Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  She shook her head. How had a religion built on such a shaky foundation and ruled over by such charlatans survived—in fact, thrived—for two thousand years? Yet somehow people bought this foppery! Could there be a stronger argument that the sheep-like masses could easily be led, easily guided, easily told what to think and how to act?

  Or, going forward, that they deserved to be?

  Katarina resisted spitting on the church floor. Taking a deep breath, she refocused on her mission. The Atwill book was important, providing a doctrinal justification for the rejection of Christianity. But it was the Just Judges painting which was crucial. Once Christianity was taken down, something would need to be built in its place. The painting would lead to the secrets and powers of ancient Atlantis and usher in a return to the worship of the old gods. Not that she believed in a higher deity, old or new. But the people needed something—as Marx said, an opiate for the masses.

  As she stepped out of the church, around a homeless man and into the sunshine, she took a deep breath to clear her head. Retracing her steps back to the quiet dignity of Marlborough Street and its tree-shaded brownstones, she allowed her mind to work, to plan, to strategize. Stopping under a majestic oak, she pulled a piece of bark away and held it to her nose, allowing the smoky, vanilla-like smell to fill her nostrils. The oak had always been a symbol of the strength of Germany; in fact, it was Hitler’s favorite tree. She still had much work to do. But nobody ever said finishing the Fuhrer’s work would be easy.

  “Listen to this,” Amanda said, the morning after Cam’s meeting with Shelby. She and Cam were enjoying a leisurely breakfast after working out. “I just read an article about Heinrich Himmler, the Nazi head of the SS. Apparently he was fixated on finding Atlantis. He thought it was the origin of the Aryan race.”

  Cam swallowed a bite of bagel and nodded. “Right. I saw a documentary about this. Himmler was obsessed with the old pagan religions. He had all his men worshiping the old Norse gods.”

  Amanda blinked, then smiled. “Fascinating. You watch the oddest bloody things.”

  He turned her words around. “It’s because I find odd, bloody things, well, fascinating.”

  “Touché.” She recalled her conversation with Astarte. History was important, was relevant. Here in fact was another case of history perhaps repeating itself: She had read recently of an uptick in pagan worship amongst white supremacists. “What did Hitler think of all this pagan ritual?”

  “He didn’t really know about it. People don’t realize how much power Himmler had. His SS troops were incredibly loyal to him, and they operated outside the main government. And Hitler needed them. Himmler pretty much did what he wanted.” Cam cleared their plates as he spoke. “In fact, at one point Himmler’s men and Hitler’s men were competing over who got to keep the Ghent Altarpiece. Himmler had it first, but then Hitler’s men took it from him. Hitler thought it led to the Holy Grail, but Himmler thought it was a map to finding ancient Atlantis. Like you said, he believed the Aryans descended from the Atlantis survivors.”

  “Of course. What else would he believe? Amazing that these ninnies almost took over the world.” Amanda took a deep breath. “Pray that it never happens again.”

  Bruce had lingered on the edge of the field near the Hunebedden, thinking about Bertrand’s words. A genie in the bottle. How did one put a value on a magic genie? A heavy cloud passed over the mid-afternoon sun, darkening the day, while a cool breeze rustled the trees. A front was moving in. Bruce took a last look at the Hunebedden and began to lope back to his car.

  The sound of an engine starting cut through the wind. Good, Bruce thought, rubbing his arms against the cold. Get the car warm. He took another half-dozen strides, then suddenly stopped. The engine sound seemed to be fading as he approached, as if the SUV were moving away from him. Bertrand had rushed off in the seemingly wrong direction. Bruce broke into a run, his long legs covering the fifty yards in less than ten seconds. He broke through a small grove of trees to see the SUV bouncing away from him along the cow path. He cursed. Even on the rutted surface, the vehicle was moving faster than Bruce could run. Bruce stopped and peered ahead, his anger turning to comprehension as he made out a second head—not Bertrand’s—in the passenger seat. Bertrand had set him up. His driver was not leaving voluntarily. And if there was a second man in the SUV, chances were he had friends. Friends who had been left behind to deal with Bruce.

