Treasure Templari
Templars, Nazis and the Holy Grail
Copyright © 2019 by David S. Brody
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author: [email protected]
Eyes That See Publishing
Westford, Massachusetts
ISBN 978-0-9907413-5-0
1st edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Kimberly Scott
Book Interior and E-book Design by Soumi Goswami |
[email protected]
Printed in USA
Praise for Books in this Series
“Brody does a terrific job of wrapping his research in a fast-paced thrill ride.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Rich in scope and vividly engrossing.”
–MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW
“A comparison to The Da Vinci Code and National Treasure is inevitable….The story rips the reader into a fast-paced adventure.”
–FRESH FICTION
“A treat to read….If you are a fan of Templar history you will find this book very pleasing.”
–KNIGHT TEMPLAR MAGAZINE
“An excellent historical conspiracy thriller. It builds on its most famous predecessor, The Da Vinci Code, and takes it one step farther—and across the Atlantic.”
–MYSTERY BOOK NEWS
“A rousing adventure. Highly recommended to all Dan Brown and Michael Crichton fans.”
–READERS’ FAVORITE BOOK REVIEW
“The year is early, but this book will be hard to beat; it’s already on my ‘Best of’ list.”
–BARYON REVIEW
Dedication
To all those who opposed, in big ways and small,
Hitler and the Nazis.
About the Author
David S. Brody is a Boston Globe bestselling fiction writer named Boston’s Best Local Author by the Boston Phoenix newspaper. His children call him a “rock nerd” because of the time he spends studying ancient stone structures which he believes evidence exploration of America prior to Columbus. A graduate of Tufts University and Georgetown Law School, he has appeared as a guest expert on documentaries on History Channel, Travel Channel, PBS and Discovery Channel, as well as the Coast to Coast AM radio program. He lives in Newburyport, MA with his wife, sculptor Kimberly Scott.
The eight prior books in his Templars in America Series have been Amazon Kindle Top 10 Bestsellers in their category, with three titles reaching #1.
Treasure Templari is his twelfth novel.
For more information,
please visit DavidBrodyBooks.com
Also by the Author
The “Boston Law” Series
Unlawful Deeds
Blood of the Tribe
The Wrong Abraham
The “Templars in America” Series
Cabal of the Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book 1)
Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Book 2)
Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Book 3)
The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book 4)
The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Book 5)
Echoes of Atlantis: Crones, Templars and the Lost Continent (Book 6)
The Cult of Venus: Templars and the Ancient Goddess (Book 7)
The Swagger Sword: Templars, Columbus and the Vatican Cover-up (Book 8)
Note to Readers
Though this story is fiction, the artifacts, sites and works of art pictured are real. See Author’s Note at end of book for more detailed information.
This is a stand-alone story. Readers who have not read the first eight books in the series should feel free to jump right in. The summary below provides some basic background for new readers:
Cameron Thorne, age 44, is an attorney/historian whose passion is researching sites and artifacts that indicate the presence in America of European explorers prior to Columbus. His wife, Amanda Spencer-Gunn, is a museum curator who moved to the U.S. from England while in her mid-twenties; she has a particular expertise in the history of the medieval Knights Templar. They reside in Westford, Massachusetts, a suburb northwest of Boston. Married for only a couple of years, they have a 14-year old adopted daughter named Astarte, who is of Native American descent.
Prologue
Boston, Massachusetts
October, Present Day
For the third time, Bruce Arrujo checked the mooring lines on his 30-foot Sabre daysailor. A storm was coming in, and he knew better than to tempt a Boston Nor’easter. Using his telescope, he’d be able to keep an eye on the vessel from his waterfront condo a couple of blocks away, but he had no interest in rushing out during a tempest to try to secure a 9,000-pound mass of bucking fiberglass. He began to walk away, but a gnawing in his gut stopped him. Something was amiss. He checked the lines and bumpers yet again. As he turned, a voice cut through the wind.
“Hello, Bruce.”
Bruce froze. Something was, indeed, amiss. A storm had come in, though not the kind that brought wind and rain. Without looking up, he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “Gus.” He swallowed. “I heard you were out.”
“Yup. Twenty-six years. Half my life.”
Bruce couldn’t keep his back to his old friend forever; in fact, it was never wise to do so. Bruce turned and met Gus’ gaze. Same hard blue eyes, same thin reddish hair, same Irish cap he had worn since his thick orange curls had first begun to fall out during chemo for cancer in middle-school. But gaunter. And, not surprisingly, wrinkled and a bit stooped. Bruce waited, not interested in small talk. He suspected Gus had come for a reason and would soon make that reason known.
“You never came to visit.”
Of all the things Bruce thought Gus might say, that was not one of them. “We’re not twelve years old, Gus. And you weren’t at summer camp. We drifted apart.”
“No, Bruce.” Gus lifted his chin. He had lost his bottom teeth. “You drifted apart. We were supposed to be partners for life.” He caught his hat as a wind gust threatened to dislodge it. “You dumped me.”
