Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  If he was to go home, the first thing he’d do would be to get these putrid Nazi tattoos removed. God knew that if he walked into his kitchen with a swastika on his bicep, his grandmother would stick a steak knife in his eye.

  But he was a long way from Israel. And things, if anything, were heating up. Detlef would never have ordered a kill were the stakes not high. And Jonah himself had escalated things by turning the gun on the Waldburg heir. Whatever it was that was hidden in the Catskills had claimed its first victim. Or, at least, the first victim Jonah was aware of. He guessed it would not be the last.

  Cam had excused himself as soon as he received Amanda’s call, walking out of a half-completed real estate closing.

  “I’m okay now. But they took me, Cam. They took me.”

  His feet echoed in the cavernous records hall as he jogged toward the door. “Who?” He could tell she was fighting to keep her composure.

  “A man. Some women. I think the people who abducted you yesterday. They wanted to know about the painting.”

  “Stay there and lock the door. I’ll be home in ten. And stay on the phone with me while I drive.”

  By the time he screeched to a stop in the driveway, she had explained to him what happened. Assholes. But it was partly his fault: If he had told them what they wanted to know yesterday, this would have been over.

  He jogged to the door and waited for Amanda to pull back the deadbolt. She fell into his arms. “I feel … violated. It’s like they were in my head, privy to all my thoughts and secrets. And my mind was all … mush, like one of those dreams where nothing made sense. At one point I even thought I heard gunshots, but they were muffled, like from a silencer.”

  “Gunshots? Are you certain?”

  “No, not at all. Like I said, it was all disjointed.”

  “But they didn’t hurt you?”

  “No. Not physically.” She shuddered in his arms. “But in other ways, yes.”

  “Should we bring you to a doctor?”

  “No, like I said, physically I’ll be fine once this shit works its way through my system.”

  He made them some hot chocolate and put on her favorite music, a CD by Norah Jones. They sat cuddled together on an oversized chair and stared at the wind rippling across the lake, Venus at their feet.

  Amanda let out a long breath. “I can’t keep doing this, Cam. I love our research, but it keeps putting us in danger. I mean, gunshots…”

  “I hear you.” He had been having the same thoughts after his experience yesterday. But short of going completely off the grid, he didn’t know how to avoid all the ugliness. It wasn’t like they went out looking for it. Somehow this Templar research was like a magnet attracting loonies and extremists and fringe thinkers, all trying to reinvent the world to their liking.

  They spent another ten minutes discussing her ordeal, including everything she could remember about what they asked and how she answered.

  “But you did tell them about the Neversink River site?”

  “I’m pretty sure. Yes.”

  “All right. I’ll tell Bruce.”

  Amanda let out another sigh and smiled bravely. “By the way, I found another clue in the painting tying this to the Templars.” She described the Henry Beaufort portrait, prominently featuring his temple and his ear. “Combine those words and what do you get?”

  “Aha. Very nice. And very much in line with van Eyck’s love of wordplays.”

  “Beaufort is the lead horseman in the Just Judges painting. That can’t be a coincidence. Van Eyck could have picked a thousand faces for that horseman. Or just painted something random. But he wants us to notice Beaufort for some reason. I think it may relate to the separation of church and state.”

  Cam nodded. “Good find. But I thought we were done with this.”

  She turned to him and held his eyes. “I want to be. But I can’t seem to let go.” She put on another brave smile. “Especially when the research I’m doing is so bloody stellar.”

  Cam had convinced Amanda to take a nap; the aftereffects of the truth serum, or perhaps just the harrowing experience itself, had given left her drained and achy. He had also called the school to make sure Astarte didn’t take the bus; he had a half hour before he needed to pick her up. Then they would be heading out of town for the weekend. To someplace safe.

