Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  As the elevator door closed, she stuffed his trousers into a FedEx box. She allowed herself another smile even as she licked more blood away. Somehow, he would need to make his way home tonight without any pants.

  It was always a dart throw, these pickups. Sometimes she ended the encounter sexually satisfied. Sometimes, like tonight, she found her satisfaction in other ways.

  Bruce found his driver waiting for him outside the cathedral. “To Brussels. The airport.”

  The man pulled into traffic and glanced in the rearview mirror. “You are on Delta, yes? Your flight is delayed. One hour.”

  Not a terrible thing; there was more he could do before leaving Belgium. He gave the driver an address in downtown Brussels. Before the driver could reply, he lifted his hand. “I know. Another 100 Euros.”

  They headed east in light weekend traffic. Bruce’s phone rang. The Dutchman. Bruce steeled his voice and closed the privacy window. “You set me up, Bertrand.”

  “I had no choice. Who am I to stand up to the Mossad?”

  Bruce grunted. He would probably have done the same thing.

  Bertrand continued. “You are alive, yes?”

  “No. You’re talking to a corpse.”

  “Corpse, zombie, werewolf. It matters not to me, as long as you still have the painting.” He chuckled at his own attempt at levity. “But, I am sorry for what I did. Now I will make it up to you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I have a buyer. A Saudi. He will pay one billion in U.S. dollars. Cash. This week. But no delay, no haggling, no bidding war. Yes or no.”

  Bruce swallowed. That would more than double the highest price ever paid for a painting—Salvator Mundi, by da Vinci, purchased by the government of Abu Dhabi in 2017. “I’ll need to talk to my client.”

  “Well, talk quickly. The buyer is prepared to fly into New York on a private jet, wire funds, and carry the painting home with him.”

  Bruce didn’t ask the obvious question about customs. Presumably someone with that kind of money could make arrangements.

  “Okay. I’ll call you back. But it’s going to be a couple of days, after I’m back in the States. I’m not going to have this conversation with my client over the phone.” The truth, of course, was that he didn’t want to be discussing this anywhere near Menachem and his team. He wasn’t sure what Israel’s interest in the painting was, but he doubted they’d be thrilled to see it fall into the hands of their enemies. Not archenemies like Iran and Syria, but enemies nonetheless.

  Forty minutes later, his mind still on the Saudi offer, Bruce stepped out of the SUV a few blocks from the main Brussels business center at the massive Marolles flea market. Already by 9:30, a huge crowd had gathered, filling the football field-sized plaza. “Wait here,” he said.

  “You are buying trinkets?” the driver replied.

  The trinket Bruce was looking for would set him back the cost of a new car. Normally he would have choked on the expenditure—a chunk of cash like that could pay for a year’s worth of docking fees for his sailboat. But things had changed: What was ten or twenty thousand dollars compared to the ten million Gus was demanding?

  Angling away from the flea market, he cut down a side street and stopped in front of an Art Deco gray stone building with arched windows covered over and painted with pastel country scenes. He pushed through a simple door with the word ‘Antique’ painted on the glass and entered. It had been a few years, but the smell of dusty books and old leather and oil-based paint had not changed. He smiled at the young woman who greeted him. Time to go all-in on the Templars. “I would like to see Maurice, please.”

  Thirty minutes later, he had what he wanted, along with arrangements to ship it back to the States: an authentic, albeit rusted-out, Templar battle sword, unearthed on a battlefield in Spain where a division of Templars had been sent to fight the Moors in the 1200s. He jogged back toward the flea market. As he got into the SUV, he sat back and studied a picture of his recently-purchased antiquity.

  The sword didn’t make up for the loss of his finger, and it certainly would be of no use in battle, but it might in the end prove more useful than both a tenth digit and a modern weapon.

