ass
he'd been.

It was the kid's room that had thrown him off his game. He flashed back to the movie theater, when the killer threatened hi
s own son.

Marcas stormed out of the apartment and ran down the stairs to blow off steam. He didn't even know wh
ere to go.

When he reached the street, his ph
one rang.

Jack Winthrop reached the meeting place. It was the first time he'd seen the Eiffel Tower up close, and the iron giant balanced between the sky and the earth stopped him in h
is tracks.

He glanced around. Nothing but scattered groups of tourists speaking in different tongues—it was a real tower of Babel. He carefully scanned the immediate environment. He didn't want any bad surprises just hours before he submitted his re
signation.

His eyes stopped on a man in a white uniform who was standing among the tourists. Jack looked closely. The uniform had an emblem—City of Paris. Okay, he was a city employee, one of those dudes who kept the place clean. It was an odd hour for him to be working, but maybe he was putting in some
overtime.

Still, Jack didn't take it as face value. He got closer to the man, who was now holding a phone to his ear. He turned his head slightly, and the tower lights illuminated his features. Jack stiffened and pulled out his phone. He had to warn Auror
a Source.

“My dear brother Marcas, you're a miracle of nature. So you made it out of the Statue of
Liberty.”

“That's right. And now I know everything about you. So where
are you?”

“Dumb question. I'm disappointed. You broke into my place like a thief, di
dn't you?”

“What makes you th
ink that?”

“How else would you get m
y number?”

“I saw your son's room, C
uveliers.”

There was
silence.

“My son, Alex?” the killer finally responded. “What? You would take your revenge out on him? What kind of cop
are you?”

Marcas listened carefully. It sounded like Cuveliers was i
n a crowd.

“No, I would never hurt a brother or his family. You're initiated, the same
way I am.”

“Initiated, yes, but not like you. I have a mission, and I'm going to accomplish it. For that matter, I'm almo
st there.”

Marcas thought he heard English being spoken in the b
ackground.

“Don't you have anything to say now that I'm so close to the secret? Just a stone's th
row away?”

“You're crazy, C
uveliers.”

Then, as if the killer had held the phone away from his ear, Marcas distinctly heard a female voice: “The lights are flickering. Mag
nificent!”

Marcas looked at his watch. It was the top of the hour. The killer was at the Eiffel Tower, which lit up at night, and every hour on the hour, the lights flashed for fiv
e minutes.

The killer's cold voice rang out. “As soon as I have the secret, Marcas, I will kill you. Come find me if
you dare.”

127

Champ de Mars

Minutes later

H
e would soon know the absolute secret of gold, the philosopher's stone, and the projection powder. Yet he felt confused. Why had the cop brought up h
is family?

No, no more questions. He had to pull himself together. He had to finish hi
s mission.

He arrived in front of the monument dedicated to human rights. It looked like an Egyptian temple, with the same engravings that were on the pillar in New York. He recalled a verse from Charles B
audelaire.

Nature is a temple in which livi
ng pillars

Sometimes give voice to confu
sed words.

Undoubtedly. But he had heard the message of the pillars, pulled the truth from the illusion, and vanquished the obscure forces that had dared to cross his path. He walked along the monument and touched the three symbols: the pelican, the triangle, and the sword. The do
or opened.

Cuveliers was immediately drawn to the stairs. The door closed behind him, and he started creeping into the crypt. His heart was pounding, but he was an Elu, a chosen one, the one to whom the secret had been promised. He made his way down the stairs, finally reaching the
last step.

The room was barely lit. Each of the four walls emitted a beam of light, precise and narrow as a blade. The four beams met in the center of the space, where an odd structure stood, and golden dust danced i
n the air.

Cuveliers recognized the alchemy oven, the athanor, with its glass center for making the philosopher's stone, the ultimate substance that could transform any metal into pure gold. He rushed forward, hungry to find the treasure inside. But the athanor
was empty.

“What did you think? That the stone would still be there?” The voice resounded in the tomb-
like room.

Cuveliers backed up against the wall. A man came out of the shadows. He had white hair and the sharp eyes of a pre
dator cat.

“Who are you?” Cuveliers yelled, pulling out
his knife.

“You know very well who I am. Just as I know that you are the Cenevières heir. I've known everything about your family for a very long time. And here you are in a sanctuary like non
e other.”

Marcas rushed out to the street and hailed a taxi. “The Eiffel Tower. Quick.” He tapped his foot on the floor of the vehicle, willing it to
go faster.

“What's the rush, buddy?” the driver asked, not bothering to look over his
shoulder.

“Nothing, just get there.” Wild thoughts were coursing through Marcas's brain. He'd get the guy, come hell or high water. He didn't care what the legal system did with him after that. A second later, the symbols he had found in the man's apartment flashed in his mind. There was something about them. Wh
at was it?

Of course! He had seen the symbols on the pillars under the Statue of Liberty. And he had seen them in another familiar place too—the Monument of Human Rights. He had studied it extensively as a Freemason. He had even presented a pa
per on it.

Marcas decided to go with his gut. When the taxi finally stopped, he leaped out, and instead of heading to the Eiffel Tower, he started running toward the Monument of Huma
n Rights.

“You're lying,” Cuveliers said, tightening his grip on
his knife.

