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

by David S. Brody

  Cam exhaled and turned to Randall, who stared back at him, ready to speak. “So, Cameron, the question is this: Do you think is it a coincidence that the Founding Fathers felt the need to align the two most important structures in Washington to the Druidic festival of Beltane?”

  The back of Cam’s neck tingled. He straightened. “As a general rule, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Tamara’s cell phone buzzed, interrupting the Saturday evening Havdalah service marking the end of Shabbat. Her eleven-year-old daughter elbowed her. “Mom, turn that off.”

  Tamara bit her lip. A text from Moshe; he wouldn’t bother her unless it was important. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she whispered. “Be right back.”

  “But Mom, it’s Shabbat. You’re not supposed to work.”

  “If God didn’t want me to work, he would have made sure I didn’t have cell coverage.”

  She edged out of the aisle and into the lobby. “Call me ASAP. Urgent,” the text read.

  Tamara jabbed at her speed dial.

  “It is done,” he said.

  “The professor?” She knew they were on a secure line.

  “Yes. A speeding car hit him in a crosswalk in Newton Center as he got off the train. Hit-and-run. He is not dead, but he will not be returning to the classroom anytime soon. The car has been disposed of and our agent on his way back to Tel Aviv.”

  She sighed. It was too bad, really. But Professor Siegel had been warned not to disclose certain things. And the Isaac Question, as they called it, was at the top of the list.

  Moshe continued. “But I fear we are too late. We have been tracking Youssef’s son. Earlier today he spent a few hours with a freshman named Rachel Levitad. She was a student in Siegel’s class. Our agent is a lip-reader. She is certain this Rachel recounted to Youssef’s son the details of the professor’s theory about Isaac’s parentage.”

  She closed her eyes. “Well that sure sucks.” An Arab arms dealer was the last person they wanted to possess this kind of information. For years the Israelis had been waiting for some sharp Islamic scholar to take a careful look at the Old Testament and point out the many flaws in the assertion that the Jewish people had some God-given right to the land of Israel. But the Muslims were so busy poring over the Koran—and so repulsed by the thought of diving into the ancient Jewish texts—that they had left the assertion largely unchallenged.

  “We need, as the Americans say, to somehow put the toothpaste back in the tube,” Moshe said. “We can’t have the Isaac Question spreading into Muslim academia.”

  “What do you suggest? A second ‘accident’ would be too convenient, would raise suspicion—the Americans are not idiots. And in any event I don’t think it wise to make a blood enemy of Zuberi Youssef.”

  Moshe cursed. “You are correct, unfortunately. I think for the moment our hands our tied. All we can do is watch and learn.”

  “Youssef is back in Scotland. In the meantime the best way to learn about his plans is by watching Thorne.”

  “Agreed.”

  She ended the call and returned to the sanctuary. “Mi Chamocha,” the congregation sang. This prayer was not usually sung during Havdalah, which made it even more ironic. This was the song the Israelites sang as they crossed the Red Sea on their way out of Egypt. Thanks to Professor Siegel’s indiscretions, the world might soon learn that the Exodus story was a bit more complicated than was taught in Sunday school.

  Cam purchased a Diet Coke, settled into a leather chair in the hotel lounge and waited for the clerk to notify him his room was ready. He closed his eyes, the imprint of the setting sun resting atop the White House still burned into his retinas. What a fascinating day. He had flown to Washington hoping to peek behind the Masonic curtain, to catch a glimpse or two of the secret society’s secrets. Instead he had been nearly blinded by them.

  He phoned Amanda to update her on his day and say goodnight to Astarte. “It was definitely worth missing my flight. Just to be up in the dome was amazing.” He shook his head. “And then the alignment. I need to bring you back here.”

  She laughed. “You sound almost giddy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll never get to sleep. Maybe I’ll grab a beer at the bar.” He paused, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I’ve learned so much, but I sense there’s something deeper, something even more important still hidden from me. I feel like a guy who knows there’s something amazing around the corner, but I can’t see it, no matter how far I crane my neck.”

