The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Templars in America Series Book 5)

by David S. Brody

  She sighed again. Too good to be true was also an apt description for this land deed. She had a funny feeling about it: Things that seemed too good to be true usually were.

  Chapter 3

  Rachel Levitad was not having a good day. Final exams had ended and she wanted to go home. But her flight to Chicago had been cancelled, which meant she was stuck on campus another two days. It felt like finishing a marathon and then being told you had to stick around the finish line for the rest of the weekend. She crumpled her coffee cup, tossed it into the recycle bin, and headed for the exit door of the campus student center.

  She had always considered herself hardworking and pretty resilient. But freshman year had beaten her down. Partly it was the culture at Brandeis—the students delighted in overachieving, as if spending Friday night in the library were something to be proud of. But mostly it was just that she was done. Done with competing, done with cramming, done with dining hall food. She had finished the marathon. Now it was time to go home and let her parents treat her like a kid again.

  Most students had finished finals earlier in the week and the campus was largely abandoned. She had come to the student center to grab a cup of coffee and take a break from packing.

  “Excuse me.” A tall, olive-skinned boy stepped in front of her from next to the ATM machine. “Can you assist me with this?”

  Rachel sighed. “Sure.” She stepped toward the screen. “You’ve been here all year and haven’t figured out how to use this yet?”

  “I just arrived yesterday,” he said quietly. His accent was foreign, probably Middle-Eastern. “I will be beginning classes in September.”

  “And you’re here already?”

  He shrugged, his large brown eyes sad but confident. “My father wants me to learn my way around and get comfortable here.”

  “Well, I suggest the first thing you do is get familiar with the shuttle bus system.” She smiled. “It’s pretty intense here: You’ll want to get into Boston once in a while to get away.” She took his card and helped him navigate the touch screen.

  He bowed to her. “Thank you very much. If you are ever in Scotland, I will teach you how to use the bank machine there.”

  “Scotland?” She stopped herself, not wanting to be rude. She had assumed, based on his accent and skin tone, that he was Arabic.

  “Originally from Egypt.” He bowed again. “My name is Amon Youssef.” He held her eyes with his and offered his hand.

  “Hi,” she stammered as she ran her hand through her hair. “Rachel Levitad. Originally from Chicago. That’s in the central part of the country.” She hoped she wasn’t being patronizing.

  “Famous for its slaughterhouses, deep-dish pizza, and Oprah,” he grinned. “I have been studying American geography.”

  “I see that.” He fell in beside her as she made her way to the door. The words tumbled from her mouth before her brain had a chance to check them. “I was just about to grab lunch in the dining hall. Want to join me?”

  He smiled, a gesture that seemed to come easy to him. “I am told the food here is only tolerable. Perhaps it would be wise for me to get used to it before classes start.”

  “Yeah, sort of like shrinking your stomach before a hunger strike.”

  He laughed at that, his eyes twinkling like a pair of bright stars. A strange tingling feeling coursed through her chest, and an even stranger giggle bubbled from her mouth. She exhaled—perhaps the next forty-eight hours would not be so bad after all.

  Cam’s flight landed at Reagan National Airport without incident. He grabbed his backpack, crossed the parking lot to the Metro station and rode into the capital, emerging from the McPherson Square subway station not far from the White House just after noon.

  He had an hour to kill. Dry air and a deep blue sky made the warm spring day ideal for walking. Cam checked his blood sugar, grabbed a slice of pizza and a Diet Coke and began strolling up 16th Street. The last time he had been in the Washington area, almost a year-and-a-half ago, he had also been on 16th Street, meeting clandestinely with senior CIA operatives a dozen blocks north of here at Meridian Park. The park had been so-named because Thomas Jefferson hoped the world would accept 16th Street as the new prime meridian; notable landmarks located along the north-south line included the White House, the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the aforementioned Meridian Park and, curiously, the Freemason’s majestic House of the Temple.

  Cam shook his head—the Freemasons always seemed to have their hands in things, always seemed to be in close proximity to the seats of power. Many, in fact, believed the Masons had been behind the design of the city, and that its layout reflected Masonic imagery, symbolism and belief. The Masonic Brothers Cam knew claimed that they were not part of a secret society, merely a society with secrets. But the more Cam researched, the more he found the hidden hand of the Freemasons—along with their precursors, the Knights Templar—pulling the puppet strings of history. Which is why he had quickly accepted the offer of a private tour of the Temple from Randall Sid.

  Of course, Amanda was correct: Randall and his Masonic cohorts weren’t giving Cam access to their secrets for nothing. It was likely the master puppeteers planned to use him as one of their puppets. For now Cam was willing to risk having his strings pulled. But only because—to mix the metaphor—he was fascinated by the secret look behind the curtain.

  The beige limestone building dwarfed its surroundings, occupying half a block on the east side of 16th Street. The building was numbered 1733, and Cam had read that the hulking structure featured 33 columns, each 33 feet high—all a nod to the importance of the 33rd degree in Freemasonry. The ornate Neo-Classical architecture, in the same style as the Jefferson Memorial, evoked a sense of ancient culture—a pair of massive marble sphinxes flanked the front staircase as if expecting an ancient

  Pharaoh to stroll down 16th Street. Cam angled his head: He would need to ask Randall about the sphinxes.

  Cam climbed the stone stairs two at a time. A bronze lion door knocker dominated the dark oak door; Cam was about to lift the knocker when the door opened silently in front of him. A tuxedoed man wearing a Masonic apron smiled and greeted him. “Welcome. May I help you?”

  Cam’s eyes looked past him, surveying the massive marble-floored atrium area. More colossal columns lined the walls and another pair of Egyptian-style statues, these complete with cartouches, guarded the staircase at the far end of the hall. “I’m here to see Randall Sid.”

  The tuxedoed receptionist gestured to a wood-paneled seating area in the corner of the atrium. “Please wait here.”

  Cam nodded and wandered slowly toward the seating area, his eyes scanning the ceiling. More Egyptian motif, along with the expected Masonic symbolism. But, again, why the Egyptian décor? What did the Egyptians have to do with Masonry?

  A hidden door opened across the room and a short, elderly, brown-skinned man wearing a tuxedo and bright red fez stepped through. Cam knew a bit about Masonic custom—only the Masters were allowed to wear hats within the lodge, as a sign of their status, so it was apparent that Randall stood at or near the highest rung on the Masonic ladder. Somehow, here in the ornate Temple, the hat—which would have looked ridiculous out on the street—added to the solemnity of their meeting.

  The man offered a perfunctory hand-shake and a curt, “Hello, Cameron.”

  So unlike his brother, who had been loquacious and charming … and also a snake in the grass. “I’m excited to be here.”

  Randall nodded. “As you should be. Few people are welcomed into our inner sanctum.”

  He turned and led Cam past the Egyptian statues and onto the central staircase. Massive bronze lamps, again with Egyptian motif, illuminated the round, marble stairway. “I have to ask,” Cam said, figuring he might not get a straight answer the first time he inquired, “why all the Egyptian symbolism?”

  Randall pursed his lips. “As with many of your questions, Cameron, I will need to be careful with my answers.” Unlike hi
s twin, who spoke with a patrician accent, Randall sounded like a Boston cabbie; he was, in fact, the owner of a driver’s education school. It was one of the fascinating things about the Masons—a driving teacher or a plumber or an insurance salesman could rise to the pinnacle of the organization.

  Cam smiled. “Well, if I asked you the obvious stuff, you’d get bored with me.”

  Randall showed a set of gray, even teeth. When Cam had first met Randall’s twin, he thought the man resembled an older, shorter Barrack Obama. “True enough.” He took a deep breath. “Many people know of the ties between Freemasonry and the Knights Templar.” Scores of books had been written on the subject, and in Cam’s mind there was no doubt the outlawed Templars had morphed into Freemasons during the late medieval period. Randall continued, “But very few know about the connections between Masonry and the ancient Druids.”

  Cam turned. Again with the Druids.

  “There are some fascinating similarities,” Randall said. Cam tried to stay a stair behind the shorter man, to even up their height. “For example, the Druids had elaborate initiations in which ancient secrets were passed from a high priest to a new candidate. The candidate then went through a ritual death before being arisen into enlightenment during the third degree of his initiation.”

  Cam nodded; his host may as well have been describing the Masonic initiation ceremony rather than the Druidic one.

  Randall continued as they slowly ascended. “Thomas Paine, the famous American patriot, wrote the following in an essay in 1805.” He cleared his throat. “Masonry is the remains of the religion of the ancient Druids, who, like the priests of Heliopolis in Egypt and the Magi of Persia, were priests of the sun.”

  Cam mulled over the words. The Masons. The Druids. The Egyptians. The Magi—also known as the Wise Men who greeted the baby Jesus. Quite a group.

  It was an amazing statement. But Cam knew better than to question his host’s memory; his knowledge of all things Masonic was encyclopedic, and showing off this knowledge Cam had learned over the past few months seemed to be his life’s joy. Cam pressed on. “So you’re saying both Masons and Druids are sun worshipers, along with the Egyptians?” He’d leave the Magi out of this for now.

  “I’m not saying that, Thomas Paine is.”

  “Well, is it true?”

  “I believe, yes, the Druids worshiped the sun. As did the Egyptians.”

  A half-answer, or perhaps two-thirds. But not full. Apparently Randall was not going to comment directly on Masonic sun worship, something Cam had always suspected was an important part of Masonic ritual. The Masonic calendar year began on June 24, the date historically marking (due to inaccuracies in ancient calendars) the summer solstice—the longest and therefore sunniest day of the year. And the Masons named their initiation oath—called the Oath of Nimrod—after a pagan king, Nimrod, who was closely associated with the sun god, Baal. Cam began to press the point when he noticed Randall staring at a point high on the far wall. Something about the man’s facial expression caused Cam to turn and follow his line of sight: A radiating bronze star symbol stared back at Cam.

  Star Symbol Decoration, The Masonic House of the Temple

  Cam smiled and turned back toward the high-ranking Freemason, who had his index finger in the air, ready to make a point. “You are familiar, no doubt, with the singular importance the Temple of Solomon plays in Masonic ritual?” Randall asked.

  “Of course.” The construction of the Temple gave birth to Freemasonry.

  “You may find it interesting that the word Solomon is comprised of three smaller words—the Latin ‘sol,’ the Hindu ‘om,’ and the Egyptian ‘on’—all of which mean sun in their respective language.”

  Cam found it more than interesting. Randall had essentially confirmed the sun-worshipping roots of Freemasonry. Without, of course, directly answering Cam’s question.

  Cam decided to push further. “I noticed something earlier in our conversation: I asked about the Egyptians, and you told me about the Druids.”

  Randall looked up at Cam and again showed his gray teeth. “And why do you think that might be?”

  He reminded Cam of one of his law school professors, who prided himself on his ability to tease insights from his students. “I’m guessing there must be some close connection between the Egyptians and the Druids.”

  They reached the top of the staircase and Randall motioned for Cam to take a seat on a padded bench outside the main Temple chamber. Apparently they would finish their conversation here. “As you know, there are Masonic secrets I am forbidden to tell you. But I can talk freely about the Druids. And I can also point out that the Druids were heavily influenced by the priests of ancient Egypt.”

  And, as he had previously said, many believed the Druids and Masons possessed similar roots. It was easy to connect the dots: Randall was explaining to Cam—without actually voicing the words—that the Masons traced much of their knowledge and ritual back to ancient Egypt. Which, of course, explained the décor not only here in the Temple but in all the lodges Cam had been in: They all, for example, contained obelisks, as did many Masonic burial markers. Not to mention, of course, the most famous obelisk in the world—the Washington Monument, supposedly part of the Masonic design of Washington.