  Menachem Dodi sat in the back seat of an unmarked sedan, an apple in his hand, carefully scraping the last of the fruit from the core with his teeth as his frugal father had taught him. He watched as Bruce Arrujo jogged from the antiquities shop in Brussels. What was the man up to? Menachem was not surprised he had detoured to Ghent and even Bruges—these cities were tied intimately to the Ghent Altarpiece painting. But why his interest in antiquities?

  The man was a mystery—the thin file the Mossad had on him revealed little. A loner (other than a longtime lover); seemingly amoral (perhaps ‘misguided morality’ would better describe his Ayn Rand-inspired ethics); Spartan in his lifestyle, excepting a sailboat and waterfront apartment. An art thief turned art recoverer who would, if given the chance, probably steal again. Not because he was greedy but, because, well, why? Because he could? Because he needed to prove he was smarter than everyone else? Because it was the one thing he did well? Perhaps taking his finger had been the wrong move. It didn’t seem to have dissuaded him in any way. Menachem tossed aside his apple core. That was the problem with this whole operation. There was no information, no facts. Only guesses and theories and possibilities and ghosts.

  But when the very survival of your country was at stake, you chased even the ghosts. He let out a long sigh. He was getting too old for this. It was the Sabbath; he should be home playing with his grandchildren. But what kind of grandfather would he be if sat at home while the crazy Arabs preyed upon his country?

  Lifting the file, he stared for the hundredth time at his copy of the Just Judges painting. Best he could make out, the senior analysts in Tel Aviv believed that the painting was a clue or a map which led to … something. And that something somehow explained something else, which in turn unlocked some secret, powerful technology employed during the time of Moses, a technology which accounted for the incredible power of the Ark of the Covenant and also enabled the ancient Egyptians to perform near-miraculous feats of construction. Menachem shook his head. Lots of somethings and somehows, but not many facts.

  Menachem did understand one part of this mystery: The ancient technology allowed energy to be made from salt water. That’s right, salt water. A substance which covered seventy percent of the planet. What could be better for the Israelis than to see this technology spread across the modern world? Israel was surrounded by enemies whose preeminent weapon was the incredible wealth they derived from the sale of oil. Make oil obsolete, and Israel’s enemies would find themselves weakened, even emasculated. The thought put a smile on Menachem’s face. The first of the day, if he had counted correctly.

  He cleared his throat, a signal to his young driver to put down her phone. “Yes, sir,’ she replied dutifully in English—when on a mission, they never spoke Hebrew. Another of his team would follow Arrujo to his next destination, presumably the airport.

  “We can head back to the safe house now.” She was young and raw, but smart and hard-working. And it helped that she was not much to look at—these assignments, away from Esther and around all the liberalized women of Europe—were hard enough as it was. “Tamar, do you understand all the science of this … this ancient technology? Could you explain it to me?”

  She pulled into light traffic, her close-set eyes focused on the road. “I do, sir. I studied physics.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll start at the end, in 2007 in the United States. Pennsylvania. A man named John Kanzius, an inventor, was experimenting with radio waves as a way to treat cancer. Accidentally, he discovered that, after bombarding salt water with radio waves, he could actually light the salt water on fire. Apparently, what happened was that the radio waves loosened the molecular bonds between the hydrogen and the oxygen, allowing the hydrogen to ignite.”

  “Is it really that simple?” Menachem asked.

  Drivi
ng, she nodded. Perhaps the problem with her face wasn’t that her eyes were set too close together, but that her face itself was too wide. “Simple, but not economically viable. It turns out that it takes more energy to create the radio waves than can be derived from the burning salt water.”

  “Therefore, it’s a net loss. I give you a dollar, and you give me gold. But only fifty cents worth.”

  “Yes, sir. Still, it seems like a promising discovery. For the past decade, physicists have been experimenting, trying to figure out a way to get to a net energy gain. But no luck so far.”

  “Back up for a second. This is a hydrogen-based fuel. Isn’t that unstable?”

  “Actually not. People all think about the Hindenburg explosion, but it was the paint on the outer coating of the airship that first ignited, not the hydrogen. Hydrogen is actually fairly safe, despite its flammability. The U.S. army already uses some hydrogen-fueled desert vehicles. But, again, the problem is making it economically feasible.”

