He smiled, even as his eyes misted. She gently took his beer bottle from him, brought her face close to his and peered into his eyes. “I just need you to tell me one more time, Cameron. Did anything happen in Washington?”
He spoke softly and slowly, his response like a prayer. “I swear to you that nothing happened. I have no idea who that woman in the picture is.”
She brushed his cheek with her hand, sighed, and touched her lips softly against his. “I believe you,” she breathed. “And I want you back.”
She didn’t need to ask twice.
Chapter 8
Venus nosed at Cam, her warm breath on his face. He rolled out of bed, in as good a mood as he could ever remember. “Okay, girl.”
He kissed Amanda on the cheek, breathing in the scent of her hair, before throwing on some sweats and sandals, finding the leash, and leading Venus out to walk the pre-dawn beach. The tide was low and Venus dragged him away from the cottage, curious at the strange smells of the sea. A few seagulls circled and cawed, but otherwise they were alone on the edge of the continent, the Friday morning horizon aglow in oranges and pinks.
Remembering his experience at yesterday’s dawn—an encounter that in some ways seemed weeks ago—he kept the cottage in site and stayed alert for other activity along this stretch of beach. He kicked off his sandals and waded up to his knees, the warm, sweet memory of Amanda’s return to him fresh in his mind even as the May Atlantic waters numbed his toes. The sun on his face, he closed his eyes and exhaled. The Superfund thing would, with luck, soon be behind them. His research for Out of Egypt was almost complete—with it, presumably, would come an end to the efforts of whoever was trying to manipulate him. And, most importantly, Amanda was back. His life—the same one that last night had seemed like such a train wreck—might finally be getting back on its rails.
But he knew that would not be the end of it. Someone had come after him, and come after him hard. They said that one sign of maturity was the ability to bear an injustice without wanting to get even. Well, if so, he had some growing up to do. He was pissed at whoever did this to them, whoever was putting them through this hell…
Amanda and Astarte surprised him by emerging from the cottage, interrupting his thoughts of revenge. They joined him, Astarte throwing a stick into the surf for Venus to retrieve while Amanda, in a pair of cut-off shorts and t-shirt, nestled up against Cam as they watched the sun’s rays play off the waves. “This is nice,” she whispered, her breasts pushing against him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
He smiled, his thoughts of revenge evaporating in the sea mist. “Last night almost made up for it.” They had abandoned the Adirondack chair for a chaise lounge, and then again later for their bed. Their bed. After two weeks on the couch, the words sounded like poetry. “Maybe we can just stay here for the summer. Call in sick for three months.”
“Tempting,” she answered. “It would be nice to come back once we put all this behind us.”
“Speaking of which,” he said, wishing he didn’t have to ruin the moment, “I’m supposed to be at Brandeis at eleven. And I know you want to do a food shop.”
“Have you given any thought to a disguise?”
“Actually, yes. I’m going to stop in Cambridge on my way to Waltham. There’s a great costume place there.”
“Let me guess, you’re going dressed as Underdog.”
“No,” he smiled. Last Halloween he had dressed as Underdog and then, halfway through the night, changed into the cartoon character’s alter-ego, Shoeshine Boy.
“What then?”
“A priest,” he deadpanned. “What are the chances a Mossad agent would be able to see through the disguise?”
Cam didn’t think the folks at Brandeis would appreciate him arriving in a priest’s costume, so he entered the administration building, found a restroom, and removed his black shirt with clerical collar, replacing it with a light blue button-down. And he stashed the Bible in his briefcase. As far as he could tell, he had not been followed. But with the Mossad, who knew?
Dean Tamara Maxson occupied a large, neat office overlooking a pond on the edge of campus. A professional-looking woman in her late thirties, she greeted him with a smile and a firm handshake. “Please call me Tamara. Have a seat.” She smiled again. She was a bit horsey-looking, but her face exuded both confidence and warmth. Not pretty, but not unattractive either. “And welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.” He pointed his chin toward the pond; a mother duck and a parade of ducklings paddled along near the shore. “Nice view.”
