Marcas was quiet for a moment. “I don’t like that expression: the shadow ritual,” he finally said. “It sounds dodgy.”
34
The hotel lobby was buzzing. A pack of photographers was milling around, and three security guards were at the entry. Bashir grumbled as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
“Contact Tuzet at the Plaza Athénée. Ask for the keys to his Daimler.” Sol’s message had been enigmatic, to say the least. Bashir headed toward the reception desk. At the entrance to the bar, he saw a sign announcing that P.F. Tuzet was the day’s entertainment. Tuzet was apparently a French crooner who rehashed fifties ballads by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin. A singer as a contact? Why not?
He asked for the performer. The gracious blonde hostess smiled and nodded in the direction of a man standing at the bar, next to a beautiful woman of color. She was wearing a form-fitting black satin dress, and her hair was pulled back in a bun. Bashir headed toward the crooner, eager to dump the stone and disappear.
A flute of Champagne in her hand, the woman was singing.
Stroking the woman’s arm, Tuzet joined in. “Willow weep for me.” It was a classic that had been recorded many times over. His eyes shining, Tuzet took another sip of bourbon. What a showoff, Bashir thought.
“Sorry to interrupt your cooing, Mr. Tuzet, but we need to talk.”
The singer shot him a disdainful look.
“Boy, I’m not finished with my beauty here. Call me in ten years,” he said, turning back to the woman. “People are so rude today.”
Bashir cut him off, his tone threatening. “The keys to your Daimler, Tuzet.”
The crooner’s expression changed. He grinned. “You should have said so sooner. Don’t get huffy. Excuse me, my dear. I’ll be right back.”
Still smiling, the singer led Bashir out of the bar to a secluded spot near the elevators. He let a couple of people pass and grabbed Bashir’s arm. He dropped the smile.
“Dammit. You were supposed to arrive yesterday. I hung out all evening after my gig.”
Bashir pulled his arm away. “I don’t have to explain myself,” he said. “Here’s the package. My job is done.”
Bashir reached for the stone, but the singer stopped him.
“No, not here. Take the keys to my Daimler. It’s parked in the garage, near the service elevator. Put the package in the trunk, and leave the keys at the reception desk.”
An alarm went off in Bashir’s head. He didn’t like the arrangement. Parking lots were perfect for bumping someone off. He’d done it himself once or twice. The mistake in Amsterdam was one too many. There would be no faux pas in Paris.
“Sorry, buddy, but I’m not going into your garage. Take the package, and don’t keep your fans waiting.”
“I can’t. My orders were very clear.”
“I don’t give a shit about your orders. I did my job.”
With that, Bashir handed him the bag containing the Tebah Stone as if he were handing off a bag of garbage. He turned around and focused on vanishing.
He was sure Sol had other employees in the hotel. Three in Amsterdam, so there would be at least as many in Paris. He had no illusions. He knew that having been followed made him an unacceptable risk to Sol. Bashir would have done the same in his place.
He scanned the lobby. A man with the square shoulders of a wrestler was approaching him, looking hostile. Another man in a gray suit who had been standing near the entrance was walking toward him, as well, making eye contact with the other man. It was a trap.
All of the sudden, shouts and cries rose up from the crowd in front of the hotel. Photographers dashed toward the doors, pushing everything and everyone out of their way.
Amid the excitement, a flashy Italian actress appeared, followed by two bodyguards and three assistants, a cell phone glued to her ear. The hit man in the gray suit was caught by surprise and shoved aside by one of the star’s bodyguards. Bashir rushed to the entrance, knocked down a fan, and spilled out the door.
He had gotten past the security guards but now faced a pack of screaming fans taking pictures with their cell phones. A human wall. He looked back. The two goons were still inside, trying to get out.
He took a deep breath and rushed the crowd like a bull charging into an arena. He punched a teenager in the stomach. The boy howled and crumpled over. Bashir elbowed left and right, stepping on toes and kicking shins. The cries of pain were lost in the overall hysteria. In fewer than twenty seconds, he had made his way through the crowd. But the game was not over. The others would follow his lead.
He ran across the Avenue Montaigne and flattened himself inside a porte cochère between two streetlamps. They had just made it onto the street. They didn’t seem to see him. He heaved a sigh. Ten more seconds, and he would have been dead meat. He’d just wait for them to give up, and then he’d vanish.
Suddenly a voice rang out of the intercom just five inches from his head. “Sir, are you a resident or a visitor?”
Bashir jumped, glanced around, and spotted a camera above the door. An infrared detector had signaled the security guard.
The voice deepened. “You cannot loiter in front of this doorway. You must leave, or I’ll call the police.”
“I’m just waiting for some friends.”
“Wait for them on the sidewalk. This is private property. This is your last warning.”
Across the street, he saw one of his assailants pointing in his direction. It was too late.
35
Marcas had left Zewinski at the black-ops offices and was heading toward the Grand Orient headquarters on the Rue Cadet. He wanted to look into the shadow ritual. He had called ahead to tell the worshipful master that he would be coming, and the man met him at the entrance.
“Tell me, Antoine, I hear you’re in charge of investigating the murder of our sister in Rome.”
This was the first time the worshipful master had broached the subject of his police work, and Marcas was surprised that the man knew exactly what he was doing.
“You have eyes and ears everywhere, don’t you?” Marcas said.
The master smiled. He’d headed up the judiciary brotherhood for ten years.
“I also heard a rumor about you answering to a tough-as-nails security chief who’s not too crazy about you. And the interior minister has assigned Darsan to follow the case. He’s not really a friend of ours either.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s got a reputation as a hard ass. I think he’s a bit of an anarchist.”
Marcas’s laugh echoed in the hall.
“Reactionary or anarchist? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Between the two of them — Darsan and that special agent — you’ve got your work cut out. Later on, I’ll introduce you to one of our brothers. He’s pretty high up—”
“Just how high?”
“He’s the official grand archivist of our jurisdiction, Marc Jouhanneau.”
“Jouhanneau, you say?”
“You know how it works. Put on your best brotherly smile, and listen attentively. He’ll be here later. In the meantime, the archive conservator is waiting for you.”
A few minutes later, Marcas was standing in front of hundreds of boxes on gray metal shelves in a large room on the seventh floor of the Grand Orient headquarters. Each box had a large label in black Cyrillic script. The seals on most of boxes had been broken. They had traveled from Paris to Berlin, to Moscow, and then back to Paris — an incredible journey of found memories.