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

by David S. Brody

  “I’m sorry for the short notice, but we really do need to meet in person. Can you come in tomorrow at all?”

  “It’s really not a great week.”

  She pushed harder. “The thing is, we need to get you into the payroll system, and we can’t do that until we complete a background check, and we can’t do that until we get some paperwork done, and, well, you know how this goes. Plus Mr. Youssef said you have some requests as to how we structure payments to you, which we’re happy to cooperate on if possible. But we really need to get started.”

  He exhaled. “Okay. I can come in tomorrow, say eleven o’clock.”

  “Great.” She winked at Moshe. “See you then.”

  Tamara hung up. “Now, was that so hard? No guns, no cops.”

  “And no information yet.” Moshe licked blueberries from his fingers. “You still need to figure out a way to get him to talk.”

  Cam hung up from the call with the Brandeis dean. He wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, but at some point he needed to make the trip to Brandeis if he ever expected to get paid. So might as well get it over with. And if he felt like he was being followed, he’d just cancel. He had no idea if it would be safe to begin teaching in two weeks.

  He turned back to watch his cousin’s workman push a wheeled box in a grid-like pattern in the area next to the old foundation of the Groton property, where the soil contamination had been found. The box, a ground penetrating radar device, sent radar pulses into the ground in order to detect subsurface voids and disturbances.

  “It’s weird,” the workman said. “There’s nothing buried here, and there’s no void or anything like you’d find if there was a septic tank or something. But there’s a rectangle area where the soil seems … looser. Like it was dug up and then thrown back in, but wasn’t tamped down. Outside the rectangle, it’s more compacted.”

  “Bartol mentioned a retention tank,” Cam said to himself. He gestured to the Bobcat. “Can we dig?”

  “Sure. There’s no utilities or anything under there.”

  They marked a rectangular area the size of a single-car garage with landscaping flags, drove the Bobcat over and began to dig in the center, removing dirt from one side of the rectangle and piling it on the other.

  “Careful to keep all the dirt within the rectangle,” Cam said.

  A half-hour later, the man jumped from the machine and dropped into the four-foot hole he had dug. He kicked at a solid gray object. “I think it’s the bottom of that retention tank you mentioned. Fiberglass.”

  So Bartol had been correct. Cam watched as the man, using a shovel now, cleared away a portion of the bottom of the retention tank, then dug sideways until he found a wall. “It’s sort of like an in-ground swimming pool,” the man said.

  “Okay.” Cam had seen enough. Someone had buried the retention tank and then, apparently, injected trichloroethene into the soil inside the tank’s perimeter. Anyone testing the soil would find the contaminant. But the surrounding environment was totally protected, the chemical solvent unable to flow beyond the barrier. The whole thing was a set-up, designed so that a test of the soil would reveal contamination, but also designed so that—unbeknownst to the testers—the contamination would be contained within the four walls of retention tank.

  “Whatever you do,” Cam said, “don’t puncture the walls of the tank.”

  The man nodded. “Roger that. How much more you want me to dig?”

  “You know what, that’s enough.” The Westford cop was waiting patiently for them to finish. “If you can put the soil back and flatten it out, that’d be great. Just make sure the dirt you dug up stays within the perimeter of the tank.”

  Cam walked around, taking one final look at the hole in the ground that had put such a hole in his life. As always, the question of why pounded at him. Who had come up with such an elaborate ruse, and to what end?

  Whatever the reason, this was the first good news in weeks—without the threat of groundwater contamination, the potential liability had been drastically reduced. The site still needed to be cleaned and monitored, but the costs now would total in the tens of thousands rather than the millions. But, again, someone had not only gone to the trouble of deeding him a contaminated property, but also had first taken steps to ensure the contamination had been secretly contained. Did they plan to reacquire the property at a later date? Were they concerned about their own liability for cleanup costs? Perhaps someone who was more than happy to screw Cam but morally opposed to doing actual damage to the environment?

