Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  She angled her head. “Agree to desecrate their burial grounds? What makes you think they would ever agree to that?”

  “I could offer them something. Maybe a museum at the resort.”

  “You’ve got less than two weeks before we foreclose. I suppose anything is possible, but that really seems like a longshot to me.”

  “But we don’t even know for sure yet that the artifacts are Native American. The workmen found a metal sword.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what else the site could be. It’s not Colonial. And the Native Americans did use some metals, like copper.”

  He bit back a retort. They didn’t know what else it could be because the bank refused to pay for testing. But he wasn’t here to argue. And she was probably right anyway. He had read something about a group of Templars exploring the Catskill Mountains in the late 1100s and was hoping this burial ground might be theirs. But the Templars were supposedly in the Hunter Mountain region, forty miles away. It was a longshot at best. And he was wasting his time talking about ancient history with a banker. “So, what happens next?”

  She stood up, crossed the room and closed the door. “Maybe somebody buys the property at foreclosure. More likely, the bank takes it back. And then we try to sell it.”

  “To who?”

  “Good question. When all’s said and done, the bank will be in the hole almost seven million dollars. We’ll be lucky to get much more than a million. I’ll be honest; it’s a huge hit for us.” A weight spread across his chest. The Levana Resort, once complete and up and running, would have been worth ten or even twelve million. Eighteen cottages along the lake, fully renovated. Plus a 60-room hotel with function hall and two separate restaurants, one kosher and the other not. Not to mention the pool and beach area and tennis courts. But it was all just a white elephant without a working septic system. Such a waste. “Someone will figure out a good use for the property,” she continued. “A use that doesn’t require a big septic system. Maybe a small subdivision with four or five waterfront homes. Maybe something like a mini golf course.”

  He closed his eyes. Mini golf. He actually enjoyed mini golf, but, still. What had he done?

  Pamela lowered her voice. “If I were you, I’d use the next week-and-a-half to try to get my life in order. You gave it a good shot. But it’s over, Norman. Unless you can somehow convince the Native Americans that it’s okay to desecrate their burial ground, it’s over.”

  Bruce sat propped up in a hospital bed in the Dutch city of Emmen, near the German border. Menachem had, as promised, transported him to a medical facility. A doctor had sewn his wound shut and pumped antibiotics into him to stave off any infection. He had even inserted a small metal screw to give the pinky some stability. The finger throbbed but the Dutch doctor thought he would make a full recovery.

  Physically, that was. Psychologically, Bruce understood that Menachem and his team had scarred him. He would eventually get used to the loss of his pinky, but the memories would live on. They easily could have taken Bruce immediately once Bertrand departed. Instead they left him to burrow beneath a tree like a scared animal, to cower in the cold, to begin his escape, to believe he might make it out safely. They had, in other words, toyed with him. It was one thing for a paramilitary team to defeat him with muscle. But to outsmart him, to humiliate him by taking a finger—that was a kind of defeat many men had trouble overcoming. Which was, he knew, Menachem’s intent. He had introduced doubt into Bruce’s mind, forced Bruce to question his capacity to contend with his adversary. That was far more damaging than the loss of a digit.

  Bruce would need to fight through this, not be paralyzed by it. He had been swamped by a rogue wave and almost drowned. But he had survived. He sat upright, rubbed his face, and forced himself to get past his fear and think rationally.

  During the drive to the hospital, Menachem and his men had engaged in sporadic conversation. Bruce was pretty sure they spoke Hebrew. Which meant they were probably Mossad agents. What the Israelis wanted with the Just Judges painting, he had no idea. But their involvement had clearly upped the stakes. With a pang of guilt, he thought about Shelby. The sparse details he had given her about the painting were just enough to get her into trouble. Now she faced danger from both Gus and the Mossad.

  A nurse had bagged his personal items; he found his burner cellphone on the night table and powered it on. Almost 9:00 PM local time. So mid-afternoon in Boston. He dialed Cam Thorne’s number. Seeing the massive Hunebedden formation had, as Bertrand intended, given Bruce a sense of the ancient myths and legends—and their power—which surrounded the Just Judges painting. And the Mossad’s involvement had impressed upon him the need to move quickly. He smiled wryly to himself. The odds did not favor a nine-fingered man who held a ticking time bomb indefinitely.

