There was no noise. Nothing but a heavy, wet silence.
He managed to climb out of the cab, his head spinning and his legs shaking. Blood was spurting in fits from his temple and dripping down his face and neck. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, but he was still standing, and a survival instinct was deeply embedded in his muscles.
He walked around the truck and climbed into the back. If he was going to die here, he wanted to know why. What was in those damned crates?
And what was that sickly sweet smell? He looked down and saw that bullets had ripped open a can of motor oil, and the dark liquid was spilling between the crates. He took two steps to retrieve the can and slipped. He reached out to keep himself from falling. He felt something hard, but soft too. And sticky. It was a bullet-ridden face. He pulled his hand away and retched.
Gathering his last strength, Le Guermand sat down next to one of the crates. He picked up the assault rifle next to the body and started hacking at the top.
His vision was blurry. His brain wasn’t getting enough blood. In a burst of rage, he gave the crate a final blow, which broke the oak planks apart.
Wood shards and a bundle of old papers landed on his lap.
Papers. Nothing but stupid pieces of paper.
His mouth went dry, and his hand stiffened. He stared at the yellowed sheets full of symbols. He didn’t recognize much, but the black skull was unmistakable. He focused on it. No, it wasn’t the familiar skull on his SS helmet. It was misshapen — and it was wearing a grotesque smile.
François Le Guermand started laughing uncontrollably, like a madman, as he slipped into the shadows.
BOAZ
One of two pillars guarding the temple entrance,
derived from Hebrew, meaning “in strength”
1
The speaker, a Generation Xer with jet-black hair, stood in front of a stylized sun painting. He scanned the room. It was silent.
This space in Rome’s Alessandro di Cagliostro Freemason Lodge resembled a large dark-blue cavern. Thin rays of light shone down from the ceiling, which was adorned with stars to make it look like the night sky.
To his left and right were forty or so men in black suits, white aprons, and gloves. They were impassive, motionless, like statues made of flesh. There were also a few women in long robes.
He turned to the east, toward the man presiding over the meeting. “I have spoken, Worshipful Master,” he said.
The master waited a few seconds and then pounded a wooden mallet on his small desk. Behind him hung a huge all-seeing Egyptian eye.
“Brothers and sisters, I would like to thank our brother Antoine Marcas for coming from France to speak to us. His lecture on the origins of ancient Masonic rites was quite instructive. He claims to just be a little curious, but it’s clear that he has taken great pains to educate himself in our mysteries. I am sure you have many questions. Sisters and brothers, you may speak.”
A brother clapped, asking to be acknowledged. The senior steward spoke the ritual words and invited him to speak.
“Worshipful Master in person, Worshipful Masters from the Orient, and my brothers and sisters, as we all know, our lodge was named after Alessandro di Cagliostro, and I would like to ask our distinguished brother Marcas to clarify, if possible, the origin of the Cagliostro ritual.”
The speaker looked over the notes he had jotted down on three-by-five cards. “In 1784, in Lyon, France, Cagliostro inaugurated his High Egyptian Masonic Rite in the Triumphant Wisdom Lodge. According to current biographers, Cagliostro was initiated in Malta at the Saint John of Scotland Lodge of Secrecy and Harmony, which is where he founded the ritual that now bears his name.”
Another man clapped.
Antoine Marcas took a closer look at the audience. Both Italian and French lodges were represented. He recognized the Grande Lodge brothers with their red-trimmed Scottish rite aprons and the Memphis Misraïm sisters dressed in white.
The worshipful master gave the floor to a brother with a strong Milanese accent, which made him sound very serious. “Italy’s declining institutions and political corruption continue to make headlines. And the country’s troubles appear to be affecting the rest of Europe, especially France. Some are accusing the Freemasons of being at least partly responsible for this situation. What do you have to say about this?”
Marcas nodded. He didn’t like political questions.
Fifteen years earlier, his idealistic trust in the secular values of the republic had motivated him to become a Freemason. He was also excited by the promise of personal development. Since then, he had watched the image of freemasonry decline in France. Before, the media had praised Freemason contributions to education and conflict resolution. Now they were focused on scandal and mysterious networks of shadowy figures.
Marcas took time to choose his words. He wouldn’t fully disclose his thoughts about anti-Freemason media campaigns or about the brothers who didn’t deserve their aprons. For a while, Marcas had attended a lodge that was full of money launderers and others in cahoots with politicians skilled at rigging public contracts. The lodge was nestled in a suburban Paris townhouse and was rotten to the core. When he’d found out what was going on — a full year before the media went wild over it — he had changed lodges, refusing to condemn all of freemasonry with a handful of corrupt individuals. But doubt had taken seed. And so he dived into the history and symbolism of freemasonry, as if the past could wipe the present clean. Still, every time he read about a scandal involving a Freemason, he took it as a personal affront.
“France has not escaped the evils affecting all Western democracies. There’s a rise in extremism, along with widespread distrust of elitism and power. Whether we deserve it or not, many people who don’t know us consider us both powerful and manipulative. It’s hard to shake that ‘hoodwinker’ slur. Let’s not forget, too, that a good scandal — whether it’s real or not — sells newspapers.”
Marcas answered a few more questions, mixing his expertise with humor.
Then there was silence. The worshipful master took the floor and began the closing ritual, finally calling for the chain of unity.
One by one, the men and women rose, removed their gloves, and crossed their arms, taking their neighbors’ hands to form a human chain around the center of the lodge.
The worshipful master repeated the words of the ritual. “This chain binds us in time and space. It comes to us from the past and stretches toward the future. It connects us to those who came before us.”
Each phase of this ritual and many others had been refined over the centuries, and every participant knew his role perfectly, as though it were a play.
The stewards held mallets across their chests. The master of ceremonies struck the floor with a metal-tipped cane while a mason called a tyler continued to guard the door, a sword in his right hand.
Marcas proclaimed the final pledge. “Liberty, equality, fraternity.”
The meeting was over, and the temple calmly emptied.
In the anteroom, the worshipful master — an aristocratic-looking banker — called out to Marcas in perfect French, “Will you stay and have something to eat?”
Marcas smiled. In every lodge around the world, eating and drinking followed these meetings.
“Alas, no, brother. I’m expected at the French embassy. There’s a Victory in Europe Day shindig. But I plan to come back tomorrow to consult some rare books in your library.”