  Needing time to analyze the situation, Bruce edged off the path and back into the shelter of the tree grove. Why would Bertrand set him up? And for whom? A genie in the bottle was worth a fortune, so obviously this all related to the Just Judges painting. But Bruce didn’t have it with him; in fact, it was an ocean away. So this was a chance for someone to gather information, or perhaps send a message. Okay, then. There was nothing worse than a hidden adversary, an unknown enemy operating from the shadows. Better to know who he was up against.

  He decided the best way to play this was as a scared sheep. Let his adversary believe he was not a threat, a docile art broker in over his head. They might eventually do Bruce harm, but for now they likely needed him alive if their goal was to somehow acquire the painting. He took a deep breath. It all made sense in his head, all rational and logical. But he also knew that sometimes the world didn’t work that way. Often wolves ate the sheep. He was gambling that would not be the case today.

  He snapped a thick branch off to use as a weapon as he played through the different scenarios in his mind. Burrowing down at the base of a tree, he covered himself with twigs and leaves as he imagined a frightened man would do. A half hour passed, Bruce finding it more and more difficult to stay warm as the temperature dropped. The shadows had lengthened as the sun dropped lower on the horizon. Perhaps they were waiting for darkness to make their move. But why? He was a stout guy in good shape, but he was also middle-aged, alone and unarmed. He surmised this was some kind of mind game, part of their intimidation tactics. If so, he had to admit it was working. As much as he was trying to stay rational, the dark and cold and uncertainty were starting to weigh on him. He fought back a shiver.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, the afternoon continuing to darken. Bruce stood, abandoning his shelter, and began to shake his limbs for warmth. It began to drizzle. Perhaps he had misjudged things. Perhaps he really was alone. In which case the real danger was the elements. He had a half-charged burner cellphone with no bars and a bag of peanuts he had taken from the plane. No way to make a fire, no way to call for help. What would a scared sheep do? At some point, it would venture out.

  Crouching, he crept out of the grove. He scanned the field, the cow path, the horizon. Did he see a movement in the distance? He squinted, moving his head slowly. Nothing. Not that that proved anything. He rubbed his face and filled his lungs. He really only had one choice. Breaking into a jog, careful not to turn an ankle on the uneven path, he headed toward the road.

  He had just begun to relax, to think he might make it safely to the highway, when a pair of camouflage-clad men suddenly appeared in his path like some kind of apparition. But there was nothing illusory about the automatic rifles they carried. From behind, he heard the rustle of leaves and turned to see another pair of assailants. He exhaled a long breath, taking little comfort in the fact he had correctly analyzed the situation. “What do you want from me?” He didn’t have to put on much of an act to make the words sound submissive.

  The smaller of the two men in front took a step forward. He was an older man, nearing 60, but the hardness in his gray eyes and the way he carried his gun left no doubt as to his competency. He surprised Bruce by speaking with what seemed to be an Israeli accent. “My name is Menachem. For now, Mr. Arrujo, we want nothing.” He pronounced the name correctly, the ‘j’ being hard.

  “And later?”

  “Later, we will ask for a favor.”

  He couldn’t resist asking. “What might that be?”

  “We know you will be involved with selling a certain piece of ar
t. We want to make sure it is not sold to the wrong person.”

  Bruce hadn’t expected that. He shrugged. “That’s not very specific.”

  Menachem edged nearer. “No, it is not. Perhaps I can be clearer.” With lightning quick movements, he kicked Bruce’s feet out from under him. Before Bruce could react, the four men had pinned him to the ground face-down, his arms and legs splayed. Menachem leaned into Bruce’s ear. “Are you right-handed, or left, Mr. Arrujo?”

  His racing heart beat even harder. At some point fear swamped rational thinking. Bruce had passed that point. “Right,” he said.

