Menachem opened his notebook. “I would like yes or no answers.”
Ezra smiled. “You know, Menachem, I would like to awaken in the Sultan’s harem.” He shrugged. “But we don’t often get what we want. As you know, the truth usually lies somewhere in between yes and no.”
Menachem nodded. He had planned to keep this simple, but he knew his friend was correct. True knowledge came from nuances and shades of distinction. Fortifying himself with a gulp of coffee, he explained the entire mission to his old war comrade. After pausing to let the explanation sink in, he then asked specific questions about the pyramid as a power source, about the possibility that Moses and his followers could have stolen the alien rocks on their way out of Egypt, about whether the Ark of the Covenant might itself have functioned as a power source, even the possibility that the alien rocks were the key to a revolutionary hydrogen-based technology.
Ezra wiped his mouth, sipped his coffee, and stared at a spot on the wall above Menachem’s head. “As for the pyramid being a power source, that is beyond my expertise.” He waved his hand. “As, of course, is all this hydrogen power mumbo-jumbo. But could Moses or his followers have stolen valuables from Egypt? The answer is clearly yes. Recall that Moses was raised in the pharaoh’s palace. Presumably, he had allies and followers and even members of the royal family loyal to him. And it would, as you suggest, explain why the pharaoh sent his army in pursuit of the Israelites.” He paused. “As to the Ark being a power source, that also seems to be clear. Its design resembles that of a capacitor, and there are many passages in the Bible describing how the Ark sent out electrical charges and other energy outbursts.”
“But how did the ancient peoples learn how to make … capacitors?”
“How?” Ezra shrugged. “That I can’t tell you. But they did. There is the famous Baghdad Battery, dating back perhaps 2,000 years, found in Iraq. It was powered by lemon juice. And there are other examples as well, many of them in Egypt.”
Menachem nodded, feeling that tingle of excitement run up his spine when his instincts told him he was on the right track. So this was all possible. As he stared out the window, the sun emerged from behind a cloud, its rays settling on the reflection of one of the medieval buildings in the river, lighting its pyramid-shaped gabled roof like a torch. The symbolism was not lost on him. A pyramid. Fire in the middle. It was as if the sun was confirming his gut. He stood abruptly, suddenly anxious to get back on the case, and threw down thirty Euros. “I had the view. But you, my friend, have given me the gift of clear vision.”
“You seem quiet,” Amanda said as they admired the medieval riverfront area of Ghent.
“Just jetlagged,” Cam replied, slipping his arm around her. He guided her into a chocolatier where together they filled a brown bag. They opened it on a bench overlooking the river.
“I know when I’m being softened-up,” Amanda said with a smile as she took a bite from a turtle cluster. “You’re not dumping me, are you?”
Cam sighed. “No, but you might want to dump me.” Lowering his voice, he told her about the encounter in the bathroom. “He wants me to help them decipher the Just Judges painting.”
She sniffed. “I hope you told him to get in line.”
“No. I agreed to help.”
“Why?”
Maybe he hadn’t been clear enough. “Because, well, he made it apparent that I didn’t have a choice.”
“Cam, that’s silly. We live in America. The Mossad has no power there.”
“Actually, they do.” He explained how Israeli intelligence had set up an elaborate web of Jewish-American informants and enablers who assisted the Mossad. “They feed information, help with surveillance, provide logistics. They even knew where Astarte was staying.”
“Astarte?” She shifted in her chair. “He mentioned Astarte?”
“Yes. Like I said, they have eyes and ears everywhere. In most major cities there are even police officers and judges who will look the other way.” He shrugged. “That’s just the way it is.”
She put down the bag of chocolate. The Astarte thing had convinced her that the danger was real. “So did he threaten you?”
Cam tried not to tell an outright lie. “He didn’t need to. Remember, Bruce said they contacted him also.”
“What does he want you to do?”
“Same thing as Bruce wants. Help them understand the Just Judges painting.”
