Jade couldn’t decide how she felt about Marcas. The man irritated her but intrigued her, too, with his strange mix of smugness and mystery.
Argh, she was coming off like a Harlequin heroine.
The stories of esoteric Freemason murders perplexed her. There were so many gray areas in the case, nothing could be eliminated. And Marcas was like a fish in water when it came to secret societies. There was no trusting him. She couldn’t even be sure that her contacts in intelligence weren’t connected with the Freemasons. The hoodwinkers were everywhere.
Pure paranoia. It was hard not to be paranoid. But her orders were clear. She had to work with Marcas. Sophie’s face wasn’t so clear anymore. Her murder felt like nothing more than a bad dream. Yet her tortured body lay in a cold tomb in the suburbs of Paris. It was very real. Sophie never should have joined those tricksters, with all their hocus-pocus. Jade had one more reason to hate the bastards.
But orders were orders.
She started to cross the avenue and hadn’t made it halfway when her head began to spin. She could see the other side, but her senses were dulling. The sidewalk seemed to go on infinitely, like the horizon. She stumbled along like a sleepwalker. She was having trouble breathing. She could hardly keep her eyes focused.
Jade panicked. Controlling her body was vital to her job, and the slightest change in perception turned on all the alarms. She tried to apply the advice her instructors had repeated time and again during her training: breathe deep, empty your mind, chase away the fear.
She had panicked once before. It was during a dive simulating an underwater commando attack. When she had set a fake magnetic explosives on the hull of a ship, her regulator had malfunctioned, and she couldn’t get any oxygen. It was the nightmare of nightmares. She was losing consciousness in slow motion, knowing full well the inevitable outcome. The instructor had saved her in the nick of time.
But today, in the middle of the fifteenth arrondissement, surrounded by a bustling crowd, nobody was offering any help.
Her leg muscles were slowly stiffening. Her arms were numb. She didn’t have any feeling in her mouth either. Anxiety, moreover, was paralyzing her ability to think, as it had in the dark, muddy waters off Normandy. She couldn’t control herself. She was failing. She was going to collapse on the concrete, and nobody would lift a finger.
As she struggled to reach the sidewalk, she felt a supportive arm slide around her back and clutch her side. A miracle. Someone in this anonymous crowd had seen that she was in trouble.
“Don’t worry, miss. I’ve got you.”
It was a woman’s voice. Friendly, warm. She had to get control again. She saw a café just across the street.
“Help me get over to that café. I’m just a little tired.”
The woman propped Jade up and held her tight to keep her from falling. She couldn’t see her guardian angel’s face. All she perceived was a sweet-smelling perfume, a vaguely familiar fragrance. The panic receded. She felt safe.
The voice was smooth. “Lucky for you I was right behind you.”
Cars were honking. Jade and her rescuer were in the street, blocking traffic. Jade vaguely perceived a taxi driver angrily gesticulating at them.
She let herself be led. Saved at the last minute. What luck. She’d have to get the woman’s address to thank her. Who would believe it: the special ops commando fainting in the middle of Paris. What a joke.
A young man with a thin strip of a beard approached them. “Do you need some help? Your friend’s not looking so good—”
Jade wanted to answer, but the woman was faster.
“No, it’s nothing. She’s diabetic. I have to give her some insulin. I’m parked right over there. Thank you for offering.”
Then the woman addressed her directly. “Come on, Jade, help me out here.”
Jade’s mind was reeling. Who was this stranger who claimed to be a friend and knew her name? And what was the bullshit about being diabetic? She tried to talk, but nothing came out.
A wave of terror rolled through her body. She was as vulnerable as an infant. She saw the young man walk off. She watched the café tables begin to recede. She wanted to reach out and grab a chair, but they were too far away.
“Le… Let me go. I—”
Her body wasn’t responding. She’d been drugged. All she could sense was the heavy perfume.
That perfume. The woman she had elbowed her way around. The scratch on her arm. A classic maneuver.
“Don’t worry, Jade. Everything is going to be all right. I’m going to take you to a place where you can rest. We have so much to talk about.”
“I… I don’t know you… Leave me…”
Passersby were scowling at her, as if she were drunk. The door of a black car opened, and she was pushed into the backseat. She was now entirely paralyzed and couldn’t make out colors or shapes anymore. Everything was becoming a grayish blur.
The woman’s sensual voice resonated in her head. “Rest assured, Jade. The drug will take you away to dreamland.”
She felt a kiss on her forehead. A wave of panic rolled through her paralyzed body. The perfume was making her queasy.
“Sleep well. Oh, I did forget to introduce myself. I’m Joana, your new friend. I hope we’ll get along during the little time you have left.”
Jade fell into an ink-black sleep.
DEBIR
The holy of holies
on the western side of Solomon’s temple,
where the Ark of the Covenant was kept
I sent my soul into the invisible,
Some letter of that after-life to spell.
And by and by my soul returned to me
And answered, “I myself am heaven and hell.”
45
Death. A quick one, to be done once and for all with this unbearable suffering of his flesh and soul. The gardener’s third session was the worst. The torturer started on his remaining fingers, one at a time, tip first, multiplying the torment. His left hand was nothing more than an open wound, covered with a makeshift bandage offered by the gardener in his great mercy.
And then Sol showed up. He hadn’t pictured an old man like that, with hair as white as snow and ramrod-straight posture despite his age. He wanted to know if Bashir had picked up any documents with the Tebah Stone, and if so, where they were.
Exhausted and out of his mind with pain, the Palestinian was ready to confess whatever they wanted to hear so that the persecution would end. He told him the locker number at the Gare du Nord, hoping for some leniency. In vain. Sol promised that the gardener would not disturb him anymore, but his life would end in this cellar.
If, however, he had a final wish before dying, Sol would try to oblige. Bashir asked for something to ease the pain, along with a brew of the magic mushrooms he had purchased in Amsterdam, which were hidden in the double lining of his luggage. He was given a light morphine derivative that did not relieve his suffering.
A few hours or minutes later — he no longer had any notion of time — Sol returned with a scalding liquid that Bashir drank to the last drop, holding the cup with his right hand.
“Wait until the mushrooms take effect before you kill me.”
He was short of breath, but he had enough strength to add, “You bastard, I did my job, and this is how you pay me.”
Sol patted Bashir’s sweat-soaked hair. “The Jews followed you. The risk was too high. It’s nothing personal. I have a lot of admiration for the Palestinian cause.”
“Stop the bullshit! You’re just a damned Nazi.”