The Lafayette Sword by Eric Giacometti Page A

But she is gagged. How can she talk?”
    â€œYes, I have left the gag in place to allow the suffering to wake up her memory. She’ll be able to recall everything that she needs to tell us.”
    The woman’s eyes glistened. Nicolas had never seen such an agonized look on anyo ne’s face.
    â€œYou don’t know who she is , do you?”
    Flamel sai d nothing.
    â€œAnd it is certainly better that you never know. Still, I’m going to tell you. We will be alone tonight. I will have no other help. I’m going to tell you the story of her sh ort life.”
    â€œI as sure you—”
    â€œEnough,” the torturer said. “If I tell you about this lost soul, it is for one reason. If this story ever gets out, I will know who disc losed it.”
    Nicolas opened his mouth t o protest.
    â€œAnd you will die.”

23
    Somewhere under Paris
    Evening of the initiation
    T he 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 an y minute.”
    His adversary didn’t move a muscle. Marcas felt like an insect un der glass.
    â€œSay 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 flow ed 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.”
    â€œHow do you k now this?”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œI suppose the water will rise right up to the grate, and you’ll watch me drown,” Marcas shouted, trying to s ound 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 y ou agree?”
    â€œYou’re out of y our mind.”
    â€œNow, now. A little dignity, please. Is that how you talk to another brother? Don’t you owe me the respect of m y degree?”
    â€œWhat degree, dammit! And aren’t you called upon to come to the assistance of a brother wherever and whenever it’ s needed?”
    â€œI 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 wa s futile.
    â€œHelp me. Help!” he c ried 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 ex plosives.”
    The icy filth had reached