Cam pursed his lips. “I said that’s where the clues in the painting led. I never said there was a treasure. And I never said it would still be here if there was.”
Menachem leaned over the table, his face close enough to Cam for Cam to smell the morning coffee on his breath. “You’re just parsing words. You’re supposed to be the expert. Is it here, or is it in Montreal?”
Cam replied. “If I had to guess, I’d say it was originally buried here. Some of it here on Hunter Mountain, which was a Native American sacred site, and some of it along the Neversink River, where they eventually settled. That’s why the Just Judges painting from the early 1400s sent us to the Neversink. But then later, in the 1600s, as Ezra suggests, it makes sense it was moved to Montreal.”
“So there’s nothing here?”
Cam honestly didn’t know whether some, or all, of the treasure had been moved to Montreal. It was no small task, coming to America in the 1600s to retrieve and move a treasure hoard 300 miles north through land populated by often-hostile Native Americans. His goal today, the reason he had brought Menachem and Ezra here, was to prepare them for the fact that the Neversink site might not yield a treasure right away. The last thing he needed was for the Mossad to lose interest and allow the neo-Nazis to swoop in and pillage the site. And he might need the Mossad’s help if and when the search moved to Montreal. Like all good salesmen, Cam hoped to gain his client’s trust by under-selling and then over-delivering. Today was the under-selling part.
He answered Menachem’s question. “Nothing here? I didn’t say that. There is, obviously, something along the Neversink. A sword for one thing. Probably other artifacts.” Cam spread his hands. “But if I had to guess, I’d say at least some of the treasure, if there is one, was probably moved north.”
“Well, this is all fakakta,” Menachem said, using a Yiddish vulgarity as he pounded the table.
“Perhaps not,” Ezra countered. “If these meteorite rocks are not here, and instead are in Montreal, then at least the Nazis won’t find them.”
“Small consolation. If they’re in Montreal, they’re probably long since buried. So we’ll never find them either. They’re just rocks, after all. Anyone seeing them would just ignore them or use them as backfill.” Menachem let out a long breath and dropped his fist on the table. “So close. We were so close. Well, I suppose there’s still a chance they’re at the resort site.”
Ezra nodded sagely. “I agree, old friend. There is no guarantee they were moved. I think we have to proceed as if they are still here. This is too important to make assumptions. We need to win that auction, and then dig.”
Cam let out a sigh of relief. He was hoping his new Masonic friend would say exactly that.
Bruce strolled the streets of the Lower East Side, munching on a dry sesame bagel. He loved Boston—its history, its intellect, the changing seasons, the confluence of lakes and ocean and mountains. But there was nothing like a warm, fresh New York bagel. Something about the water, people said. Ironically, the city’s water came via aqueducts from the Catskills 125 miles away. Bruce would be making the reverse trip tomorrow morning. But for today, he thought it best to stay hidden in Manhattan, away from the tempest building around the Levana Resort.
Just in case he was being followed, Bruce cut a wide swath around Mitchell’s apartment and its meat locker once full of art. The locker was now empty, Mitchell having stashed the Just Judges painting in a location even Bruce did not know. No reason to put Mitchell in further danger by going anywhere near the apartment. The poor guy was already miserable, worried equally about getting killed before selling the painting and figuring out what to do with all the money once it sold. It had never occurred to him there was a third possibility.
Bruce’s cell rang. Shelby. “Hi Shelbs.” He swallowed a bite of bagel. “What’s up?”
“I’m on the highway, on my way to New York.”
He froze mid-stride. “Wait, why?”
“I got a surprise this morning. In my bed. The head of a dead cat.”
A pit formed in his gut, spreading anvil-like across his chest. He leaned against a bike rack to steady himself. Salvatore. A dead animal was a traditional Mafia warning. Bruce was hoping for a few more days. Apparently, his creditor was operating under an accelerated timeline.
He didn’t blame Shelby for fleeing Boston. But he could not keep her safe here, with him. “Listen, don’t come here. It’s not safe.”
