The Lafayette Sword (32 page)

At that moment, the police investigator rushed out. He knelt down and quickly assessed h
is status.

“Don't waste any time here,” Surgens said. “Go after him. I'll
be fine.”

128

The Eiffel tower

Minutes later

C
uveliers was running as fast as his legs would carry him. But a headache was ripping his skill to pieces. The doctors had warned him. This happened when he got too excited. He needed to calm down. He'd never be able to complete his mission if he couldn't think straight. He did his best to put the cop who was pursuing him out of his mind, and he focused on his breathing
as he ran.

“Breathe in, breathe out. That's it. Keep going.” The tower, lit by a billion lights, was a glorious beacon. It would guide him as he raced through the shadows of the Cham
p de Mars.

That child with the odd hat: he had seen him as he stumbled down the monument steps with Surgens. The kid had throw
n him off.

For a nano-second he had thought it wa
s his son.

And there was his wife. She was holding her arms out t
o the boy.

But no, it wasn't possible. It didn't make sense. He'd left them in the apartment. Those visions were just th
e statues.

He was getting closer to the tower, and he still didn't hear any footsteps behind him. He could do this. There were clusters of tourist under the arches. He spotted the elevator, bought a ticket, and climbed in. On the way up, he watched the ground move farther and farther away. Then he saw him and tried to stifle a shriek. The cop had spotted him. He had c
aught up.

A layer of fog had risen in the north and was covering the city, arrondissement by arrondissement. It would soon reach the tower and cover it entirely, as it had
Trocadéro.

Marcas rushed between the pillars as he searched for the killer. “First the Statue of Liberty, then the Monument of Human Rights, now the Eiffel Tower,” he muttered. “The guy' a real to
ur guide.”

He pulled out his phone and called Cuveliers again. It went to
voicemail.

Then he saw him. He was in the
elevator.

The Sword of Ligh
t was his.

Marcas started rushing up the stairs to the second floor, where he could catch the next lift going all the way up. He figured the killer was just minutes ahe
ad of him.

Fog was engulfing the tower. Marcas couldn't see the last two
stories.

The killer got out of the lift on the second floor and hurried toward the elevator that would take him the rest of the way. Fog was everywhere, and he couldn't see even six feet in front of him. His head felt like it was in a vise. He couldn't stand it mu
ch longer.

He ran into a construction area filled with pallets, spools of wire cable, and heavy equipment and realized he couldn't reach the elevators the way he was going. As he turned around, he felt someone grab his shoulder. He found himself face-to-face with a tall man who was smiling at him. Another damned tourist—either American or English—who wanted directions. He pulled away, but the man caught
him again.

Before he could open his mouth, the man punched him in the gut. The killer fell to his knees, the taste of blood filling h
is mouth.

Jack Winthrop felt no pity for this man. He would carry out his orders. First he glanced around to make sure they were alone. Then he punched the man in the mouth. The target p
assed out.

A voice came out o
f the fog.

“Stop, and m
ove away.”

Winthrop turned around and saw the man he'd been following in New York. Aurora Source hadn't menti
oned this.

“I'm a police officer,” the man said. “He's wanted fo
r murder.”

The target came too. He shook his head and stood up. Then he gave Winthrop a violent kick and pounded him on the head with his flashlight. Winthrop collapsed on the construct
ion cones.

129

The Eiffel tower

Present time

“S
aved by my brother Marcas. How ironic,” Cuveliers said, waving
the knife.

“Set down the weapon. You have no
way out.”

“I'm not finished. I'm going to stab you and get rid of this asshole while I'm at it. Then I'll get what I came for, what's rightfu
lly mine.”

Trying to get at each other, Marcas and the killer danced around the cones and the pallets. Cuveliers was quick, but Marcas's reflexes were sharp, and he managed to block the first blows. He moved in to disarm the man, but was sliced in the shoulder in the process. He pulled back and doubled down. Cuveliers kicked him in
the face.

Marcas fell on his side, and the killer stood over him, t
riumphant.

Scrambling backward, Marcas spit out blood and glared at his opponent. “You're nothing, Cuveliers. Everything about you is fake, not even fool's gold. You were never a Freemason. Your family is dead. You're crazy. Remem
ber that.”

“No! I know
who I am.”

Marcas saw the fury in Cuveliers's eyes. But now he was swaying and waving his arms, as if he were protecting himself from an onslaught of a
ttackers.

“No! Don't come any closer! All of you, with your gold faces, s
tay back!”

Marcas looked around. There was no one else. Who was he talking to? The ghosts of hi
s victims?

“Look them in the face, Cuveliers. Go on! Joan, Ray, Paul, the initiate! Look at them,” Marcas ordered, still trying to get out from unde
r the man.

Cuveliers's eyes were wide in recognition. “No, no!
Get back!”