  “Okay. I am with you so far. You said you were starting at the end. What’s the beginning?” He leaned forward. “And Tamar, remember that I am just an old soldier. Please keep it simple.”

  She took a deep breath. “This part is not so clear. But we know this: The earth, on its own, produces electricity—the flowing of liquid metal in the outer core of the planet generates electric currents. The question is, did the ancient peoples somehow harness the earth’s own electrical currents and use that source of energy as a catalyst to separate hydrogen from salt water?”

  Menachem stared out the window, not really seeing the buildings but instead picturing ancient Egypt. “If so, that would explain a lot of mysteries,” he said. “Perhaps even the ancient city of Atlantis. The ability to harness hydrogen as an inexpensive fuel source could have ushered in a wave of technological breakthroughs.”

  “Yes, that is a distinct possibility. And then the question would be, did the Atlantis technology somehow survive and get passed down to the Egyptians?” Tamar may not be a runway model, but she clearly possessed a keen mind. Menachem was glad to have her on his team. “Some people think that’s why the Great Pyramid was built. It turns out the King’s Chamber actually generates radio frequencies. But it’s the Queen’s Chamber that is the real mystery: For some reason, high levels of salt were found inside, even though the Pyramids are fifty miles from any salt water source. The theory is that fresh water from the Nile River was funneled into the Queen’s Chamber, where salt was then added to make salt water. Radio waves from the King’s Chamber would then be directed at the salt water, igniting it. Voila, cheap energy.”

  “Are you saying the Great Pyramid was some kind of … power plant?”

  Eyeing him in the rearview mirror, she smiled. “Yes, according to some experts. A recent article in the Journal of Applied Physics reported that the Great Pyramids were able to focus electromagnetic energy, particularly electromagnetic waves of the radio frequency range—”

  He put up a hand. “Slowly, Tamar.”

  “Sorry. Look, the evidence shows that the Pyramids were a power source. And we shouldn’t be surprised. Do you know what the word pyramid literally means?”

  Her tone was respectful, and in any event he liked his team members, even the young ones, to be confident and assertive. “No.”

  “It means, fire in the middle.” She paused. “The word ‘pyre’ meaning fire and ‘mid,’ of course, meaning middle.”

  Astonishing. He had never considered that. Fire in the middle. What better way to describe the spark within a battery? He shook his head. “The ancient Egyptians had electricity. Who knew?”

  “The clues are out there. If you Google ‘ancient Egypt light bulb’ you’ll see a bunch of carvings and paintings showing light bulbs.”

  Menachem worked his phone. As Tamar predicted, dozens of images appeared. He focused on one painting, from a cave in Dendera.

  The image showed a man holding what appeared to be a large lightbulb, with a filament, attached by a cord to a power supply of some kind. Beneath the bulb knelt three people, bathed in light. Other images were similar. They dated back almost 4,000 years.

  Menachem shook his head. “So, what is the mystery? Why can’t our scientists reproduce this?” More to the point, what in God’s name did this have to do with the elusive Just Judges painting?

  “We’ve been able to reproduce the technology. But, short of building something massive like the Great Pyramid, we can’t harness the earth’s energy. Like I said, it’s just not economically feasible.” She took a deep breath. “Our scientists believe there’s something missing, some crucial ingredient or element that is needed to amplify the natural radio frequencies emanating from the earth the way the Great Pyramid served that purpose in ancient Egypt.”

  “And what is that something?”

  She chewed her lip. “This is not my theory, just something I’ve heard.”

  He waved her hesitancy away. The young were often too willing to accept new ideas, but that also meant they were not blinded by past orthodoxy. “Yes, understood. Please continue.”

  “Some researchers say the missing ingredient might be some kind of alien rock with elements not found on earth—”

  He interrupted, trying to keep his voice level. “Do you mean alien as in visitors from outer space?”

