125

Champ de Mars, seventh arrondissement

Present day

The taxi dropped off Cuveliers at the Eiffel Tower. He quickly scanned the tower from bottom to top and then looked just left of it, where he found what he was looking for. He tossed the sports bag over his shoulder and set out.

The cream-colored public toilets were hidden behind trees so as not to ruin the view. Cuveliers opened the door and slipped in. The stall was tiny and smelled like bleach.

He opened the bag and removed the flashlight, knife, rope, cap, and white work suit, which he put on over his clothes. He checked his image in the mirror. Yes, he could pass for a City of Paris maintenance worker.

The simple emblem on the work suit was always enough to get him through. No one really paid attention to him anyway—at least not when he was doing his maintenance-man gig. The Masons were all wrong about equality and fraternity. Equality and fraternity were empty words that allowed them to ignore the fact that they belonged to the most closed and powerful of all societies. But he knew the truth. The Masons were arrogant and condescending. He doubted that any Freemason would so much as look at him while he was sweeping up their trash.

He had to purify Freemasonry, and that was what he intended to do when he was the master of gold. The killer added a tool belt to his costume. He returned his flashlight, knife, and rope to the bag and slipped his cell phone into his pocket.

Outside, he walked confidently among the tourists admiring the lit-up tower. His phone vibrated. A message.