This was where he’d spent his youth. As an orphaned boy, Cloutard had made his way from France to Italy, but once there, he had quickly run afoul of the powers that were. He had been only ten years old when he first robbed a man. What little François didn’t know at the time was that the man he had robbed was Innocento Baldacci, the local mafia boss. Innocento had taken an instant liking to the proud little French boy; he had taken him off the streets, and he and his wife, Giuseppina, had raised him. They had treated him as if he were their own flesh and blood.
It soon became clear to Innocento and Giuseppina that François would never become a mafioso. Even at that tender age, he had a sense for the good things in life. He was interested in art, culture and good food. When he was old enough, he had left Italy and devoted himself entirely to art, and within a few years he was already running the largest art smuggling and grave-robbing operation in the Mediterranean. That is, until that cursed day when the work of many years had collapsed around him like a house of cards. AF—and Ossana Ibori personally, who also had Farid’s father on her conscience—were to blame. Things had spiraled out of control, and Cloutard was left overnight with nothing but the tattered remnants of his criminal empire. Faced with this seemingly insurmountable disaster, he had returned to his parental home, where he promised Giuseppina that he would get it all back.
But now things looked even worse than they had then. He hadn’t managed to rebuild his organization, and now his actions had put his foster mother in danger. But Farid did not know that Cloutard still had allies among the northern Italian mafia, and messing with Giuseppina meant messing with them. On his way to Italy, Cloutard had made a few phone calls, and the Capi had sent their soldiers. Farid was in for an unpleasant surprise.
Cloutard stopped some distance away from the house. Like many Tuscan country homes, it was situated on a hill overlooking the vineyards and gently rolling hills of the Italian countryside. A winding gravel road led to the house but Cloutard had no intention of taking it. He parked his car beneath a small cluster of pines and walked up a hill, along a narrow forest path. He had not gone far when he saw them: three men, the sons of old friends of his father, all prepared for the job ahead. Giuseppina had not been killed, it was true, but nobody threatened the wife of a mafioso. These men did not take such things lightly. To get inside the house, Cloutard planned to use a tunnel that was actually meant to serve as an emergency escape route. Of course, he could have just sent the men in without him, but if he were to do that his mother would never speak a word to him again. He had to do this himself.
The men nodded a greeting to Cloutard. In a few words, they discussed the plan, then parted ways. Minutes later, the three mafiosi burst through the front door of the house and confronted Farid, their guns leveled.
“What the hell is this? Who are these guys?” Farid asked nervously as he held the gun to Giuseppina’s temple. She did answer his questions, but started to insult him angrily. Sweat beaded on Farid’s scalp and his hands were suddenly clammy.
“You down-and-out little drifter! You have no idea who you’re dealing with. You have signed your own death warrant. Your mother did not put you over her knee often enough. She did not teach you to think. She did not teach you to find out who you are dealing with before you break into the houses of strangers and point guns at them!”
Giuseppina scolded Farid as if he were a wayward child who had broken his grandmother’s expensive vase. Cloutard, meanwhile, had entered the house unnoticed through the secret passage, and now stood calmly behind Farid. He and the other men were struggling hard not to burst into laughter at Giuseppina’s tirade. And Farid was slowly but surely beginning to realize how big a mistake he’d made.
“Are they Maf—”
He did not get to finish saying the word because Cloutard hit him over the head with his walking stick, and Farid fell to the ground like a sack of cement. The men disarmed Farid, tied him up and carried him down to the basement, Giuseppina following close behind.
“Who is this amateur?” Giuseppina asked when she returned with the men from the basement.
“The son of Karim,” Cloutard said. “He lost everything after his father was murdered and has been living hand-to-mouth ever since. He can hardly feed his family, and in his desperation he thought he could help himself through me.”
“Dilettante,” said Giuseppina. The men laughed, but were happy when the old woman, a moment later, brought out a silver tray with a bottle of grappa and five schnapps glasses. She poured the grappa and handed the glasses to the men.