  Flushing, she shook her head. “No, sir. An alien rock could simply be a meteorite. There are about 40,000 documented meteorites here on earth.”

  “Good. Continue.” This was a crazy enough assignment. He didn’t need little green men to make things even more outlandish.

  “As I was saying, there was a papyrus found in Egypt in the early 1900s which describes a valuable store of so-called ‘rocks from heaven’ used to make light. And one of the lightbulb wall paintings seems to show a pile of rocks next to the battery or capacitor which is attached to the lightbulb. These rocks from outer space, the theory goes, somehow amplify the earth’s natural radio frequencies. Few meteorites are the same, and our scientists believe this particular trove of rocks—probably one large meteorite broken into smaller pieces—possesses unique characteristics. Not just any meteorite rock will do the trick.”

  Menachem considered this. “Interesting. But it seems these meteorite rocks are in Egypt, yes?” It wasn’t likely the Egyptian government would allow the Israelis to waltz across the border and go looking for them.

  “Yes. But perhaps not all of them.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “How is that?”

  “Recall the story in the Book of Exodus. The pharaoh tells Moses he and his people can leave. But then, at the last minute, the pharaoh changes his mind and sends his army after him? Why?”

  Menachem shrugged. “He was a greedy son-of-a-bitch.”

  She smiled. “That’s one possibility. The other is that he realized Moses had taken something, stolen something, which was very valuable. I’ve read articles theorizing that Moses took some of these alien rocks, knowing their value. Later, the Israelites incorporated the ancient technology into the Ark of the Covenant.”

  “Aha,” Menachem replied. Now this was making some sense. He had long believed the Ark was some kind of power source or capacitor—the Old Testament was filled with stories of it being used as a weapon or it sending out electrical sparks or it levitating. And who could blame Moses for taking a few trinkets as compensation for generations of enslaved labor? “But the Ark looks nothing like a pyramid.”

  She nodded. “Correct. But the technology would have basically been the same, using the alien rocks to amplify the earth’s energy. On a much smaller scale, obviously.”

  “So, all we need to do is find the Ark of the Covenant and retrieve one of these meteorite rocks.” He smiled ruefully. Not likely that was going to happen—people had been searching for the lost Ark for millennia.

  “There might be another way, sir. If this is all true, it’s likely Moses took more than one rock. It is also likely that, being so valuable, they were kept in the in
ner sanctum of the First Temple, with the Ark.”

  “Then they might still be there,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Or they were moved before the Temple was destroyed. That is the mystery. But it’s possible the meteorite rocks are still in or around Jerusalem.”

  “Just lying around someplace?”

  She angled her head. “My guess is that they’d be in some kind of vault or something. They were pretty valuable.”

  “And there’s enough of these rocks to make oil obsolete?”

  “No. And remember, this is all speculative. But once we find just one of the rocks, our scientists think they’ll be able to reproduce them in the lab on a large scale. The key is to find the first one, so they have a template.”

  He spoke his thoughts aloud. “And that, truly, could make oil obsolete.” He pictured his country simply giving away the hydrogen salt water technology and watching OPEC and the economies of the oil-producing countries crumble. As long as you had access to salt water, which Israel did along its western coast, you could produce unlimited amounts of cheap energy. And, as an added bonus, the only byproduct from hydrogen fuel was water vapor, so it was environmentally friendly as well.

  Menachem leaned back in his seat. Fascinating. Was that, then, what the Just Judges painting was pointing to? The location of these meteorite rocks? The mysteries of the Middle East never failed to amaze him. In this case, he didn’t even mind that his amazement made his life more complicated. It was the type of complication which could ensure the very survival of the State of Israel.

  Four hours after she normally went to sleep, Katarina settled into the middle lane of the highway, content to cruise home at 65 MPH. Her bar pickup, followed by a brisk walk along the deserted Manchester riverfront, had settled her, placated her, taken the edge off. And left her in a reflective mood.