The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  Still standing, she looked down at Cam. “The article says the divinity school student was one-eighth Cherokee.”

  Vito was just about to call it a night and watch an old Star Trek episode when the email came in from Mrs. Conrad. “Regarding Thorne,” it read, “slam him. And make it personal. I would like to see it before you post it. Top priority.”

  Excellent, he was hoping she’d ask him to post the critical commentary rather than the complimentary one. It made him feel … powerful. Or at least relevant. And Tammy from Buffalo seemed to like it when he posted strong, aggressive opinions. To hell with Star Trek. He had work to do.

  Not that he had anything against this Cameron Thorne guy. But obviously he had done something to piss off the government, so he probably deserved whatever he got. Vito flexed his fingers and pulled up the draft of what he had already written—it was critical, but not personal. Vito closed his eyes, thought of all the times the cool kids in school had teased him, mocked him, made him feel insignificant. He thought of his stepfather doing the same thing. This guy Thorne was just like them, successful and smart and good-looking….

  And arrogant. So fucking arrogant.

  Vito clenched his teeth and began to type.

  CHAPTER 5

  As was their morning routine, Cam and Venus walked Astarte to the bus stop while Amanda cleaned up after breakfast. Cam returned and left again on a run while Amanda read the morning news and caught up on email. One of those emails was a Google Alert, notifying her of a new blog post discussing the Newport Tower. But this wasn’t just any blog post, and it didn’t limit itself to the Newport Tower.

  By the time she had finished, her hands were shaking. “What a flaming load of rubbish,” she hissed. Taking a deep breath, she reread the article. It began:

  Disgraced Massachusetts attorney Cameron Thorne, who apparently can no longer make a living as a lawyer since having his law license suspended, now spends his time promoting fake history—for a fee, of course—to an unsuspecting public.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, the article went on to accuse him of using Amanda as part of his ruse.

  Ever notice how all those fake history documentaries on TV use a narrator with a British accent, as if we Americans are so easily swayed by the Queen’s English? Well, Thorne takes it one step further: He parades out some British tart in a short skirt, who Thorne claims is his ‘fiancée,’ as a mouthpiece. “Tallyho, we Brits were crossing the pond long before Columbus,” she parrots as Thorne nods sagely while counting his money.

  Amanda felt like smashing something. And it got worse:

  But perhaps Thorne’s cheapest trick is his use of a nine-year-old Native American girl he claims to be in the process of ‘adopting’ (note to self—contact the Massachusetts state authorities on this one). Thorne bases many of his claims of pre-Columbian exploration of America on—you guessed it—Native American oral history. Of course, this history (how convenient for him that it is ‘oral’ and therefore can’t be verified) was passed on to Thorne through his intimate relationship with Native Americans. Proof of this ‘intimacy,’ apparently, is that they are allowing him to foster-parent one of their orphaned children. One can only hope that Thorne does not dress up this poor girl in braids and a headdress, put her in a teepee with a peace pipe in her mouth, teach her to greet visitors with a, “How, White Man,” and charge admission. (Speaking of White Man, ever notice how make-it-up-as-they-go historians like Thorne always try to sell us on other white Europeans coming to America? They never talk about Asian or African explorers. Simple ignorance, or outright racism? You be the judge.)

  The post concluded:

  The reason Thorne resorts to these theatrics, of course, is that none of the revisionist history this huckster is peddling is true. The artifacts he relies on are amateurish fakes (note #2 to self—check with Massachusetts authorities regarding the legality of using fake artifacts as a pretense for collecting speaker fees), and the so-called ‘evidence’ he provides to support his theories is a laughable compilation of random and unrelated occurrences cobbled together by a disgraced lawyer trained to twist and bend facts to best serve his needs. Do yourself a favor: If someone invites you to go listen to this charlatan speak, stay home and watch old episodes of the Flintstones cartoons instead—Fred and Barney are at least as smart as Thorne, and the idea of cavemen and dinosaurs coexisting is closer to the truth than anything Thorne and his traveling circus would have you believe.