“Bullshit, Bruce. If it’s not safe, then why are you there?”
He began to stammer a response, but she cut him off.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll be there in two hours. You’re going to tell me what’s going on. Everything. Then, together, we’re going to make a plan.”
“Okay,” he said, exhaling. “In fact, I have a plan already. But you’re not going to like it.”
“I’m listening.”
“This isn’t some theoretical discussion about morality. This is the mob putting a dead cat in your bed. And the Mossad cutting off my finger. And Gus wanting revenge. Not to mention millions of dollars at stake. But like I said, I have a plan. So if you come, we have to do this my way.”
She didn’t respond for a few seconds. “I just passed an exit.” She steeled her voice. “I’m still heading south.”
Katarina sped west along the Mass Turnpike in her Z4 roadster, knowing full well the orange flash was a streaking invitation for some statie to chase her down. Unlike the last time she had cruised down a highway alone, home from her Friday night, post-Samhain encounter in the New Hampshire bar, she didn’t care about her driving record or speeding tickets. What had it been, nine days ago? How her world had changed. Detlef was dead. But, as if in some cosmic counterbalance for her loss, her ability to ensure the future of an Aryan dynasty was at her fingertips. Buried, apparently, along the shores of a river in the Catskill Mountains.
Deidre would be joining her. Even that was more company than Katarina wanted, but this mission was too important to not have a second set of hands and eyes around in case of an emergency. It should have been Detlef, of course. Katarina let out a long sigh. It should have been Detlef. She guessed she would think that thought thousands of times over the next many years. Not that it was a complicated, or strenuous, mission. Go to the foreclosure sale. Show the deposit check. Register to bid. Raise her right hand repeatedly, until hers was the only hand in the air. Sign the contract. Auction over, property hers.
Then dig.
Norman packed his few belongings into his grandfather’s vintage mustard-colored, hard-shelled American Tourister suitcase. The trailer, technically, belonged to the construction site. So in addition to losing the resort tomorrow, he’d be losing his home as well. Not that he’d miss the ramshackle abode. But it would have been nice to actually, you know, have someplace else to go.
Short of some miracle, or perhaps a natural disaster, there was nothing to stop the foreclosure sale scheduled for ten o’clock Monday morning. As he understood it, bidders would gather at the front steps of the Sullivan County courthouse in Monticello. Norman had taken a drive: At least the building was a commanding structure, expansive with oversized windows and soaring Corinthian columns. A dome featuring a massive clock capped the stone structure, as if signaling that every minute was important, that serious business was done here. Or that time was running out.
Bruce jogged back to his cramped Manhattan hotel room. It was the size of a minivan, but one of the few he had found in New York that was clean and also took cash. He stripped, navigated his way between the single bed and narrow dresser, and stepped into the shower. While the water cascaded over him, his mind raced. Shelby would be here in a little over an hour. And, understandably, she would want answers.
Think, he told himself. You can figure this out. There were so many damn balls in the air, so many players in this game he was playing. One false move and the whole thing would come crashing down around him. And now Shelby was adding, demanding, another layer of complexi
ty to the situation. What would he tell her? How could he share his plan with her and also protect her? Careful not to bang his elbow, he turned his back to the shower head and closed his eyes, allowing the stream of hot water to soak him, to enfold him. What he really needed was half a day on the ocean, the wind filling his sails as his mind puzzled out a solution. But all he had was half an hour in an undersized shower stall. He relaxed his breathing. Through the steam, his mind’s eye began to see a path out of his quandary. Yes. It just might work…
An hour later he had shaved, dressed in clean clothes, and brushed the sesame seeds from his teeth. The house phone rang, announcing Shelby’s arrival. “I’ll be right down,” he said.
Stepping from the narrow elevator, he greeted her with a smile and leaned in for a kiss. Hesitantly, her eyes questioning him, she met his lips. “You seem like you’re in a good mood,” she said.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” He smiled. “You’re here.”
“Yes, but you made it sound like things here were dire. You said it wasn’t safe.”
