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

by David S. Brody

  “And still is.” Cam smiled. “Good find.” He stared out the window at the storm. “And you know what else, that helps explain the whole conversation God had with Sarah after the Pharaoh kicked her and Abraham out of Egypt. The Old Testament says that God told Sarah that ‘the kings of people shall be of her.’ Not of Abraham. But of her, in the Egyptian tradition of matrilineal descent. If the son she was about to have had been fathered by Abraham, then the rules of Judaic inheritance—through the father—would have applied and nothing would have been needed to be said. But with the pharaoh being the father, the Egyptian hereditary customs came into play.”

  Amanda nodded. “That’s a subtle point, but a good one. And if you follow Sarah’s bloodline, you do indeed get to all the Biblical kings: David, Solomon, Asa—”

  Cam interrupted. “And Jesus.”

  She angled her head at the strange interruption. “Yes. Jesus also I suppose.”

  Cam grinned. “Don’t you get it?”

  “Get what?”

  He got out of his chair and began to pace around the table. “All along I’ve been thinking this whole Isaac Question is bad for the Jews, bad for Israel. But it’s also bad for the Christians.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not tracking you.”

  A flash of lightning, followed a few seconds later by a thunder rumble, highlighted Cam’s point. “The Book of Matthew makes a big deal about Jesus being descended from the House of David, that he was the true king because he was part of the Davidic bloodline. Well, if so, that also makes him part of the pharaoh’s bloodline, not Abraham’s.”

  Now she understood. “Aha. So the Christians are in the same boat as the Jews.”

  “Yes. And that boat does not sail to Jerusalem. Whatever claims the Christians have to the Holy Land stem from Jesus being of the Davidic line. If that line is tainted, so is the Christian claim.”

  Smiling, she reached out and squeezed Cam’s hand as he stood next to her. “First the Jews, now the Christians. You sure do have a rare talent for making enemies.”

  Amanda took a break to play a board game with Astarte while Cam continued to write, the Sunday storm darkening the cottage even though the clock read mid-afternoon. Now reclined on the couch, he still hadn’t decided whether to include the information about the Isaac Question in the book: On the one hand, the material was highly inflammatory, calling into question Judeo-Christian claims to the Holy Land. On the other hand, the information appeared to be factual. And facts, as the saying went, were stubborn things. They were like weeds—nobody liked them, but they couldn’t be ignored.

  He figured he had a few more days to decide. He was actually ahead of pace, his level of focus reminding him of the week he spent cramming for the bar exam. Other than meals with Amanda and Astarte, five hours of nightly sleep, and a morning run on the beach with Venus, his entire existence revolved around turning his outline into a full-fledged, and fully fleshed-out, manuscript. The project had become his life because, until he was finished, he could not get his life back.

  And even that was a leap of faith. He and Amanda had been working from the presumption that everything that had happened over the past month had been designed either to get him to finish, or to keep him from finishing, his research. The Bartol lottery ticket and abduction in the North End, as best he could figure, was some kind of test to see if Cam was worthy in Bartol’s mind of championing the revisionist history brigade. The Groton property conveyance was designed to get him to focus on the ancient stone chambers leading back to the Druids, and also to put him under behavior-altering financial pressure. Zuberi’s offer of employment was a way to focus Cam’s research on Zuberi’s pet research projects— proving the Scots descended from the ancient Egyptians and enhancing the Sinclair name. And, perhaps, also, shining a light on the Isaac Question. Randall Sid’s assistance was a way for the Freemasons to cultivate close ties with Cam, presumably with an eye toward using Cam to gain access to and influence over Zuberi. And the fake photos were someone’s attempt—he did not know whose—to create turmoil in Cam’s domestic life, presumably in an attempt to alter the direction or pace of Cam’s research. Would all of their enemies, and all of their enemies’ dirty tricks, suddenly disappear once Cam’s research was complete? The answer, Cam sensed, depended largely on his conclusions. And since it was unlikely all the puppet masters in this little game had an identical agenda, Cam feared the answer was no.

  But he was otherwise out of options. So he kept typing.

  An hour later his email pinged and the ground underneath them shifted again. “Shit,” he whispered, reading the message. “Amanda, I need to show you something.”

  Amanda and Astarte were on the living room floor huddled over the Monopoly board. Amanda rolled over to him. “Just in time. The girl’s a tyrant. What?”

  He turned his screen toward her, showing her an image. “Speaking of tyrants, recognize this?”

  She angled her head. “It looks like a drill of some kind.”

  “Yes. A hand-held, industrial drill. Based on the description included with it, it can drill down ten meters.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe I should have read you the message that came along with it: Retention tanks can leak.”

  “Oh.” She leaned against the couch. “A threat.”

  “And not a very subtle one.”

  “Who sent it?”

  Cam sighed. “I don’t know. It’s not an email address I recognize. But someone was obviously watching us and saw me digging around the property.”

  “Well, as threats go, it’s not much of one. It doesn’t tell you to do anything.”