  Point made, Randall stood in front of the enormous leather-covered doors to the Temple room, the building’s main ceremonial space. “Each door weighs three hundred pounds, but they are perfectly balanced on their hinges.” He smiled and with a single finger pushed them open. “Just as a Mason hopes to be.”

  They entered a massive, square room with a domed skylight soaring eight stories above them. The opulence of the room reminded Cam of a European palace, or perhaps one of the gilded Newport mansions. But his thoughts were elsewhere. As Randall described some of the more mundane architectural details, Cam focused on the Egyptian motif and connections between the Masons, the Druids and the ancient Egyptians.

  Cam tried to redirect the conversation as they made their way back down the circular staircase to the library in the basement of the building. “Can we talk more about sun worship?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as Thomas Paine pointed out, it seems to be a common thread running through history.”

  “Of course it is. Without the sun there would be no life.”

  “Yes, but the same can be said of food and water, but nobody worships those.”

  Randall raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever observed Catholics receiving Holy Communion, or Jews blessing the wine and bread before a meal?”

  “They are receiving and giving thanks, not worshipping. There’s a difference.”

  “Fair enough. And you think this sun worship is important?”

  Cam pondered the question. “I think it is important to understanding Freemasonry. Assuming, of course, that Thomas Paine was correct and you really do worship the sun.” He stopped on the landing and spread his hands. “Do you?”

  Randall checked his watch. “What time is your flight home?”

  “Eight o’clock, last flight.”

  “Could you leave tomorrow morning instead?”

  Cam sensed it would be worth the fifty dollar airline change fee. “Sure.”

  “Good. After dinner there is something I want you to see.”

  It was not a direct answer to his question about Masons worshipping the sun, but Cam had spent enough time with Randall to understand that a partial response was preferable to a full lie.

  Amon leaned forward across the dining room table. What a strange and delightful young woman this Rachel was. Humorous, irreverent, opinionated. So unlike the girls he knew in Scotland, all of them intent on fitting in rather than standing out. Perhaps it was just the difference between secondary school and university.

  “So here’s the thing,” she said, lightly touching Amon’s hand, “you’re going to get a great education here. As good as it gets. But the dynamic is really weird. You have all these Jewish kids from the northeast who kno
w each other from summer camp and trips to Israel. But Brandeis prides itself on being open and diverse, so it also attracts a bunch of students from the Middle East.”

  He raised his hand. “Like myself.”

  She smiled, showing a set of straight, white, wet teeth. She was not pretty in the conventional sense, but her face was pleasing to look at, especially when she smiled and her hazel green eyes grew wide with joy. “Well, the reality is that if we were in the Middle East rather than Boston, you and I would probably be trying to kill each other.”

  The idea pained him. He held her eyes. “I would do no such thing.”

  She waited a second before responding, then burst out in laughter, the sound echoing in the near-empty dining hall. “You are so serious, Amon! Perhaps you wouldn’t try to kill me, but the point is that others would. But here, we go to class together, eat together, even live together. And everyone acts like it’s no big deal. But beneath the surface there’s all this … tension. I think that’s why the social life here is so bad. Nobody wants to let down their guard.”

  “Is religion really such a big deal? I thought in America it is not so much.”

  She leaned back and exhaled. “Let me give you an example. I took a really neat class on the Old Testament this semester. We spent a lot of time on the story of Abraham.” She paused. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t assume you know the Old Testament.”

  “Abraham is an important figure in Islam also. He is the father of Ishmael.” Amon glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised that almost two hours had passed since they first sat down. “Please continue.”

  “Yes, of course he is. Anyway, Professor Siegel was one of those hippies left over from the sixties who loved to question authority. One night he invited a bunch of us to his house for dinner and he started sharing some of his research with us. I don’t think the administration was very happy about what he was working on; he said they didn’t want him to share this stuff with his students.” She took a sip of her tea. “Anyway, from what he told us, there are a lot of things that are … odd … about Abraham’s story.”