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

by David S. Brody

  The question was rhetorical, and all three of them let it hang in the air. They made small talk as Shannon led them back to the parking area. Amanda thanked their guide, and Cam shook her hand. “Hey,” Cam said, “by the way, why do the Pequot think this land is haunted?”

  Shannon smiled, her first real smile of the day. “Apparently we are sitting on a geological fault line. When the tectonic pressure builds, strange blue lights come floating out of the ground like ghosts. It still happens sometimes if you come here at night.”

  Amanda’s hand involuntarily went to her heart. “Oh my God, Cam. The Druids.” She swallowed. As they had explained to Astarte, the Druids often built chambers around these earthquake lights. “The Druids really were here.”

  Bartol had picked an interesting second day to track Cameron Thorne. His landlady sometimes let him borrow her car to pick up groceries for both of them, not knowing of course that he didn’t have a license. He had awoken early, called in sick, and driven to Westford to watch Thorne’s home. He had not expected to be driving all the way to Connecticut.

  Nor had he expected someone else also to be tracking Thorne.

  Bartol crouched low behind the stone wall near the parking lot of the Gungywamp site and peered through his binoculars, careful to make sure the sun did not reflect off its lenses. Thorne, his fiancée, and a woman guiding them had wandered deep into the woods. Bartol had hung back on the off chance they had been followed and watched with surprise as a man in dark pants and windbreaker stalked them, darting behind trees and otherwise keeping himself out of sight. Now, an hour later, the man, fit and athletic, was jogging toward him back to the parking area, apparently far ahead of the returning Thorne and company.

  Bartol smiled. The follower never expected to be followed.

  Bartol burrowed himself deep into the nook of the stone wall, only a few car lengths from the dirt parking area, glad he had taken the precaution of hiding his landlady’s car on a logging trail a few hundred yards away. The man pulled out a cell phone when he reached his car. Bartol, who had positioned himself downwind, cupped his ear, a clichéd gesture that actually did improve hearing.

  “Raptor here, checking in. Thorne is looking at another stone chamber, like the one in Groton.” Bartol detected a bit of an accent. “I have no idea what any of this has to do with Zuberi Youssef.” A pause. “Okay, I’ll stay on him. Shalom, Moshe.”

  Bartol’s gut clenched. The guy was definitely following Thorne. And if he was checking in, he was part of a formalized chain of command. Moshe was a Jewish name, Raptor a field agent’s code name, and Shalom a Hebrew greeting. And this Raptor had mentioned some guy with an Arab name. The pieces could fit: Was it possible Raptor worked for the Mossad? Bartol racked his brain: Only reason for the Mossad to care about Thorne is because they want to silence him. He felt the old, familiar surge of adrenaline heightening his senses and tightening his muscles. Not on my watch.

  Crawling, keeping the car between himself and the agent, he maneuvered closer. The agent, Raptor, had completed his call and leaned against the rear trunk of his car smoking a cigarette. Still crawling, the smoke helping him ensure he stayed downwind of the agent, Bartol approached silently. Ten seconds later he pulled himself under the agent’s sedan. He felt for the knife in the sheath on his calf, Raptor’s all-terrain shoes and the bottom of his dark trousers silhouetted only a few feet away.

  Knife between his teeth, Bartol inched closer to the rear of the car, knowing that even the slightest noise would alert the agent and probably result in death to Bartol. Sweat dripped into his eyes; he blinked it away, took a deep breath, and pulled himself to within a foot of the agent’s legs. Now. Removing the knife from his mouth, he slashed upwards, across the back of the agent’s right knee. The man screamed and toppled, spinning as he did so, his face falling to within inches of Bartol’s.

  The agent’s eyes met Bartol’s for a split second, surprise turning to fear turning to understanding. Bartol knew that after understanding would come some kind of defensive maneuver. He never let it get that far. Thrusting, he pierced the agent’s jugular, twisting and slicing as he had been trained.

  Bartol closed his eyes as the agent’s blood sprayed from the wound and splattered his face. It had been a long time since he killed a man. It was never a thing to celebrate. But it sometimes was a thing to be proud of.

