“Don’t try anything stupid, now,” Sol said, handing Marcas a cell phone. “Call one of your Freemason contacts and get us into Lascaux. I want the real caves, not the tourist replica.”
Marcas punched in the number for the worshipful master of his lodge and, keeping his voice as calm as possible, politely inquired about the weather. “I’m so sorry to hear it’s raining in Paris. I’m in Dordogne and I’d like to visit Lascaux — the real cave — this evening. Can you pull some strings at the ministry for me? If that doesn’t work, call my buddy Jaigu. He’s always trying to fix me up with women. Maybe he knows a good-looking blonde at the Committee for the Preservation of Lascaux. That’s right. Tonight. Nine p.m. There will be two of us.”
Marcas ended the call, and Klaus bound his hands again.
“I’m looking forward to the drive. We haven’t finished our discussion,” Sol said. “But first, let’s thank our host, the gardener, for his hospitality.”
Klaus pushed the gardener in front of Sol. The man’s face was covered with blood.
“Our protector of plants and flowers had a strange notion to kill us while we were resting last night. Fortunately, Klaus was watching over us. I suppose he received his orders from the board. Joana, would you take care of him?”
Joana, knife in hand, walked up to the gardener. She plunged the knife into his lower abdomen and pulled it up and to the right. Shrieking, the man collapsed. Sol marched to the SUV without looking back.
“Amazing how much dexterity that girl has even in her left hand. I’m pleased our Joana hasn’t lost her touch. It’ll take about twenty minutes for him to die.”
The gardener was twisting on the ground like an earthworm cut in half.
Klaus pushed Jade and Marcas into their seats in the back. Sol and Jade took the middle row of bucket seats, and Klaus slid behind the wheel. Sol whistled as he studied a road map.
Marcas decided to start the conversation again. “You didn’t tell us how the war ended for you.”
Sol looked back at him. “It was quick. I escaped from the French patrol that intercepted me, and I made it to Switzerland to contact our Odessa network.
“Odessa?”
“And here I thought you knew your history. The SS and Thule realized well before the Battle of Stalingrad in 1943 that defeat was coming. Of course they set up an evacuation network to neutral countries. Mostly South Africa, but also Syria and Egypt.”
“Odessa was the operation’s name?”
“Odessa for Organisation der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or Organization of Former SS Members. The SS had used its war booty to buy businesses in the countries that would take in the ex-officers. Bank accounts had been opened in respectable places like Switzerland, naturally.
“So I guess Hitler didn’t know about the plan,” Jade said. “If he had, he might have opted to spend a pleasant post-Reich retirement in some obscure South American village instead of killing himself.”
Sol smiled, “You are so right. Hitler was a criminal. We had no desire to help him save his own skin.”
“What?”
“Our precious blood was spilled in that war. Millions of Aryans died because of him.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Sol smiled again, as if he were talking to a child too young to understand. “Of course you don’t share my point of view. The Thule had no direct power over the Führer, and at best could only influence certain decisions. The Thule had even less influence when madness took hold of him.”
“And you?” Jade asked.
“I started another life, and I rose in the Orden ranks. When communism fell, we recovered the few Masonic papers that I had hidden, and we analyzed them.”
Sol’s eyes were glistening. “That was when I understood how priceless they were.”
“But for what?” Marcas exclaimed. “Do you really want to contact God?”
“Not your God, my friend, but mine, which is infinitely more powerful.”
69
They were parked in the center of Montignac, the small town closest to Lascaux. Marcas and Zewinski, still tied up in the back of the SUV, said nothing. Outside, Joana hung up her phone. Sol rolled down the window.
“They picked him up this afternoon, and he should be here shortly.”
Marcas shot Zewinski a questioning look.
“Who?” Marcas asked.
Sol stepped out of the car and stretched his legs, ignoring the prisoner. “Marcas and I will go on ahead. You and Klaus wait here with the lady. When our friends get here, have them drive you to the caves. Klaus, give me the package Hans dropped off.”
The bodyguard handed a small bag to Sol and yanked Jade out of the car.
“Let go of me, dammit,” Jade said, shaking off his grip. He had a gun at her back. “I’ll stay here. What the hell else would I do?”
Klaus hustled her toward Joana, who took up a position in the shadows, near a tree.
Sol climbed into the driver’s seat. “Klaus, make sure Joana doesn’t get carried away — not until I say so,” he said as he drove off.
A cool wind had risen with the stars. The conservator of the cave was standing at the entrance, giving the unexpected visitors a final look-over. Visits were usually scheduled months in advance. The few people who received permission to see the actual cave — and not the replica created for tourists — had to slalom past a multitude of administrative obstacles before the Ministry of Culture would approve the visit. The process was long, and he, as conservator, followed procedure. Nobody entered Lascaux without clearing all the flags. And everyone who made it to the end, mostly eminent researchers and high government officials, was aware of what a privilege — miracle even — it was to be there. They entered this sacred space with both humility and childlike expectation.
These visitors did not fit the bill. One was an arrogant-looking old man who appeared to be well past the age of retirement. He was wearing a dark trench coat, and a wool scarf was wrapped around his neck. He was carrying a walking stick and a small gray bag. A younger man had a muscular build and a full head of black hair, but he hadn’t bothered to shave. He face was drawn and tense. They didn’t seem to be important researchers, and they didn’t look like government bureaucrats.
Whoever they were, they apparently had some clout, and the conservator had to let them in, no matter what he thought. Four local boys had found the cave and its paintings in 1940, and after the discovery, as many as a hundred thousand people poured into the underground space every year. That was until the early nineteen sixties, when it was closed to the public because of the damage done by artificial lighting and carbon dioxide exhaled by the visitors. Destructive layers of algae, calcite crystals, and bacteria had formed on the walls. The cave was restored, and entry was limited.
Sensors had been placed throughout the galleries. They were connected to a computerized system that constantly measured humidity, temperature, and carbon dioxide. Lab techs working some distance from the site would know immediately if an unauthorized man or animal entered the sanctuary.
If it had been up to the conservator, anyone who entered would be forced to wear space suits. As it was, they were required to wear sterile caps, gloves, and coveralls.
He had received a fax from Paris that evening. The conservator was ordered to be at the cave at nine and to show two men in. He was to leave them alone when he asked to go.
“And what time should I come back for these unexpected visitors?” he had asked, emphasizing the word “unexpected.” As far as he was concerned, this visit was blasphemy, and he was having a hard time concealing his anger.