  “Does it have to? Basically it’s saying that the Groton property is still a sword hanging over my head. Someone could easily scale the fence with one of these drills and poke a bunch of holes in the tank. Within a few weeks the whole area would be contaminated and we’re back to millions in liability.” He closed his eyes. This was one problem, at least, he thought was behind him.

  “But like I said, what kind of threat is it if there’s nothing they’re trying to get from you?”

  He exhaled. “Just because they haven’t asked yet, doesn’t mean they won’t.”

  “I think, my wife, that I would like to invite Cameron Thorne to visit Rosslyn Chapel with me later in week.” Zuberi and Carrington sat in his office for late Sunday afternoon tea and figs, as was their custom on days when he worked from home.

  “Will he have completed his manuscript?” she asked, pouring him another cup of Earl Grey. For breakfast he still preferred a strong cup of sugared Turkish coffee, in which the grounds were allowed to settle at the bottom of the cup. But he had grown accustomed to the British tradition of late afternoon tea.

  “I think yes.”

  She nodded. “And will he bring it with him?”

  Zuberi chewed on a dried fig. “Of course.”

  “And you have worked out the details with Duncan Sinclair regarding excavations at Rosslyn Chapel?”

  He was not used to her questioning him like this. “Yes, of course,” he replied in a dismissive tone.

  She bowed her head. “I am sorry to pry, husband. It is just that I know how hard you have worked for this moment.”

  He reached over and patted her hand. “My thanks are to you, my wife. You have been valuable partner in this project.”

  They sat in silence for a few seconds. “May I ask one more question, Zuberi?”

  He inclined his chin.

  “Do you really think the head of the Pharaoh Akhenaton, of Moses, is hidden at the Chapel?”

  This was, after all, the key question. He took a deep breath. “We have saying in Egypt: Words are like dry sand, actions are like strong wind. I think you have similar saying in English, that actions make more noise than words.”

  “Actions speak louder than words.”

  He nodded. “So my actions are loud, like strong wind. I lose much business with ISIS to make deal with Duncan Sinclair. I would
not do this if I do not think Moses head is in Chapel.”

  “Would it not be wiser to not risk your relationship with ISIS and wait for others to look for the skull?”

  He ignored the fact that one more question had turned into two. “We have second saying in Egypt: Do not buy either the moon or the news, for in the end they will both come out. But this Rosslyn Chapel, she keeps her secrets forever. How do we know what is hidden? I do not think Duncan Sinclair and others want to know truth. I think they never dig unless I push them.” He popped another fig into his mouth.

  Carrington nodded and stirred her tea. “You know, husband, I think you are correct. I have known people like Duncan my entire life. They only really take action when strong men like you come along and force them into it.” She sipped at her cup, smiling at him.

  Zuberi smiled back, pleased at his wife comparing him favorably to her highborn cousins. But for some reason Carrington was swaying side-to-side in her seat, like a person staggering through the desert. In fact, the entire room rocked. He swallowed. Perhaps, rather, it was he that swayed. Blinking, he set his cup down, the liquid splashing onto his desk as a wave of nausea washed over him. “Wife, I feel sick.”

  She nodded, her legs crossed, and took another sip of her tea. “How so?”

  “Dizzy,” he gasped. “Hard to see.” The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears.

  “Yes,” she replied. “That is to be expected.”

  Blinking more, he tried to focus on her. “What say you?”

  “Zuberi, the correct English is, ‘What are you saying?’ You really need to work on your grammar.”

  What? The room darkened as panic rose in his chest. Of course, the figs. Carrington was a smart woman, and her mother—who had never liked him—was a chemist with access to any number of poisons. With a shaky hand he reached for his cell phone, only to have Carrington snatch it away.

  “We only have a few seconds, Zuberi. Or, more accurately, you only have a few seconds. So listen carefully. You are going to die. That much is unavoidable. What is in question is the fate of your children. If you cooperate with me, I will make sure they are cared for and protected—”

  He tried to interrupt her but she spoke over him.

  “But if you do not, I will make sure ISIS knows it was Amon and Nasser who, after your death, reneged on the deal you made. I do not need to tell you how that will end. As for Bennu, I will do nothing. Without her brothers, she will find misery on her own, I am certain.”

  What was going on? He fought to stay focused even as his head spun and his throat constricted. “What … you … want?” he gasped.

  She nodded, her eyes cold. “A baby would have been nice.” She shrugged. “Now, not much, really. Not compared to what I deserve for this nightmare of a marriage.” She set her cup down. “The password. To your computer.”

  His eyes widened even as bile rose in his throat. She had played him. Everything she needed to control his empire—his bank accounts, his list of client contacts, his files on both friends and enemies—was on that computer. He shook his head. “No.”

  She leered at him, an expression he had never seen from her. “You know, Zuberi,” she said, her voice a loud imitation of his accent, “there is old saying we have in Egypt: The house of a tyrant is in ruin. You are a tyrant, Zuberi.” She cackled. “And if you don’t give me that password, your house will be in ruin.” She stood. “Last chance. They are your children. I care not what happens to them.”

  “Wait,” he gasped. He turned his head and focused on the photo of Bennu, Amon, and Nasser propped on the corner of his desk. They would be the last thing he saw. So be it. “Password is this,” he whispered. “One arm man rules world.”

  She lifted her chin and laughed, turning toward the door. “Apparently not.”

  Carrington Sinclair-Youssef returned to her husband’s study an hour later. She had no desire to watch him die. That he was dead was enough.

  She edged the door open enough to peer in and see his body crumpled on the floor near his desk. Using a disposable cell phone, she texted Duncan Sinclair. “A bird with one wing may think it can fly, but does so at its own peril.”

  Now the hard work began. For the next few days she would need to hide the death. After that it would not matter. She closed the door.

  It being a Sunday, the household staff had the day off. And Bennu was at a concert with tickets Zuberi had given her, at Carrington’s suggestion. In Edinburgh, as in all large cities, anything could be arranged for a price. Carrington descended the stairs, opened the front door, and motioned to a man sitting in an unmarked dark blue van that had just pulled into the gravel driveway.

  He opened the van door. A clean-cut chap wearing a gray jumpsuit and cap. Younger than she expected.

  “We alone?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “To confirm: Fifty thousand, in cash. The body stays here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Half now, half when I finish.”

  She handed him a small duffel bag filled with rolled bills. “This is half.” She held his eyes. “Just so we are clear: If you try to blackmail me for more, I’ll have you killed.”

  He nodded, spent a few seconds counting the cash, and stuffed the bag under the driver’s seat. “And there’s a bathroom I can use?”

  “The body is upstairs in an office; there is a private loo next to it.”

  “With tub?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, exited the van, and retrieved a couple of suitcase-sized containers from the rear of the van. “Bring me to the body.”

  Three trips up and down the stairs later, the man had set up a portable embalming lab in Zuberi’s office bathroom. She helped lift the body onto a wheeled, metal table, reflecting for a moment on the irony of her husband being embalmed in the manner of his Egyptian ancestors. “Remember, I want the eyes open and his face to look alive. He’ll need to be propped up in bed. I’ll show you where the bedroom is.”

  The embalmer nodded. “Where are his clothes?”

  “I’ll bring you a suit and tie.” She reconsidered. A sick man in bed would not wear a suit. “Actually, I’ll bring you a shirt, trousers, and sweater.”

  The man shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “About three hours.”

  “And there will be no evidence you were here? No residue or waste?”

  “It’ll smell like formaldehyde for a few hours.” He smiled wryly. “Other than that, they’ll be nothing left besides the body.” He turned to her. “And it’ll be another fifty grand if you want me to come back for it.”

  “No. There will be no need for that.”

  Chapter 10

  Tamara Maxson put the phone down and stared out her rain-soaked office window. What a way to begin a Monday morning.

  She called Moshe on his cell. “You close by?”

  “Be there in ten.”

  “Come see me right away.” She shook her head. “We have some work to do.”

  Tamara made a couple of quick calls to clear her morning and hung up just as a jacketless Moshe sloshed into her office. “No raincoat?”

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t find it.”

  “Umbrella?”

  He dried his eyeglasses with her curtain. “It’s just water. What’s going on?”

  She took a deep breath. “I just got a call from Tel Aviv. Our man in Edinburgh received a proposal from a high-ranking Freemason.”

  “What kind of proposal?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You know how this works. They wouldn’t tell me, other than it involves Zuberi Youssef.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Not much. But they gave me an assignment. They want me to contact Rachel Levitad and ask her to find out the name of Zuberi Youssef’s dog when he was a child.”

  Moshe chewed on his thumbnail for a few seconds. “Sounds like a test of some kind. This Freemason in Edinburgh wants to see if we really do
have access to Youssef. The only way to get this kind of trivial information is by asking him.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, picture my conversation with Rachel: We need you to find out your boyfriend’s father’s dog’s name. How do I justify that?”

  Moshe’s beady eyes darted around the room, as if looking for an answer to her question in the patterns of the wallpaper. “How about this: Tell her we are trying to access his computer files and one of the security questions asks for his dog’s name.”

  She thought about it. “Not bad. But what does she tell Amon? In the end, only the boy is going to be able to get this information from his father.”

  “So maybe she lies to the boy, tells him she is getting a puppy and is trying to come up with a unique name.”

  Tamara shook her head. “Sorry, not going to work.” She smiled. “But I do realize you at least are throwing out ideas. I’m just sitting here being negative.”

  Moshe stood. “I’ll give it more thought. When do they want this information, this dog’s name that is going to save Israel?”

  “By tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.”

  Moshe left, leaving Tamara to try to figure out what to tell Rachel. Twenty minutes of pacing and staring at the rain brought her no closer to a solution, so she picked up her phone and dialed the girl’s number.

  “Hello,” Rachel said sleepily, answering on the fourth ring.

  “Sorry, I realize it’s still early.” Tamara explained her assignment. “We need the dog’s name to access Youssef’s credit card information, which we think will help us to track his travels,” Tamara lied. “Can you think of any way to get it?”

  “It’s just to track him?”

  “I promise not to buy myself a big-screen TV,” Tamara chuckled.