  Zuberi stopped to catch his breath and waited for his wife to catch up. The late afternoon sun had dipped low on the horizon, bathing Edinburgh in a soft golden glow. He had never viewed the city from up here, from the desolate crags of Holyrood Park. In the distance Edinburgh Castle stood, bastion-like, on a matching crag. The city rested in the middle, nestled between the twin volcanic protrusions. From this high angle Edinburgh resembled a medieval dragon, with the Castle the raised head, the city proper the notched backbone, and Holyrood Park the long, elevated, spiked tail.

  “Wait while I take a picture, Zuberi,” Carrington said, her plain, round face glistening with sweat. For six years she had tried to get him to hike these hills. She clicked a few shots. “It’s a wonderful view. Do you want to climb all the way to the summit?”

  He shook his head. This was a business trip, not a picnic. “Not today. I think we have not the time.” The famous Arthur’s Seat, the pinnacle of the stony hill, was a popular destination for tourists and residents alike. “I want to examine ruins.”

  She pointed. “We need to go off the trail a bit. St. Anthony’s chapel is on the other side of that rock formation. I haven’t seen it since I was a young lass.” If she was disappointed with his response, she did a good job of hiding it. When he married her he had not expected her to be such a loyal and useful partner in his business ventures.

  He had learned in business that the best way to cement loyalty was to make underlings feel important—even more than money and prestige, the feeling of being valued was the primary factor in determining an employee’s job satisfaction. The same probably held true in his marriage. He asked a question to which he already knew the answer: “Tell me again history of ruins?”

  Carrington took a deep breath. “No one is certain of the construction date, but local legend is that the chapel was built by the Templars, probably after they had been outlawed in 1307. Records show extensive repair work done in 1426, so the structure must have been many decades old already by then.”

  Zuberi nodded. After leaving Brandeis last week he had driven to Newport, Rhode Island to view the Newport Tower. If the Tower had indeed been constructed in the late 1300s by remnant Templars associated with Prince Henry Sinclair, then it stood to reason the Tower’s architecture would match contemporaneous structures in the Edinburgh area, near the Sinclair home of Roslin. “Here is picture of Newport Tower,” he said, handing her his phone.

  Newport Tower, Newport, RI

  Carrington leaned in and furrowed her brow. She was somewhat of an expert on ancient castles and other stone structures. “Yes, I’m familiar with this. I can’t believe the Americans think their Colonists built it. It is clearly Romanesque. Early Americans never built in that style.”

  “I agree. But if we wish to rewrite history, and have your Sinclair ancestors replace Columbus, we need strong evidence.”

  They rounded a rise and the chapel ruins rose up before them.

  “What a spot,” Carrington breathed. The chapel, or what was left of it, stood on the precipice of a cliff face. Below it, encircled by a ribbon of lush green vegetation, a sky-blue lake twinkled in the sunshine while, in the distance, beyond the city, the gray, angry waters of the North Sea estuary known as the River Forth swirled. Egypt possessed some picturesque landscapes, but nothing compared to the stunning, varied beauty of Scotland. Zuberi took it in for a few seconds, exhaled, and focused on the task at hand.

  “Notice,” he pointed. “The architecture of archway is same as Newport Tower.” He gestured from the ruins to the close-up of the archway pictured on his phone.

  Saint Anthony’s Chapel<
br />
  Newport Tower

  “I see that,” Carrington replied.

  “And windows are similar also, with a single slab as a lintel and the other three sides rough,” he added.

  Saint Anthony’s Chapel

  Newport Tower

  She again concurred. And she surprised him with additional information. “Did you know that there are ruins of a medieval church on the Orkney Islands that are similar to this architecture as well?”

  “No, my wife, I did not.” But he did know that in the late 1300s the Sinclair family ruled not only in Roslin, outside of Edinburgh, but also a couple hundred miles north in the Orkney Islands off the northern tip of Scotland.