  He thanked the workman and began walking back to the street. He phoned his lawyer, Nina, and gave her a quick update as he approached the cruiser. At least he could stop incurring legal bills. “But please don’t say anything to the EPA yet,” he said to her. “Someone’s trying to fuck with me. Let them think they’re getting away with it for a while longer.”

  Amanda pinballed around the master bedroom, trying to decide what items to pack. Would they be gone for a week, a month, longer? In the end she opted to go light on clothes—she could always buy more if she needed—and heavy on things like important papers and photos and keepsakes that were irreplaceable.

  Just after nine her cell phone rang, her body involuntarily clenching in response as she recognized the number. She had never lied to Cam. And this technically was not a lie. She just hadn’t told him that she had taken the photos to another lab for a second opinion. What if, on the verge of fleeing, the lab confirmed the validity of the photos? Would she then just take Astarte herself and disappear?

  The last thirteen days—yes, she had been counting—had been hellish. She felt like an old married couple just staying together to make it easier on the kids. The uncertainty was paralyzing, stifling. Were they building a life together or not?

  On ring number three she swallowed and answered.

  A man’s voice, professional and respectful. “We have the results back on those photos.”

  “Yes?” She leaned against the bed’s footboard.

  “Whoever did this did a good job. But I’m pretty sure one of the photos—the one with the gentleman inserting the key card—has been altered. The light isn’t quite right, and one of the shadows is at the wrong angle. I think the woman was added later.”

  Her knees buckled even as the weight of an uncertain future lifted from her shoulders. She tried to speak but nothing came out.

  “Ma’am? Are you there?”

  “Sorry, yes,” she mumbled. “Are you certain?”

  “No, not certain. It’s possible there was light reflecting off a mirror not in the shot, which could explain the discrepancies, but that seems unlikely. I’d say we have probably eighty percent certainty on this. Maybe even ninety.”

  Was that enough? “What about the shot of them walking down the hallway.”

  “I didn’t see anything on that one. But, as I’m sure you know, we don’t see the gentleman’s face. If one shot was altered, this one could have been done with a body double.”

  “And the shot at the bar?”

  “Nothing questionable about that one.” He paused, apparently uncomfortable saying anything more.

  “Please continue. Speak freely.”

  “Well, she could have just been reaching over to ask him to pass the pretzels, you know? If someone wanted to set him up, they would have had the camera ready to catch the second or two her hand was on his. But I’m just guessing, in light of the other picture likely being altered.”

  Astarte appeared at the bedroom door, her packed suitcase next to her. Venus bound over, nuzzling Amanda’s thigh. “Okay, thanks, thanks very much,” Amanda said, hanging up. And to Astarte, “Come give me a hug, honey.”

  The girl’s cobalt eyes widened as she strode over. “What’s wrong, Mum?”

  “Nothing,” she sobbed. “Nothing at all.”

  “Husband,” Carrington said, knocking on his home office door, “please pardon my interruption.”

  He glanced at his watch. Three o
’clock. He rarely worked during business hours from their home; he much preferred his office in a strip mall on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Most of his employees were Egyptian expatriates like himself, many of whom he had known his entire life, but there was no sense in tempting fate by being an absentee boss. As the saying went, Opportunity makes a thief.

  When he did work at home, Carrington knew not to interrupt him unless it was important. “Yes, my wife. Sit down.”

  Zuberi turned to Bennu, doing her homework on a small desk adjacent to his. On the rare times he worked at home, he liked it when she joined him. Over the past couple of years he had to bribe her to do so, today (at Carrington’s suggestion) with tickets and a limo to some rock concert all the kids were going to. She had actually given him a hug in response. He had been dismayed to smell cigarette smoke in her hair, but said nothing.

  “Would you excuse us, little bird?” he said.

  She sighed and stood. “Whatever.”

  Carrington carried a tray with a cup of tea and a bowl of dried figs, which she set in front of him. “I just received a phone call that I wanted to share with you,” she said. “It was from an elderly chap by the name of Duncan Sinclair. He and my grandfather Malcolm were second cousins, best I can ascertain. He just returned from a conference in Washington, D.C. Your name came up, Zuberi.”