  Amanda replied, “I know it’s a cliché, but with the Freemasons, it seems there’s always another layer of the onion to peel away.”

  They said goodbye and Cam checked his email. Randall Sid had dropped him off only fifteen minutes earlier, but already he had sent Cam a message. “Read this,” the email stated, “if you want to learn more about the Druids.”

  Cam opened the attached file and began reading. He had always thought of the Druids as being Irish or Celtic, but apparently they lived all over Europe in the centuries before Christ. Eventually the invading Romans pushed them westward to the British Isles. Nobody seemed to know where the Druids came from, but the author of this article theorized that they were the remnants of Egyptian priests loyal to the sun-worshiping Pharaoh Akhenaton, forced from power after trying to push sun worship on an Egyptian society unwilling to give up its pantheon of gods. Akhenaton, his priests, and his entourage fled Egypt and made their way to the European continent, the author concluded. This paralleled Zuberi Youssef’s story of Princess Scota fleeing Egypt and her descendants eventually settling in Ireland and Scotland. And it was consistent with so much of what Cam had learned today, tying the Druids and Egyptians and Freemasons together in some kind of mismatched group of sun worshipers.

  The unanswered question, of course, was this: Was the story of Scota and the story of the Druids the same story? Freemasonry had long been closely associated with Scotland, with many historians believing the society originated there. And, of course, there was the Sinclair family connection to consider—for centuries the clan patriarch was the hereditary grand master of Scottish Rite Freemasonry. Did this close association between the Masons and Scotland stem from the Druidic ties to ancient Egypt?

  Cam allowed his mind to race: Freemasons, Druids, Egyptians, Sinclairs…

  Of course. He grinned, almost laughing out loud. Tapping at his phone, he pulled up an image of Rosslyn Chapel, built by the Sinclair family. In seconds he found what he was looking for: By one count there were hundreds of representations of Green Men carved onto the Chapel walls and ceilings. A gargoyle-like Druidic symbol of fertility who was sometimes painted green, the Green Men consisted of human heads springing from the vines and roots and branches of Mother Nature, a clear nod to the ancient pagan beliefs.

  Rosslyn Chapel Green Man

  But why, Cam had often wondered, were the Green Men so prominently displayed alongside dozens of examples of both Masonic and Egyptian imagery in a Christian chapel?

  The answer came to him, a simple and neat one: The Chapel, he realized, was built as more than a chapel. It was built as a mural, a storybook in stone. Through its hundreds of carvings, the Chapel told the history of Scotland, of its roots in Egypt, of its centuries of rule by the pagan Druids, of its close ties to Masonry, and of its eventual conversion to Christianity. The story was all in plain sight, a story of sun worship and paganism alongside the more traditional Christian symbols.

  But the Druidic Green Man was most visible of all. And he screamed a truth that told Cam he was on the right track with his research. Even if he still couldn’t see what was around the corner.

  Randall Sid took the opportunity to close his eyes and perhaps nap for ten minutes as the sedan raced from the hotel near the airport toward the House of the Temple. Since arriving in Washington he had been in meetings upward of twelve hours every day; no doubt tonight the other Sovereign Commanders would want to rehash the Cameron Thorne situation. Randall yawned; he was seventy-eight and had never
worked harder in his life.

  Trying to save Western society was exhausting.

  He focused on clearing his mind, but trying to save Western society was also one of those tasks that gnawed at you and made it hard to sleep. Instead he considered the meetings yet to come. Last year fifty Sovereign Commanders from all over the world had convened in London with an unprecedented agenda: Develop a strategy to control and eventually end radical Islam’s attempts at undermining Western society. Collectively the group had influence over almost every head of state, major corporation, and international institution in America and Europe: When conspiracy theorists claimed the Freemasons ran the world, they were not all that far off. Governments came and went, but the connections made through Freemasonry spanned generations, crossed borders, and bridged religious differences. Now, after a year of work, the Sovereign Commanders were reconvening in Washington to implement some of the dozens of stratagems they had considered.

