He didn’t want to tip off the operative, so he kept heading in the direction of the bar car. The man was most likely Mossad or Shin Bet. Too blond to be a Jew, but Bashir knew Israeli intelligence recruited many fair-haired agents to track former Nazis in South America. He had probably picked up the tail at the Jordanian border.
Bashir would have to give the man the slip as soon as they reached France. His client wouldn’t be happy that he had been followed. He waited a good fifteen minutes in the bar car and started returning to his seat. The man looked like he was sleeping — peaceful, his eyes closed, ear buds in place. Yes, but he did move his foot ever so slightly as Bashir passed, slowing to check his watch.
He settled back into his compartment with the three diamond merchants, who were busy talking in a mix of Dutch and Yiddish.
The Israeli operative wouldn’t be working alone. Others would be waiting at the Gare du Nord. From there, it would be nearly impossible to lose them. His only alternative was getting off the train in Brussels and trying to give Blondie the slip. He’d find another way to Paris, but it would make him even later.
When the train entered the suburbs of the Belgian capital, Bashir reached for his briefcase and began to get up. Then the Jew to his right push a piece of paper toward him. On it, a single word was written in large black letters — three of them: SOL.
27
Marcas was standing on the stairs in front of the ministry when Zewinski drove up in a metallic green MG.
“Nice wheels, Zewinski,” he said, getting into the car.
“Don’t stain the seat leather.”
“This is going to be fun,” Marcas muttered under his breath.
Zewinski revved the engine. The GPS showed a traffic jam near the Saint Augustin neighborhood, so she headed toward the Champs-Elysées. They hadn’t said another word to each other.
Finally, Zewinski spoke. “Let’s bury the hatchet, Marcas. I want to find Sophie’s murderer. At least talk to me while we drive. It looks like traffic is slow up there.”
“What would you like me to talk about?”
“Brief me on freemasonry. Not to convert me, but to give me a general overview. Like what do you do at those meetings?”
Antoine burst out laughing. “That is impossible to explain. It’s all in the ritual.”
“Likely story.”
“You know, it’s not all that mysterious. We Masons tend to have inquiring minds. We ask questions and do research. Some of us try to find solutions for pressing problems. I know of lodges that focus on education and immigration. They’re like think tanks. In other lodges, the brothers and sisters study symbolism. Just two weeks ago, I listened to a presentation on the color blue. It was fascinating.”
Zewinski turned to him, her eyes full of ridicule.
“The color blue? Whatever. So why are you called the Freemasons, and not the free bakers? Or the free butchers?”
She downshifted abruptly, and the engine screeched. Marcas braced himself against the dashboard. Where to start? He couldn’t possibly summarize the history of freemasonry in fifteen minutes.
“You need to go back to the year 1717, more specifically to the night of June 24, at an alehouse in the middle of London called the Goose and Gridiron Tavern. A small group of aristocrats, lawmen, and scholars founded the Grand Lodge of England. These men chose to adopt the vocabulary and philosophy of medieval construction guilds, because those artisans built the cathedrals, which symbolized the most advanced expression of divine representation found on earth. That’s the origin of the analogy: build man as you would build a cathedral. Enlightened minds found the idea attractive at a time when obscurantism reigned in Christianity. And masons were also architects, experts in geometry, which had been a sacred science since the Egyptians.”
“And were they already adept at keeping secrets back then?”
“Oh yes. Since the Middle Ages mason guilds had used signs of recognition and passwords, which the Freemasons then adopted. Secrecy protected the Masons from both political and religious powers, who looked at them unfavorably. Among the founders were members of the Royal Society, a strange group engaged in esoteric research, alchemy, and the kabbalah — all practices that smelled of brimstone to those in high places.”
Zewinski pounded the horn at a German tour bus blocking the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. “Damned tourist buses should be banned during rush hour.”
When she let up on the horn, Marcas told her that FDR was a Freemason. The bus moved, and Zewinski smirked at Marcas. He chose to believe she was gloating over her conquest of the bus and not making fun of him. He continued.
“Four years later, in 1721, a minister named James Anderson wrote the Constitutions of the Free-Masons, which explored the roots of freemasonry and standardized the rituals and other practices of Freemasons in London and Westminster.”
“Do go on. I get the feeling it just gets better.”
“According to Anderson, freemasonry originated in Biblical times, when key figures were said to have perpetuated hidden teachings based on what was called geometry and accepted as a philosophy of enlightenment. The teachings came from Egypt, were used and advanced by Euclid, and were preserved by the Jewish people during the Exodus to the Promised Land led by Moses.”
“What a tour!”
“Solomon had initiates to this science build his temple. The chief architect was Hiram Abiff, also known as Adoniram. He was the legendary founder of freemasonry. The Tower of Babel, the Hanging Gardens of Babylonia, and the dazzling genius of great scientists such as Pythagoras, Thales, and Archimedes, along with the Roman architect Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, are said to be linked to these Masonic teachings.”
“Is there any historical proof that these great secrets really existed?” Jade asked in a voice that sounded nearly serious.
“No, Anderson’s Constitutions was based on too much myth to be proved.”
“Well, that makes it easy. I can invent my own story too. Look at me. I’m descended from Cleopatra. I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“True enough, and many lodges around the world have worked on finding proof. According to Anderson, the chain of transmission of this knowledge was almost broken twice. The first time was when the Germanic Goths and Vandals invaded the Roman Empire. The second was when the disciples of Mohammed spread across Europe. The Frankish statesman Charles Martel was the one who is said to have saved freemasonry from annihilation.”
“Isn’t he the dude who stopped the Saracens at Poitiers?”
“Yes. Unfortunately some nationalistic extremists have embraced him as a founding father. Anyway, freemasonry flourished in France, when the cathedrals were being built. And then it made its way to Scotland and England in an even more secretive form, which lasted until 1717, the year freemasonry was officially founded. And there you have it.”
“You’ll jot down some crib notes for me, right?”
The MG swerved between two vans, sped along for about fifty yards, and jerked to a stop at a red light. They were at the Rue de Washington intersection.
“I bet you didn’t know that Washington, D.C., was designed by a Freemason,” Marcas said.
“No, in fact I didn’t,” Zewinski responded.
Marcas was afraid she was going to hit the horn again. His head was beginning to throb from all the starting and stopping. On both sides of the avenue, the sidewalks were flooded with pedestrians. And on the street, the traffic extended all the way to the roundabout. A classic Parisian traffic jam.