Normally a college security guard sat in an identical wood-and-glass case about twenty feet away from the philosopher. Brethren paying homage to the inventor of the Panopticon used to joke that it was impossible to know who was more dead-Jeremy Bentham or the obedient drone who watched his body. But that particular afternoon, the guard had vanished and Lawrence was alone in the hall. Slowly he approached the display case and stared at the wax face. The French sculptor who had created the face had done a particularly good job, and the slight upward curve of Bentham’s lip suggested that he was quite satisfied with the progress of the new millennium.

After staring at the preserved body for a few seconds, Lawrence stepped to the left to study a small exhibit about Bentham’s life. He glanced down and saw graffiti scrawled with a red grease pencil on the tarnished brass molding at the bottom edge of the case. It was an oval shape and three straight lines; Lawrence knew from his research that it was a Harlequin’s lute.

Was it a gesture of contempt? A defiant statement from the opposition? Crouching down, he studied the mark closer and saw that one of the lines was an arrow pointing toward Bentham’s padded skeleton. A sign. A message. He looked down the cloister hallway at a distant tapestry. A door slammed somewhere in the building, but no one appeared.

Do something, he thought. This is your only chance. The door of the display case was fastened with a small brass padlock, but he pulled it hard and ripped off the latch. When the door squeaked open, he reached inside and searched the outer pockets of Bentham’s black coat. Nothing. Lawrence opened the coat, touched cotton padding, then found an inside pocket. Something was there. A card. Yes, a postcard. He concealed the prize within his briefcase, shut the glass door, and walked quickly away.

An hour later he sat in a pub near the British Museum, examining a postcard of La Palette, a café on the rue de Seine in Paris. A green awning. Sidewalk tables and chairs. An X had been drawn on one of the tables in the photograph, but Lawrence didn’t understand what that meant. On the other side of the postcard, someone had written in French: When the temple fell.

Lawrence studied the postcard when he returned to America and spent hours doing research on the Internet. Had a Harlequin left the card as a clue, a ticket to a certain destination? What temple had collapsed? He could think of only the original Jewish temple in Jerusalem. Ark of the Covenant. Holy of Holies.

One evening at his town house, Lawrence drank an entire bottle of wine and realized that the ancient order of the Templars was connected to the Harlequins. The Templars’ leaders had been arrested by the King of France and eventually burned at the stake. When did that happen? Using his laptop computer, he went on the Internet and found out immediately. October 1307. Friday the thirteenth.

There were two Friday the thirteenths this year and one of them was a few weeks away. Lawrence changed his vacation schedule and flew to Paris. On the morning of the thirteenth, he went to La Palette wearing a sweater with a Harlequin diamond pattern. The café was situated on a side street of small art galleries that was near Pont Neuf. Lawrence sat outside at one of the little tables and ordered a café crème from the waiter. He was tense and excited, ready for an adventure, but an hour went by and nothing happened.

Studying the postcard one more time, he saw that the X mark was on a particular table at the extreme left edge of the restaurant’s sidewalk area. When a young French couple finished reading the newspaper and left for work, he moved to the chosen table and ordered a baguette with ham. He waited until noon, when an elderly waiter wearing a white shirt and black vest walked over to his table.

The man spoke French. Lawrence shook his head. The waiter tried English. “You are looking for someone?”

“Yes.”

“And who is that?”

“I can’t say. But I’ll know this person when they arrive.”

The old waiter reached beneath his waistcoat, took out a cell phone, and handed it to Lawrence. Almost immediately the phone rang, and Lawrence answered it. A deep voice spoke in French, German, and then English.

“How did you find this place?” asked the voice.

“A postcard in a dead man’s pocket.”

“You have encountered an access point. We have seven of these points around the world to gain allies and contact mercenaries. This is only an access point. It doesn’t mean that you’ll be allowed to enter.”

“I understand.”

“So tell me-what happened today?”

“The Templar order was rounded up and destroyed. But some survived.”

“Who survived?”

“The Harlequins. One of them was my father, Sparrow.”

Silence. And then the man on the phone laughed softly. “Your father would have enjoyed this moment. He savored the unexpected. And who are you?”

“Lawrence Takawa. I work for the Evergreen Foundation.”

Again, silence. “Ahhh yes,” the voice whispered. “The public façade of the group that calls themselves the Brethren.”

“I want to find out about my father.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“That’s your choice,” Lawrence said. “I’ll sit at this table for ten more minutes, then I’m leaving.”

He clicked off the cell phone and waited for it to explode, but nothing happened. Five minutes later, a large man with a shaved head marched down the sidewalk, stopped in front of the table. The man had a black metal tube slung over his shoulder and Lawrence realized that he was looking at a Harlequin carrying a hidden sword. “Apportez-moi une eau-de-vie, s’il vous plaît,” the man said to the waiter and sat down in a wicker chair. The Harlequin thrust his right hand in the pocket of his trench coat as if he was grabbing a handgun. Lawrence wondered if the Harlequin was going to execute him immediately or if he would wait for his drink to arrive.

“Switching off the phone was a decisive action, Mr. Takawa. I like that. Maybe you really are the son of Sparrow.”

“I’ve got a photograph of my parents sitting together. You can see it if you want.”

“Or I could kill you first.”

“That’s another choice.”

The Frenchman smiled for the first time. “So why are you risking your life to meet me?”

“I want to know why my father died.”

“Sparrow was the last Harlequin left in Japan. When the Tabula hired Yakuza gangsters to kill three known Travelers, he defended these people and kept them alive for almost eight years. One of the Travelers was a Buddhist monk living in a Kyoto temple. The Yakuza sent several teams of men to assassinate this monk, but the killers kept disappearing. Sparrow caught them, of course, and cut them down like tall weeds in a garden. Unlike many modern Harlequins, he actually preferred using a sword.”

“What happened? How did they catch him?”

“He met your mother at a bus stop near Tokyo University. They started to see each other and fell in love. When your mother became pregnant, the Yakuza found out about it. They kidnapped your mother and took her to a banquet room at the Osaka Hotel. She was tied up, hanging from a rope. The Yakuza planned to get drunk and rape her. They couldn’t kill Sparrow, so they were going to defile the only important person in his life.”

A waiter served a glass of brandy and the big man removed his hand from his coat pocket. The traffic noise, the sound of conversations around them faded away. All that Lawrence could hear was the man’s voice.

“Your father walked into the banquet room disguised as a waiter. He reached under a serving cart and pulled out a sword and a twelve-round rotary-drum shotgun. Sparrow attacked the Yakuza, killed some and wounded the rest. Then he freed your mother and told her to run away.”

“Did she obey him?”

“Yes. Sparrow should have fled with your mother, but his honor had been violated. He walked around the banquet room with his sword, executing the Yakuza. While he was doing this, one of the wounded men pulled out a handgun and shot him in the back. The local police were bribed to obscure the facts, and the newspapers said it was a gang war.”