“It’s called Chapel Pond. We have three chapels surrounding it—one Catholic, one Protestant and, of course, one Jewish. They are built in such a way that none ever casts a shadow on the other two.”
He opted not to remark that none of the three was a Muslim chapel. “I think this is the first time I’ve been here since I was an undergrad at Boston College.”
She angled her head. “I can’t imagine you came here for a road trip. We’re not exactly known for our hopping social life.”
He laughed. “No. I was doing research on something called the Rat Line—after World War II the Catholic Church helped a bunch of Nazis escape to Latin America. As you might imagine, Boston College didn’t have a ton of books on that subject.”
“I see,” she said slowly, her face asking the question her mouth had not uttered.
“I’m half-Jewish, on my mom’s side. My grandmother lost most of her family in the Holocaust.”
“I’ve read about the Rat Line. Nothing to be proud of. But a fascinating little dusty corner of history.” She tilted her head. “One of many you’ve explored, it seems.”
He nodded. “I appreciate Brandeis being open-minded about my pre-Columbian research. Some people think it’s bunk.”
“Well,” she smiled, “to be honest, Zuberi Youssef can be very persuasive.”
He nodded, swallowing a comment to the effect that it was his money that was, in fact, so persuasive.
She seemed to read his thoughts. “He has been very generous in endowing this chair. And I’d be lying if I said we aren’t hoping his generosity continues.” She shifted forward. “But even more important than the money is the relationship. He is a very powerful man in the Middle East.”
“Honestly, I only recently learned he was an arms dealer.”
“I did not know either.” She smiled. “You can imagine my surprise when Israeli intelligence contacted me a couple of weeks ago.”
He sat up. “They contacted you?”
She eyed him for a few seconds. “You know what? I’d like to be perfectly candid with you, but I need to check with my boss first. We are in very sensitive territory with this stuff. Can you give me a few minutes?”
“Sure.” The more he could learn about the Mossad and its interest in him, the better.
She handed him a stack of paperwork. “In the meantime, you can get started on this.”
Five minutes later she returned, making a point of closing the door behind her. “Okay, I got permission.” She took a deep breath. “The Israeli government, and apparently all the Western governments as well, are extraordinarily concerned about the rise of ISIS. The Middle East has always been a volatile place, but ISIS is a whole different kind of threat. I’m an academic dean, but my background is in history—I read a fascinating article recently, comparing ISIS to something you are an expert on: the Knights Templar.”
He waited for her to continue.
“Like the Templars, ISIS is not a nation or a political party or an ethnic group. It is an army, with sworn allegiance to a religion. As such, its fighters are fanatical and single-minded. And from a strategic point of view, they are hard to attack. They have no capital, no homeland to defend, no populace to protect and serve. They move across borders, answerable to nobody. The last time the world saw an army like that was almost a thousand years ago, when the Templars and the Crusaders tried to take back Jerusalem.”
Cam nodded. “It’s an interesting compari
son.”
“And a scary one. As you know, the Templars became the most powerful force in Europe for almost two hundred years.”
Cam thought about it further. “The Templars grew powerful because of their wealth. Without money, you can’t fight a war.”
She put her hands on the desk in front of her. “Think about all that oil money. Just as the wealthy families of medieval Europe contributed to the Templars to assure their path to heaven, so also do the oil sheiks of the Middle East. ISIS has money to burn.”
Cam saw where this was going. “And Zuberi has arms to sell.”
She nodded. “Yes. But there are other arms dealers as well—it is the nature of things. What makes Zuberi different, what makes him, frankly, a unique threat, is the research he and his son are conducting on something we call the Isaac Question.”
Cam swallowed. “I’m familiar with that.”
“The entire foundation for the existence of Israel, the reason almost the entire Judeo-Christian world recognizes its right to exist, stems from the covenants God made with Abraham in the Old Testament. Covenants that promised the land of Israel to Abraham’s descendants.”
She paused and held his eyes. “What if it turns out that the promise applies not to the Jews, but to the descendants of Ishmael, the Arabs?”
A Biblical claim for the Arabs to retake Jerusalem. All of it. “I can see how that would be a problem.”
“Historically, Israel’s greatest protection has always been that the Arabs were so busy fighting each other that they never banded together to take on Israel. But a revelation like this might be the catalyst to bring them all together. For one glorious holy war.”
“Just like the Crusades brought the warring nations of Europe together a thousand years ago,” Cam said.
“Exactly. And in a holy war, there can be only one acceptable result: total annihilation.” Cam now understood the Mossad’s keen interest in Zuberi, and in anything and anyone within his circle.
Tamara continued. “To make matters worse, Israel’s popularity around the world has never been lower. The revelation that the Jewish people were not, in fact, the true Biblical claimants to the Holy Land would only erode that popularity further.” She looked out over the pond. “One wonders how many nations would rise up to defend her against a wave of ISIS-backed attackers.”
“You paint a pretty bleak picture.”
She smiled sadly. “I’ve been given a palette which only contains browns, blacks and grays.”
She hadn’t told him all this just to kill twenty minutes. He asked, “So what can I do to help?” Obviously he didn’t want to do anything to contribute to the destabilization of the Middle East, much less Israel’s destruction.
“For now, nothing. For now, it is enough that you know of the threat.” She looked him in the eye. “But there may come a time when you and I both need to stand up to Zuberi Youssef.”
The text came in into Tamara’s phone even as the door was still swinging shut behind Cameron Thorne. “Should we follow him?” it read.
“Yes,” she quickly replied.
A few minutes later Moshe waddled into her office. “We have a guy tailing him.”
“Okay. But be careful. We don’t want to spook him. No more garbage trucks.” She peered out her window. “Did you listen?”
He nodded.
“And?” she asked.
“We’ll run the audio through our lie detection software, but the guy sounded sincere to me.”
“Agreed.”
“You didn’t offer to help make his Superfund problem go away.”
“As it was, I thought I came across a bit too hard. I’m supposed to be a college dean, not an international powerbroker. Or a Mossad agent. How would a dean make a problem like that go away?”
“Fair point.”
“Besides, it’s good to have a card still in our hand.”
Moshe clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Speaking of unplayed cards, when do we take the boy?”
“Zuberi’s son?”
“Of course. It’s the ultimate leverage.”
“Or it’s a declaration of war against one of the most powerful men in the Middle East. In case you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly have a lot of friends right now.”
“It’s not about friends. Like I said, it’s about leverage.” He gestured with his chin. “The boy is, literally, in our back yard.”
She shook her head. “Please, Moshe, I think that is a big mistake. At least wait and see how the Thorne thing plays out.”
Moshe picked at his cuticles. “All right. For now.” He exhaled. “Do you think Thorne will really stand up to Youssef if it comes to that?”
That was the crux of it all. They needed to get close to Zuberi in order to defang him, but to do so they needed to let another potential snake, Thorne, into their house. With so many snakes slithering about, it would be a wonder if nobody got bit. Looking back, perhaps it would have been the better choice to keep the snakes away altogether. But it was too late for that. She recalled an old saying her first Mossad handler, who had grown up in Eastern Europe, often spouted: In times of great danger, you are permitted to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.
She finally answered the question. “I don’t know. Thorne seems like a good man. And I think he wants to do the right thing. But his idea of the right thing and our idea of the right thing might not be the same.”
Moshe nodded, his small, dark pupils peering out from deep within his fleshy cheeks. “Which is why it’s good we are following him again.”
Cam had a lot to think about, and an hour drive back to Salisbury Beach to do so. He didn’t like making rash decisions, but the idea that he was in bed with an arms dealer—first suggested by Bartol, and now confirmed by Tamara Maxson—gnawed at him.
He dialed Zuberi’s number, not expecting the business titan to answer on the second ring.
