Sully shrugged and began to walk away. As he passed Bartol’s ladder, he side-kicked it with a heavy work boot. The ladder skidded and tilted, sending Bartol in a slow arcing descent. Reacting instantly, Bartol grabbed at the roof gutter and jumped from the falling aluminum. He caught the gutter, hanging one–armed, seething at his co-worker’s idiocy. As if to add an exclamation point to his thought, the ladder crashed to the ground, paint splattering. Finding a foothold on some window trim, Bartol grabbed the gutter with his second hand and began to hoist himself onto to the roof.
Suddenly the gutter moaned and pulled away from the fascia. Shit. Again reacting without thinking, Bartol swung himself sideways toward an oak tree, grabbing a branch with a free hand like a monkey just as the gutter fully gave way. As he swung, his weight caused the branch to bend, leaving his boots only four feet above the ground. He dropped. And landed next to a leering Sully.
“Sorry that you tripped over my ladder,” Bartol said. He didn’t wait for the larger man to respond. Feigning a punch with his right hand, Bartol instead fell back and swung his right leg out to sweep Sully’s feet aside, knocking him to the ground. Bartol leapt atop him, grabbing him in a choke hold and straddling his back. Sully roared, the sound muffled by the choke, and pushed himself to his feet, Bartol still riding his back. The larger man stumbled backward toward the house, apparently with the intent of squishing his adversary against the wall. Bartol held on, baiting Sully. “Come on, big boy. Everyone’s watching.”
Another roar, and Sully threw himself backward against the house. But Bartol was quicker, somersaulting himself over Sully’s head and landing on his feet like a Saturday morning wrestler just as the big man crashed back-first into the clapboards. With a grunt, he crumbled to the ground, moaning.
Bartol took a dollar from his wallet and dropped it on his co-worker’s cheek. “You know what, I changed my mind. I’ll take a water. I seem to have worked up a bit of a thirst.”
A few of Sully’s buddies had circled the pair but, seeing what Bartol had done to Sully and intuitively fearing his cold ferocity, they shrugged and carried their friend away, leaving Bartol alone.
Which was all he really wanted in life—to be left alone. By his alcoholic mother; by a Big Brother government obsessed with monitoring and tracking its citizens; even by his old army buddies who couldn’t seem to see that the country they fought for had already sold out. The war was over, America and its experiment with democracy had lost. All without the enemy firing a shot. The Democrats had opened the borders, legalized the millions of immigrants overrunning American cities, and bought their loyalty with welfare and food stamps. The political balance of power in America had changed permanently, with those leeching off society outnumbering those contributing to it. At some point—unless the Arabs had already destroyed the country—the true Americans might rise up, and when they did Bartol would be ready to join them. But until then he refused to pay a penny in taxes and refused to allow the government to intrude into his life. He had cut up his driver’s license, closed his bank account and credit cards, bought a bicycle, and changed his name. He lived about as far under the radar as anyone could. Other than his coworkers and the old woman who rented him a small apartment on the second floor of her row house in Boston, nobody even knew he existed. He rode public transportation when not using his bike, went to the library when he wanted to read or surf the Internet, rigged up some rabbit ears to an old Zenith television set, and kept a stash of weapons and other survival gear locked in a storage unit under a fake name a short walk from his apartment. At twenty bucks an hour he easily earned enough to buy food and supplies, pay rent, and keep his survival stash fresh. In short, he was having no trouble surviving. But surviving was not really living.