  Cam burst through the door just as Amanda finished reading. “Well,” he proclaimed, “that was a great run. What a beautiful day.”

  She sighed, stood and greeted him with a hug. “I’m afraid it’s about to take a turn for the worse.”

  Cam made Amanda tell him what was going on before he got into the shower. It was actually a relief—from the look on her face he was afraid something had happened to Astarte. The blog was just words. As a lawyer he dealt with this kind of stuff all the time. It was easy to be nasty when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye. They called it ‘keyboard muscle’—anonymity and distance made everyone brave. Cam doubted this Vito Augustine guy, whoever he was, would have the balls to say anything to his face.

  But that didn’t change the fact that this post was now live, and based on the number of comments already it looked like half the world was reading it. And once something was live on the internet, it was there forever. Some museum curator posted a mistake-filled critique of the Westford Knight carving in the late 1990s and fifteen years later critics still relied on it as ‘proof’ the carving was a hoax.

  “So what are you going to do?” Amanda asked.

  Cam grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Not sure yet. I have to tip my hat to the guy—he did a good job going right up the line of committing libel but not crossing it.”

  “Not crossing it? He accuses you of using Astarte as some kind of carnival freak.”

  “Actually, he’s careful not to. He says something about hoping I don’t use her that way. It’s the same result. But legally, it’s different.”

  “He implies you are some kind of … sexual predator.”

  “He implies, but he doesn’t actually say it. Randall warned us about this.”

  “And he calls you a racist.” Amanda was pacing the kitchen, her cheeks flushed.

  “Actually, he just poses the question and asks his readers to decide.”

  She kicked a stool and splashed some water on her face. “Well,” she exhaled, “what about the other stuff?”

  He was as angry as she was, but it wouldn’t help to have both of them kicking furniture. “All of it is true: You are British, my law license was suspended, and I do collect speaker fees.” He smiled. “And Fred and Barney are smarter than me.”

  She didn’t even crack a smile at his attempt at humor. “How can you be so calm? This guy just attacked you, attacked us.”

  He stepped forward and folded her into his arms. “Believe it or not, I’m used to this stuff. It happens all the time. Maybe not as personal as this, but the same kind of hyperbole. Lawyers use words as weapons. This guy Vito Augustine would have made a good attorney.”

  She exhaled into his chest and, after a few seconds, pulled away. “Well I’m not used to it, Cameron. And I don’t take kindly to my family being attacked.”

  “Look, I’m pissed too. But it’s not like I can track him down and go kick his ass. Not that it’s not tempting.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “But I think there’s more going on here than just some jerk with a blog deciding to take shots at me. As far as I know, I never even met the guy. So why come after me? There are plenty of guys who register higher on the crazy meter than I do—I’m not the one claiming reptile aliens populated the earth.” He paused, tried again to lighten the mood. “And I’m not the one claiming giants used to roam around North America.”

  Amanda slapped him on the chest.

  “Anyway, like I said, I have to believe there’s something e
lse going on here.”

  “Are you thinking this relates to the CIA brainwashing stuff? Is this their way to get under your skin somehow?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds a bit like the Jacques Autier thing to discredit Laurence Gardner. And it does seem odd for the blogger to hint at some kind of inappropriateness involving Astarte, as Randall predicted. I’ll run it all by Randall, see what he thinks.”

  Amanda pulled her phone from her jean’s pocket. “While you do that, I’m going to call Georgia. Maybe she can sniff around a bit also.”

  Georgia answered the phone on the first ring, walked over to close her office door and lowered her voice. “Well, hello. This was shaping up to be another boring day in Happy Land. Can you liven it up?”

  “Perhaps too much,” Amanda laughed.

  “Hell, hearing a foreign accent is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all week.”

  Amanda laughed again. But it sounded forced.

