In her line of work, Zewinski had seen harsh, compassionless human beings who carried out summary executions, terrorist attacks, and revenge killings. But only once before had she seen such cruelty. That was under an Afghan warlord, General Abdul Rashid Dostum.
These memories were eating at her. Adding to her unease was the fact that she had gotten closer to Marcas in the last several hours. Marcas — why was she surprised? She had always had a thing for men who put themselves on the line.
“Don’t you find something completely off about this story of archives and the Templars?” she asked.
“Off?”
“Yeah. Hunting for an ancient secret that might not even exist at a time when the world has more pressing issues: dictatorships, disease, hunger…”
Marcas just looked at her.
“And here we are, taking a drive in the country on some occult treasure hunt. If it weren’t for the murder and kidnapping, it would be ridiculous.”
“Correction. Two murders, counting Marek — three, if you include your cellmate,” Marcas said, lighting a cigarette. That wasn’t counting the other Hiram-like murders he’d heard about. “And to answer your question, no, I don’t have a problem with our ‘occult treasure hunt,’ as you call it. When you accepted that job offer at the Rome embassy, did you think you’d be taking medicine to sick kids in Africa? Sorry. You’re not working for UNICEF. I’m not either. I’m a cop doing my job. And right now my job’s tracking down those killers, who happen to have an agenda.”
“True enough. But I’m trying to put all this in perspective. With you, I have the feeling that I’m chasing a ghost, running after the wind, trying to grab a fantasy. Indiana Jones chasing the Holy Grail.”
Marcas took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
“So you’d really feel more comfortable in a commando operation, where the enemy’s right in front of you with submachine guns, and you’ve got yours pointed back. A modern-day OK Corral, right?”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Well, nobody made you come along. Last I heard, you agreed to this. I can drop you off at the next train station, and in two and a half hours you’ll be in Paris.”
Marcas looked bullheaded now.
“Well excuse me for not liking arcane mysteries. I never read your code book. I don’t understand why people get so worked up about Templars, astrology, healers, and the like. It’s fairy tales for adults. And let’s not even get into your Freemason enigmas. There are deadly sects out there that get pumped on that crap.”
“Don’t be so simplistic. It’s easy to enter most sects and very hard to leave. It’s the opposite with the Freemasons. You can leave anytime. And you can choose what you believe. A large number of Grand Orient members don’t have the slightest interest in esotericism. Some are Masons purely for the fraternity and even share your opinion. Other lodges explore symbolism without ever getting into anything related to magic or the supernatural. In any case, there’s a virtue called tolerance, and every individual is free to believe what he or she wants.”
“Not in obscurantism.”
Marcas frowned. “If only you knew how much Freemasonry has fought obscurantism. Did you go to school?”
“Of course I’ve gone to school. I don’t see the connection.”
“The connection? Public school, founded in France by Jules Ferry and open to everyone without class distinction, was inspired by Freemason ideas. The legislators who voted for that law were hoodwinkers, as you call us. The same goes for public education in the United States — it was a Freemason-backed initiative. Freemasons in France created the first collective health insurance system for workers. And Freemasons all over the world are working on programs that improve the lives of millions of adults and children: scholarship programs, disaster relief, hospitals, libraries, museums — you name it.”
“Okay, okay.”
Zewinski watched. The man was getting angry. Finally — he had dropped his well-behaved demeanor. She liked him better this way. She decided to push a little further.
“I get the social interest and all, but there aren’t a whole lot of working-class folks in your lodges. They’re full of doctors and businessmen and politicians. Regardless of the generation and the regime, you guys always side with power.”
Marcas’s fingers were turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.
“You’re probably right about our membership. But it’s absurd to say we’re always on the side of power. Did you ever wonder why all totalitarian systems in the world have systematically forbidden freemasonry?”
“Yeah. Hitler and Mussolini did that, but they banned every kind of organized group, from labor unions to Catholic organizations.”
“Add to that Pétain in France, Franco in Spain, and Salazar in Portugal. Freemasons have been persecuted in practically all communist countries and have had troubles in democracies, as well. Freemasonry, moreover, is prohibited in all Arab countries except Lebanon and Morocco.”
“Thanks for the propaganda — tinged with paranoia, if I might add. But you haven’t bothered to mention all the ordinary people like me who believe you Freemasons have something suspicious up your sleeves.”
Marcas pulled onto the berm and hit the brakes. He turned to her.
“That’s enough. Let me be clear. I’m not a spokesman for freemasonry, and just like any other group, Freemason lodges have their share of bastards. You’re convinced we’re all corrupt. That’s fine by me. Your choice. But I’m not proselytizing, so would you quit busting my balls?”
Zewinski smiled. She had won the match. And he was almost attractive when he was annoyed.
“I suggest that you start driving again. It isn’t safe to stay parked on the side of the highway like this.”
“No, I won’t start driving again. Not until you explain why you’re so hostile to Freemasons.”
Zewinski shifted in her seat.
“I’m waiting.”
Zewinski sighed and told the story of her father’s suicide and the role played by the Freemasons, who had forced him to sell his company at a price that was far lower than its value. When she finished, tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her father and her close friend, Sophie. Both dead because of Freemasons. That was enough to inspire a lifetime of animus.
Zewinski sensed that Marcas wanted to console her, and she almost wished he would reach for her hand. Instead, he waited quietly until she was done crying and passed her a clean and neatly folded handkerchief. He started the car and gradually accelerated as he pulled off the side of the road.
“Not another word until we get there,” Zewinski said, staring out her window.
58
The five men and two woman were sitting on a bench overlooking the rocky bay. They were absorbed in their thoughts. Memories of their last meeting were still fresh in their minds.
The man with steely eyes and gold-framed glasses spoke first. “Sol called earlier. He was still in France. We should start with our regular business, and when he arrives, he’ll fill us in on the Hiram operation. Be brief. Let’s begin with Heimdall.”
Every member of the board had taken a Nordic name at the time of initiation. Heimdall, an attorney who worked in a large practice, pulled a document from his briefcase.
“Our assets in the Miami-based pension fund and the consortium in Hong Kong have reached five hundred million euros,” he said. “Investments in some of our other funds have dipped, but the Paxton steelworks, which we recently purchased, is doing well. Now I have a recommendation. I would like the board’s approval to invest in an Israeli company.”