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

by David S. Brody

  Rachel paused. “Okay, I guess. Amon is teaching me Egyptian words. I can just ask him to teach me some pet names. He’s very trusting—he’ll never suspect I have an ulterior motive.”

  “And you’re okay with this?” This was a risky game they were playing, making things personal with Youssef.

  “There’s no way Amon could get blamed for it, is there?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “Then okay, I’ll get the dog’s name.”

  Her hair still wet from her shower, Rachel walked into the kitchen of her parents’ home. Her mother sipped from a cup of coffee and watched a Monday morning news show on the television while her father read the sports page. The cat lounged in the sun next to a window. The idyllic American family. Except their daughter was a spy.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I need to talk to you guys about something.”

  Her father looked up from the newspaper. “Yes, honey?”

  “If I’m going to do this spying thing, you need to let me go visit Amon. Or let him come here. I just got a call from the Mossad woman. She wants me to get some information for her.”

  “What information?” her mother asked.

  “It’s nothing important. But the point is, if I’m going to do this you guys need to let us see each other.”

  “Where would you stay if you go to Boston?” her mother asked.

  Rachel exhaled. “With Amon, of course.”

  “Perhaps, then, he should come here,” her dad said.

  “What, so we have to sneak around behind your backs?” She had not told them about her trip to New York last week—they still think she had spent a few days at the beach with a friend. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Funny how I’m old enough to spy for my country but not old enough to have sex with my boyfriend.”

  “Don’t be crude, Rachel,” her mother scolded.

  “Well then don’t ask stupid questions about where I’ll be sleeping in Boston.”

  Her father stepped in to diffuse the conflict. “What would you prefer, going to Boston or him coming here?”

  She exhaled. “Boston. Nothing personal, but I’m worried you guys won’t be too welcoming.”

  Her parents exchanged a look, each of them nodding slightly. “Very well,” her mother said. “When will you be going?”

  Rachel turned. “This afternoon. My flight leaves at one. I’ve already packed.”

  The weather had cleared and turned warm, and his fingers were numb from typing, so before lunch Cam decided to take a half-hour break from his writing to build a sand castle with Astarte. Venus helped out also—whenever Astarte needed sand she buried a milk bone and waited for the dog to dig it out. It probably wasn’t the best choice for activities—every time they dug down, Cam thought about the industrial drill penetrating the Groton property retention tank.

  Wiping the sand from his hands, Cam checked his email. A message popped up from Zuberi: “Hello Cameron. How close are you to finishing your book? We may have a chance to excavate at Rosslyn Chapel and your conclusions in book might help with this. Carrington and I would like you to be at dig if it happens.”

  Cam’s eyes widened. A dig at Rosslyn Chapel. He could think of no place else he’d rather excavate. Of all the structures in the world, the Chapel held more secrets than any except perhaps the Egyptian pyramids. But there was something about the email that sounded … funny to him.

  “Hey, Astarte, let’s go back to the cottage and grab some lunch.”

  They found Amanda hard at work, writing on her laptop. Cam showed her the email. “What do you think?”

  “Think? I think I’m jealous.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not going without you. But does the email seem … odd … to you?”

  She studied it. “Yes, in fact. When he writes that ‘Carrington and I’ want you to come dig. I don’t remember him ever referring to her as anything other than his wife. And he never seems to give her equal status—in his mind, the invitation would be coming from him and him alone.”

  Cam nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Amon stood at the arrival gate at Logan Airport on Monday afternoon, just as he had a week earlier in New York. Again he was nervous, though not quite so much. Again he popped an Altoid. Sighing, he wondered if the butterflies in his stomach would ever leave. “I hope not,” he whispered to himself.

  In the cab she smiled at him, repeating the words from their New York taxi ride. “We should talk now so we don’t have to talk later.”

  He remembered his line. “That is a good plan.”

  She took a deep breath and whispered, “I had an interesting weekend. The Mossad and the CIA both want me to spy for them.” She explained yesterday’s encounters with both agencies, along with her parents’ insistence she help the CIA and her apparent agreement to do so. “But,” she continued, her jaw raised, “I’m not going to help any of them. What we have, for as long as we have it, is ours. It’s private. I’m not going to poison it by spying on your father for them, no matter what my parents say.”

  Amon sat back in his seat. Until now his father’s business had been just that—business. Now, suddenly, it had intruded into Amon’s most intimate affairs. And he found himself embarrassed that Rachel had learned the nature of his father’s affairs. He spoke slowly, also in a hushed tone. “Did they say why they want you to spy on my father?”

  She nodded. “The Mossad says he is selling arms to ISIS. The CIA says the Freemasons and your father are close to making a deal where he would agree to stop selling arms to ISIS, but they are worried the Mossad will mess things up.”

  Amon pursed his lips. All of this was news to him. “And they think you can get information through me?”

  “Yes.”

