99

Under the Statue of Liberty

Present day

“I’m afraid there’s been a little change in plans.” Joan said, waving the gun. “Lower the mallet, and sit on the ground. Hands on your head, and spread your legs. Quick.”

Robinson wasn’t listening. He started walking in her direction.

Joan moved her weapon a few inches to keep him in her line of sight. “Don’t think about taking another step,” she ordered.

“And we were getting along so well,” Robinson said.

“I won’t tell you again,” the woman shouted.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me? I face worse every day, little lady. Look, I’ll pull up my shirt and you can put one right here in my belly. Do you have it in you?”

Joan didn’t blink. “Don’t test me, asshole, or you’ll end up like those rats.”

Marcas intuited what Robinson was attempting: to disarm Joan without pulling out his own revolver. It was foolish, but Marcas knew there was little he could do at this point but have his brother’s back.

While Robinson started undoing the buttons of his shirt, Marcas moved to the right. Joan swung around and pointed her revolver at him.

“Don’t try to be a hero, Frenchman.”

“You’ll never have time to shoot both of us,” Marcas said. “Put the gun down, and let’s talk.”

“Don’t worry, brother, the bitch will never shoot,” Robinson said, inching closer to her.

A shot rang out and echoed off the stone walls. Robinson’s eyes opened wide, and he collapsed.

It hadn’t come from the lawyer. Marcas looked to the left, and a masked form stepped out from the shadows.

“He got what he deserved.” It was a familiar voice.

“You’re sick,” Marcas said.

“Marcas, my brother, it’s been awhile.”

“You’re no brother of mine.”

“Oh, but I am, I am the Sword of Light.”

Joan lowered her weapon and looked at Robinson twitching on the ground. Marcas headed toward him, but the killer fired another bullet at his feet.

“I suggest that you sit down. I’m not sure I’ll aim so well the next time.”

Robinson was holding his stomach with one hand. A red stain was spreading on his shirt. With his other hand, he reached for his service weapon. The killer stepped on his wrist, crushed his hand, and kicked the weapon away.

“What next? Another quiz?” Marcas asked.

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple this time. Last time, I needed your brains. Now I need your muscles.”

“What do you mean?”

“Few take the road back. Not many are chosen.”

Robinson tried to sit up. “Backup’s on its way,” he muttered.

“Good try, brother. I arrived after you, and there was nobody else.”

Despite the man’s warning, Marcas was trying again to help Robinson, whose clothes were soaked with blood. With an abdominal injury, someone could live for hours or die in minutes.

Marcas looked at the shooter. “Why?”

“Why?” The masked man repeated. “For the gold, of course. The alchemical gold. The power to buy anything on this earth, since everything’s for sale. I met Joan when her father died. Thanks to her, I was able to find your friend Paul de Lambre.”

Joan looked at her watch. “Let’s do what we planned. We don’t have much time.”

The killer shook his head. “I have all the time in the world. And Marcas is my double. He’s the one who led me here. He’s my brother. I owe him the truth.” Marcas said nothing.

“A very long time ago, a man discovered the secret of making gold. All Freemasons who are interested in alchemy know his name. He is famous, even if people today think he’s only a legend.”

“Flamel. Nicolas Flamel,” Marcas said.

“Indeed. He was a public scribe, an anonymous copier, insignificant, until the day he got his hands on a book.”

“The Book of Adam,” Joan said.

“It was a curious book, which, according to legend, was a copy of an even older text that had been engraved in stone to escape God’s wrath.”

Marcas looked at Joan, the killer and the two pillars. “Don’t try to tell me that these are the two pillars that escaped the flood.”

“The book disappeared again during Flamel’s lifetime. Intentionally, no doubt. Only fragments exist now, and they make no sense. I’ll explain the columns later.”

“Is that all you want to tell me?”

“I can tell you that, thanks to The Book of Adam, Flamel found the secret of the philosopher’s stone, the secret to transform metal into extremely pure gold.”

Marcas felt for the ball of gold in his pocket. “Like the gold we found on the bodies in Paris?”

“Exactly. The scabbard of my family sword contained alchemical gold powder that must have been transferred to the blade. I see you have investigated well. This gold is proof that Flamel succeeded in the transmutation, that the naïve legend is, in fact, true.”

Robinson shrieked. Marcas turned to see the injured man crawling to escape a pack of blood-hungry rats.