  On his computer he opened Google Maps and found alley number 423, which he determined ran between Marlborough Street and Beacon, just west of Berkeley Street. It didn’t take him long to find the exact property based on the fact that the roadster was housed in an enclosed rear garage, a relative rarity in the Back Bay, and his memory of their general location in the alley. He pulled up the tax records; the Marlborough Street row house was owned by a Massachusetts corporation. Using the Secretary of State database, Cam learned that the corporation had an address in Cambridge. Cross-checking the address, he found the corporation shared an office with a company called Hildegard Scientific. He clicked on the company website. Bingo. The tall blond in the orange roadster. Katarina Waldburg, President of Hildegard Scientific.

  He pushed through the back door to the side yard. Standing in the late afternoon sun, throwing a tennis ball for Venus, he dialed Bruce’s number.

  “Hi Cameron. I was hoping you’d call. Do you have an update for me?”

  I’m fine, thanks, Bruce. Other than both Amanda and me being kidnapped because of this painting. He swallowed his bitterness; it’s not like he should be surprised when Bruce skipped the pleasantries. But he did explain the nightmare of the past two days. “When we talked this morning, I didn’t mention what happened to me yesterday because, well, I’m a big boy. But this has gone too far. We’re done.”

  Bruce was silent for a second. “I’m really sorry about that, Cam. I never wanted to put you or your family in danger. I thought I would be out on the front lines and you guys would just be in the background, unnoticed.”

  “Well, we’ve been noticed all right. Ever heard of Hildegard Scientific, or a woman named Katarina Waldburg?”

  “No.”

  “Well, she’s heard of us.”

  “Look, obviously I’m not going to push you further. But before I let you go, this morning you said you were pretty sure the painting pointed to the Catskills?”

  “In fact,” Cam replied, figuring he might as well tell Bruce all he knew before bowing out, “Amanda found another clue, again pointing to the Templars.” He explained the temple and ear word play. “So I’m pretty sure we solved this riddle. And I’m pretty sure the painting points to the Catskills.”

  “So, not Utrecht?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think that was just a way to get us to focus on the Templars.”

  “Interesting. Because I just found out something new. I have a client who owns some property in the Catskills. He asked me to test a sword he found buried on his land. It came back as 12th century.”

  Cam dropped the tennis ball. “A sword?”

  “Yeah. A battle sword, I think they call it.”

  “Is the property near the Neversink River?”

  “On it, in fact. It’s one of those old 1950s resorts.”

  Cam’s mind raced. The 12th-century Templar journals told a fascinating story about exploring the Catskills, and the writings had been corroborated by stone carvings and other artifacts. But nothing that could be conclusively proven to be medieval. This sword could be a game-changing discovery. So much for being done—there was no way he could walk away now. “Can I see it?”

  “The sword? It’s in New York, with my client. But I can send you the report if you want.”

  Menachem grabbed his bag from the El Al claim area at the airport in Munich, still angry at his team for being duped into believing they had captured the real Just Judges painting. He had to hand it to Bruce Arrujo—the man had balls. Perhaps Menachem should have snipped off a different appendage back in the Netherlands.

  Being on German soil, where so many of his people had been slaughtered,
further darkened his mood. But that is where Ezra’s gallivanting had brought him, and Menachem knew that if he wanted his old friend to accompany him to the States, he’d personally have to pry him from the pubs and drag him along by his bushy beard.

  Ezra’s expertise, it turned out, had become more relevant to this case than Menachem had expected. Was it possible the medieval Templars had crossed the ocean and secreted their treasures in what was now the northeastern part of the United States? According to the Mossad’s mole, that’s where the evidence was pointing. And with the stakes so high, and the neo-Nazis also on the hunt for the salt water technology, there was no being too careful. Menachem shook his head. The Nazis again, like a bad penny.

  He hailed a taxi for the ride to downtown, the November sun having set over the Bavarian capital hours earlier. At least his superiors had agreed on his assessment of the importance of this mission—not only had they authorized him to deputize Ezra, they had also given him a Code Blue clearance. Fans of James Bond knew this as a license to kill. Menachem smiled wryly. Menachem was supposed to be the dashing, Bond-like secret agent, so why was fat old Ezra bedding all the women?