“Salute e grazie tante.”
Giuseppina raised her glass and tipped back the spirit. The men followed suit. They had to drink fast—she was already waiting to refill the glasses. Then they all took seats on the terrace and began to talk, Italian-style: exaggerated old stories, told loudly and as much with their hands and feet as with their mouths. Lots of laughter. Cloutard hadn’t felt this good for a long time, and he knew it. He missed this. When the three men finally said goodbye, he brought the conversation back to his captive.
“Farid is a beginner, I admit, but I can understand how he feels. He did all of this for his family, that’s all. His daughter is very ill. She is dying, apparently.”
Giuseppina listened attentively as Cloutard explained all that had happened, and her eyes grew sad. She was the widow of a mafia boss and had seen more than her share of death and violence, but her heart was still in the right place. She went to Cloutard and embraced him, longer than she usually did.
“Then we will help the little girl, won’t we, Francesco?” Giuseppina rarely used the Italian version of Cloutard’s first name, and only when she was serious.
“We will find a way, Mamma,” he said, and hugged her back.
It was late, and Cloutard and his foster mother were preparing for bed when the old telephone in the kitchen rang.
“Who would be calling at this hour?” Cloutard asked.
Giuseppina picked up the receiver, nodded earnestly, and quickly hung up again.
Cloutard looked at her curiously.
“Your old mother makes no mistake twice. I have a few men outside, guarding the house. I don’t want to have any more uninvited guests. Fredo has just seen a man come out of the woods on the north side of the mountain. He is watching the house from there. Do you have any idea who that could be?”
“Je ne sais pas du tout,” said Cloutard.
“Non è importante. We are prepared!”
57
George Washington Masonic National Memorial, Alexandria, Virginia, USA
A long line of limousines crawled up the winding access road. Glimpses of the stately tower were visible now and then through the trees of the estate, before it finally revealed itself in all its glory. The glamorous stretch limos pulled up one after the other at the foot of the monumental staircase fronting the George Washington Masonic National Memorial. A red carpet led up the torch-lined staircase to the portico. Two tuxedoed young men greeted the arriving vehicles, opening doors and welcoming guests dressed in the most elegant evening wear. A flurry of flashes from the press photographers lined up at the foot of the stairs announced each new arrival.
The portico that formed the entrance to the memorial borrowed heavily from the design of Greek and Roman temples. Spotlights illuminated the impressive 333-foot-high tower, itself modelled after the ancient lighthouse of Alexandria. A handful of security guards patrolled the area. Just a few ex-cops, probably, Tom thought. No doubt there would be more inside.
The limousine carrying Tom, Hellen, Scott and Noah did not stop at the stairway like the others, but drove around to the side of the building. Because of Noah’s wheelchair, Scott had arranged for them to enter the building through the higher side entrance.
Noah’s role was that of a generous benefactor who had made a substantial last-minute donation. Undercover work was nothing new for the former Mossad agent; he slipped easily into his new character. Once he found his way into a part
, he could be very convincing.
The monumental Memorial Hall, with its eight gigantic polished-granite columns soaring more than forty feet overhead, was an awe-inspiring sight. At the end of the large hall was a domed alcove containing a bronze statue of George Washington over fifteen feet high, unveiled in 1950 by President Truman, who had been a Masonic Grand Master himself.
“I’ll give you Americans this: you do know how to throw a party,” Hellen said to Scott as she soaked in the ambience and the people. The champagne reception, a prelude to the concert, was in full swing, with well-heeled Washingtonians brushing shoulders with business moguls and a scattering of celebrity faces. Waitresses moved among the guests, plying them with champagne.
A young woman with a clipboard in her hand and wearing a plain cocktail dress and a headset approached the team.
“Professor Asher? Welcome,” she said, and she held out her hand to Scott. Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention, Scott was not wearing the dress uniform belonging to his military rank, but a tuxedo like Tom and Noah.
“Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am,” Scott smiled, shaking her hand. “I’m Scott Wagner. But allow me to introduce my nephew, Thomas Maria Wagner and his charming companion, Dr. Hellen de Mey.”
Tom in his tuxedo with Hellen at his side in a stunning scarlet evening gown made an elegant couple. Tom rolled his eyes when Scott mentioned his middle name, and Hellen could not believe that Scott had introduced her as Tom’s “companion.” Then Scott turned to Noah.
“And last but not least, our public-spirited benefactor, Professor Benjamin Asher.”
Tom and Hellen stepped aside, and Noah rolled toward the young woman and extended his hand.
“Welcome to the George Washington Masonic National Memorial,” the hostess greeted him, smiling and shaking his hand. “Mrs. Holten was very pleased to receive your generous donation. She would like to express her thanks to you personally after the presentation in the theater. I will meet you after the concert and accompany you to dinner, which will take place downstairs in the Grand Masonic Hall. But if you like, I’d be happy to offer you a brief tour of this unique building first.”
“Gladly. And I am looking forward very much to meeting Mrs. Holten. She seems a most fascinating and admirable woman,” said Noah, playing up his role as the suave Israeli philanthropist.
“Wonderful. If you would follow me, please?” The young hostess led them behind the massive green granite columns framing the Memorial Hall, stopping at an expansive mural.
“Construction of the building began in 1922. Here we have one of the two impressive murals painted by Allyn Cox, this one depicting George Washington laying the foundation stone of the Capitol on September 18, 1793. Cox painted it in the 1950s. Now if you’ll come with me to the other side . . .”
The tour dragged on, and Tom began to lose patience. “We can’t spend hours touring this place,” he whispered, leaning close to Hellen. “If Cloutard really passed information to Ossana, she could show up at any moment.”
But Hellen was deep in thought and did not hear a word Tom said. She was listening to the young woman’s lecture about the building, about George Washington and the Freemasons. As she listened, something suddenly became clear to her—something she had already known, but had not yet seen in the right context.
She turned to Tom, wanting to share her thought with him, although she knew it sounded like the wildest speculation. “So, here we are in a Masonic temple,” she whispered. “Whoever had enough influence to have the secret archive built must have also been a Freemason. Harry S. Truman became president the same year the stone came to America, and he was a Freemason. This building was not officially finished until 1970, more than enough time to hide a clue to the third part of the stone here. But where?”
Their hostess continued: “Please follow me this way to the elevator. On the upper levels we have our observatory, below that the Templar chapel, and on the seventh floor is a replica of Solomon’s Temple”.
At the mention of Solomon’s Temple, a light switched on inside Hellen’s brain.
58
Outside the George Washington Masonic National Memorial
A dark shadow flitted silently across the grounds. Clad completely in black, the soldier wore state-of-the-art night-vision goggles over a balaclava and held a silenced G36K Heckler & Koch assault rifle at the ready. On his thigh was a holstered pistol, also silenced. He took up his position, target in sight. But he was not alone. He and nine comrades-in-arms had the memorial surrounded and awaited their orders.
A massive, black eighteen-wheeler rumbled northwest along King Street, past the memorial. About a quarter of a mile beyond the museum complex was a small road, Carlisle Drive, that became an access road serving the memorial complex: this would give them far better cover. Ossana sat in the cab next to the driver. As they turned left onto Carlisle, she spoke into her radio.
“I hope you’re all in position. Wait for my command,” she said, her voice stone cold.
The semi rolled up Carlisle and continued straight onto the access road. Only one security guard was posted at the back entrance to the memorial, and the semi pulled to a stop. The guard came up to the cab.
“This way’s closed,” he said. “You’re gonna have to turn this thing around.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” said Ossana from the passenger seat in her sweetest voice. Then, like a striking snake, she leaned across the driver and shot the guard between the eyes.