  “This is Cameron.”

  “Bruce Arrujo here. Shelby gave me your number.” Bruce had no time for pleasantries. “I’m in the Netherlands. I’m flying back tomorrow. We need to meet when I land. I need someone to get me up to speed, quickly, on the Templars.” He paused, swallowing back a wave of pain as his finger throbbed. “And also help me understand why Israeli intelligence is interested in this Just Judges painting.”

  Katarina left her office early Friday, intent on beating the Boston evening rush hour. Expertly weaving in and out of traffic, sometimes using the breakdown lane, she powered her burnt orange 2009 BMW Z4 roadster down Storrow Drive and onto Route 93 North. Once the city congestion cleared, she downshifted and pressed the accelerator. The engine offered a whine of pleasure as the vehicle thrust forward. The auto had been her prize for winning a tennis tournament a decade ago; it was one of the few sentimental attachments she maintained in her life, and she felt no inclination to upgrade to a later model despite the impracticality of a convertible in the New England climate. Top up, she settled in at 95, flashing her headlights at cars clogging the left lane. She didn’t drink, didn’t buy expensive jewelry, vacationed simply. But she had paid more than her share of speeding tickets, albeit not as many as she deserved. Slowing momentarily to 80, she unbuttoned the top button on her blouse, fluffed her hair, and quickly applied some lipstick. If she got pulled over, she wanted to be ready. Not many cops could resist a hot woman in a hot sports car.

  She covered the 25 miles to the New Hampshire border in the time it took to listen to one 15-minute news cycle on the radio. Exiting the highway, she kept one eye on the sun as it began to sink to the horizon. Sunset, she knew, was 5:30 tonight. That gave her an hour.

  Others, too, would be arriving from across New England. Germans, mostly. But some Scandinavians and Dutch and Brits. As long as you could trace at least three grandparents back to an Aryan origin, you were welcome. And, of course, you had to worship the old gods and observe the old pagan festivals—as Himmler had decreed.

  Tonight, November 4, the exact midpoint between the fall equinox and winter solstice, they would be celebrating the cross-quarter festival of Samhain, the beginning of the darkest three months of the year. Often celebrated on November 1 in current times, the holiday coincided with the end of the growing season—vegetation had begun to die off with killing frosts, and death was in the air. This contributed to the ancient notion that, at Samhain, the veil was thin between the living world and the realm of the dead, thus facilitating contact with the unliving. The belief in this thin veil, in turn, manifested itself in the modern holiday of Halloween, with its focus on ghosts and other dark superstitions. For Himmler and his followers, the festival marked an occasion to grieve for lost loved ones and, for those brave enough to face the unliving, to spiritually commune with them. The Aryan race was an ancient one, a noble one. Ties to the past were a gift to be treasured.

  Katarina stopped in a dirt parking area off a country road, hoisted a backpack from her trunk, and began to hike along a path through the woods. A cool wind blew, keeping the bugs at bay. She and her fellow worshipers had rented out the America’s Stonehenge site in southern New Ha
mpshire for tonight’s festival. The site offered privacy, a visitor’s center with restrooms and, most of all, an ancient ceremonial complex which had hosted pagan celebrations for over 3,000 years. Wiccans, New Agers, sun worshipers, even Satanists—all had worshiped in these woods. The un-living would feel comfortable here, welcome.

  The path rose and crested atop a flattened hill, upon which sat a cluster of stone chambers, standing stones and cairns. A bonfire burned in a clearing in the center of the cluster, crackling in harmony with the sounds of the forest as its flames reflected off the array of granite. Mainstream academic types insisted the site was the remains of a Colonial-era farm. But most of those who took the time to study the site and look at the evidence objectively concluded that the complex of stone structures, along with the standing stones ringing the hill which marked various astronomical alignments, had been built by an ancient people. Katarina believed those ancient people were the Phoenicians, who constructed the complex as a shrine to their sun god, Baal, more than 3,000 years ago. Evidence suggested that the Phoenicians, expert navigators and explorers, crossed the Atlantic to mine and/or trade for copper to supply Bronze Age demand for the metal.