  He mulled it over for a few seconds. He recalled his father’s directive to befriend members of the Jewish community, and to win their trust. Presumably that included Rachel’s parents. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Help you give them information.”

  She shifted in the seat. “But I just told you I’m not going to do it.”

  “Yes, but I want to win your parents’ trust. I want them to approve of me. And if you give them nothing, your parents will learn of it, yes?”

  She squeezed his hand. “I suppose so.”

  “Then it is settled.” He smiled. “So what is it they want you to learn about my father?”

  She smiled. “Well, the Mossad wants to know the name of his dog when he was a child.”

  “His dog? I did not know he had a dog.”

  “Well, apparently he did.”

  Amon pulled out his phone. “I did not expect this spying to be so easy.”

  “Wait,” she said, stopping him from dialing. “You can’t just come out and ask. Won’t he be suspicious?”

  Amon smiled. “He is always suspicious. But you are correct. I need a reason.” He looked out the window as the tunnel walls flew by, marking their passage under Boston Harbor and into the city. “I know. I will tell him it is for a writing assignment. I am taking a writing class this summer to improve my English skills. I will tell him the teacher told us to write a story about our parent’s pet.” Amon smiled and pushed the speed dial for his father’s number. “My father will think it is just ridiculous enough to be true.”

  Venus in tow on a warm, windy Monday afternoon, Amanda walked barefoot along the mostly-deserted beach in the wet sand, wondering about the meaning of Zuberi’s odd email. Perhaps it was nothing more complicated than him telling his secretary to compose a message and send it under his name.

  A young woman approached from the opposite direction, her path parallel to Amanda’s but higher on the beach, in the dry sand. Amanda probably wouldn’t have given her a second look, but the woman hesitated as she spotted Amanda, her hands reflexively rising in front of her in a defensive posture. Spinning instantly, the woman marched away from the ocean, her long red hair swinging behind
her. Amanda gasped. In that split second, Amanda had seen her face. It was a face she would never forget, a face she had studied for hours. The face of the woman in the photos with Cam.

  A wave of nausea swept over her, forcing her to one knee. Venus whimpered, nuzzling her ear, while a rogue wave broke and soaked her legs. What was this woman doing here? There were, Amanda quickly deduced, only two real possibilities: Either the woman was following them, part of the same team that had doctored the photos for some unknown reason, or she was here clandestinely to continue her affair with Cam.

  Would Cam be so bold, and so careless, as to bring his mistress along while they were in hiding? Amanda doubted it, but then again she never considered him capable of an affair in the first place. And he did disappear for an hour every morning, usually without Venus, purportedly for a run on the beach. Was it possible he was using the time for a tryst?

  The frustration and turmoil of the past few weeks boiled over. Without thinking, Amanda stood and raced after the woman, covering the twenty yards soundlessly in the soft sand. Leaping, she grabbed the woman around the neck and threw her to the sand, landing atop her back.

  The woman reacted quickly, wriggling herself free and kicking at Amanda with sandaled feet. She caught Amanda in the ribs, dazing her, and rolled away. Hunched low, she leered at Amanda. “Stupid bitch,” she spat. She lunged, swiping at Amanda’s ankle with her hand. But Amanda’s gymnastics training kicked in and she somersaulted away, landing on her feet. Before the woman could recover, Amanda charged, burying her shoulder in the woman’s gut and taking her down with a football tackle.

  They hit the sand with a thump, the weight of Amanda’s body knocking the wind from her adversary. Amanda pushed in, her shoulder on the woman’s neck, pinning her. But the woman was bigger than Amanda, and apparently had some training. Pivoting on her hip, she threw Amanda off and rolled onto her stomach. Before Amanda could react, the woman threw a handful of sand into Amanda’s face, temporarily blinding her. Panicking, Amanda rubbed at her eyes, for the first time realizing this attack may not end well. Barely able to discern the woman’s form, she backed away slowly, her fists up in a defensive position.

  The woman might have pushed her advantage had Venus not stepped in. Growling, she snapped at the woman’s legs, distracting her and causing her to spin away. Blinking the sand away, Amanda charged again, knocking into the woman’s back and sending her face-first into the sand for the second time.

  This time she would not give up her advantage. She grabbed a handful of carroty-red hair and shoved the woman’s face into the sand. “I know you’ve been following us. Why?” she demanded.

  The woman wriggled in an attempt again to free herself, but a low growl from Venus froze her. She spat out some sand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Amanda pushed a knee into the small of the woman’s back. “Bullshit. Who are you working for?”

  The woman lifted her chin slightly. She was pretty, Amanda hated to admit. Something made the woman smile. “You want to know who I work for?” she said, her tone more defiant. “They’re coming now.” Amanda glanced up. Two men in street clothes, large and fit, ran toward them from the road. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to answer any questions you have,” the woman sneered.

