86

Brooklyn, New York

Present day

At this late hour, the docks should have been deserted, but there were trucks everywhere. Robinson called the station and found out that three cargo ships were unloading. Some of the warehouses were open, and apparently the unions had managed to get triple overtime.

Robinson drove to a narrow strip of land abandoned to junkies and cormorants. From there he turned left and parked in front of two dark buildings, undoubtedly built at the end of the nineteenth century. Marcas was the first one out of the black Lincoln, followed by Joan and Robinson. Joan seemed tense. Marcas assumed she wasn’t used to this kind of adventure.

Robinson pulled out a lock-picking set, and in less than a minute he pushed the door of the first building open. The odor of mold struck them as they entered the dark space. Robinson swept the room with a flashlight. Old desks and chairs were scattered here and there, and yellowing posters hung on the walls.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Robinson said. “These places are usually filled with drug addicts and squatters. But here, except for the smell, everything seems pretty well preserved. What exactly are we looking for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can somebody tell me the point of this little outing?” Joan said. “A secret that’s traveled through the centuries and across the Atlantic with little old Lafayette as the guest star?”

Marcas turned to her.

“Seriously,” she said. “You show up with this crazy story. I believe you, but if you want me to help, I need more information.”

“She’s right,” Robinson said, his back turned. He was rifling through papers on one of the desks.

“You both know that I’m trying to find a man who’s murdering Freemasons.”

“Some anti-Freemason obsession,” Robinson said.

“That’s what I thought at first, but the first victim, Paul de Lambre, didn’t feel threatened because he was a Mason. He felt threatened because he was in on this secret.”

“Like my father,” Joan said. Her face looked more relaxed.

“Each of the four original Freemason brothers, including Lafayette, passed down a message with part of the puzzle and the name of one other member of the group. None of the descendants have ever had the whole thing or more than one other name. Right now we’ve got two names—Lafayette and Archambeau. Well, and a third: Cenevières, but we don’t know what it is or who the present-day descendant is.”

“Cenevières was the name written on the fragment my father left,” Joan said.

“Each message also provides information regarding a hiding place,” Marcas said.

“Like the temple in Harlem, where you found the box with the map?” Joan asked.

“Yes, each object leads to another place. In Paris, it was an engraved sword that led to Harlem.”

Joan walked over to Marcas. She was looking nervous again. “And you found only one object?”

Marcas hesitated. The truth could cause havoc, but he didn’t want to alienate the lawyer. “The box did hold something else.”

Joan held his gaze.

“Show her,” Robinson said. “She has as much right to know as I do.”

Marcas reached into his jacket and held out his hand.

Joan took it from him. “That’s—”

“Gold,” Marcas said.

The ball was soft and pliable in her hands.

“It’s pure gold,” she said.

“The alchemists’ gold,” Marcas said.

In his car, more than ninety meters from the warehouse, he raised the volume. Technology was incredible. Joan had placed the microphone between those beautiful breasts of hers. But this was no time for erotic daydreaming. Marcas had fallen into the trap. It had been so easy, with the other fellow helping. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up.