  Zuberi sipped his tea using his good arm. He recognized the Duncan Sinclair name; now retired, the man at one point had chaired the Bank of Scotland. “What kind of conference?”

  “The Freemasons. Apparently Duncan is a high-ranking member.”

  “And what does cousin Duncan want?” Something about this didn’t feel right.

  “He wants to meet with you. He claims the Masons are concerned about ISIS. They are hoping you will curtail your arms sales to them.”

  Zuberi sniffed dismissively. “You can tell him only way Zuberi not sell to ISIS is if Masons pay higher price.” He chuckled as he pictured a bunch of middle-aged men in funny hats and aprons running around with rocket-propelled grenade launchers.

  She nodded and stood. “Of course, husband.” Halfway out the door she stopped. “One thing to think about, Zuberi, is that Duncan is one of the trustees of Rosslyn Chapel. Do you foresee any reason we might want to have access to the chapel? Perhaps even dig?”

  He smiled. Carrington had been holding this nugget back; this was what he sensed earlier. But the question was a valid one: If Cameron’s research was correct, there could be hard evidence of Egyptian settlement of Scotland hidden in the chapel. “Very well,” he said. “I am businessman. I will meet with him. Everything is for sale, and anything can be bought.”

  Cam, Amanda, and Astarte drove in Amanda’s car to the police station with a police escort. Once there, they eased into the station garage, the doors closing behind them. Two windowless police vans and three SUVs with tinted windows sat in a row.

  “Five choices, pick any one you want,” Lieutenant Poulos said. A balding, paunchy, bear of a man, he had been Cam’s baseball coach in high school. “All five vehicles will leave the station at once, all going in different directions. Whoever’s after you won’t be able to follow all of them. And even if they happen to get lucky, the guy driving you is an expert at spotting tails.”

  “Where we going?” Cam asked.

  “Two choices. One of our guys has a brother who owns a motel up in Salisbury Beach. Straight shot up Route 495. There’s a two-bedroom cottage they rent out. It’s preseason, so it won’t cost you much.” He smiled at Astarte. “Heated pool, plus a big game room. And Wi-Fi, which I’m guessing you’ll want. Second choice is closer, a furnished apartment near Lowell General that they use for visiting nurses. It’s empty now.” He again smiled at Astarte. “But no pool.”

  It was an easy choice; they wanted to make this as stress-free as they could for Astarte. “Did you bring a bathing suit?” Cam asked.

  “No,” she frowned.

  “Well, I guess that will be our first purchase when we get there.”

  Two hours and one unremarkable trip in a police van later they arrived in Salisbury. They had unpacked and were now sitting by the pool watching Astarte swim in a pair of shorts and t-shirt. Their cottage overlooked the beach and was disconnected from the main hotel, offering just enough privacy. Amanda picked at a slice of pizza. “So, now what?” she asked.

  “You mean we can’t just sit here and enjoy ourselves?” he smiled.

  She took his hand. “I’d like that. I really would. But I think we have some work to do first.”

  He wondered about her sudden affection, but now was not the time to bring it up. He told her about his conversation with his lawyer regarding the Groton property. “Someone thinks they have leverage over us that they don’t really have. I’m willing to let them keep thinking that.”

  “Good idea.”

  “And tomorrow I need to go into Brandeis.” He related the phone call from the dean.

  “Is that wise?”

  “They’re dropping off the rental car here this afternoon. I’m pretty sure we haven’t been followed, and if we have it doesn’t matter if I go to Brandeis or not. And I don’t think anyone will be looking for me there.”

  “Okay. Please be careful. Perhaps wear a disguise.”

  He nodded, his eyes on Astarte diving to the bottom of the pool to retrieve a coin. “Bartol said something today that has me wondering. He says Zuberi is an arms dealer. And he thinks he’s using me in some way to help his business.”