  “Bloody hell,” Amanda murmured. There was no way she could fight off all three of them. Shoving the woman deeper into the sand, Amanda spun off and leapt to her feet. “Venus, come!” Sprinting, she raced away, her eyes burning, slowing to a jog once it became clear nobody was following.

  Amanda cursed. So close to some answers, only to have the opportunity slip away. One thing, though, had become apparent: The woman did work for somebody. She had said so herself.

  But that left Amanda no closer to any real information. If someone had doctored the photos, there must have been a reason for doing so. She had half-expected that reason to become apparent over the past couple of weeks. For example, a demand upon Cam to alter his research at the threat of more incriminating photos being produced. But, as far as she knew, nothing. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to gain leverage over Cam. At some point it only made sense that the leverage would be applied.

  Carrington had not slept well overnight. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but her husband’s embalmed corpse lying in the bed in the room next to hers came alive in her dreams, swooping down at her like a rabid bat whenever she drifted off to sleep.

  But there was no time for fatigue. The household staff had returned after their weekend off. She gave strict instructions to stay out of the master suite that contained their adjoining bedrooms and private baths, explaining that Zuberi had contracted some highly contagious disease during his travels. That should keep the staff away for a few days, at least. And that was all she needed.

  Mid-afternoon she had prepared tea and a bowl of dried figs, as the staff knew was her custom when her husband was home, and carried a tray to the master suite. Now, nearing nine o’clock, she did the same with his dinner—some soup and pita bread. Locking the door behind her, she entered his room and sniffed. A faint smell of formaldehyde, but not nearly as bad as the night before. And, more importantly, no smell of decay. She set the tray down and went to Zuberi’s desk to check his phone messages and email.

  She focused on his business affairs first, referring to his meticulously-kept files and notes before replying to the various inquiries. She moved some money around as was required, careful not to move too much or in such a way as to create suspicion. In the game of murder, she knew, the spouse was always the primary suspect and money the main motivation. The allowances made in their pre-nuptial agreement and Zuberi’s life insurance policy, plus the money he had recently gifted her as a reward for her assistance in the Scota research, would allow her to live comfortably, though she would be unable to afford to keep the castle. But she hadn’t done it for the money. If greed had been her motivating factor, she could have just left the scoundrel alive.

  Carrington turned to his personal communications. Two phone messages, along with a text and a voicemail, from Amon. The name of Zuberi’s dog? She had no idea. No doubt the poor animal had been kicked and otherwise neglected.

  But what was she to do? The boy would grow suspicious if his father did not reply—and with four separate communications, he clearly wanted an answer. With access to Zuberi’s computer, she was in position to deal with whatever business matters might come up over the next week. But this stumped her. She could give the boy a fake name, but if he heard the name before and was just looking for a reminder, he would know she was lying.

  She opened Zuberi’s computer and typed: “Hello my son. In Egypt we have saying: The barking of a dog does not disturb the man on a camel.”

  She had no idea what this meant, and Amon likely would not either, but perhaps it would discourage further questioning. She hit send.

  Leading Venus and blinking the sand out of her eyes, Amanda trudged the final few yards back to the cottage, her mind racing. They had been followed. Presumably by the same people who had already killed Randall Sid and/or Bartol. Which meant they were also in danger. She was tired of waiting around for danger to find them.

  She opened the cottage door. There was no time for delay—the red-haired woman and her team, knowing Amanda had spotted them, might feel the need to act now.

  She barged in on Cam and Astarte eating a mid-afternoon snack at the kitchen table. Cam immediately recognized the change in her body language. “What’s wrong?”

  She exhaled. “We’ve been followed. I’ll explain later, but we need to leave. Now.”

  He eyed her for a second, no doubt noticing her flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and sand covering her body. He nodded and pushed his chair back. “Okay.”

  “Just grab the essentials,” she ordered, marching to the bathroom to wash the sand from her eyes. “I want to be gone in five minutes.”

  They grabbed their computers, tossed some clothes and toiletries into suitc
ases, and threw a few incidentals directly into the trunk of the car. Cam raced the engine of the rented Camry. “Where to?”

  “I confronted them, so we have to assume they’re expecting we might make a run for it,” Amanda said. It was Monday afternoon, the early part of rush hour. They approached the onramps to Route 95. “If you go south, we’ll just get stuck in Boston traffic. So head north. We need to see if we have a tail.” She turned to face Astarte, huddled in the back seat with Venus. “Please don’t be frightened. I think we left before they could follow.”

  “I’m thinking I should call Lieutenant Poulos,” Cam said.

  Amanda vetoed the idea. “If they’re watching us they may have figured out a way to listen to our phone calls also.” Which made her consider something else. She tapped at her phone, searching the Internet for a carwash. “Take the next exit.”

  “To see if anyone’s following us?”

  “Yes. And for another reason also.”

  He glanced sideways at her. Keeping his voice low, he said, “You going to tell me what happened?”

  “Later.” