Chapter 3
“Name?”
“Habib Fareh.”
“You’re not on the list. Which Lodge do you belong to?”
“The Grand Lodge of Lebanon. Here’s an affidavit by our Grand
Secretary and a certificate of good standing. You should have my
letter of introduction. They mailed it about 10 days ago.”
The two assistants were perplexed and exchanged worried
glances. Then one grabbed a white badge on which he wrote ‘Habib
Fareh. Grand Lodge of Lebanon’ and gave it to the visitor that was
observing the bust of General Albert Pike, who championed on behalf
of the Scottish Rite in America.
Habib Fareh stuck the nametag on his jacket, retraced his steps
down the hallway and entered the 500-seat auditorium, with its
Broadway-style main stage. He found a seat, squashed in between
two overweight Masons.
The ceremony taking place was in honor of Brotherhood Weekend,
an event of great international relevance. On the right hand side of
the auditorium Habib Fareh noticed the presence of delegates from
foreign Grand Lodges. Brotherhood Weekend had been established
a dozen years earlier as an offshoot of the Bilingual Lodges affiliated
with the Grand Lodge of Washington DC. These Lodges represented
a Freemason-diplomatic bridge between the capital of the
USA and the capitals of other nations. At the Brotherhood Weekend
ceremonies each participant recited the rituals in his own native
language. At times it might have echoed the Tower of Babel, but
for Washington Freemasons it validated the concept of Universal
Brotherhood that unites all members of the ancient institution.
Habib Fareh noticed that the Grand Officers of the Grand Lodge
of Washington DC were on the average 30 years old and that they
were all dressed in formal wear with tailcoats. Every Brother with
an official position, beginning with the Grand Master who wore a
top hat, had an earpiece connected to the control room in charge
of lighting and sound effects. A professional musician, who was a
Freemason, was playing the organ on the auditorium’s left. No one
who was “profane” was admitted to the ceremony. The ceremony
proceeded uneventfully thanks to the many rehearsals. Everyone
obviously knew his part by heart. When the ceremony ended, the
Brothers proceeded to the ballroom for a buffet luncheon.
Habib Fareh meanwhile had asked that the representative of
the Armenia Lodge and of the Iran Lodge in Exile be pointed out
to him. He found a way to sit near them at one of the tables. He
then started up a conversation, and introduced himself as the representative
of the Grand Lodge of Lebanon. There was immediate
interest: “The Grand Lodge of Lebanon? A while ago we had a big
problem when the Grand Lodge of Washington supported the creation
of a Lodge in Lebanon. It ended up creating a big problem
with another Grand Lodge… But you, where are you from and who
exactly do you represent?”
Habib Fareh smiled, “It’s obvious, with all due respect, that you
are not up to date on Freemasonry in Lebanon,” he replied very
calmly. “Excuse me for a moment, I need to go to the restroom.”
As he walked away the two Brothers, who agreed they felt uneasy
about the exchange, decided to discuss the matter with a former
Grand Master who had dealt with the controversy in Lebanon.
“Try and stop him,” he said in great alarm. “We need to figure
out who exactly this guy is.”
But Habib Fareh had disappeared.
Chapter 4
Brother Andrew was deaf mute, but not completely. He was good
at lip reading and could answer with guttural replies. Since childhood
he had been a patient of the Scottish Rite Center’s clinic for
hearing- and speech-impaired students. The Scottish Rite paid all
the expenses for the physicians as well as the patients and the family
members who assisted them. Every day in America, Freemasons
contribute millions of dollars to fund 23 clinics and hospitals nationwide
that take care of children up to the age of 18 with serious
orthopedic, spinal and burn injuries.
Andrew was the janitor at the Scottish Rite Center. His job was
to clean up after all events and ceremonies. He worked hard, but
had a few personal perks. After banquets he would take home
whatever food had not been touched. He also took left over bottles
of wine to drown the sorrows of his involuntary bachelorhood. He
liked women, but they avoided him because of his handicaps. And
sometimes he resold unopened bottles.
That evening Brother Andrew was angry. The Center’s Grand
Commander and General Secretary had told him to search for an
Arab, named Habib Fareh. Apparently he had gained entrance under
false pretenses and taken advantage of the naiveté of the young
guys in charge of registration.