“Now!” she barked into her radio. Perfectly synchronized, ten silenced rifles fired and ten security men went down. Ossana activated the jamming transmitter, which blocked all cell phone networks and radio frequencies in the area—except her own, of course. The truck pulled into the parking lot behind the memorial, and Ossana climbed down from the cab, wearing a stunning white evening gown slit up to the hip. She made her way toward the side entrance while her soldiers advanced quickly toward the main stairway.
59
Solomon’s Temple, seventh floor, George Washington Masonic National Memorial
The tour should have continued directly to the observatory, but at Hellen’s request Noah had insisted that they stop on the 7th floor of the tower, at the replica of the Temple of Solomon.
“What does Solomon have to do with the Freemasons?” Tom asked, earning a withering look from Hellen.
“The Freemasons trace their origins to the earliest stonemasons,” their guide explained. “The biblical King Solomon is considered the greatest master builder in the stonemasons’ tradition, and the Freemasons see Solomon’s Temple as a symbol of punitive and executive justice—a sort of spiritual temple for humanity. They believe that every time a Freemason works for humanity, they’re building Solomon’s Temple.”
Tom was impressed. “She’s pretty sharp,” he said.
“I could have told you that,” said Hellen, a little piqued.
“Solomon is also non-sectarian; he’s an equally important figure to Jews, Muslims and Christians.”
“For Christians, too?” Noah asked. “I hadn’t heard that before.”
“Only one branch, actually,” the young woman said. “Solomon had an affair with the Queen of Sheba, and the son born of that liaison was Menelik, the first of the Ethiopian emperors. The Ethiopian Orthodox Church still has a strong connection to Solomon to this day.”
“Also because of that.” Hellen smiled knowingly and pointed toward a drawn curtain visible through a narrow archway.
Tom was confused. “What’s behind the curtain?” Hellen didn’t reply, but her eyes widened when she noticed the subtle pattern of crosses along the bottom of the curtain. She took a few steps toward it and examined the pattern more closely to confirm her suspicion.
Returning to the others, she whispered, “I know where the third stone is now.”
Noah, Tom and Scott looked at her with surprise.
“It all fits,” Hellen said, and she pointed to the curtain.
“What’
s behind it?” Tom asked again.
“It doesn’t matter what’s behind it. The curtain itself is what matters.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Hellen,” Scott said.
“Along the bottom edge of the curtain is a cross pattern, but it’s got nothing to do with the Freemasons. It’s a Lalibela cross. A medieval Christian orthodox cross in a Masonic temple makes no sense; the pattern must have been put here on purpose—as a reference to the rock churches of Lalibela. The third part of the stone must be there. It would be the perfect place. One part of the stone stayed in Rome; the second sailed across the Atlantic to the largest museum in the world, in America—and they hid the third one in Ethiopia, in a rock church 8000 feet above sea level,” Hellen said.
“Sounds plausible,” said Noah.
“Well, looks like we’re off to Lala . . . Luli . . .” Tom said struggling with the name.
“Lalibela. La-li-be-la,” Hellen corrected him.
“Okay. Then go get the stone downstairs,” Scott said. He turned to Tom and handed him a small package that Tom immediately slipped into a pocket inside his tuxedo. “Remember: bring it straight to me. I’ll get it to a safe place.”
“But we’re supposed to get all three of the stones back to the Vatican, where they came from!” Hellen said.
“No discussion; we’re doing this my way. It’s bad enough that I’m helping you steal the stone from here at all. That alone could get me hauled in front of a military tribunal.”
“Okay, agreed,” said Tom.
“The main thing is to make sure it’s safe,” said Noah. Hellen nodded.
“We’ll meet back in the Memorial Hall,” said Scott, and Tom and Hellen headed for the elevator.
“Mr. Asher, we should be getting back downstairs now. The concert will be starting in a few minutes and I’m sure you don’t want to miss it,” the young lady said to Noah. “I’m terribly sorry. I seem to have lost track of the time. There’s still so much I would like to have shown you.”
The Library of the Kings (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 2) Page 16