Bruce shook his head. “Really, Gus? We’re going to have this conversation again? You wanted to keep stealing art. I didn’t. Then you got caught and went to jail. How is any of that my fault?”
“Because, Bruce, I wouldn’t have fuckin’ got caught if you hadn’t dumped me.”
“I dumped you because, eventually, everyone gets caught.” Unfortunately for Gus, his getting caught became felony murder when his partner panicked and shot a museum security guard. “But you could never get your head wrapped around that. Cash in and go home, Gus. That’s what I wanted to do. Only losers sit at the table all night long. Eventually the house always wins.”
“Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit. You didn’t cash in, Bruce. You just switched tables.”
Gus had a point. Bruce got a law degree and stole a small fortune from his law firm’s unsuspecting institutional clients. It was easier, and safer, than stealing art. “I found a sure thing. I knew I wouldn’t get caught.”
“Well, you’re caught now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. I’m catching you. Time to pay the piper. And I’m the piper.”
“I
’m not paying you shit, Gus.”
“Ten million bucks, Bruce.” He lowered his voice. “A thousand a day for every day I rotted away. Plus interest. You have a month.”
“You’re dreaming—”
Gus spoke over him. “And I want fifty grand now, as a deposit.” He paused and leered. “And don’t try anything stupid. Something happens to me, and a letter goes to Salvatore. I hear he’s still pissed.”
Bruce swallowed. He and Gus had been young and reckless, and somehow had gotten away with robbing a Mob boss’ mansion in Swampscott while posing as pizza delivery guys. But the capo was still alive thirty years later, and apparently hadn’t forgotten having the sanctity of his home violated. It wasn’t even a great haul—a 200-year-old marble bust of a king of Italy, whom Salvatore apparently descended from, which they fenced for seven grand down in Philadelphia. Now it was an ace in Gus’ hand. But it was only a single card.
Bruce set his jaw and took a step in. He had six inches and fifty pounds on Gus; the last time they had been together—could it really be more than twenty years ago?—Bruce had pummeled him and thrown him into the icy Charles. But, small as he was, when Gus fought he did so like a rabid raccoon, all teeth and nails and froth. And no doubt he had learned a few tricks, like always carrying a hidden weapon, in order to survive in jail. Bruce exhaled as the wind whipped. Now was not the time. Instead, extracting his wallet, he shoved a twenty dollar bill down the front of Gus’ jacket. “Go buy yourself a meal. And get out of my life.”
Gus’ eyes narrowed. “Too late. I’ve been watching you for a week. I know where you live, and where you work, and who you’re fucking.” He leered. “Same chick as back in the day, if I remember. She aged well.”
Shelby. Bruce had worked hard to keep her out of the ugly side of his life. He no longer stole art and no longer practiced law. Instead he had crafted a successful career advising museums on how to upgrade their security systems; he also helped insurance companies recover art when those upgrades proved insufficient. But not all the people in his world could be trusted around those he loved. And the only person he loved at this point in his life was Shelby Baskin.
Gus continued. “Wouldn’t mind having a go with her myself. She could probably use a man with some spirit in him.”
Bruce swallowed his anger as the wind whistled through the rigging of his boat. That was what Gus wanted, to provoke him, to get him to react emotionally. Gus knew Shelby was Bruce’s one vulnerability, and he also knew how to exploit it. “If you’ve been watching me, you know I don’t have that kind of money.”
“No. Not yet. But I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. And he says you’re around art worth ten times that amount.” He smiled wryly. “Time to come out of retirement, old boy.”
That was what this was about. Sure, Gus wanted money. But he also wanted revenge. He wanted Bruce to join him in the muck. He wanted his old partner back. Misery, as the old saying went, wanted company. In fact, was demanding it.
Chapter 1
Westford, Massachusetts
One Month Later
Cameron Thorne looked up from the article he was reading as Amanda stood and painted at an easel a few feet away. They were on their deck overlooking a lake in suburban Boston, the late afternoon autumn sun glistening off the blue-gray water. “Look,” he said, motioning toward an eagle slowly circling a hundred yards offshore. Suddenly the bird dove, dropping feet first in a free fall, its talons splashing into the water. The water frothed for a second or two before the eagle again took flight, its dinner writhing in fruitless defiance.
Cam blinked. Was it a coincidence that the eagle appeared just as he was reading about the Nazis, whose symbol was an eagle clutching a swastika? “Did you know Hitler was obsessed with the Holy Grail?” he asked.
Amanda touched her brush to the canvas, finishing a tree trunk, before replying. A British native, she was fascinated by the vibrancy of New England’s foliage; she had started the painting two weeks ago, when the foliage had been at its peak. She looked up and pushed her strawberry blond hair to the side with the back of her hand. A speck of orange paint on her cheek shone against her fair skin. “Hitler? I thought he had no use for religion.”
“It had nothing to do with religion. He thought the Holy Grail was magic. He wanted to weaponize it.”