“And you came anyway.” He took her arm. “So we might as well enjoy our time together, right?”
“Where are we going?”
“Unless you need to put something in the room, I thought we’d go to the Met. We can talk while we look at art.” Not to mention, it would be relatively safe there, given the museum’s security precautions.
“Okay,” she nodded, handing her bag to the front desk clerk.
A taxi took them twenty blocks north on Madison Avenue. But instead of entering the Met’s Beaux Arts façade on Fifth Avenue, Bruce led Shelby around the back of the sprawling four-block wide edifice, following a path into Central Park.
“What, afraid to use the front entrance?” she teased, her mood relaxing to match his. “Think they’ll flag you as an art thief?”
He smiled. “No. But what I want to show you won’t fit inside.”
“The building is the size of a football stadium. What won’t fit inside?”
“You’ll see.”
Hand in hand, they snaked around behind the museum, rounded a corner and there, in a clearing across East Drive, rose a soaring red granite obelisk, standing twice the height of the surrounding trees.
“It’s called Cleopatra’s Needle,” Bruce explained. “They brought it here from Egypt in the late 1800s. Cameron told me all about it.”
“Does it really date back to Cleopatra?” Shelby asked. “That would make it more than two thousand years old.”
“It’s misnamed. It’s actually much older than Cleopatra. It was built by the pharaoh Thutmose III around 1500 BC. Around the time of Moses and the Exodus.”
“Wow,” she said, staring up. “So 3,500 years old. Not as old as the Pyramids, but, still.”
Bruce studied her as she studied the obelisk. “It’s the oldest manmade structure in the United States,” he said, glad to see the wonder in her eyes.
“How did it get here? And why?”
“The Freemasons brought it. It wasn’t easy—they had to cut a hole in the front of a steamship because the obelisk was too long. But the ‘why’ is the interesting part.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure about the details, but I think both the Israelis and the white supremacists believe that the Templar treasure, this Treasure Templari, is some kind of ancient technology, first discovered by the Egyptians.”
“Like flying saucers and worm holes?”
“No, nothing that wild. Something more basic, like electricity.”
“I’ve read that some scientists think the Pyramids were built as some kind of giant energy source.”
“Yeah, like that. So, anyway, maybe the giant obelisks like this were part of that technology.” He took out his phone. “I found this article on the web. It says, ‘What is interesting about obelisks is that many of them are built out of granite, which contains high concentrations of quartz crystal. Because of its crystalline structure, quartz has the ability to convert the Earth’s natural electrical vibrations into usable energy by a property known as piezoelectricity.’”
She made a face. “And that’s why the Masons brought this obelisk here to Central Park? For electricity?”
“No.” He shook his head. “They didn’t know what it did. That knowledge was lost. They just knew it was important. That it was powerful and mysterious. Just look at Masonic grave markers—almost all of them have obelisks. And if you go into Masonic lodges, they’re full of Egyptian iconography and symbolism. Which, when you think about it, doesn’t make much sense. The origins of Freemasonry go back to King Solomon’s Temple and its builders, the Phoenicians. The Egyptians have nothing to do with it.”
Shelby stared back up at the obelisk. “I’m still not tracking you. You think this obelisk is related to the Templar treasure?”
“No. At least not directly. And sorry, I’m not being clear.” He had spoken to Cameron about this on the phone yesterday, while discussing details of the security team at the property. But Bruce was hardly an expert. “The Masons have this fixation on ancient Egypt, passed down to them by the Templars. When the Templars were in the Middle East, they heard stories and legends of ancient Egyptian technology. They didn’t know exactly what it was, or how it worked, but they knew it existed.” He shifted from one foot to the other as his mind raced. “Hell, maybe they even did find it or figure it out and then hid it. Either way, I think this fixation on Egypt is important.” He allowed his eyes to drift skyward. “I mean, bringing this obelisk across the ocean took a Herculean effort. Plus, it caused an international incident because the Egyptians didn’t want to let it go. Then there were like nine thousand Freemasons marching down Fifth Avenue when they dragged it in from the harbor.” He took Shelby by the elbow “People don’t do shit like that unless they think it’s really important.”
