Free Shadow Ritual by Eric Giacometti, Jacques Ravenne Page A

had started falling, and precipitation always threatened to transform the Bibliothèque Nationale de France’s outdoor plaza into an ersatz skating rink. It was because of the hardwood decking the building’s architect had insisted on. The unintended consequence was a high incidence of slips, falls, sprains, and breaks. Shortly after the library opened, some anti-slip decking strips were added to partially mitigate the problem. Still, Marcas almost lost his footing on an unprotected set of steps. He grabbed the railing. Righting himself, he continued toward the library. The wind had picked up, and the towers—shaped like books for those with an active imagination—were standing like fortresses against the sheets of rain.
    He pulled his raincoat tighter. The large yet frail tropical trees that adorned the immense central patio were whipping back and forth in the wind, tugging the lines that moored them. Finally reaching the entryway, he saw that the escalator, as usual, wasn’t working.
    A small group of people was waiting patiently as two bored-looking guards inspected their bags. A dozen or so umbrellas were the only bright spots of colors in this metal and dark-wood interior.
    Marcas made his way up a floor, crossing the metal footbridge that led to the library cafeteria. He pushed open a heavy door and scanned the large room. Four students were huddled around their notebooks and whispering. A Japanese couple who looked like tourists were people-watching, and an elderly woman was reading an antiques magazine. No Zewinski yet. Marcas ordered a coffee and sat down.
    He was fiddling with a brochure advertising vacations in Cuba and Santo Domingo with seductive photos of palm trees and white sand beaches when he heard a coat rustling. He looked up and saw Special Agent Zewinski walking purposefully toward him—tall, blonde, chiseled features, determined eyes. She was a shrew, he thought, but a damned good-looking shrew.
    She sat down across from him without taking off her coat.
    “Hey, brother .”
    Marcas tightened his jaw. Her tone pissed him off, just as it had in Rome. He started to get up to leave, but she reached for his arm.
    “Wait, I was just joking. You Freemasons have no sense of humor. I won’t do it again.”
    She brought her hands together to give him the namaste sign. Marcas settled into his chair again.
    “It might surprise you that I do have a sense of humor. But I don’t think it’s necessary to make a joke at someone else’s expense. That said, maybe you can tell me why I’m here.”
    Her face became serious, and the look in her eyes darkened. For the first time, he noted their color: light brown speckled with green.
    “I know why Sophie was killed.”

19
    Marcas ordered another coffee and folded his hands on the table. Some more students had sat down at a nearby table and were staring at Jade.
    She lowered her voice. “Someone’s after a bunch of damned papers that belong to your Freemason buddies. Sophie told me she was on an assignment for the Grand Orient. She was taking the documents to Jerusalem. She didn’t tell me what they were—some big historical deal apparently. She asked me to put them in the embassy safe.”
    “So she was being careful with some historical documents. How do you know her killer wanted them?”
    “She was all paranoid about them, making sure that I put them under lock and key, and then, after she was murdered, I went to her hotel room to pick up her personal effects, and someone had sacked the place.”
    “Do you have the papers?”
    “Of course. I brought them back to Paris with me.”
    So that was why Zewinski wanted to see him. She had his attention now. Historical masonic documents in the hands of the profane could be dangerous.
    “Have you read them?”
    “I didn’t understand a thing. You’d have to be a historian or a member of your cult to understand that crap. It’s something about rituals, geometric constructions, and Bible references. I’d