  “Odd. How would your research affect his arms sales?”

  “The Scottish history stuff not so much. But the Isaac Question—that could be like lighting a bonfire in a munitions dump.”

  She nodded. “I could see that.” She weighed it in her mind. “Although, when Zuberi first approached you, this Isaac Question stuff hadn’t even come up yet. So maybe not.”

  Cam took a deep breath. “Which leads to the other thing Bartol said: He thinks it’s the Mossad that’s after me.”

  Amanda’s green eyes widened. “Bloody hell, the Mossad? Why?”

  “Again, because of the Isaac Question.”

  “But you just stumbled upon that last week. And nobody knows about it, right?”

  “True.” He thought about it. “Maybe they’re just concerned about Zuberi in general. And when I entered the picture, they took an interest in me also.”

  “Well, either way, the Mossad being involved explains a lot.” She looked out over the ocean. “So did they off Randall Sid?”

  Cam shrugged. “I don’t know why they would. The Masons are trying to get Zuberi to stop selling to ISIS. You would think the Israelis would want the same.”

  “So perhaps it wasn’t the Mossad. Then who?”

  “Maybe ISIS? If they want to buy from Zuberi, and the Masons were trying to stop the deal, then that’s their motive.”

  “We’re just guessing now. That woman Samantha who bashed Randall’s head was many things, but based on the cleavage she was showing I’d wager a Muslim fundamentalist was not one of them.”

  They found an arcade near the hotel and spent Thursday evening in good-natured video game and air hockey competitions while munching on fried dough washed down with flat soda. “Tomorrow morning I’m taking the car and doing a food shop,” Amanda announced. “If we keep eating like this we’ll need to find a larger cottage.”

  “Speaking of which,” Cam said, “we left Venus there alone. Let’s go rescue her.”

  As they walked home, the main strip starting to come to life for the summer with a few t-shirt shops open and a gaggle of teenagers gathered by the beach, Amanda took Cam’s arm. He wondered, had she done so unconsciously, out of habit? Two weeks had passed since the photos arrived in the mail, two weeks of uncertainty and doubt. Cam had taken a philosophy class in college and the professor had written a quote on the board that popped into his head now: To believe with certainty, we must begin with doubting. Maybe Amanda had examined her doubt, wrestled with it, studied
it and plumbed its depths, and concluded it was unsubstantiated. He relished the feel of her fingers on his skin, the smell of her hair in the evening breeze.

  Back at the cottage, Amanda helped Astarte unpack and settle in while Cam walked Venus and checked in with Lieutenant Poulos using a disposable cell phone.

  “Our guy’s pretty sure nobody followed you up to Salisbury,” the officer said.

  “And I haven’t seen anything suspicious up here.”

  “Good. We’ll keep an eye on your house. And Cameron?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you see the Mossad, run like hell.”

  Cam kissed Astarte goodnight and slid into an Adirondack chair on the cottage porch, listening to the ocean crash ashore. A half-moon lit the nighttime sky and a warm breeze kept the bugs away. He closed his eyes and sipped on a light beer, Venus curled at his feet. But for the fact that he was on the verge of bankruptcy, his fiancée refused to share his bed, and someone was perhaps trying to kill him, life was pretty good.

  Amanda joined him on the porch, surprising him by dropping onto his lap and draping an arm around his neck. “I need to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. “I sent the photos out to another lab. I simply couldn’t live with the uncertainty.”

  He swallowed. She was sitting on his lap, which should mean good news. Or maybe she was really pissed and was just leading him on to punish him.

  “They’re pretty certain the picture of you putting the keycard in the door has been altered,” she said.

  Cam’s entire body unclenched as relief washed over him. “Like I said, that was me, but there was no woman with me.”

  “That’s what the agency said. It looked like she was added in later.”

  He exhaled. “And?”

  She held his eyes. “And, in my mind this matter is as close to being settled as it can be. Based on all the other craziness going on, it hardly seems a stretch that someone doctored the photos to manipulate you somehow.”