“Why should the Israelis care?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Cam paused. “But it is interesting that this is on their radar. I mean, they must believe there really is some secret or treasure. Otherwise, why get involved?”
She let out a long sigh. “Treasure or not, I’m beginning to wish we hadn’t gotten involved.”
It wasn’t the first time they had stumbled into danger. “Seems like it’s hard to research the Templars without getting caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah, well, I’m getting tired of it.” She tossed the bag to him. “Blimey, Cam, they’ve even put me out of the mood for chocolate. What is wrong with these people, threatening innocent children?”
Katarina’s phone rang Sunday morning at nine. She had finished her run, showered, completed the Times crossword puzzle, and was just sitting down to plan out her week. Her cousin from Dresden.
“Yes, Deidre.”
“I have something. I’m in Ghent. Have been for a few days. I figured that whoever had the painting might come here to get a feel for the cathedral.”
“Good thought.”
“So I’ve been looking for Americans.” She paused. “There was a couple came in yesterday. Didn’t take a tour, didn’t seem interested in the usual stuff. But spent time at the Altarpiece. As I was following them, I noticed someone else was following them also. An older guy. Seemed like a pro. I took his picture and sent it to one of my contacts in the Stasi. Came back Mossad.”
It was good to have contacts among the old East German police. “Interesting. How about the couple?”
“Nothing on them. But I followed the Mossad agent. He met with a friend at a café. Just an hour ago. I’m following the friend now. Another older guy, seems to be alone. I think on holiday.” She paused. “Is it worth it for me to, you know, get to know him a bit?”
Deidre wasn’t as fit or attractive as Katarina. But most men found her more than acceptable for a night. “Good idea. See what you can find out.” She thought about Gary from the bar. She wished it had ended differently. “Fuck his brains out if you have to. Just find out what he knows.”
Bruce had landed in Boston early enough on Saturday night to saunter down the hall with a bottle of wine to Shelby’s apartment. But he always made a point of not taking her for granted, of not engaging her unless he could be at his best. Jet-lagged and with a throbbing wound in his hand did not—pun intended—cut it. Not that she would have complained. In fact, she didn’t even really understand. “It’s okay if you’re not always Prince Charming,” she often said. “I still will love you.” It was just another of those things they didn’t see eye-to-eye on.
He awoke early Sunday, checked on his boat, grabbed some bagels and hot chocolate, and texted Shelby. You awake?
Just finishing yoga. Be out of shower in twenty.
As he knocked on her door, he still wasn’t sure how he was going to play the finger thing. He tried not to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to frighten her unnecessarily.
She opened the door in a t-shirt and sweats, her lack of makeup somehow only serving to enhance her natural beauty. She smiled, took his hand, and leaned forward to place her lips on his. “Howdy, sailor.” He had angled his body so his bandage was hidden from her, but she was too sharp to be fooled for long. Turning as she led him into the kitchen, she said, “You want to tell me about your hand?”
He made the decision to be truthful. Better she be scared and careful than blithe and careless. “I had an interesting meeting with the Mossad.” As she took the bagels from the bag, he expla
ined the Hunebedden visit and subsequent encounter with Menachem and his men. Matter-of-factly, he said, “They cut off part of my pinkie with a bolt cutter.”
She dropped the knife onto the floor. “They what?”
“It’s fine. They actually brought me to a hospital.” He held up his bandaged hand. “Almost as good as new.”
Steadying herself against the breakfast bar, she blinked. “Bruce, this is crazy. What is going on?”
“Apparently the Israelis have taken an interest in this painting.”
She bit her lip. “Taken an interest is different than taking a finger, Bruce!”
He nodded. “They said they want to make sure we don’t sell it to the wrong people.”
“And who’s that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.” He was tempted to say he had nine fingers left, which gave him nine more chances to figure it out. But he didn’t think Shelby would see the humor in it. Instead he pulled back the tabs on their hot chocolates. “Honest, I’m fine. If they had wanted to really hurt me, they would have. This was just a way to get my attention.”
She turned and killed a few seconds at the sink, then a few more digging around the refrigerator. This was where not being married complicated things a bit—she couldn’t issue the same kind of ultimatums a spouse could. She was clearly weighing her response.
It was not what he expected.
“I, too, had an unwelcome visitor. Your old friend Gus.”
A wave of dread rose from Bruce’s gut up through his chest. “He came here?”
“No.” She smiled bravely. “He met me on the street, near the Big Sister office.” She described his theatrics with the rose. “I think he was trying to scare me. It worked.”
Bruce paced toward the window, staring out at the skyline. Gus was out there somewhere, in the underbelly of the city, skulking in the alleys and shadows. Bruce was much more concerned about Gus than the Mossad. The Mossad, for all their ruthlessness, would act rationally. Gus wanted revenge. And he knew Bruce, perhaps better even than Shelby did. Bruce sensed there was only one way this was going to end. “Not scare you. Scare me.”
She sipped her hot chocolate. “Let me guess. He knows about the Just Judges painting.”
“Not the details, but he knows I’m close to something big. He just got out of jail, and as you can imagine he’s pissed at the world. But it’s not just about the painting, or the money. Gus feels like I betrayed him. He thinks our childhood friendship meant that we were going to be partners together for our whole lives, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid or something.”
“So what does he want from you?”
“Revenge. A pound of flesh. Maybe to bring me down, humiliate me.” He laughed sardonically. “That plus ten million bucks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But it’s especially sweet for him because he knows I’ll have to dirty my hands to get it.”
Shelby nodded. “I read once that betrayal is one of the most painful things we humans can experience.”
“Shit, it was thirty years ago. And it wasn’t my fault he got caught. Get over it already.”
“You know the saying, Bruce: It’s easier to forgive an enemy than forgive a friend.”
“I don’t want his forgiveness. I just want him out of my life.”
“I don’t see that happening. Not based on what I saw yesterday.”
He lifted his chin. “You’re right. He’s always been that way, single-minded and obsessive. When he sets his mind to something, it’s almost like he is emotionally incapable of giving up on it.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He smiled and turned up his palms. “I guess I’ll just have to give him the ten million.” He tried to say it lightly, jokingly. But he knew Shelby saw right through him.
Chapter 5
The call came in from Deidre while Katarina was in a 7:30 breakfast meeting. She excused herself and secreted herself in a small conference room with a view of the MIT library dome. It was past noon Belgium time. Which meant Deidre had probably either struck out or hit a home run.
“Tell me.”
“I’ve just left him. What a slob. But he loves to talk. When he’s not eating, that is.”
“Even during sex?”
“Especially.”
“Ugh. I hate that.”
“Well, it was worth it. He told me everything. We even went to see the Ghent Altarpiece. I told him I saw The Monuments Men movie and traveled all the way from Germany to see the painting. Which, in a way, is true.”
“Did he suspect anything?”
“No. I let him pick me up in a bar. Played hard to get for a long time. He thinks he wore me down with his charm.”
“Good. So, tell me,” she repeated.
“Turns out Himmler’s theory that the Just Judges was a map to some kind of advanced Atlantis technology may be correct.” She explained the salt water energy technology, which Katarina was familiar with, and the Israelis’ belief that the technology was an ancient one, perhaps dating back to Atlantis, which had been used in both the Great Pyramid and the Ark of the Covenant. “Apparently, the key to making it work is some kind of meteorite rock which amplifies the earth’s radio frequencies. The ancient Israelites may have stolen the alien rocks from the pharaoh when they fled Egypt. And the Mossad thinks the rocks may still be in Israel, hidden before the First Temple was destroyed in the 6th century BC.” Deidre chuckled. “Like I said, he loves to talk.”
