Bashir felt himself becoming weaker as the blood drained out of him. The nerves in his foot were screaming, but worse, his mind was starting to go. He had to find a way to soften up his torturer.
“Yes, I know. It’s a fine job.”
The gardener’s face lit up.
“Do you really think so? You’re not just saying that to make me happy? I’m pleased. People have no respect for manual labor these days.”
Bashir’s vision was blurring. He was losing consciousness. He thought he had lost a quart of blood already. The man’s acolyte didn’t say anything, but administered a few more slaps. The gardener took out the shears again and set them down on the mattress.
“No!” Bashir cried out.
“Now, now. Calm down. We’re going to bandage that up to stop the flow,” he said, pulling out some gauze, a small bottle of alcohol, and surgical tape.
His assistant carefully bandaged the foot. The blood stopped flowing.
“I now have enough soil for my little protégés. By the way, you don’t have AIDS or some other virus like that, do you? My flowers are very sensitive.”
“I don’t understand.”
The gardener stood up and pulled out a trowel and a plastic bag filled with something.
“What we have here is some soil that I’ve enhanced, so to speak,” he said, plunging the trowel into the bag. “You see, my biologist friends have explained that blood is an excellent fertilizer for my flowers. I’ve been testing this theory for a number of years, and to tell the truth, I’m quite pleased with the results.”
Bashir stiffened. How many people had he tortured?
“I was just teasing you with my question about your favorite flower. Regardless of your answer, I would have cut off your toes. It’s more poetic that way. So this is what’s going to happen. You’ll rest up a bit while I take care of my roses, and then I’ll come back.”
Bashir didn’t dare say anything. He was too afraid the gardener would cut off another toe. The man touched his foot gently.
“You have another eight more toes, and then you have ten fingers, so let’s make the most of it.”
The two men left the cell, locking him in.
Bashir cried out, “What do you want, for God’s sake?”
The gardener looked back at him as if he were a child who didn’t understand.
“I don’t know about the others, but I have a hundred or so roses to feed,” he said.
He took a step back toward the cell.
“I wasn’t being entirely honest.” The gardener’s voice sounded dreamy.
“I don’t cut off just toes. I keep the best for last.”
Bashir shrieked.
40
Marcas stood up and started pacing the room.
“Why do you think there’s some secret information?”
“My father worked on experiments linked to that secret.”
“What exactly? We’ve already established that the Nazis did a lot of god-awful experiments.”
“They were looking for some way to connect with the gods. But like all doors to the infinite, it could lead to either heaven or hell.”
“I’m not following,” Marcas said, looking at his watch.
“Imagine a celestial drug that would allow you to communicate directly with the origin and power of life, with what we Freemasons call the Grand Architect of the Universe. And imagine what the Nazis could have done with that. For them, it was the soma, a Vedic ritual drink. It was an Aryan grail. That substance was believed to be an integral part of a lost Freemason rituaclass="underline" the shadow ritual.”
“That’s crazy,” Marcas said. “A secret lost in antiquity, a kind of ecstasy to the power of—”
“To the power of infinity.”
“No, I don’t buy it.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, but my father died for this secret, and Marek consecrated his life to the quest — he had vowed to uncover it to honor my father. Last month he found an engraved stone, the Tebah Stone, which mentioned a substance similar to the one the Nazis were looking for. He was murdered, and the stone is gone.”
“Okay, let’s go over it again. We’re talking about an ancient secret, a kind of philter, a drink that people knew about and then lost. It was the famous soma of the ancients, the drink that makes you resemble the gods.”
Jouhanneau smiled. “That’s right. Since time immemorial, we’ve known that certain plants — well, the molecules in the plants — reveal things about the human soul.”
“And do you know which plants were in this drink?”
“Sophie identified one of them in a document we got back from the Russians. The first person to have access to the formula could, in theory, produce a one-of-a-kind elixir that would open new doors of perception, as Aldous Huxley called them. And it would be good or evil, depending on who performed the ritual.”
“Okay, so tell me the ingredient that you know about.”
“Have you heard of Saint Anthony’s fire?
“No.”
“In 1039, in central France there was an epidemic of ‘holy fire,’ as it was called, and hundreds of farmers went crazy, suffering unbearable hallucinations.”
“What caused it?”
“Claviceps paspali or Claviceps purpurea. It’s an ergot fungus that grows on cereals including rye, wheat, and barley. In 1921, scientists isolated hallucinogenic alkaloids from this parasitic fungus. In the nineteen forties a chemist purified them and came up with lysergic acid diethylamide, also known as LSD, the drug of choice for hippies in the nineteen sixties and seventies. It’s very powerful. In the Eleusinian Mysteries dedicated to Persephone, the Greek goddess of hell is represented with a sheaf of wheat.”
“And Sophie’s discovery?”
“After finding the first archives that mention ergot as part of the lost ritual, Sophie alerted me, and we refocused our research. I contacted Marek, and he made the connection with what my father had told him about the Nazi experiments. A month later, Sophie found the coveted Breuil Manuscript and realized that it held information about the other ingredients, and at just about the same time, Marek found the Tebah Stone. Sophie headed off to visit a chapel in a place called Plaincourault, and then she boarded a plane for Rome. I never saw her again.”
41
“You know, there are still mysteries about the Templars that haven’t been fully explored,” Christine said before they said good-bye. “Who knows? Maybe there is some key to be found.”
Jade’s cell phone buzzed as she was about to slide behind the wheel of her car.
“Antoine here.”
“I don’t know an Antoine. Sorry.”
“Antoine Marcas. Remember?”
Jade grinned. He didn’t look like an Antoine.
“Sorry, Marcas, but I never connected you with a first name. Maybe one day. So?”
“I checked out the archives and spoke with an official from the lodge. We need to make a trip to Plaincourault.”
“No kidding. Got any real news?”
“Well, pack a bag. I’ll find a hotel where we can stay.”
“Make sure it’s two rooms, buddy.”
“In the meantime, we’ll need access to Interpol and antiterrorism files. I’ll get on it with my contact at the ministry.”
“You mean Jaigu?”
“Listen, we need him. Don’t make a fuss. There’s more, too. We may have a lead on who ordered the kill and why.”
“Go on. Spill the beans.”
“It’s a long story. I suggest that we meet at the office. See you in an hour, okay?”
“Fine. Listen, I wanted…”
“What? Hurry up, I’ve got to go.”
“Nothing. I was almost going to be nice.”