Bartol righted his ladder, making sure to place it near a window ledge this time just in case Sully came back for revenge. He re-ascended, turned back to the tower and exhaled, clearing his head. How had America gotten here, to this dead end? There was a time when the promise of America had captured the imagination of the world. Though the designs were dissimilar, the stone tower reminded Bartol of Rhode Island’s Newport Tower, a structure built by America’s earliest explorers. He had recently read Across the Pond, a book by a local author documenting the many sites and artifacts that evidenced a history of Europeans—northern Europeans, to be precise—crossing the Atlantic to explore and settle in America. It was amazing research, giving his ancestors the credit they deserved. Bartol did not support Hitler and his lunatic policies, but he did agree that the cultural achievements of the white race were far superior to any other group in the world over the past five hundred years. Advances in critical thought, human rights, technology, medicine, culture, and (as Across the Pond compellingly explained) exploration all originated with Caucasians. Not that all Caucasians were exemplary; Sully was proof of that. But, on average, there existed a quantifiable level of superior accomplishment. Unfortunately, the world now equated the notion of white supremacy with Nazi homicidal insanity. Just because Bartol believed the white race had created a society superior to any other in the world did not mean he wanted to kill off the others. It just meant he didn’t want them infesting his country unless they were going to work hard and contribute to it.
As if to prove his point, a couple of Hispanic workers moved their ladder near his, rap music polluting the air as they bobbed their empty heads. These were among the best of their race, actually holding down a job. But had they ever read a book for pleasure? Watched an evening newscast? Had so much as a single original thought? Bartol did not love the Jews, but at least they accomplished things—their contributions to world culture far exceeded their population numbers. Hitler had been an idiot to try to exterminate them. But the Arabs and the Africans and the Hispanics—what had they contributed in the past five hundred years other than terrorism, bad music and crack cocaine?
He shook his head. No, that wasn’t fair. That was hyperbole. There were plenty of Arabs and Africans and Hispanics whom he respected and admired—he had fought side-by-side with some of them in Iraq. Just not enough to make up for all the others.
Alone in the house with Astarte at school and Cam at his law office catching up on work he had missed while researching and inspecting the Groton property all morning, Amanda took advantage of the warm spring afternoon and brought her laptop out onto the deck overlooking the lake.
Venus curled up at her feet, her fawn-colored face positioned to capture the sun angling between the deck balusters. Amanda, too, turned to the sun, closed her eyes, and let out a long sigh. She didn’t normally stress over such things, but the wedding plans had occupied most of her time the past couple of months. Her mother lived in England—and was in many ways even more distant emotionally than physically—so Amanda had done much of the planning herself. Cam helped, as did his mom, but it still felt like every time she made a decision two more popped up in its place. Now, with the Labor Day weekend date only four months away, Amanda finally felt like she had things under control.
Which meant she could get back to her research. She had long been fascinated with, and had recently focused on, Baphomet, the mysterious head the Knights Templar were accused of—and admitted to—worshipping. Many historians believed the head represented some religious secret the Templars had discovered, a secret so threatening to the Church that it outlawed the entire order, torturing and executing its leaders. Amanda was content to let Cam write the books and give the lectures. What she loved was spending hours rummaging around in the dusty corners of history ruminating over questions like this: Why would a Christian monastic group worship a head which was so seemingly at odds with Christian religious practices? In fact, in its most famous representation, the Baphomet figure bore a strong resemblance to the devil. Amanda found the image, first drawn by the French occultist Eliphas Levi in the 1850s, and pulled it up on her screen. Amanda had always focused mainly on Baphomet’s head; this illustration included his entire body.
Baphome
t
She studied the figure, wondering at his horns and his wings and the star and moon figures—the image was full of esoteric imagery. But she would return to these sensationalized, devil-like aspects of Baphomet later. For now she focused on the question of why the Templars would worship a head of any kind, devilish or not. The Third Commandment expressly prohibited the worship of any graven images or idols, and the Templars had to know that the medieval Church had a zero-tolerance policy toward any kind of unorthodox worship practices. So why would the Army of the Church risk everything by worshiping some mysterious skull? Did the skull embody some religious secret the Templars had discovered during their time in the Holy Land?
As if in response, a black crow flew overhead, cawing, waking Venus from her nap. The Labrador Retriever growled and arched her ears, then returned to her slumber as the crow banked away, its call echoing across the lake. Amanda watched the bird fade into the distance. If there had been a message in its caw, it had been lost on Amanda.