  She searched through her phone. “I downloaded these. I thought you might wish to see them. In fact, this Eynhallow Church was built by Abbot Lawrence, himself a Sinclair.”

  Eynhallow Church, Orkney Islands, Scotland

  The archway, especially, was a close match. “Excellent,” he breathed. Another compelling piece of architectural evidence tying the Newport Tower to the Sinclair family. His wife was proving to be a valuable ally. He shared with her more information. “There is fireplace in Newport Tower. I think this means it could not be grist mill because of fire danger.”

  She nodded and surprised him yet again. “The fireplace flue is like devil horns; it goes up on two sides. That is a feature unique to Scottish architecture of the late 14th century.”

  He grinned. “Yes? Is that so?” More compelling evidence.

  They spent another twenty minutes wandering among the ruins before Zuberi suggested they head down. It had been a productive visit, made even more so by Carrington’s insights into the Orkney ruins and the Newport Tower fireplace flue. He made a spontaneous decision. “My wife,” he said, “you have given great service to my business these months. In the morning I will instruct my banker to transfer half a million pounds to your account.” They had an ironclad prenuptial agreement which gave her no claim to his fortune; she received only enough money to run the household, plus a small allowance. This gift would reward her for her service and loyalty.

  She flushed. “Thank you, Zuberi.” She took his good arm as they walked, obviously pleased by his generosity. “I assume you will send all this new information to Cameron?”

  “Yes.”

  “We both agree he is the right man for the job. But how can we be assured he will reach the conclusions we want him to?” She gazed out over the city, toward Roslin to the south.

  “First reason, because these conclusions are truth and Thorne is smart man.” Zuberi paused.

  “And the second reason?”

  He exhaled. “The second reason is still a seed in ground. I will show to you when she blooms as beautiful flower.”

  Amanda had a twenty minute drive to work as a part-time museum curator in historic Concord, halfway between Westford and Boston. She had made the drive hundreds of times, her car almost knowing the way itself. As she navigated amid Friday morning suburban traffic she thought about the Groton chamber and the Gungywamp site and her research on the Cult of the Head—the thread that seemed to tie everything together was the ancient Druids. Who were they? Where did they come from originally? And what was their connection, if any, to the Templars and Freemasons?

  Almost as if he were reading her mind, Cam called and exclaimed, “You need to meet me for lunch. There’s a place in Lowell called Druid Hill. It has standing stones that line up to mark a bunch of astronomical alignments.”

  She was glad to hear the excitement in his voice after a tough week. “In Lowell?” The old mill city was only ten miles from Westford. “How come we haven’t heard of this already?”

  “I don’t know. I just stumbled upon it by accident. I was looking at some of Whittall’s old research—I figured if he studied Gungywamp he might know of other Druid sites in New England. Listen to what he said about Druid Hill: ‘There I saw a sight I had not seen since my travels in the British Isles. Situated on a mound were weathered megalithic stones. I was filled with disbelief—it just couldn’t be—Western Europe, yes, but here in Massachusetts—no. The reality of the scene was astonishing.’”

  “And it’s still standing?”

  “Yeah, apparently in a park next to a baseball field.”

  “What’s the history of the land?”

  “It first shows up on maps in the mid-1600s as an Indian reservation. After that it was used as farmland. As far as the old-timers remember, the standing stones have always been there.” He paused. “Oh, and one more thing: It’s a short walk from the Merrimack River.”

  Many of the ancient sites in New England were located along the Merrimack, which was presumably used as a main highway for explorers. “All right, you’ve convinced me. Lunch it is, one o’clock.” She was only scheduled to work half a day anyway. “I’ll expect something yummy.”

  “Deal. What do you want?”

  “Surprise me. But don’t dream of showing up without chocolate.”

  Tamara picked at her salad, watching a pair of blue jays chase each other around the branches of the maple tree outside her window as she lunched. Normally she loved the songs of spring—chirping birds, wind chimes, a baseball game on the radio, even a lawnmower in the distance. But today it all sounded tinny and hollow.