  Georgia continued, “Before we get to the new stuff, let me tell you what I’ve found out about your bracelet. Yes, it disappeared back in the 1950s. Yes, they do think it’s important. No, they don’t have any idea where it is.”

  “Thanks. What about the MK-Ultra program?”

  “Answers there are a bit fuzzier. When I first started poking around, I got nothing. Then I got a call back, asking if my query had anything to do with the Lovecroft campaign.” She laughed. “So I lied and said of course it did, figuring that was what they wanted to hear. Turns out the program is still active, but it’s wrapped up pretty tight. Still working on mind control and behavior modification. But that’s as far as I got. I mentioned Cam’s name but no bites.”

  Amanda sighed. “Thanks. Can you look into something else for me?” She described how a blogger had trashed Cam; Georgia found the site and skimmed through it as Amanda spoke. “Cam thinks it’s too random and too harsh and too personal to be legitimate. He wonders if someone put the blogger up to it.”

  “And you think maybe it’s part of MK-Ultra.” Georgia scratched down the blogger’s name. Vito Augustine.

  “Yes.” Amanda also described how the Chinese restaurant owners came after Cam again, and how metallurgy testing showed a good chance the bracelet from the Bat Creek mound was authentic. “But everything feels a bit … odd. Or off. The blog post seems unduly harsh; the Chinese blokes seem inept; this Randall Sid chap dropping into our life seems too random.”

  “Not to mention the bracelet showing up in your Chinese food in the first place. I agree. It’s not the way the world usually works.” She doodled for a few seconds. “What are you guys working on now?”

  “The bracelet, of course. And Cam and Randall went to see the Narragansett Rune Stone this week; apparently there’s a connection to the Vinland Map and the Mellon family.” She paused. “And I’ve been doing some research on giants.”

  “Giant whats?”

  “Just giants. Large humans. You know, Goliath and such.” Amanda summarized her research into the skeletons. “Turns out many of them have six fingers and a double row of teeth.”

  “The six finger thing comes from the Bible, so I guess that’s not surprising. But I’ve never heard of the double teeth.”

  “That’s precisely what makes it intriguing. It’s such a random characteristic, yet we find it in hundreds of different accounts from all over the continent.”

  Georgia sighed. “Intriguing, yes. But a reason for the CIA to come after you guys? I don’t see it. But I’ll dig around a bit more. I’ll start with this blogger and see where it leads.”

  “Thanks, Georgia. How’s the campaign going?”

  She enjoyed discussing politics with Amanda, who often had a unique and fresh perspective on American elections. “Putting the boredom aside, the word I would use is refreshing. Lovecroft is much different than other candidates—in some ways he’s the anti-candidate. He honestly doesn’t care if his positions are unpopular; he’s a little like John McCain in that respect. But I think that’s why voters like him. There’s no bullshit with him.”

  “Can he win?”

  Originally Georgia had given him only a twenty percent chance. But recently she had doubled that. Normally her job as a political operative, her ‘cover’ if you will, did not overlap with her career in the CIA. Recently, however, her bosses in Langley had begun to take an interest in Lovecroft’s candidacy. Usually the CIA stayed out of American politics, but she was getting the sense that many of the nation’s power elite, including senior members of the CIA, were rallying behind Lovecroft as a necessary remedy to what ailed the country—and it didn’t hurt that they already knew and trusted him through his work as Chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Reading between the lines, Georgia wouldn’t be surprised to learn the Agency was working to sway the election. Within the CIA, few seemed to take heed of Woodrow Wilson’s warning that the history of liberty mirrored the history of a limitation on governmental power. For most senior Agency officials, the ends always justified the means.

  She couldn’t reveal all this to Amanda, so she settled for, “Yes, I think he can win. From what I hear from Washington, there’s a growing belief that we need someone like him as our next President to get us out of the political gridlock we are in. As long as nobody asks him about Cuba….”

  “I’m sorry, Cuba?”

  “He made a statement years ago about leading a Crusade to free the Cuban Christians. Probably not the smartest thing he’s ever said.”

  “Well, he’s a bit conservative for my taste, but I see what you mean about him being likeable. Reminds me of Maggie Thatcher in some ways. Not my cup of tea, but the right person at the right time.”

  Someone knocked on Georgia’s door. “Sorry, but I have to run. I’ll look into that blogger for you. Hugs to Cam and Astarte.”

  Georgia hung up as a few others of the Senator’s campaign staff arrived with coffee and pastries for the morning briefing. But she was distracted. Explaining things to Amanda had caused a few of her suspicions to coalesce in her mind: Was the CIA running an active mission to sway the Presidential election? If so, was she herself one of the operation’s stage puppets? Had, for the first time, the lines between her cover and her mission been blurred?

  Stefan Antonopoulos wiped the muffin crumbs off his fingers and carefully placed the Vermont carved stone beneath the microscope. One thing about being at a geology conference was that there were plenty of scopes around; nobody batted an eye when he pulled one out at the breakfast table. He had been dying to examine the stone last night but he got waylaid in the hotel bar and he was too professional to examine the artifact after a few tequila shots….

  He began by focusing the microscope on an uncarved portion of the stone. The bedrock from which the stone originated had probably been exposed by a retreating glacier during the end of the last Ice Age and had, therefore, been weathering in an outdoor environment for at least ten thousand years. This weathering—primarily caused by wind, rain and freeze-thaw cycles—had, as would be expected, scoured the surface of the stone, wearing away soft or brittle minerals from its surface.

  The telling part of his examination would be an inspection of the carved grooves. They, too, would exhibit weathering patterns, depending on how recently the grooves had been carved and therefore how long the carved areas had been exposed to the elements. In short, the more the carved areas resembled the uncarved areas in a mineralogical sense, the older the inscription would have to be.

  Adjusting the focus, Antonopoulos honed in randomly on one of the lines of carved runic characters. This was always the most exciting part of his work, not knowing what the scope would reveal. Involuntarily, his eye widened, his eyelid rubbing against the scope’s eyepiece. He dried his hand on his pants and took a deep breath to slow his breathing. The groove was almost pristine—smooth, free of soft minerals and barely pitted. In fact, the grooved area looked nearly identical to the face of the stone. Which meant the carving must be centuries old.

 
; Antonopoulos sat back and took another deep breath. “Hey, Linda, can you come take a look at this?” he said, calling over a respected middle-aged geology professor from the University of Vermont. “Do those carved areas look old to you?”

  She, like Antonopoulos, examined the face of the stone before turning to the grooved areas. She lifted her head. “Really old. The groove I looked at was pretty weathered. Not much left in there.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He looked back at the stone; granite this hard was known to resist weathering. His heart began to race. “Is the rock native to Vermont?”

  She pushed her chair away from the table and grabbed her coffee cup. “Barre Gray granite, named after Barre, Vermont. Doesn’t get any more native than that.”

  “How old would you guess that carving is?”

  She laughed. “You’re not going to get me to go on record with that, Stefan.” She looked him in the eye. “But I wouldn’t leave that artifact lying around.”

  What to do, what to do? Randall paced around his brother’s condominium, the same thirty-minute morning news cycle repeating itself for the third time. It might snow, there would be traffic, the government did not have enough money, and another politician was going to jail. He turned off the television.

  The sheer drudgery of life was the worst part of retirement. It was not staying alive that was the difficult thing, it was living while doing so that was proving to be the challenge. After his morning yoga routine to stay fit and limber, what? Lately Randall even looked forward to spending extra time at the Lodge—Monday night’s initiation ceremony and subsequent cognac and cigar session didn’t break up until well past midnight and, he was happy to report, none of the new initiates had invoked the name of Nimrod and run off to sacrifice children to Baal. His recent mission with Cameron Thorne helped fill his day. But Randall rarely slept more than four hours a night and with his brother away there was nobody to handicap the horse races with or compete against on a crossword puzzle.