  “Very well.” The leader nodded to the man holding Bruce’s left arm before grabbing Bruce by the hair and turning his face to the right. Bruce felt a momentary pressure on his left pinky. He heard a snap and milliseconds later the pressure exploded in a white light of agony. He screamed and writhed, the realization of what had just happened almost as painful as the violence itself. He gasped for air as pain shot up his arm like a swarm of fire ants. He felt himself beginning to lose consciousness…

  Menachem slapped him in the face, slapped him back to the present. He held his chin and forced Bruce to look him in the eye. “As I said, later we will be asking for a favor. In exchange for that future favor, we will today extend a consideration to you: We will allow you to keep your other nine fingers, we will dress your wound, and we will bring you to a hospital.” He offered a cold smile. “Does that sound acceptable to you? Yes or no?”

  Bruce swallowed his bile and choked back a moan. A soothing voice deep in his consciousness spoke to him. Relax. It’s okay. It’s over. Tell them what they want to hear. Gritting his teeth, he nodded, somehow gained control of his breathing, open his eyes, and coughed out a single word. “Okay.”

  Chapter 3

  On afternoons like this, Amanda was glad she had switched to part-time hours at her museum job. She sipped a cup of tea at the kitchen table, their tawny-colored Lab named Venus at her feet, as she studied a high-resolution version of the Ghent Altarpiece painting on her computer. Astarte would not get off the bus for another hour, and Cam had gone to a real estate closing; this was a great chance to dive into the latest mystery that had dropped into their lives. Cam may have been the one invited to go on this quest, but no way was she going to let him have all the fun.

  She focused on the painting with the twelve panels open, which was how it was generally displayed in the St. Bavo’s Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium.

  It was such a massive painting, with so much detail, that it was almost impossible to take it all in. She decided to focus on individual panels. She had done some reading earlier in the day and learned there were certain panels which seemed to be more relevant to the Holy Grail mystery. The bottom left panel, the 1934 copy of the Just Judges depiction, was at the top of this list. She zoomed in on this painting.

  The men depicted on horseback were approaching the center of the painting, the focus point of the altarpiece. These “just judges” were apparently leaders of the community who had come to witness the events in the center panel. Amanda knew she would likely spend many hours studying the particular details of this panel, but for now she moved on, to its neighbor to the right, entitled the Knights of Christ.

  The panel, as its name hinted at, depicted military men carrying banners on horseback. The curious thing about the panel was that the soldiers were specifically identified as Knights of Christ, the successor order to the outlawed Knights Templar. Why, Amanda wondered, would a painting prominently on display in a Catholic church feature a monastic order which the Church had outlawed and condemned? Was the artist sending some kind of message? The Templars were, after all, rumored to have found the Holy Grail while in the Holy Land.

  She turned to the central panel, the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, featuring a vibrant display of reds and greens—it was the richness of these colors which first wowed medieval viewers. Both the just judges and the Templar knights were riding toward this central scene, apparently to view the ceremony being portrayed.

  As the title implied, a sacrificial lamb was the focal point of the painting. The lamb stood on an altar, surrounded by angels. Other observers—martyrs (both male and female), foreign dignitaries, saints and Old Testament prophets—stood by. A wound had been opened on the lamb’s breast from which blood gushed into a golden goblet, a clear reference to Jesus’ sacrifice (he being known as the Lamb of God) which most art historians agreed symbolized that the Holy Grail was itself the blood of Jesus collected in a golden chalice. The entire painting, in essence, focused on the Holy Grail.

  Amanda shook her head. She didn’t want to get too deep into the religious symbolism; she simply wasn’t qualified to do so. Her eyes moved further to the right. Opposite the judges and Templars, on panels flanking the central sacrificial lamb depiction, groups of pilgrims and hermits approached the ceremony. For now, Amanda ignored them. She instead wanted to focus on the Just Judges panel, which legend claimed held the key to deciphering the mystery, and the Knights of Christ panel, which Amanda sensed was also an important clue.