“Cameron,” he bellowed. “How are you?”
“I’m actually a bit bothered by something, Zuberi.” He decided to be blunt. “I just learned that you are an international arms dealer.”
“So?”
Not exactly a denial. “But you told me you were in the import-export business.”
“And so I am. I import weapons from one country and export to other.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”
“You are big boy, Cameron. I hope you do not think my business is oriental rugs and big-screen televisions. I diversity some into high tech and real estate, but mostly my business is weapons. And also heavy equipment and machinery like helicopters and cranes to rebuild the things the weapons destroy. When the world makes war, Youssef makes money. When the world rebuilds after war, Youssef also makes money. When no war, Youssef makes not so much money. Is simple equation.”
“It may be simple, but it is still blood money. I’m not sure I’m comfortable accepting it.”
“Blood money!” Zuberi laughed. “All money is blood money, Cameron. Your nation was built with blood of slaves. Today, clothes you wear and cars you drive and food you eat are made with blood of child workers.” He lowered his voice. “What do you think happens if I don’t sell weapons? I tell you: Other dealers take my place. As long as there is war, there is men to sell guns.”
Cam didn’t have a response, so Zuberi continued. “And these other men, these other dealers? They take profits and give to Al-Qaeda. Or to Hezbollah. Or to ISIS. I give profit to you, to write book about true history. So am I such really bad man?” Zuberi lowered his voice. “Don’t forget, Cameron. We have deal. Zuberi Youssef always keeps his word. And I expect same from you.”
The line went dead before Cam could reply.
Amanda and Astarte spent the morning at the cottage’s simple square kitchen table working on schoolwork Astarte’s teachers had emailed them. Cam texted just after eleven, saying he’d be home by noon.
“Let’s take a break until after lunch,” Amanda said to Astarte. She wan
ted to focus on an email Carrington Sinclair-Youssef had sent earlier in the week. Amanda sensed Carrington was sharper than she first appeared. The message directed Amanda to a passage discussing Rosslyn Chapel in a 2004 book entitled Guardians of the Holy Grail, by Mark Amaru Pinkham.
She found the passage: “Two human heads were recently discovered under the Rosslyn Chapel’s floor, examined, and then sealed back up in the crypt. Both skulls had holes in locations that correspond to the horns emanating out of some Green Man heads. Could these skulls have been worshiped as manifestations of Baphomet?”
Amanda sat back. Horned manifestations of Baphomet at Rosslyn Chapel. Hmm.
The message from Carrington continued, explaining how her maternal grandfather, from whom she got her Sinclair blood, used to work as a carpenter at Rosslyn Chapel. Because he was a Sinclair, the other hired hands often shared stories and legends with him. One such legend was that there was a skull hidden inside or under the Apprentice Pillar.
More skulls, more heads. Due to the Templar’s close association with Rosslyn Chapel, Amanda had long suspected a connection between the iconic structure and Baphomet. This information from Carrington only strengthened her suspicions.
Something that Cam had observed last week, about Akhenaton looking androgynous, had nagged at her. Tapping at her laptop, she went back to review her Baphomet research. She pulled up an image of Baphomet.
Baphomet
And then it hit her. How had she missed it? Breasts. The horned figure was so fearsome looking, and so full of symbolism, that she had never focused on the feminine breasts. Baphomet, like Akhenaton, was depicted androgynously.
Baphomet’s androgyny made a lot of sense, based on what they knew of the Templars. She and Cam believed that one of the main causes of the conflict between the Templars and the Church had been that the Templars, drawing on early Gnostic Christian teachings they discovered in the Holy Land, believed in the duality of the godhead—that God possessed both feminine and masculine qualities. Because of this the Templars worshiped and venerated the Virgin Mary and, to a lesser extent, Mary Magdalene. The Templars had tried to push the Church to become more balanced, more feminine, less patriarchal. The Vatican had resisted, eventually driving a schism between the army of the Church and the Church itself…
The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Templars in America Series Book 5) Page 25
