The man’s smile broadened.
“Thank you, professor. Would you be kind enough to offer me some water? I am thirsty.”
Marek wanted to yank the bag from the man’s hand, but he took a deep breath instead. “Of course. Follow me. There’s a water fountain near my office.”
The two men walked down the hallway, past classrooms and research labs, until they reached Marek’s office.
“Help yourself,” Marek said, motioning to the fountain in the hallway.
He didn’t wait a second longer to take the bag. Marek stepped into his office and opened it. He removed a dark stone, set it on his desk, and examined its shape, hoping it would contain some clues about that unknown word. After a few seconds, he shook his head. He took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked the man, who had come into his office. “This is a fake, and a bad one at that. It wouldn’t even fool tourists. Has Perillian lost his mind? I’m warning you—”
Before Marek could finish his sentence a sharp blow broke his shoulder blade. He fell to the floor, gasping in pain.
“You don’t have to warn me, Jew,” the messenger said in a silken voice. “The problem with all you sons of Israel is that you still think you’re the masters of my land. Now I’m the one warning you. Your death is imminent. I was asked to kill you with a stick.”
The man struck Marek again, this time on the neck. He was barely conscious now, but he remembered every detail of Henri’s execution sixty years earlier in Dachau.
He knew the third blow would kill him.
Marek stared his killer in the eye and managed to say the one sentence from the Masonic ritual. “The flesh falls from the bones.”
Bashir brought the stick down on Marek’s head. “Another damned Jewish ritual,” he muttered.
Blood flowed down the researcher’s face.
Bashir put the walking stick in the stand where he had found it and looked around the man’s office.
There it was, on the cluttered desk — the Tebah Stone. He slipped it into his bag, along with the papers next to it. He looked at the computer screen, printed the page with the professor’s comments, and erased the file. He removed his djellaba, stuffed it into the bag, and stepped over Marek’s body, carefully avoiding the blood pooled around the man’s head.
In the elevator, he wondered why his client had required that ritual. It was too complicated, as far as he was concerned. Strangling was quicker and cleaner. When he was younger, Bashir had been partial to throat slitting. Then one September night in Beirut, when he was executing a contract at a private party, a spurt of blood had stained his Armani suit — a superb three piece he had bought in Rome. A suit that had put him back a thousand euros — ruined. He had used guns and rope ever since.
Bashir headed to the front entrance, where the guard, hypnotized by a parade of blondes, was watching television. The man died instantly.
Bashir checked his watch. He had just enough time to get to a hiding place. He removed the video recording from the security camera. This job was almost too easy. He wasn’t even getting his usual adrenaline rush.
He paused a few seconds and hit the yellow alarm button. A siren ripped through the silence. Police cars would arrive in a matter of minutes, their lights flashing.
He felt his blood flowing to his brain and heart. Now he was getting that rush. He ran toward his car, where his two bodyguards waited.
The plan had worked perfectly. The safe house was five minutes away. Bashir felt for the stone in the bag as he watched the street fly by. Another fine night in Jerusalem.
7
This time, his charm was working. The French movie producer laughed every time Marcas made a joke. Perhaps he’d suggest that they go downtown for a drink and more conversation. Just as Marcas was about to do that, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Alexis Jaigu leaning toward his ear. “Come quick. I need you. Now.”
Marcas shook his head. No, not now. He wasn’t going to miss out on his chance for a little Roman love.
Before he could protest, his friend pulled him aside and whispered, “It’s urgent, Antoine.”
“What’s going on?”
“Come and see for yourself.”
Marcas turned to the producer and excused himself. “I won’t be long,” he said with a smile.
The party was in full swing. A DJ had replaced the quartet, and guests were dancing to the latest hits.
Marcas followed Jaigu, who took the stairs two at a time, nearly in rhythm with the Benny Benassi selection coming out of the speakers. Marcas’s ten-year-old son had introduced him to the group.
Two men were guarding a large wooden door. They stepped aside for the intelligence officer. Inside, Marcas saw two other gorillas bending over a mass. He walked closer, finally making out the body of a woman in a pool of blood.
Jaigu squatted next to the body.
“This can’t get out to the media,” Jaigu said. “It would be a disaster for the embassy’s image. Our relations with the Italian administration are already tense. The press would have a heyday.”
Marcas glowered. “Alexis, what am I doing here? You know I have no authority. This is a job for the head of security.”
Jaigu didn’t take his eyes off the lifeless body. “I know, but you’re a homicide detective. And the victim is a personal friend of the head of security. We have to be spot-on with this. Please. As a favor to me. Just take a look. Our chief security officer will be here shortly.”
Marcas sighed. “We need to lift fingerprints, examine the body, and—”
Jaigu interrupted him. “I just want your first impressions. Security has orders to cordon off the embassy. We have a witness.”
Marcas leaned over the body. The metallic odor of the woman’s blood and the sweet smell of beeswax floor polish mingled with her scent. Probably Shalimar, Marcas thought. “What do you know so far?”
“The victim went upstairs with another woman around forty-five minutes ago. One of the guards saw them. Ten minutes later, the other woman came down and disappeared. The guard figured he should check on this one. He alerted us as soon as he discovered the body.”
“I still don’t get what you want from me. I can’t do anything here, and your security chief will be furious. I would be. Why isn’t he here, anyway?”
Jaigu gave a sheepish smile. “Okay, okay. You caught me. I’ve been at war with her.”
“Her?”
“Special Agent Jade Zewinski. Fearsome — ask anyone who knows her. Some people don’t even bother calling her by her last name. They just call her Jade because she’s hard as stone. Joined the army young, rose quickly, intelligence, commandos, tours in the Middle East and Afghanistan. Lots of rage and lots of connections. Luckily, the guard who found this woman is a friend of mine, and he contacted me first. I just want your thoughts so I can tell the ambassador before she gets to him.”
“You’re out for a promotion on this?”
“Listen, anything you find could help us solve this case. First impressions are important in a murder investigation, right? And on top of that, if I could stick it to that pain in the ass Jade, well, why not? It’s the first murder in this palace since the Farneses lived here, and the victim happens to be a friend of hers. That should put a dent in her career. If it doesn’t get her transferred to a French embassy in Latvia or Angola, I’ll apply for Freemason initiation just to learn your handshake.”
Marcas didn’t want to get involved in a power struggle that had nothing to do with him. Still, the murder was intriguing, and he started to go over the body, paying special attention to the forehead and shoulder. What a strange way to die. It reminded him of something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.