  She refreshed her tea and returned to the table. Sitting back, she studied the painting as a whole. The background landscape across the bottom five panels was continuous, indicating they were to be viewed collectively. Something curious struck Amanda: The Templar knights were given a position closer to the sacrifice of the lamb than were the judges. Traditionally, especially in religious ceremonies, one’s proximity to the ceremony itself was a reflection of one’s importance. So why were outlawed knights given a more prestigious placement than the judges? Was van Eyck hinting that the Templars had been judged unfairly? There was also something unsettling about the third horse from the bottom in the Just Judges panel—he seemed to be looking straight at the viewer, as if sharing a secret.

  Amanda exhaled. The painting was so rich, so detailed. She could spend a year studying it and still not completely understand it. Her instincts told her that van Eyck had, indeed, encoded the painting with clues and secret messages. And as much as she hated to agree with the Nazis, the image of the lamb bleeding into the chalice symbolized the Holy Grail in such a way as to leave little doubt that van Eyck was calling attention to it. The question had to be asked: Had the medieval artist somehow learned of the Holy Grail’s location?

  Amanda stood. It was time to learn more about the mysterious Jan van Eyck.

  Norman stood in front of the medicine cabinet mirror in his trailer and adjusted his tie. He had put on his best suit—actually, his only suit—for today’s meeting with the bank. He couldn’t get the length of his tie right and gave up after three tries, content to let the point fall half a foot beyond his belt buckle, like a bib for his dick. Which only made him look more ridiculous, drawing attention to how disproportionate his stumpy trunk was compared to his outsized head. ‘Easter Island Head,’ the kids had called him in middle school. When they weren’t calling him ‘Nebish,’ that is.

  Perhaps looking like a schlub would win him some sympathy. He probably should have called a lawyer. He had run some ideas past a lawyer he knew in Boston, a guy who had helped him out earlier in the summer when he needed to raise some cash. But he couldn’t afford to have him actually come to the meeting. Maybe it was better that way. He was going to beg for mercy—not something most lawyers were good at.

  A half hour later he found himself seated across from his loan officer inside a white clapboard bank branch in the town of Neversink. The irony of the name had not been lost on him—lately it felt like he was always sinking. Pamela Singleton was her name. Sink, Singleton—was he reading too much into things? Thirty-something, brunette, businesslike. Not the type who would ever be interested in him—he seemed to attract fat women who wanted attention. But she had championed this loan, and would probably see her career suffer because of it. He figured they had that, at least, in common.

  “Look,” he said, “neither of us wants this to go to foreclosure. I think we can still make it work.”
r />   “Mr. Plansky—”

  “Call me Norman. Please.”

  “Very well. Norman. I feel bad about this. Awful, in fact. I know how much you’ve invested in the project, both financially and emotionally.” She exhaled. “Even your grandfather’s Andy Warhol painting. But there’s nothing left to be done. You can’t run a resort without a septic system, and there’s no way to build one without disturbing the burial grounds. We both know the local tribes are never going to allow that.”

  The mention of the Warhol was like a punch in the gut. It had been Grandpa’s prized possession, displayed in the lobby for all to see; he loved how it made his guests feel like he was a bigshot, and that they were staying in a classy resort. Norman shook the thought away. “I’ve been looking into tight tanks. I can get them pumped daily. At least until I can find a permanent solution.” It worked on airplanes, so why not a resort?

  Pamela shook her head. “The state will never allow that, especially for a large resort. Too much risk of breakout.”

  “What about trying to get a waiver so we can use land closer to the river?”

  “I can’t see the state agreeing to that either. The lakes and rivers are the lifeblood of this area. Again, too much risk of contamination.”

  “I could approach one of the abutters, maybe buy their land and put the septic system there?”

  She shook her head. “You’re talking millions, between acquisition cost and engineering and probably pumping upgrade. Plus you’d still need to finish construction on the resort.”

  He hadn’t expected any of these trial balloons to fly. He had more hope for option number four. “What about if I can get the Native American tribes to agree?”