  He knew from credit card surveillance which hotel Ezra was staying at. He checked his bag at the front desk and began to wander the streets. Octoberfest had ended a month earlier, but apparently nobody got the memo; the city was vibrant and alive on this warm Thursday evening. Just past nine o’clock. He had probably a couple of hours to find his friend before he disappeared into the drunken bowels of the city.

  It didn’t take him nearly that long. At the third pub he strode into, not more than two blocks from the hotel, he found Ezra debating the merits of warm beer versus cold with a table of middle-aged women with British accents. Probably on holiday. “If you’ll allow me to buy the next round, a round of cold Pilsner, I’m sure you’ll see my point.”

  “Don’t say no to that offer, ladies,” Menachem said, pulling up a chair. “The last time Ezra bought a round, the beer was served in wooden mugs.”

  Not much surprised Ezra, but seeing his old war buddy in a German pub left him temporarily speechless. He quickly recovered. “My offer was limited to these charming ladies. You, my friend, are neither.”

  Menachem allowed Ezra the last word. There were five women at the table. Not surprisingly, the old fox was ignoring the two most attractive ones and instead had turned his attention to a heavy-set blond with a nice smile and generous cleavage but too many chins. Ezra had once explained that he didn’t waste his time on beauties. “What would they want with me?” Nor did he bother with the truly unattractive. “What would I want with them?” But those in the middle, that was his sweet spot. They were often flattered by the attention, especially if it came at the expense of their more comely companions. Menachem had to admit, it was a good strategy.

  Too bad for Ezra that Menachem would have to break it up. They would need to be at the airport before dawn, and Menachem wanted his scholar friend sharp and well-rested. But first he’d make Ezra pay for the round of drinks.

  Katarina sat in the cold gloom of her unlit office, staring at the phone. Her body shook with fury even as her heart pumped acrid, aching sadness through her core. Jonas a traitor. Thorne’s wife free. The mission in jeopardy. And, worst of all, her baby brother dead.

  An hour passed, perhaps two, the dusk now turned to twilight. She knew she should get up, do something. But all she could do was sit and stew. Had it all been worth it? No. Nothing was worth losing Detlef. But now that he was gone, she must not let his death be in vain. She must not. But that required her to move, to get up, to act.

  Stars twinkled overhead, reflecting in the still river, as if oblivious to her agony. Time, she knew, was the enemy. The longer she waited, the further away Jonas got. Finally, as if hoisting a refrigerator, she forced her hands to her computer keyboard.

  With a passion and focus she had not experienced since her competitive tennis days, she attacked the internet. Detlef had linked a property in the Catskills to the Just Judges painting. She dug deeper, learning about the purported Templar journey to the area in the late 1100s and their possible motivations. As with all things Templar, it came back to their treasure. They had one; nobody was sure what it was; the King of France and the Pope both wanted it; it disappeared. For centuries, historians and treasure hunters alike had asked the same questions: Where was it? What was it? Could it be possible that she had stumbled upon the answers? Were the mysterious meteorite rocks, which had the power to unlock energy from basic salt water, buried on the banks of the Neversink River at an old 1950s Borscht Belt resort?

  She rubbed at her eyes. Finding the treasure would not bring back Detlef. But doing so at least would mean his death had not been a meaningless one.

  Chapter 9

  Cam awoke at first light and peered out the window of their condominium a quarter-mile from the Loon Mountain ski area in northern New Hampshire. He and Amanda had bought the barebones unit a few years ago as a place to escape to when, as seemed to happen with increasing regularity, danger intruded in their lives. They had purchased it using a shell corporation which could not be traced back to them, and had kept it secret from friends and even family. As Cam nervously studied the parking lot, he realized it had turned out to be a wise investment. He wished it had been a folly.