Katarina exhaled. The story made perfect sense. As did the politics—if the Israelis could figure out a way to make cheap energy from sea water, it would effectively put their oil-rich Arab tormentors out of business. Which, Katarina quickly realized, would be a welcome development. The Arabs—she liked to think of them as the cockroaches of the human race—were spreading like a toxic ooze across the major cities of Europe, poisoning civilized society and watering down the gene pool. Much of this spread could be traced back to their oil wealth. Once again, she reflected on how Hitler had gotten it wrong: Rather than wipe out the Jews, it was better to harness them and their skills. In this case, they could do the dirty work of sweeping away the Arabs. Janitors exterminating cockroaches.
She realized Deidre was waiting for a reply. “You have done excellent work, cousin. This is a crucial piece of intelligence.” She was not one to offer empty platitudes. But Deidre apparently had, after all, just solved the mystery of the Just Judges painting. And she had to sleep with a Jew to do so. So bravo to her, the poor thing. “History may look back at this moment, at your intelligence work, as a defining moment for the Aryan people. Opa would be very proud of you, Deidre.”
And in a historical irony that even Hitler would have appreciated, it may in fact end up being the Mossad—the Jews themselves—who, by helping her find the Just Judges treasure, had opened the doors to a new Reich.
Cam and Amanda caught a morning flight out of Brussels on Monday and landed in Boston mid-afternoon. During the flight, Cam typed a long memo, with images, to Bruce, outlining what they had learned in Ghent. He didn’t mention his run-in with the Mossad.
“Don’t forget Astarte has a game tonight,” Cam said as they took the parking garage elevator to their car. Now that they were back in the States, the threat from Menachem seemed less immediate.
“Right.”
“I think she’s pitching.” Astarte played on a summer softball team which participated in an indoor league during the off-season to stay sharp.
“As long as she finishes her homework.”
“Astarte?” Cam replied, holding the door. “Knowing her, it was done before the teacher even assigned it.”
Amanda smiled. “True.”
They had worried about her handling the pressures—academic, social, athletic—of high school. But the challenges and trauma she had faced in childhood had given her a healthy perspective. Hard to stress out over a boy not liking you when you had been orphaned twice. Or, more to the point, when as a you
ng girl you had been raised by an uncle who preached that you had been prophesized, based on Native American legend, to become some kind of 21st-century religious leader. This uncle claimed that Astarte descended not only from Native American royalty, but also from early European explorers who themselves were part of the Jesus bloodline. Cam and Amanda had worked hard to push all the prophecy stuff, true or not, aside. “If that’s your fate,” Amanda had said, “it will be waiting for you when you graduate high school. For now, it’s okay to go to the mall with your friends.”
An hour later they were in Westford. They picked up Astarte and Venus and thanked the neighbors with a box of chocolate-covered pralines and a case of assorted Belgian beer. “If there’s a chocolate missing,” Cam joked, “blame it on Amanda.”
“And if there’s a beer missing,” Amanda countered, “blame that on me also. Traveling with Cameron would drive anyone to drink.”
They quickly unpacked, reheated some leftovers, and piled back in the car for Astarte’s game. Amanda yawned. “It’s past midnight in Belgium.”
Astarte reached forward from the back seat and patted her shoulder with affected concern. “Yes, jet-setting can be so exhausting.” The teenager sat back in her seat.
“Very funny,” Amanda replied.
“I still don’t know why you couldn’t take me with you,” Astarte said, her tone familiar to anyone who had raised a teenager.
Cam caught her eye in the rearview mirror. “Um, school.”
“You’ve let me skip school before.”
Cam pursed his lips. The reality was that, in light of Bruce’s comment about the Mossad’s interest in the painting, they hadn’t wanted to put her in peril—a decision which seemed even more prescient after Cam’s toilet stall encounter. Over the past few years it seemed like their Templar research was constantly attracting zealots and extremists who either felt threatened by, or had become obsessed with, their findings. And with these zealots and extremists had come more than a little danger. Amanda had insisted, and Cam agreed, that if they were to take on this project, they would need to keep Astarte on the sidelines. The threatening image on Menachem’s phone of the neighbor’s house popped into Cam’s head; he blinked it away even as he deflected Astarte’s question. “Speaking of which, how was your History test?”
Treasure Templari Page 11