“What kind of jerks do they put in charge? I get the shit jobs,
that pay shit and I’m treated like shit. I get kicked around because
of who I am and have to depend on their handouts.” These were the
thoughts going through Andrew’s mind as he swept the ballroom
floor and picked up empty bottles and litter. “Even among the Freemasons
there are a lot of pigs. Couldn’t someone teach them how to
behave and not just how to recite rituals?”
While the Center’s leadership had taken care not to alarm Brotherhood
Weekend participants, the disappearance of the young Lebanese
made them very uneasy. They kept searching for him, but quietly.
And they looked and looked everywhere for hours, but there
was no sign of the Arab. They looked in the administrative offices,
the meeting rooms, the small temple and its dressing room, the
former barbershop (with its lovely 1900s leather chairs), the main
temple on the second floor, the billiard hall, the ‘hall of lost steps’,
the restrooms, the ladies lounges and in the large kitchen with its
industrial size refrigerators and catering equipment to prepare
meals for hundreds.
They looked in the auditorium, in between the rows of seats,
and above all behind the stage among all the theatrical equipment
where it would have been easy to hide. They shined bright lights
in all the dark corners and recesses of the stage sets and curtains.
Nothing: there was no trace of the Lebanese intruder.
And so they concluded that, once he realized he was attracting
too much attention, the young Arab had sneaked out the same back
entrance door he had used to get in. There was no point asking the
guys hanging out by the door smoking if they had noticed anything.
A few vaguely remembered someone who smiled at them
when entering and having briefly wondered who he might be. The
two assistants at the registration desk and the delegates from the
Armenian and Iranian Lodges had a slightly better recollection and
had participated in the search. All in vain.
Brother Andrew continued sweeping and folding up the napkins
left on the banquet tables and scraping food off the plates into the
garbage bins. He felt tired, very tired. He had started work at 6 a.m.
and now it was midnight. He’d have to finish cleaning up the next
day. For now all he had left to do was to take out the trash and then
get in his ten-year- old Corolla and drive home to Damascus, MD. It
was a 45-minute trip, and there wouldn’t be any traffic at this time
of night. But he was so tired and he had to get up early. He’d be
lucky if he got four hours of sleep.
“Know what?” he thought, “Maybe I’ll just sleep here. I’ve done
it before.”
Andrew put away the broom, and passed through the small
temple on his way towards the barbershop. “One more place to
clean tomorrow. What a bitch.” When he got there he stripped
down to his underwear. Then he turned on one of the sink faucets
and let the water run. He was so thirsty, almost certainly because
he had eaten some of the spicy Peruvian leftovers while cleaning
up. He filled a paper cup with water and drank it with a big sigh of
relief. He drank some more to settle his stomach.
It had been a wise choice to stay over and not drive all the way
home just for a few hours rest. The Director General wouldn’t object.
“I certainly do not ask him to pay me overtime even for while
I’m sleeping in a barber chair.” The headrest was really comfortable.
“Those Freemasons in the 1920s treated themselves well. They
had a free barber. OK, maybe it was only for the ones going on
stage to act out Scottish Rite rituals, but it was still a free haircut.”
Andrew became thankful at the thought of all of the years he
had spent at the Center and the care he had received from the clinic.
After all, it almost felt like home. He pushed the seat back as far as
it could go and settled in contentedly.
The metal loop cut his throat. Air and blood squirted out from
Andrew’s trachea and arteries making a strange sound. It was not
his usual utterance.
When the body stopped withering in agony, the Arab used
a towel to wipe off his instrument of death. He had bought it for
a hefty sum from an antiquarian in Valencia. It dated back to the
1600s and had been used on countless throats.
Habib Fareh, or whatever his real name was, left the barbershop,
and went through the small temple and the kitchen. He then walked
down the hall and up a flight of stairs to the secretary’s office. The
door was locked, but he opened it easily with a skeleton key. Once
in the office, he turned on the computer and started retrieving files
confident he would not be disturbed, at least for a while. The dead
janitor, after deciding to spend what turned out to be his last night,
had not turned on the central alarm system connected to the local
police station.
Fareh called a number on his cell phone. As soon as he heard
the other side was on the line he said, “Done,” and hung up. From
a pocket he took out a silver cigarette case from which he removed
a joint. He proceeded to light it and took a few long drags before
turning back to the computer and the Center’s files. Feeling completely
relaxed, he smiled at his reflection in the computer’s monitor.
Everything had gone as planned, thanks to his professionalism.
When it came to international assassins, he was the best
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