  Randall pulled a document from the briefcase at his feet and examined the list of countries represented at the conference. The list included most of the Western democracies, but other than Turkey the group lacked Middle-Eastern representation. Which is where Cameron Thorne entered the picture. Thorne had, somehow, forged a relationship with one of the most powerful men in the Middle East—arms dealer Zuberi Youssef. It was gaining access to men like Youssef that would be crucial to the group’s success.

  The driver dropped Randall at the rear entrance to the House of the Temple just before nine-thirty. Randall climbed the grand staircase and found the Sovereign Commanders meeting in the Temple room. He expected to slip in unnoticed, but apparently they had been waiting for him.

  The men were seated at mahogany desks rimming the room. A jowly Spaniard, who had been elected the group’s leader, addressed him. “Most Worshipful Randall Sid, we await your update. The more we discuss this, the more we are in agreement that Zuberi Youssef is key to our plans. If we can somehow exert influence over who he sells arms to, this would go a long way toward emasculating the extremists.” All the Sovereign Commanders in the room were equal in status under the rules of Freemasonry, so the Spaniard sat at one of the mahogany desks rather than in the raised, throne-like chairs at either end of the ornate hall.

  Randall walked to the center of the room, the acoustics making a microphone unnecessary. “As you know, I spent the day with Thorne. He’s very curious about the Masonic connection to the Druids and ancient Egyptians. I did what I could to solidify this connection in his mind.”

  The Spaniard replied. “And you think he is curious about this connection because of his relationship with Zuberi Youssef?”

  Randall shrugged. “I’m not certain. But it seems reasonable. Youssef has been promoting the Scota legend, which ties the Scots to the ancient Egyptians and also to the Druids.” He paused to explain. “Those who believe in the Scota legend believe Princess Scota and her followers spent many generations in Europe after fleeing Egypt, working their way east to west, before finally ending up in Ireland and then Scotland. The Egyptian-trained priests in her group continued their training and teaching in Europe, eventually spawning the Druids.”

  Heads nodded. Randall turned the conversation back to Thorne. “And Youssef, knowing Thorne is an expert on the Templars, is trying to recruit Thorne to work for him.”

  “To what end?” a voice called out.

  “I believe because Youssef’s wife is a Sinclair and Youssef wants Thorne to validate the Prince Henry legend and thereby add to the Sinclair cache.” Randall shrugged again. “Of course, the way one becomes an expert on the Templars is by studying the Freemasons.”

  A tall, elderly Brother at a desk near the entrance stood and cleared his throat. He sported a red tartan kilt under this tuxedo jacket. “Pardon my interruption,” he said in a Scottish accent, smiling and nodding.

  “Most Worshipful Duncan Sinclair,” the Spaniard said. “The floor is yours.”

  He bowed. “To belabor your point, if the way one learns about the Templars is by studying the Freemasons, then the way one learns about the Freemasons is by studying the Sinclair family.” Only a few wisps of white hair crisscrossed his liver-spot-covered head, but his blue eyes danced with life. “As my Brothers know, it was the Sinclair family that conceived of—and later implemented—the strategy of folding the outlawed Knights Templar into the Scottish stonemason guilds during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. That is why, for centuries, the head of the Sinclair clan served as hereditary Grand Master of Scottish Rite Freemasonry.” He straightened himself. “I am a continuation of the close ties between the Sinclairs and this Brotherhood.” He bowed again. “But I must say, I have never met this Zuberi Youssef fellow or his wife, Carrington.” He shrugged. “Ours is a large clan.”

  The Scotsman sat and Randall summed up. “I agree with our strategy that building some kind of relationship with Youssef is crucial. And I believe one way we can do so is through Thorne, especially if Thorne agrees to take this professorship at Brandeis University. But Thorne’s not an idiot: He knows Youssef will want him to research the Scota legend. If the legend is bunk, Thorne will refuse. I think the only way Thorne will even consider working with the Egyptian is if he believes the legend is real.”