  November was a good time to find solitude in northern New England. The foliage season had passed, and the ski trails were still rutted, muddy and pockmarked with fieldstones. If anything, it was too quiet up here. Their presence almost seemed to invite scrutiny. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.

  As promised, Bruce had sent Cam the report on the battle sword. Amanda had read it aloud as they drove north last night. The testing company was reputable, and there seemed to be little doubt based on the metallurgy testing: The sword was medieval. And it was found in the Catskills. Cam shook his head. Finally. For years he had listened to archeologists argue that, since no Templar artifacts had been found in America, the legends of their visitation must be false. It was a ridiculous argument, given how rarely land was ever subjected to an archeological dig. Cam gave a lecture recently and asked for a show of hands of people who had ever seen an archeological dig in their town or near where they worked. The audience numbered over 300, yet not a single hand went up. So, of course, nothing had ever been found, just as it was unlikely to hit a baseball without actually taking a swing with a bat. What was that old expression? The absence of proof was not proof of absence.

  But what to do about this discovery? Amanda and he had been waiting for an artifact like this for almost a decade. He knew himself; he would not be able to sit idly by while others jumped the find. His find, in fact. He and Amanda had figured out the Just Judges mystery, conclusively linking the site to the Templars. And Amanda, despite being frightened, would eventually be drawn back in also. The words of their breakfast meeting with Bruce and Shelby echoed back to Cam. Shelby had said, and Bruce had agreed, that Cam was in charge of any artifacts they found. “Whatever we find, whatever it is. Sell it, study it, donate it to a museum, whatever. You decide.”

  Stepping out onto the deck, he dialed Bruce’s number, not caring that it was before six. He was surprised when Bruce answered on the first ring, his voice clear and sharp.

  “Good morning, Cameron.”

  Taking a page from Bruce’s book, Cam skipped the pleasantries. “I’m worried about the Catskills site. Who else knows about the sword?”

  “I’m not sure how many people my client has told. But I see your point. In fact…” He paused for a second. “In fact, the property is getting foreclosed on in a couple of days. Monday. My client may be trying to use the sword to delay the auction. Which means people at the bank will know about it.”

  That wasn’t good. “Like I said, I’m worried about the site. People hear about Templar stuff being buried, and they think treasure.” Cam chewed his lip. “Do you think the bank will delay the auction?”

  “No. I doubt it.
”

  “And do you think it will sell?”

  “Not likely. The bank will likely take it back. Which is probably a good thing. Once the bank takes ownership, they’ll probably secure the site. They’re good at stuff like that, avoiding risk and liability.”

  “But what about between now and Monday? Anyone could go in and dig, right?”

  “Yeah. My client lives on a trailer at the site. But he’s not really the security guard type.”

  Cam took a deep breath. He pictured shadowy intruders skulking onto the property with metal detectors and shovels and spades, pillaging the site. “Okay then. We need to move quickly. And it’s going to cost us a few bucks. But I don’t think we have a choice.”

  “A four-man security team costs about three grand per day.” Cam didn’t ask how Bruce knew this. “So we’re talking ten grand for the weekend.”

  The words were out of Cam’s mouth before he knew it. “I’ll pay it.” It would put a dent in their savings, but it was worth it; he’d take on some extra clients if necessary. The site could potentially rewrite history.

  “That’s very generous. I’ll tell you what. I’ll split it with you.”

  Cam blinked back his surprise. He was beginning to see what Shelby saw in Bruce.

  Menachem had sprung for business class, hoping to head off Ezra’s inevitable pouting about being dragged from his anticipated dalliance in Munich. “A weekend in New York City. All expenses paid. What’s to complain about?”

  Ezra shook his head slowly as the plane taxied toward takeoff, his long, unkempt beard speckled with crumbs from a bag of potato chips he had dumped into his mouth. “I’ve never liked New York. Too many Jews.”

  Menachem wasn’t sure if his friend was serious or not.

  “I’m not kidding. If I wanted to associate with other Jews, I would have stayed in Tel Aviv.”