Bruce was figuring this out himself as he went along. He continued. “For some reason, the Masons, and the Templars before them, became fixated on ancient Egyptian technology. I think that’s what the Templar treasure is.” He took a deep breath. “It’s the technology. It’s all about the technology.”
Chapter 12
Cam sat in his parked car in front of the Sullivan County courthouse on a rainy Monday morning. He sipped hot chocolate from a Dunkin Donuts cup with his left hand, his right shoulder and neck area still stiff and tender from his altercation with the SS tattoo guy. Cam had attended many foreclosure auctions in Massachusetts, all held at the property being sold. Here in New York the sales were held at the courthouse, apparently to add gravitas and the stamp of governmental approval to the process. Either way, it was a sad day, the shattering of someone’s American Dream.
Today, that someone was Norman Plansky. Losing his family’s resort. The rain and gloom seemed appropriate. Especially if the eventual auction winner, willing to pay whatever fines the state might impose, tore the site apart looking for treasure and, in the process, destroyed its historical significance. Cam had gone so far as to contact the state archeologist’s office to ask if they’d intervene, but, as he feared, they treated him like a kook when he mentioned a medieval treasure cache buried in the Catskills.
A massive clock adorned the dome capping the granite courthouse. Cam checked the time: just past 9:30. The auctioneer had arrived, along with the attorney for the lender. The red-faced auctioneer was short-legged and thick-chested, like a bulldog. The attorney looked to be in his fifties, Dickensian in his grey tweed suit, sideburns, black brimmed hat and aquiline face. Cam wondered if he carried a quill pen.
Cam had been unable to determine who, exactly, the lender was. Catskill Hudson Bank had sold the mortgage loan to an offshore corporation, Pennybags Unlimited, which had in turn employed a New York law firm, and its Dickensian partner, to represent it. Whoever was behind Pennybags Unlimited preferred not to show their face. Not all that surprising in the often clandestine world of real estate.
Cam left his car, pulled his hat low and his collar high, and ambled up the granite walkway
. Climbing the stairs, he noticed a dozen people huddled under the portico trying to stay dry. Including Gus, wearing a barn coat and jeans, his eyes studying the crowd like a carnival huckster looking for a mark. Cam and Gus exchanged a quick nod; Cam had no interest in anything more than that. Cam had kept his end of the bargain, telling Gus what he knew about the painting and the possible treasure at the resort site. Glancing around, Cam recognized Norman Plansky from the internet search he had done; Plansky leaned listlessly against one of the pillars, his ill-fitting beige sport coat splotched by the rain. Poor guy.
On the opposite spectrum, looking glamorous even in jeans and a black rain slicker, stood the statuesque Katarina Waldburg. As far as Cam knew, she hadn’t spotted him—she had no reason to suspect he’d be anywhere near the auction. And he guessed she was not the type to take much notice of the riffraff in their baseball caps. She stood with a shorter, thicker woman about the same age. As Cam edged closer, using the pillars to hide himself, it sounded like they were speaking German. She, unlike Plansky, held a packet of material from the auctioneer which indicated she had registered to bid.
A few more bidders arrived, shook the rain off their coats, and signed in at the card table, crowding around the auctioneer’s female assistant. From what little Cam could see of her, she looked out of place for such a somber occasion, her lime green hair and rainbow ski cap providing the only splashes of color amidst the grays and browns. Cam lurked, watching as the bidders showed the assistant their $50,000 bank checks and registered. From what he could see of people walking away with information packets, Cam counted six bidders in addition to Katarina.
A black limo pulled up and double-parked in front of a hydrant. A portly, forty-something man in a dark suit and red and white checkered head scarf, which Cam knew was called a ghutrah, stepped out of the back seat, shielded by a subordinate holding a large black umbrella. A Caucasian man also in a dark suit, perhaps his attorney, carried a briefcase while the driver kept the limo running. Cam pursed his lips. The Saudis. Make that eight bidders.
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