Marcas returned to the doorway, where the conservator — a man in his forties, his beard speckled with white — was standing.
“It’s moving to see these archives when you know their history,” Marcas said. “How long will you need to go through all this information?”
“Years, probably. Fortunately, the Russians made it easier by doing an exhaustive inventory. Starting in 1953, Russian government workers studied our documents page by page, probably without understanding their scope. Perhaps they only translated the work done by the Germans.
“What were they looking for?”
“They were looking for political documents and trying to understand how lodges were organized. They might have suspected that we had our own spy network. The communists didn’t like us much.”
Marcas nodded. “It’s not easy being a Mason. Between the Nazis and fascists, the communists, the reactionary Catholics, the monarchists, and all nature of nationalists, it’s a wonder that we’ve managed to survive.”
“Yes, it is hard to please everyone.”
That was an understatement, Marcas thought. “Or anyone, for that matter,” he said.
The archivist continued. “These documents have little political value. They’re mostly of historical interest. And in that respect, some of the papers are priceless. Look at this.”
The conservator handed Marcas a yellowed piece of paper covered in fine, old-style writing.
List of New Officers, Loge des IX Soeurs.
From the 20th day of the 3rd month of the year 1779.
Worshipful Master — Dr. Franklin
Marcas’s eyes widened. “That’s Benjamin Franklin’s lodge. Remarkable.”
The conservator smiled. “Makes you think, doesn’t it. But what can I do for you?”
Marcas began by asking about any suspicious deaths similar to Hiram’s murder. The conservator scratched his beard.
“You should look at the book that inventories the Russian boxes. If you find what you’re looking for, give me a call, I’m in the office down the hall.
Marcas sat down and opened the binder. The inventory was a real hodgepodge, with lodge receipts from 1930, presentations from 1925, and meeting minutes from 1799. He patiently went down the list. His eyes were stinging a half hour later, and his legs had fallen asleep. That was when he found an odd listing: Dissertation by Brother André Baricof, from the Grenelle Étoilée Lodge, about Freemasons persecuted throughout history. Dated 1938. Series 122, section 12789.
Ten minutes later, Antoine had a large box in front of him. He broke the string that secured the box and took off the musty cover. Inside, he found folders containing manuscripts and tables filled with numbers. He went through them one by one until he found what he was looking for.
He took out the Baricof file and set the box on the floor next to the desk. The file was a dozen pages long. The man, a newspaper journalist, had drawn up a morbid list of Freemasons who had experienced violent deaths. Marcas went through it quickly. On page four, his heart skipped a beat.
There’s been considerable concern among our eldest brothers regarding murders identical to Hiram’s slaying. The first ones are said to have taken place in the eighteenth century in the Westphalia region of Germany. Twelve German brothers from the same lodge were found dead in a clearing. They bore stigmata corresponding with Hiram’s death: dislocated shoulders, broken necks, and crushed skulls. Police investigators linked the slayings to a worrisome secret organization led by the Saint Vehme, which was composed of judges and army officers and dedicated to punishing enemies of Christianity. The authorities, however, never made any arrests.
I found similar murders, also in Germany, right after World War I. The first ones took place in Munich after the failure of the Spartakiste revolution, when communist extremists tried to take power in Bavaria. The Oberland, a right-wing militia led by a racist brotherhood called the Thule, retaliated. Several Freemasons were among the hundreds of people executed. The brothers were slain in accordance with the same ritual. There is evidence of another murder, in Berlin this time: a worshipful master of the Goethe Lodge who was left to die on a sidewalk with the same blows to his body. It would be interesting to know if the Nazis continued these practices, but since lodges have been banned, and detention camps have opened up, we don’t have any more contact with brothers over there.
The text went on to explore the tense relationship with fascist regimes. Marcas was adding to the notes he had started in Rome. There was no longer any room for doubt. It had all started in Germany and had continued over the course of centuries. The rite was a bloody parody of the death of the most respected Freemason, Hiram.
36
Bashir sprinted past the boutiques on the Avenue Montaigne, heading toward the Champs-Elysées. Famous names — Cerruti, Chanel, Prada — flashed before his eyes. He shoved aside a group of young women. The Rond-Point Marcel-Dassault was about three hundred yards away.
The two goons were closing in on him.
Bashir dashed to the other side of the avenue as the light turned red, leaving the two men stuck on the other side of traffic. This gave him time to reach the restaurant l’Avenue, a hot spot for models, actresses, and TV personalities. At the corner he veered onto the Rue François-Ier and then onto the Rue de Marignan, which led to the Champs-Elysées. He hoped to catch a cab there, but he realized that traffic was at a standstill.
The men were closing in again. A very long minute later, he reached the wide central avenue. The sidewalk was filled with tourists. A light turned green, and engines revved, warning pedestrians to get out of the way. The vehicles started moving toward the Place de la Concorde.
Bashir had to get across the boulevard. The Champs-Elysées was much wider than the Avenue Montaigne — three lanes of cars moving in each direction. The risk of getting hit was three times higher. Bashir took a breath and dashed to the central island halfway to the other side.
A motorcyclist slammed his brakes just inches from his feet. A bus came to an abrupt stop, and a concert of honking broke out, but he arrived safely at the thin strip of concrete in the middle of traffic. It was mobbed by tourists clicking photos of the Arc de Triomphe. Bashir looked behind him. The two men were standing exactly where he had been thirty seconds earlier, blocked by moving cars. One was smirking at him. The other was waving like a long-lost friend.
Bashir glanced the other way, at the brightly lit signs and movie posters promising thrills and adventure. He had already bought the ticket — he was running for his life. Green turned to orange. It was time. Bashir threw himself in front of the moving cars. A gray convertible banged his knee. Pain shot through his leg, but he kept running.
A scooter swerved to avoid him and skidded, crashing into a double-parked delivery truck. The honking intensified, but he reached the sidewalk.
Bashir slalomed between passersby and ran up the Rue du Colisée at full speed. Sol’s men were about fifty yards behind and gaining. His pulse accelerated. His legs were burning, as if his blood were spitting acid into his muscles. He turned onto the Rue de Ponthieu and focused on his environment. An entrance to a parking garage was ten yards ahead. He looked back just as he slipped into it. He didn’t see the goons.
He moved deeper into the shadows, caught his breath, and pulled an old paper napkin from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. He waited a good twenty minutes, savoring his freedom. Once again, he’d escaped death.
Bashir considered his options. Grab a cab to the Gare du Nord and pick up his bag? Too dangerous. Someone could have seen him leave his luggage behind. A hotel room for the night? That didn’t feel safe either.