She returned to her notes. There were more than a dozen differing theories trying to explain Baphomet, but Amanda had yet to uncover one that made sense to her. She herself theorized that Baphomet represented a fusion between the medieval practice of relic veneration—in which bones and personal effects of saints were collected and displayed by churches and monasteries under the belief that the saints, so-honored, would intercede with God on the parishioners’ behalf—and the pagan practice of worshiping the head as some kind of representation of the divine. This head worship, known as the Cult of the Head, was practiced by numerous non-Judeo-Christian cultures as well as by the Druids of the British Islands. Somehow, Amanda was beginning to believe, the Templars had taken relic worship to the next level and combined it with the ancient Cult of the Head beliefs.
Her theory, of course, begged the question: Who exactly was Baphomet, and why had the Templars worshipped his skull?
Zuberi Youssef drove one-armed, the stump of his right arm resting on the armrest of the rented Cadillac SRX crossover as he navigated the streets of Waltham, a few miles west of Boston. He raced through a yellow light, the vehicle jumping at his touch. It felt good to drive—usually he was being chauffeured around Europe or the Middle East by one of his bodyguards. But today was just father and son. Eighteen-year-old Amon sat in the passenger seat, his posture erect and his face expressionless.
Zuberi lowered his voice. “I understand, my son, that you not are happy with this decision.”
Amon began to respond in Arabic but Zuberi quickly cut him off. “In America, only English.” The boy had the advantage of learning English as a youth and spoke it almost fluently. Zuberi had begun speaking it only as an adult and still struggled.
“Very well. I am not happy with the decision. No. But I accept it. I understand your reasoning, Father.”
He said it matter-of-factly, without bitterness. Amon, unlike his brash older brother and his spoiled younger sister, had always been level-headed and practical. When he was young Zuberi called him the Little Banker because he was always saving his candy and hoarding his money. Zuberi smiled ruefully. “In some ways you be punished for being agreeable, for being obedient, for doing what is best for family. Even if it not make you happy.”
“I do not look at it as a punishment. Brandeis is a fine university.”
“Yes, but Brandeis is not Tufts or Columbia. I know you prefer to attend these instead.” Zuberi sniffed; not that any of the options constituted a hardship. When Zuberi was Amon’s age he was fighting alongside the Americans with other Egyptians in the Gulf War. He had made many useful friendships during that year. And he had lost an arm to an Iraqi mortar strike. Not a fair trade, but not as one-sided as it first appeared.
Amon bit his lower lip. He was tall and olive-skinned like his mother, though much more handsome. From his father he inherited a pair of large, dark brown eyes and a curious intellect. “If I had studied harder, perhaps I could have gained entrance to Harvard.”
“And I would insist still you go to Brandeis, my son.”
Amon simply nodded and turned to stare out the window.
“We are Muslims in Judeo-Christian world, Amon. A world that becomes more fractured and also more anti-Muslim. But as businessmen we need to do business across all borders. This is why I moved our family to Scotland—a European company can do business that Egyptian company can not.” Amon had been twelve at the time of the move—then, like now, he had accepted the decision stoically while his older brother cursed and made threats. But there were still doors closed to Zuberi. “The Jews in America and Europe are very powerful and very rich. We need to build bridges; we need friends in the Jewish world; we need to win their trust.”
Amon nodded again. “I will do my best.”
Not that Zuberi had planned things that far in advance, but the boy’s name meant ‘the hidden one’—Zuberi’s plan was to hide the boy in plain sight amongst their would-be enemies. If war broke out with the Jews again, Zuberi intended to profit. Zuberi always profited. He sold weaponry in times of war and heavy machinery in times of peace to rebuild that which had been destroyed. The key was to foresee which was coming next.
Zuberi spoke again. “You know the American proverb: ‘Keep friends close and enemies closer.’ Four years you spend at
Brandeis. I care not about your grades or what classes you choose or if you smoke or gamble or bring women to your bed—”
Amon interrupted. “I do not do those things, Father.”
