“That can’t be.”
“Yep, for the most part, these are relics from the infamous anti-Freemason exhibit held in the Petit Palais in 1940. I checked.”
Marcas had to breathe deeply to control his anger. He was sure Darsan had assigned them this office space on purpose — a gratuitous jab.
“How could all of this still be around?” The exhibition was infamous. Every Mason knew about it. Posters at the entrance accused Freemasons of “ruining and pillaging the nation.” Inside, there were brochures, fliers, more posters, items seized from Masonic lodges, and a number of propaganda films aimed at Masons and Jews.
“I heard that General de Gaulle needed some persuading to legalize Freemason societies again,” Zewinski said. “Even today, you dudes aren’t all that popular. The building has some cupboards filled with bad memories from other periods too. On the second floor, there’s an electric dynamo from Algeria — you know, the kind used to torture people. And there’s an ingenious bathtub invented by the French Gestapo in their Rue Lauriston headquarters. It has a tipping chair. It could be that some of your buddies got baths in that.”
Marcas just looked around, feeling like a lost child. Zewinski’s eyes softened.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was obscene. Really, I find it unbearable too.”
“Stop!”
Her eyes hardened as quickly as they had softened. “No, you listen! I’m fed up with this stupid war between us. I have a friend’s murder to avenge.”
“And I, a sister’s,” Marcas said.
“I know. I’m tired. I can’t sleep. Sophie, she was—”
The pressure Zewinski had felt since Sophie’s murder was finally causing cracks in her veneer.
“More than a friend?” Marcas suggested.
The blood drained from Zewinski’s face.
“Don’t ever talk to me about before—”
“Before what?”
Zewinski jumped to her feet. “We’re not focused. You want the documents?”
She walked over to a shelf and grabbed a pile of papers. “Here they are. And please, stop looking at my legs. Every man I meet does that.”
Zewinski brushed past Marcas and spread the photocopies on the leather-topped desk. Marcas didn’t say anything. He sat down at the desk, noticing that his heart was beating much faster. Was it because of what he was about to see, or was it something else?
There were fifty or so sheets filled with signatures, seals, and diagrams. They meant nothing to a profane, but were a treasure for him. And for someone else: Sophie’s murderer.
Zewinski seemed to sense his excitement. “That’s not all,” she said. “Sophie wrote a commentary on these documents. I… Well, I didn’t give these to my superiors. Here they are, for you.”
She waved the papers in front of him so he’d take them.
“This is the last thing Sophie wrote.”
They looked at each other for a moment, and then Zewinski said, “I’ll leave you alone. I’m going to hit the gun range and blow off some steam.”
Marcas watched her leave. He felt thrown off by so much complexity. She was as solid as a rock — as tough as jade. The name fit — and she had a hard, unrelenting job. Yet was sensitive to details like men looking at her legs. He shook himself. He’d been staring at them too.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Zewinski smiled, and for an instant she looked shy. She walked away, closing the door behind her. Marcas settled into his chair, hoping to mentally distance himself from the nightmarish ghosts in the room and focus on the papers in front of him.
29
The train was at a standstill, having arrived at the Brussels station. The three Jews were staring at Bashir, their eyes filled with condescension, as if he were some boy caught in the act. The compartment door was closed, the curtains drawn. He was alone among potential enemies. How had these three gotten their hands on his client’s code name?
Bashir’s mind was reeling. Had Sol sent them? If they were Israeli agents, then they knew about Sol. Would they take the stone and kill him? But why were they dressed as Orthodox Jews, who stood out like imams in a crowded marketplace?
The only certainty was that he was more vulnerable than he’d ever been. The stone brought bad luck.
The eldest spoke. “We’re here to take care of your problems. So you’ll obey us calmly and quietly. You’ll stay here until we reach Paris. We’ll keep you safe.”
Bashir didn’t like the man’s tone.
“Who are you? Mossad? Shin Bet?”
The three men looked at each other and laughed. The eldest spoke again, sounding more affable this time. “Do we look like Jews, my friend?”
The Palestinian looked them up and down. These guys were crazy.
“Stop jerking me around. I asked you a question.”
The youngest stopped chuckling and spoke up. “Enough. We had our fun, but we’ve got work to do. Hans, show him.”
The man closest to the door of the compartment glanced into the aisle and turned to Bashir. He removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair, taking off a nearly invisible net with sidelocks attached. He used his other hand to pull off his beard. In less than a minute, he had morphed into a smooth-faced, ordinary-looking man, were it not for his piercing eyes.
Fake Jews. At least they weren’t the enemy.
One of the three spoke up. “You see, my friend, there’s no need to worry. Sol sent us. When you informed him that you would be late, he told us that you were in Amsterdam. We were assigned to your security.”
“I don’t need your help.”
The youngest turned to the others and said, “The problem with Arabs is arrogance. In the end, they get screwed by everyone. It’s no surprise the Jews have been crushing them for decades.”
Then he turned to Bashir, making a fist.
“Listen to me. Two pros started tailing you in Amsterdam, and one of them is on this train. He’s no friend of Palestine, I can tell you that. He’s probably an Israeli agent. We’ll take care of him. That’s why we’re wearing this shit disguise.”
The man sitting next to Bashir added, “Fifteen minutes before we arrive in Paris, we’ll get rid of him, and you’ll continue on to your meeting.”
“Will I be seeing you in Paris?”
Hans was conscientiously putting his beard and sidelocks back on. “No, our assignment stops here. We’ll take the next train out — in getups that are more civilized.”
The two others laughed again. Hans interrupted. “Now let’s play some cards to find out which of us is going to bump off the real Jew and help our oppressed Arab friend. We’ve got a good ninety minutes before we get there.”
Bashir felt the artery in his temple pulsing. Here he was, stuck in a train compartment with three fanatical racists. He was crazy with rage over the way they uttered the words “Jew” and “Arab.” Bashir was someone who made his enemies tremble, who had killed men the world over. Now he was obliged to put up with these pigs. Once he got paid for this gig, he’d avenge his humiliation.
What bothered him the most was that they had played him. And even though he had spotted the agent in the other car, he hadn’t picked up the slightest scent of the team following him in Amsterdam. His senses were dulling, and he had committed unforgivable errors.
His three helpmates seemed to have completely forgotten him as they slapped down their cards and exclaimed in Dutch.
30
Missed. Zewinski lined up her Glock, planted her feet, and distributed her weight. She held her breath and pulled the trigger. The bullet shot out of the barrel at more than sixty miles an hour, piercing the bicep of the human form on the paper target. Missed. She had targeted the elbow.