  Like Judaism, the old religions celebrated their holidays beginning at sunset. The Jews had that right, at least. Katarina checked her watch—the Samhain celebration would begin at 6:30, in less than an hour. Others had arrived before her and, as was the custom, had set up memorial shrines within the various chambers. Katarina found a low, narrow chamber which nobody had claimed. Scooching inside, she emptied her pack and began to arrange her shrine. She leaned a framed picture of her father against the back wall of the chamber; next to it she placed a thick slice of smoked salami, his favorite food. At the other end of the chamber she did the same with her mother, this time with a cinnamon bun. She knew not to put the pictures too close together; Katarina was not going to force them together in the afterlife as their marriage vows had done here on earth.

  In the middle she placed a photo of Opa along with a picture from his wedding—it was his favorite, a group picture of him and other Nazi officers dancing around the maypole in a Beltane celebration. Himmler had urged his officers to incorporate the old religions into their lives, and many of them, including Opa, had dutifully done so.

  They looked happy, Katarina thought, as she studied the maypole dance photo. Men and women on the verge of taking over the world, parading around a giant phallus. The symbolism was obvious: Their genes, the Aryan genes, were to be celebrated and propagated. Somehow it had all gone terribly wrong, like a fluke play in a sporting event turning victory into defeat when the outcome had seemed assured. Few people realized what a longshot it had been for the Allies, severely weakened early in the war, to rebound to defeat the Axis powers. Her grandmother, perhaps appropriately, faced away from the camera. Apparently, she had been a bit of a bleeding heart, not fully supporting her husband and his Nazi causes. Opa had divorced her soon after Katarina’s father was born, using his rank to keep custody of the young boy. Katarina had never met her. Next to Opa’s picture she placed a pint of beer and a cup of shelled almonds. It was Opa, more even than her parents, whom Katarina wanted to commune with tonight. The Just Judges painting was one of the world’s great mysteries. Perhaps in the otherworld it had been decoded.

  Next to each of the three photos Katarina lit a votive candle. At the mouth of the chamber, her back to her ancestors, she unfolded a blanket and sat, cross-legged, her eyes fixed on the crackling bonfire. She waited.

  She had the vague sense of movement around her, of other candles being lit, of small groups of people chanting and singing, of something—perhaps incense—being thrown into the fire. The wind had shifted, sending wafts of smoke into her lungs, calming her. As dusk set in, a circle formed around the fire. Katarina found herself there, her hands linked with quasi-strangers, swaying in rhythm with the flames. She closed her eyes, felt her mind drifting away from her body…

  Hello, my sweet Enkelin.

  Katarina’s eyes flew open. Opa had never come to her before. Taking a deep breath, she closed them again and tried to return to her trance…

  You have done well. Are doing well. You honor my memory.

  “I have missed you,” she mumbled.

  I am always with you. Surely you know that.

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “I hear your voice in my head often. I need your help now. Can you help me with the painting?”

  You must find it. It is a powerful weapon. It will help you understand the old ways, the old secrets.

  “Where? Where can I find it?”

  The wind shifted suddenly, turning colder, as if someone had just opened a door on a wintry night. Shivering, she tried to find again her connection to the past. But it was no use. That was all Opa would say to her this evening.

  Astarte was at the high school football game with friends, so Cam and Amanda took the opportunity to grab dinner at a local Chinese restaurant. The waitress misunderstood Amanda’s drink order and brought her something aquamarine in color; she didn’t bother to send it back. “Who knows, maybe I’ll like it.” She squeezed Cam’s hand. “Heaven knows I’ve taken a fancy to some funny looking things in my day.”

  “I see it’s going to be one of those nights.” He grinned.

  She took a sip and made a face. “Tastes like that Blue Lagoon in Iceland.” She reached across, took a swig of his Amstel, and made another face. “Blech. Not that cold beer is any better.”