“Who else do you see? How many others were there? It began at home didn't it? There was no burglar, was there? You murdered your wife
and son.”

Cuveliers stiffened and looked down, his gaze suddenly clear—and ice cold. He grabbed Marcas by the collar, pulled him up, and starting dragging him toward th
e railing.

“That's right! I killed them. And now I'm going to
kill you.”

Cuveliers belly punched Marcas. He crumpled but still managed to grab the barrier. Then the killer crushed his wrist with his flashlight, and Marc
as let go.

“Look at the view, brother,” Cuveliers said, holding Marcas over the railing by the back of his jacket. Marcas tried to kick and elbow the man, but he couldn't break the m
an's grip.

Suddenly he heard a crack in the air. The kill
er let go.

Straightening up, Marcas saw his savior on his knees, holding a whip that was wrapped around Cuveliers's shoulders. The killer grabbed the whip and pulled on it. The unknown man collapsed again and lost consciousness. Marcas seized the moment and kicked Cuveliers in the side with all his strength, causing him to screech and double over. Spotting a nearby spool of steel wire, he grabbed a length and wrapped it around the man's shoulders thr
ee times.

Cuveliers struggled, managing to punch Marcas and knock him over. He sprang to his feet and tried to unwrap the cable, now around his neck. “You will die,” he rasped. “I am the elected one, the Sword o
f Light.”

Marcas rolled onto his back, bent his knees, and aimed his feet at the killer's gut. He thrust with all his might, propelling the man backward and over
the rail.

There was a shriek of terror. The wire on the spool whirred and then stopped with a harsh snap. There was silence. Marcas rushed to the edge and looked out into the fog, where the wannabe brother was swinging by
his neck.

130

Seventh arrondissement

The next day

T
he taxi stopped at the intersection of the Avenue de La Motte-Picquet and the Avenue Frédéric Le Play. The driver got out and opened the passenger-side door. He helped André Surgens out of the car. Surgens put his cane down and leaned on it while he handed the driver a crum
pled bill.

“Will you be o
kay, sir?”

“Fine. I've seen worse in my day. T
hank you.”

The wind was rising from the west, and the skies were threatening rain. Surgens walked slowly toward the Champ de Mars. Before returning to Switzerland, he wanted to contemplate three symbols that he
held dear.

He reached the monument dedicated to the Declaration of Human Rights and paid homage to Flore de Cenevières. The door was closed for good now, and the laboratory would be
forgotten.

When he arrived at the iron giant, Surgens gazed at the crowds from the world over, all races, all languages, all beliefs, gathered in a sin
gle place.

Could Mr. Eiffel have possibly imagined that his great achievement would be so admired for so long—that it would become a symbol for the city itself? When construction began, three hundred sculptors, writers, and architects petitioned the commissioner of the Paris Exposition to halt construction. They called the tower ridiculous and said it would dominate Paris like a giant smokestack. And even after construction was completed, bullheaded politicians and editors did everything they could to retire the Iron Lady. But Eiffel prevailed, and the to
wer stood.

Surgens overheard a guide recounting the story of how the tower was built. Almost all the details were there. He smiled. It had taken centuries to get to the point where men and women could forget their differences and admire beauty and one
humanity.

“But a mystery remains,” the guide said. “How did Eiffel manage to make this forest of metal both resistant and
flexible?”

Before the answer could come, a chorus of oohs and ahs rose from the crowd. The tower h
ad lit up.

She really was beautiful, dressed in her go
lden robe.

Yes, her golden robe. A robe of alchemical gold in the kilometers and kilometers of beams, eighteen thousand individual pieces of metal, and two and a half million rivets on the 108 stories and 1,710 steps. It was in the cables and under the five billi
on lights.

Pure, alchemical gold, eternally allied with iron. He could almost feel the subtle vibrations of the marvel
ous metal.

Gustave Eiffel, a Freemason brother, had wanted to build his tower to the glory of progress, to the triumph of science and reason. Three hundred meters high, it was the tallest man-made structure in the world at the time of construction, two times taller than the pyramids, higher than the highest cathedral, the eighth marvel of
the world.

Surgens felt someone behind him. He turned around. “Ah, Inspector Marcas. Thank you for meeting
me today.”

“It's my pleasure. How
are you?”

“A bit of a limp, that's all. And what about y
our case?”

“We'll be closing it quietly. And how is your associate, Mr.
Winthrop?”

“He's back home in Pensacola. I think he wants to submit his resignation, but I'm hoping I can talk him out of it. He's too good at what he does. So, Inspector, why don't we walk over to the Grenelle Bridge and visit the Statue of Liberty's little sister. That is—if it doesn't bring back too many bad memories for you. And then, if you'll humor an old man, I'd like to take you s
omewhere.”