Amanda sniffed. “Of course he did.” She leaned closer, her fresh, floral scent wafting over him. “What are you reading?”
“I have a meeting tomorrow with a lawyer I used to work with, Shelby Baskin. She sent me a link to this article about a painting called the Ghent Altarpiece. The Nazis stole it during World War II. Apparently Hitler thought it was a secret map leading to the Holy Grail.”
She nodded and turned back to her painting. “Allied forces found it hidden in Austria after the war. Remember, we saw that film with Matt Damon and George Clooney, The Monuments Men. It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world. But why are two barristers in Boston meeting about it?”
Cam shrugged. “I’m not sure. All she told me was that she needed my Templar expertise and asked me to read this article.”
Amanda paused for a few seconds before replying. “So, is it? Is the painting a map to the Holy Grail?”
A decade ago Cam would have laughed the question off as ridiculous. But he had learned that it didn’t really matter whether legends like the Holy Grail or secret maps were real or not. What mattered was what people believed, because it was beliefs that motivated behavior and behavior that in turn impacted history.
In this case, apparently, the believer was one Adolph Hitler. And there was no way to laugh off his impact on history.
Cam had agreed to meet Shelby Baskin at her office in Boston. He enjoyed life in suburban Westford, but took every chance he could to feast on the vibrancy of the city. She glided out to the reception area to greet him, stylish in a trim maroon suit. He had met her nearly 20 years ago when he was a young associate and Shelby a junior partner; he was now 44, so that made her around 50. She rocked it, her light brown hair cut in a bob and parted just off center. He wondered how she viewed him—had his boyish charm been eclipsed by the grey highlights in his goatee and a thinning hairline? Amanda seemed not to think so (or at least was kind enough not to say anything), but, well, she was sort of stuck with him.
Shelby smiled at him warmly, her teeth even and white, and took his outstretched hand in both of hers in a gesture that conveyed warmth but not flirtation. In both appearance and demeanor, she had always reminded him of the news anchor, Katie Couric. “Nice to see you, Cameron. It’s been too long.”
He followed her toward a glass conference room with views of the Charles River. “I think almost five years.”
Her blue eyes twinkled as she half-turned to reply. “Back before you were so famous.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Who knew that almost getting disbarred could be such a career move?”
She had been one of the first people to reach out to him when he had faced disciplinary action from the bar association for disclosing confidential client information while his firm defended the archdiocese in a series of priest sexual abuse trials. His firm had crafted a last-ditch strategy of attacking the abuse victims in hopes of avoiding liability, and Cam, appalled, had leaked the strategy memo to a local newspaper. Fired from the firm, he reinvented himself as a suburban real estate attorney. While in Westford, a local historical legend spurred him to research European exploration of American before Columbus, research which had led him to meet Amanda.
“Famous?” he repeated. “The word you want is infamous.”
“Bullshit, Cam,” she said lightly. “I saw you on History Channel. While the rest of us were stuck in the law library, you were out rewriting history.” She gestured toward a leather chair at the long mahogany table facing the river. Not exactly a dingy law library, but he got her point; he was fortunate to have stumbled upon something that he felt passionate about. She sat in the adjoining chair and swiveled to face
him. “You know, you inspired me.”
“How so?”
“I’m part-time now, only here two days a week. About four years ago I took a job as director of the Big Sister organization in town.” She smiled. “It was quite a pay cut, which is why I still play lawyer twice a week. But it’s what I wanted to do. Like I said, you inspired me.”
“Are you glad you did it?”
“I am. My bank account,” she said with a laugh, “not so much.”
“I hear you. Nobody pays me to do research.” He shifted. “Which I assume is why I’m here.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I, too, am hoping not to pay you to do research.”
He returned her smile. “How can I turn down an offer like that?”
With a deep breath, she said, “I wanted to talk in here, in private, before I take you to lunch. Did you ever meet Bruce?”
Cam had a distant memory of being introduced to a tall, unsmiling, olive-skinned man at a restaurant. “I think once, a long time ago. How’s he doing?” They both knew he meant, Are you still together?
She rolled her eyes. “It’s complicated. I guess the best way to describe it is that we are mismatched soulmates. My heart can’t seem to let him go, but my head knows better than to marry him.” She sighed. “It’s been that way since we met in law school almost thirty years ago.”
“He’s a lawyer?” The man Cam remembered had the rugged, street-smart look of a guy who didn’t spend his days in an office.
“Well, he has a law degree. But it’s been decades since he’s practiced. He’s a consultant to insurance companies. He helps them recover stolen artwork.” She smiled. “I suppose in some ways he’s like you—using his law training to pursue other avocations.”
“I’m sorry, but why would they hire a lawyer to recover stolen art?”
She shook her head and half-smiled. “Because before law school, he was an accomplished art thief.”
Cam blinked. “Oh.” Which might explain why Shelby had not married him. And perhaps why she had invited Cam to meet with her today.
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