  Cam smiled. “This from a woman who mixes her beer with lemonade.”

  She glared at him. “You can mock me, Cameron Thorne. But I’ll thank you to not mock my shandy.”

  Her comment about Iceland turned Cam’s mind to Bruce’s phone call and the Templar treasure, what Hitler called the Treasure Templari. Cam and Amanda had recently visited Iceland to research the Templar treasure. There were tantalizing clues that a group of Templars had visited the remote northern island in the early 1200s. A medieval Icelandic saga recounted how a politician by the name of Snorri attended a summer session of the Icelandic Parliament with a military escort of 80 foreigners, all of whom were dressed in identical garb and carried shields and armor. Transporting 80 troops across the North Atlantic during medieval times was a monumental task, only undertaken for a mission of crucial importance. And the appearance of the troops at Parliament also spoke to the mission’s significance. Cam had always believed there was no reason for the Templars to leave their treasures in mainland Europe. Expert sailors and navigators, and fearing that the Church would one day turn on them, the Templars had the means, motivation and knowledge to travel far to the west to conceal their valuables. First to Iceland, then later to America.

  Cam told Amanda about Bruce’s call. “He mentioned the Mossad. Any idea why they might be interested in this Just Judges painting?”

  “Smart of you to change the subject.” She chewed on her cocktail straw. “Nothing specific comes to mind,” she replied. “But it seems like everything having to do with Western religions affects Israel. All roads lead back to Jerusalem. The Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, the Arma Christi, John the Baptist’s head, the writings of Jesus, the Templar treasure—you name it, it comes from Jerusalem. So of course the Israelis would be interested. Any of these things, if found, could ignite the Middle East powder keg.”

  He nodded, then paused as the waitress took their order. “So, what do you think it is?” Cam asked. “What’s the painting pointing to?”

  She shrugged. “I did have one thought. This altarpiece painting is in Ghent. Well, Ghent has a rival city in Belgium. Bruges. They used to war back and forth. Bruges has a fascinating mystery of its own. They have a church called the Basilica of the Holy Blood. It’s a fairly nondescript building, tucked away in the main town square. But inside, on an ornate side altar, they have a fancy vial on display. Supposedly, it contains the blood of Jesus, collected by Joseph of Arimathea when he was dressing Jesus’ body for burial. One of the Crusaders brought i
t back to Europe.” She pulled up a picture on her phone and showed it to him.

  Cam had never heard of this. “It’s just out there, on display?”

  She nodded. “Tourists line up to parade by. Pay your two Euros and come on in. Women cover your shoulders and men take off your hat. Every May they put it in a reliquary and march it around the city. It’s quite a spectacle.”

  “I’m surprised this isn’t a bigger deal. I mean, the blood of Jesus in a vial. Isn’t that what the Holy Grail is supposed to be? Have they had it tested?”

  She chuckled. “Of course not. Why risk having the test come back negative and killing the golden goose? It’s never been opened since it arrived in Bruges more than 800 years ago.”

  Cam stared into his beer. “So you think this could be what van Eyck was pointing to?”

  “Maybe.” She equivocated. “But in some ways, it seems too obvious. It’s not hidden in any way. It may play a part in the mystery, but it’s not the ultimate prize.”

  “Okay, fair point. But what do you think?”

  She took another sip of her drink and made another face. “Order me a fresh drink and I’ll tell you. Nothing blue this time.”

  Cam caught the waitress’ attention. “Done. Now speak.”

  “Here’s what I think: People have been looking for the Holy Grail in Europe for almost a thousand years. Whatever it is, wherever it was, it’s lost forever. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless, well, the legends are true, and the Templars brought it to America. There’s so much land here, and until the past few years it never occurred to anyone to look for it on this side of the pond.”

  Cam nodded. “Makes sense. Hide it far away and in a place nobody knows about. Well, not nobody, but you know what I mean.”

  “The missing piece to all this is your Native Americans. If the Templars came, they must have had some kind of treaty or alliance. And part of that would have included the natives guarding, or at least being caretakers of, the treasure.”