23

Somewhere under Paris

Evening of the initiation

The killer remained silent and just stared at Marcas. He wasn’t more than a meter away. Marcas tried to shake the grate loose. “Open up. Now!” he shouted. “My colleagues from the police will be here at any minute.”

His adversary didn’t move a muscle. Marcas felt like an insect under glass.

“Say something at least, you bastard.” Marcas was still trying to loosen the grate. He gave up and turned the other way. He went back down the ladder and flashed his light around the tank. He had to find another exit. His mind was racing. Surely the police had gotten to the Masonic Hall, and Guy Andrivaux had told them about his chase through the tunnels. They would be here shortly.

As he looked back at the hooded madman, he felt a vibration under his feet. One of the pipes started to hum. Maybe the metro was running nearby. But a second later the ground began to shake, and the faint noise in the pipe became a staccato of sucking and gurgling. A jet of muddy water rushed into the tank, and the two other pipes spit out the same grayish liquid. An acrid stench hit his nose. The water flowed faster.

The killer’s voice rang out. “As you see, our Mason brothers were geniuses. They used this wastewater decantation tank to hide the entrance to the tunnel. The wall blocking the entrance is waterproof. They would leave the tunnel by this grate and then fill the tank.”

“How do you know this?”

“You’d like me to talk, wouldn’t you, my brother. Well, if that gives you a semblance of comfort… The plans for this underground system have been passed down in my family for centuries. My father knew that they would serve me one day.”

As he listened, Marcas was desperately trying to figure a way out. There had to be something.

“I suppose the water will rise right up to the grate, and you’ll watch me drown,” Marcas shouted, trying to sound calm.

The killer shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. A flood of profane excrement, damned by a wall built by expert Masons to guard the entrance to the temple: it’s a fine allegory. Don’t you agree?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Now, now. A little dignity, please. Is that how you talk to another brother? Don’t you owe me the respect of my degree?”

“What degree, dammit! And aren’t you called upon to come to the assistance of a brother wherever and whenever it’s needed?”

“I told you already. Mine is a vengeance degree. As for providing you with assistance, I fear that will not serve my interests. I wonder…”

The sewer sounds were drowning out the tormentor’s words. The water was rising. Marcas felt it rushing around his feet. He climbed up a step but knew it was futile.

“Help me. Help!” he cried out.

The hooded man chuckled. “I doubt our brothers are nearby. And even if they were on the other side of that wall, they couldn’t do anything without explosives.”

The icy filth had reached his thighs. The smell made him gag. His limbs were going numb. The water was lifting him toward the ceiling. He felt something slide along his leg and let out a shriek.

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m carrying out my mission. You could never understand.”

He was now about a foot from the grate. He figured he had only another two minutes before the water covered him. There was just one way out: death.