  “So you showed him the Druidic sunset illumination?” the Spaniard asked.

  “Yes. And other things.”

  “Excellent.” The Spaniard nodded. “This is one of those occasions when sharing our secrets serves a greater good.” He paused. “Now, is there anything else … anything at all … we can do to ensure Thorne accepts this university position?”

  Randall smiled. “I’m one step ahead of you.”

  Chapter 4

  After returning from Washington early Sunday morning Cam had spent the rest of the day doing yard work and coaching Astarte’s soccer team. At dinner Astarte slipped a blob of mayo under a scoop of his ice cream. Lucky for him she couldn’t stop giggling and he avoided a ruinous dessert.

  Sitting under the stars on their deck Sunday evening, Cam had shared with Amanda the fascinating connections between the Freemasons, the Druids and the ancient Egyptians.

  “You know,” she said, “I keep running into the Druids in my research on Baphomet and the Cult of the Head.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Cam replied. “The Masons, the Druids, the Templars—from what I can see, they’re all branches of the same tree that has its roots back in ancient Egypt. It’s all about sun worship.”

  Back in the office on Monday, he slipped out during lunch to retrieve the certified letter he had been unable to retrieve last week due to Zuberi’s phone call. The pleasant weekend weather had devolved into a rainy, gusty mess; he drove with his wipers on full and kept both hands on the steering wheel to keep the SUV in its lane.

  Rain jacket dripping, he pulled back his hood and entered the post office. He slid the green slip across the counter and the clerk handed him a thick white business-sized envelope with a return address reading ‘Environmental Protection Agency’ and a downtown Boston address. Cam cocked his head. Like the property deed, if this were some kind of business-related correspondence it would have been sent to his office address.

  Cam opened the envelope and unfolded four sheets of heavy stock paper. The bold words across the top staggered him like a kick to the gut:

  Urgent Legal Matter: Superfund Notice of Liability

  Barely able to breathe, his eyes raced across the legalese and settled on the sentence that promised to change, and potentially ruin, his life: “EPA has determined that you, as the current owner of the Site, are a responsible party under the federal Superfund Law for cleanup of the Site.”

  It all suddenly made sense: The sweet smell wafting from the parking lot; the buildings being torn down; the fence surrounding the property; and of course the property being deeded to him in the first place. Who gives away six acres of prime real estate for nothing? Nobody, of course.

  He knew he needed to call Amanda, though i
t was the last thing he wanted to do. He walked to the car, oblivious to the rain, climbed into the SUV and rubbed his face with his hands. Exhaling, he pushed the speed dial button. Without preface, he blurted, “I’m in big trouble.”

  “What, Cameron?”

  “The property is contaminated.” He summarized the letter. “This chemical, TCE, is apparently seeping into the groundwater.” He choked out the words. “It causes cancer. That’s what you and Astarte smelled the other night.”

  “Oh my God, is she in any danger?”

  “I don’t think so; she only sniffed it for a second, and she didn’t drink any water from the brook.”

  Amanda exhaled. “But why are you in trouble. You didn’t do anything. Why should you be liable for the cleanup costs?”

  “That’s the way the goddamn Superfund law works.” He fought to control his breathing. “It’s called strict liability. Anyone who contributed to polluting the property, and anyone who ever owned the property after it was polluted, is liable for one hundred percent of the cleanup costs.”

  “That’s bloody ludicrous.”

  Ironically, he had written a paper in law school defending the policy. “The idea is that the government shouldn’t have to pay for it. The EPA probably already squeezed everything they could from Middlesex Semiconductor and the owner’s widow.” He swallowed. “Now they want to squeeze me.”

  “What about the British company?”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t leave any money here in the U.S. Looks like they bought the property, discovered it was contaminated, fenced it in, and got the hell out of here.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  He closed his eyes. “Everything I’ve got. Everything.” What an idiot he had been. “All my assets. The house, my savings, my retirement account, future book royalties. These sites cost millions to clean up, and I’m on the hook for it all.”