Zuberi smiled as he turned onto a side street a block away from the Brandeis campus. “Not yet, perhaps. But, again, fine it is that you experiment. I care only that you build these bridges. Find Jewish friends. Support Jewish causes. Condemn Islamic acts of terror. Show to the Jews that Muslim can be their friend.” He lowered his voice. “And be a true friend, Amon. Do not only pretend. All men have good in them—find the good even in the Jews and embrace it. Only then they will trust you.” Zuberi swallowed. But please, Allah, do not let him fall in love with a Jewish girl.
They pulled up to a bright yellow two-family Colonial home on a street full of similar structures. Zuberi continued. “In September you move into dormitory with other freshmen. But in summer you live here.”
“This is the house you purchased?”
“Yes. It is for you. Maybe offer good rent to Jewish students you want as friends. This summer you learn the campus, learn Boston, learn Waltham, make plans how you are going to build these bridges.” Zuberi put the car into park. “I help you carry suitcases.”
Amon opened his door. “That is not necessary, Father. I know you have a meeting to attend.” He grabbed his bags from the back seat, leaned back through the door and offered his hand, turning his wrist so Zuberi could shake with his left hand. He held his father’s gaze. “I will not disappoint you.”
Zuberi nodded, surprised at the moisture pooling in his eyes. He rubbed his bald head with his hand. What a softy he had become, living amongst the Europeans. He turned his head before Amon noticed. “Go with Allah, my son.”
Cam spent a few hours in his office Friday afternoon returning phone calls and getting ready for a Monday closing—this one preferably less eventful than last week’s. But his mind remained focused on the stone chamber and the strange way it had appeared in his life. He didn’t believe in coincidence, so the fact that he had just written a book on pre-Columbian history and the fact there was an apparently ancient chamber on the property must somehow be related. And from that it followed that, for some reason, someone wanted Cam to own—and investigate—the stone structure. He shook his head. “They could have just asked,” he muttered not for the first time.
He phoned Amanda. “Hey, I’m done here. I was going to shoot back to Groton and snoop around Town Hall, see if anyone knows anything about this property.”
“Fine,” she said. “Astarte just got home. We’re going to take a walk around the lake with Venus.”
“Hey, before you go, check out this email I just
got. I just forwarded it to you.”
He gave her a few seconds to read it. “Who is Bartol?” she asked, seeing the name of the sender.
“Never heard of him.”
The message was a rambling one, but essentially the sender—an ex-Army Ranger—claimed to be a fan of Cam’s book and believed the politically correct would target Cam, perhaps violently, to suppress his research. Bartol was offering to serve as Cam’s bodyguard if Cam ever felt in danger.
“Well, looks like you’ve made a new friend.”
“I’m not sure I need friends like this. He sounds like a kook.”
Amanda had studied psychology in London. “Guardian angels are generally well-meaning. But some of them are so compulsive they end up developing something called Guardian Angel Complex.”
“There’s a specific complex for guardian angels?”
“You actually see it a lot. They get so concerned with fighting their enemies that they forget to protect their charges. The animal rights groups are a good example. In the name of liberating’ animals they break open cages, only to have the critters die in the wild. They become obsessed with taking action, even if it ends up being counterproductive.”
“So I shouldn’t invite this guy over to dinner?”
“It depends—do you want to be let out of your cage?”
Cam typed a quick, non-committal response to the email and, twenty minutes later, parked in front of Groton’s brick, Italianate-style Town Hall. He wandered in, found the tax assessor’s office on the second floor, and asked for the file on the property. Two years ago, before the building had been demolished, the property was valued at $1.15 million, $850,000 attributable to the structure and $300,000 to the land. Middlesex Semiconductor had sold to One Wing Industries for just over that amount, but for some strange reason One Wing had then conveyed to Cam for nothing. There were some notes describing the structure before it had been demolished, but nothing that shed any light on the mystery.
The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Templars in America Series Book 5) Page 4
