The other members murmured their disapproval. The man smiled.
“I know we’ve been ethically opposed to investing in anything owned or managed by Jews. But this is an investment I endorse. The company’s performance has been subpar over the last few years, but its holdings have great potential. I propose buying the company and selling off its assets at a considerable profit.”
The man with steely eyes spoke. “It’s out of the question. Anything else? No? Your turn, Freya.”
The woman with short blonde hair cleared her throat. She was a well-known Swedish doctor whose work in cloning had nearly won her the Nobel Prize.
“There’s not much to report,” she said. “We’ve made no progress in prolonging the life of human clones. I don’t see any improvement for the next couple of years. Our incubator in Asuncion is full of embryos. I propose that we sell them on the black market for medical research.”
The other members agreed. The head of the group then pointed to a stocky man. “Thor?”
“Twenty representatives from political groups in both Eastern and Western Europe attended our most recent seminars on the progressive nature of our social program. The trainees seemed to be concerned about high unemployment, which the world’s democracies can’t seem to check. They left with a better understanding of our solution.”
“Is that all?”
“No. We’re having trouble with our white supremacy friends in the United States. The Ku Klux Klan, White Power, and Aryan Nations, which is closer to our movement, are bickering with each other. I recommend additional funding for the latter group.”
The other woman, who was sixtyish and had piercing eyes, spoke up. “No. Why should we keep giving money to those crazies who tattoo swastikas all over themselves, giving our cause a bad name? We got rid of those Nazi symbols years ago. We should jettison the Americans with their portraits of the Führer. Here in Europe, we’ve been successful in furthering our own brand of populism coupled with xenophobia. We hurt ourselves by reconnecting with anything having to do with Hitler.”
The man with hard gray eyes nodded. He had taken the name of Loki, the Nordic trickster god. “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll cut them off. Thor, you’ll go to the United States and take care of it. And you, Balder?”
A corpulent man shifted on the bench. “As you know, Sol was in France, at our residence in Chevreuse. Unfortunately, the mansion had to be evacuated because of serious mistakes made by one of our female members. The gardener, one of our most capable South African colleagues, called to fill me in. Some of the team members have gone to London. The woman’s with Sol at a hotel in Paris. Sol will tell us more when he gets here.”
The man called Loki heard the grave tone in Balder’s voice. That woman was his daughter. He knew that Orden statutes were clear: the punishment was death.
59
Marcas and Zewinski were driving through the Brenne region, the land of a thousand lakes. In fact, this region had some twenty-five thousand acres of ponds and lakes. After Mézières-en-Brenne, they took a local road for about six miles and then headed toward the park headquarters, where they would collect the keys to the chapel. Marcas knew the area well. He had dated a woman — a sister — from this area. She was the head of the historical monuments society. He had called her to get authorization to visit the chapel.
The parking lot was half full. Marcas and Zewinski stretched their legs, happy to be out of the car. The sun was still hanging over the large lake beyond the parking area, and a group of people with cameras and giant lenses were taking pictures. Jade walked around the car.
“Look at the paparazzi. Who’s the star?”
“Here the stars are the whiskered tern, the little bustard, the common pochard, and the Eurasian bittern.”
“Bustard sounds like something I’d call you,” she said with a grin.
“So you’re drawn to wild things,” he responded with a wink. “You’ll like this preserve. It attracts birdwatchers from all over Europe.”
They walked toward the park headquarters. A group of kids ran by. Marcas frowned. He missed his son. They entered the building, which also housed a gift shop and a restaurant.
“Take a seat,” Marcas said. “Order us some fried carp. It’s a local specialty. I’ll add a bottle of organic cider. I’ll go get the keys.”
Marcas returned just as the waitress was bringing over their food. He sat down and waited for her to walk away. “Now I’m going to tell you what we’re really looking for in the Plaincourault Chapel.”
60
A gigantic cloud of starlings circled above the Étang de la Mer Rouge, the largest lake in the region. The ballet lasted a good twenty minutes. Then some scouts split off from the flock, and the mass of birds broke up, as if by magic, settling in the surrounding trees for the night.
The sun, master of the dance of dusk, disappeared in the west, and evening took over. Tourists and inhabitants also retreated, leaving no trace of human presence in the immense aquatic space.
The car sped toward the southwest, heading for a village called Mérigny, where they would find the chapel.
“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Jade said. “According to some enlightened Jouhanneau dude, top-tier illuminati of the Grand Orient, the secret to Sophie’s documents lies in this chapel lost in the middle of nowhere, and we’ll find it in a fresco painted in the Middle Ages.”
“Yep.”
Zewinski opened a tourist brochure on the chapel. “Here it says that Plaincourault was built in the twelfth century and belonged to the Knights Hospitaller of Saint John of Jerusalem, who later became the famous Order of Malta. They exercised authority all around the chapel, and until the fourteenth century, only knights were allowed in.”
Zewinski stopped reading. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Sophie told me this was the Templar chapel.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Marcas said. The answer’s in the Breuil Manuscript. In the thirteenth century, two Templar dignitaries went over to the Hospitallers. Today we’d call them renegades. They became commanders. Breuil found documents confirming this. They were probably the two commanders who had that fresco painted. In any case, the relationship between the Templars and the Hospitallers isn’t all that clear. In Jerusalem, they were at war with each other, but members of the two orders in Europe formed alliances. We do know that when the Templars fell in 1307, many of the knights took refuge with the Hospitallers.”
Zewinski continued to glean information from the brochure. “During the French Revolution, Plaincourault, like all other church assets, was seized by the state and sold to the people. The chapel was turned into a barn and started falling into ruin. In January 1944, a Vichy government worker responsible for historical monuments classified the chapel as a national monument. The building remained locked up and prey to the elements for more than fifty years. Then, in 1997, it was restored. Specialists spent three years returning the frescos to their original state. The chapel’s now part of Brenne National Park.”
They arrived half an hour later, after two wrong turns. The chapel stood on an overlook at a turn in the road. It was next to a field and a large farmhouse.
They parked on a dirt track running all the way around the building.
The site was deserted. The headlights had frightened away two rabbits. A dog barked in the distance.
“Here we are,” Marcas said. He got out of the car and headed toward the entrance without waiting for Zewinski. He pulled out a large metal key, slipped it into the lock, and turned.
“Slow down,” Zewinski called out. “I’m coming too.”