“No, this laboratory has been around for centuries. This is where Nicolas Flamel did his alchemy many years after deciphering
The Book of Adam
. At the time, the place was peaceful, far from the agitation of the city. The house was torn down when the alchemist died, and the cellar was sealed, left to time. When the descendants decided to contribute toward the construction of the Statue of Liberty, the directions to this place were engraved on one of the underground pillars, as
you know.”

“You're lying again. That pillar was engraved more than a century ago, and this monument only dates
to 1989.”

“The monument is a replica of the engraving on the pillar under the Statue of Liberty. It's a marker, a construction to cover Flamel's laboratory. The woman is Flore de Cenevières, and the child symbolizes knowledge. The man facing them is none other than Nicola
s Flamel.”

“I don't believe you. Where is
the gold?”

The man pointed up. “Don't you see the message? Can't you understand the signs? The Declaration of Human Rights stands aside the gold, aside all the gold in the world. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I spent much time with the architect charged with building the
monument.”

Cuveliers took a step toward the man and waved his knife. “One last time, who
are you?”

The man rubbed his face. “I am the fourth descendant, the one who holds the entire secret. I am the living memory of the interwoven destinies of our
families.”

Cuveliers laughed. “You're nothing but an old senile goat ready for th
e morgue.”

“Much less than you. Your blood carries folly. Folly that goes back centuries, to a time when Flore de Cenevières was raped by a devil who also tortured her. And today, nearly seven hundred years after Flamel discovered the philosopher's stone, that folly c
omes out.”

Cuveliers was breathing hard. He'd overcome so many obstacles, found so many secrets, spilled so much blood, only to be stopped at the la
st moment.

“Where is the philosopher's stone that transfo
rms gold?”

André Surgens walked toward the empt
y athanor.

“There is very little of the stone left, and I will tell you why. Never during the Age of Enlightenment, when our brotherhood was founded, did the brethren find it. All they did was protect Flamel'
s legacy.”

“You're lying! I want the philosopher
's stone!”

The old man let out a
dry laugh.

“I see the greed in your eyes. For centuries, they did nothing but pass on the message of the
Book of Adam
, Flamel's message, without knowing the key. However, the brothers in each of the four families inherited a small quantity of the philosopher's stone, a kind of proof, handed down from Flamel. And they
used it.”

“To
do what?”

“To do good. The gold was not meant to spill more blood or flatter base desires. Eventually, the four descendants became Freemasons. At the time of Brother Lafayette, they financed the American Revolution. It was for the beautiful ideal of liberty. Then they were involved in the French Revolution, but pulled out during the terror that followed. They chose to build hospitals, schools, libraries, and monuments you know about: the Statue of Liberty with its underground pillars and the Eiff
el Tower.”

Surgens took
a breath.

“Little by little, there was less of the stone. And then there were two world wars. The families lost contact and settled into just passing on the secret. Then you came and stoked the
mystery.”

Cuveliers felt his head spinning. He was sweating. He leaned against the wall as images flashed in his mind. His son. His wife. Dead. Their bodies bleeding out on the floor. Then a room with no furniture in an asylum. He chased the image away and glared at the old man. It was his fault. He needed to focus on the gold. That's all he
had left.

“Tell me where I can find the stone, or I'll slash you
r throat.”

The man waved his hand. “Look through the opening in the wall to your left. What remains is hidden there. A half kilo. Enough to produce several tons
of gold.”

Cuveliers ran to the opening. He looked through an embedded periscope and saw nothing but the illumina
ted tower.

“What are you talking about? All I see is that hunk
of iron.”

Surgens shook his head. “One of your ancestors helped to build that tower. He could climb the beams and not get dizzy. Paul de Lambre's great-grandfather was an engineer in Gustave Eiffel's office. Both were Freemasons in the Alsace-Lorraine Lodge. The remaining stone is at the tip, hidden in the highest point of th
e tower.”

Marcas rushed down the stairs and into the room, only to find Cuveliers with a knife pressed to the throat of a hostage. Who was the man with w
hite hair?

“One more step, and he's dead,” Cuveliers warned. “So, you guessed whe
re I was.”

“Yeah, Cuveliers, I followed my hunch. Listen, you may make it out of here, but the game's almost over. We're o
n to you.”

“So that's what you think? You couldn't be more mistaken.” He looked away from Marcas and focused on his hostage, breathing into his ear. “How can I get the stone,
old man?”

Marcas was amazed at how the hostage was keeping his composure. He wasn't shaking or even breaking a sweat. He wanted to tackle Cuveliers, but he di
dn't dare.

“It's in the room on the top floor,” the man said. “In a sma
ll trunk.”

Cuveliers dragged his hostage toward the door, the knife still at his throat. “Now this is what we're going to do, inspector. You're going to stay exactly where you are, and this old man and I are going to leave—together. Make one move toward me, and he's dead, lik
e I said.”

Marcas watched, feeling helpless as Cuveliers dragged the man out with him. He heard a diabolical laugh, and the door slam
med shut.

Andre Surgens didn't put u
p a fight.

“I should cut you into little pieces, but I don't have time,” Cuveliers said. Still holding onto him, Cuveliers pulled back his leg and gave Surgens's knee a hard kick. Surgens heard a sinister crack and felt a stabbing pain that made him see stars. He fell to the ground and watched as Cuveliers ran off. Managing to catch his breath, he dragged himself to the steps of the monument and pulled out his cell phone. It was time to activate
Winthrop.