  She forced herself to swallow a slice of cucumber. It had been twenty-four hours and Raptor had not returned from his assignment tracking Cameron Thorne in Connecticut. She didn’t even know his real name. But she feared he would not be chirping this spring, or any other.

  Moshe had been called to a morning meeting in Boston at the Israeli consulate in the Park Plaza hotel. They all assumed the worst.

  She tossed her fork into the salad. None of it made any sense. Raptor followed Thorne and his fiancée and a local researcher into the woods, returned to the parking lot ahead of them, then … nothing. Even if Thorne had sensed he was being followed, there was little chance he would—or could—react by killing Raptor. Especially with witnesses around…

  Moshe barged in without knocking, interrupting her thoughts. He bulled his way over, dropped into a chair and scratched at his scalp. “Let me know if my nose starts bleeding.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s how far up my ass the bureau chief put his foot.”

  She bit her lip. Moshe’s crudeness was actually well down the list of his annoying habits. “No word from Raptor, I take it.” He was someone’s son, maybe someone’s husband or boyfriend or even father. And he would not be home for Shabbat, or the High Holidays, or birthdays. It was worse for the survivors. She knew, because she was one. It had been more than eight years since her husband had gone out on patrol and not returned.

  “Nothing. He called in around eleven. Routine surveillance.” Moshe wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Then nothing.”

  Tamara felt bad for Moshe. He had trained Raptor, and apparently Raptor was one of the few friends Moshe had. “Could Thorne have done it?”

  “I don’t see how. Or why. The girl, Shannon Jilligan, says when she drove away they were getting in their car to leave. And nobody else was around.”

  “She’s military?”

  “Yup. Exemplary record.” He shrugged. “I don’t think it was Thorne.”

  “But it could have been. Raptor could have surprised them, maybe let his guard down, Thorne feels threatened…” She threw up her hands.

  “It’s possible.”

  “And even if he didn’t do it himself, that doesn’t mean it didn’t have anything to do with him.”

  “Right. Which leads us back to Zuberi Youssef.”

  “Again, why?”

  Moshe shrugged again. “That’s the thing about Youssef. You never know why until it’s too late.”

  Cam left the office just after noon, made stops at a local fish market and bakery and wound his way across the Merrimack River to the Pawtucketville neighborhood of Lowell. He found the park on a hill tucked behind a middle school.

 
Amanda pulled into the lot behind him. He admired her toned body as she sauntered over; he greeted her with a kiss and shook a brown paper bag at her. “Lobster rolls and a chocolate chip cookie.”

  She kissed him a second time. “Well played. But it is a bit sad.”

  “What?”

  She smiled and widened her eyes. “We used to meet at lunch for a quickie. Now we go looking at rocks.”

  Cam took her hand and tugged her back toward the cars with exaggerated urgency. “The damn rocks can wait,” he joked. Amanda had responded to his despondency this week with extra flirtatiousness, and it had helped lift his spirits.

  Still holding hands, they walked up a path to a raised grassy area adjacent to a baseball field. The site consisted of a dozen monoliths, or standing stones, arranged on a teardrop-shaped raised mound. The stones averaged two feet in height, all of them imbedded in the ground so that they stood upright rather than in a more naturally-occurring recumbent position. The teardrop was oriented on the east-west axis, with a group of smaller stones clustered at the narrower, eastern end of the raised mound and three larger stones spaced evenly at the wide end.

  They studied the site for a few seconds. Amanda broke the silence. “I’ll be jiggered, Cam, this looks just like the stone circles in Britain.”

  “That’s what Whittall said,” Cam replied, “only without the jiggered part.”

  She pointed to the middle standing stone. “See the angle on the top here? The setting sun follows it, almost like a ball rolling down a slope.”

  Druid Hill Standing Stone, Lowell, MA

  Cam continued, “According to Whittall, all these stones mark various astronomical events—equinoxes, solstices, cross-quarter days.” He smiled. “But you guessed that already.”

  “What about the weathering of these stones. They look old.”

  “A geologist who studied them says they’ve been weathering in their upright position for at least a thousand years.”