Free Shadow Ritual by Eric Giacometti, Jacques Ravenne Page B

say the papers date back to the eighteenth or nineteenth century.”
    “You should return them to their rightful owners. They are the only ones who can explain why someone would kill for them.”
    Jade glared at him. “I know what I have to do, but for now, they are evidence in a murder investigation that doesn’t exist. They’ll get back to your friends in due time.”
    “So, why are you telling me this?”
    Zewinski ran her hands through her hair and waited a minute. “You don’t know it yet, but we’ll be working together after all. There was a meeting at the Interior Ministry earlier today, and we’ve been officially assigned to this entirely unofficial case.”
    Marcas took a slow sip of his coffee to give himself some time to think.
    “In case you don’t know it, I’m on vacation. I’m supposed to be off for another two weeks, and I have lots of fun activities planned, none of which include you. I’m really very sorry about your friend’s death, but I will not, under any circumstances, be involved in this case.”
    Zewinski smiled. “But you don’t have a choice. Apparently one of the higher-ups is a fellow of the light—that’s what you call it, don’t you? And he wants you to illuminate this case. I’m no psychic, but I predict you’ll be getting a call from your superiors in no time at all.”
    “Well, in that case, thanks for the heads up.”
    “Look, I came to get things straight between us. If we’re going to work together, we need to be clear. I’m going to have to stick my nose into your apron-wearing clown act, and I’m not happy about it.”
    Marcas set down his coffee.
    “I’ll wait until I get my orders. In the meantime, I just have one question.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Why do you hate Freemasons so much?”
    Her eyes hardened. She stood up abruptly and adjusted her coat.
    “You’re right. I don’t like what you represent, and I know that Sophie died because of some scheming done by your devious little brothers, adepts of the Great Architect of the Universe. This meeting is over. We’ll see each other in a setting that’s more official before the day is out.”
    Marcas stared at her as she turned her back and stomped out, slamming the cafeteria door. There was no way he would team up with that Valkyrie. He paid for the coffees and left, swearing under his breath. Why had he accepted that invitation to the embassy? Besides, he was supposed to fly to Washington next week to meet with American Freemasons at Georgetown University. They’d been planning the meeting for months to share information on alchemical iconography in eighteenth-century rituals.
    As he left the library, though, he admitted that his plans were already ruined—a sister had died, after all.

20
    His client was not going to be happy. His connection to Paris had been canceled—some anomalies in the plane’s hydraulic system. All the passengers en route to Paris had been asked to disembark at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam.
    Bashir picked up his luggage—which held the precious Tebah Stone—without any grousing. He left that to the other travelers, most of them French, who were having a go at the airline employee trying to get them on other flights. He opted to take the train to Paris after spending a night in Amsterdam for the pleasure of it. After all, he wasn’t Bashir the feared Palestinian hit man now. He was Vittorio, a fun-loving Milanese Italian who liked wine and pretty women.
    A little delay wouldn’t make any difference. What was so urgent about some archeological artifact? He knew practically nothing about his client, a certain Sol. Their contact was limited to e-mails sent through a series of addresses. “Meeting in Paris ASAP,” the most recent one read. “Contact Tuzet at the Plaza Athénée. Ask for the keys to his Daimler.”
    He didn’t know who Tuzet was, but as long as he got paid, he couldn’t care less. Before leaving the airport, he swapped his suitcase full of travel souvenirs for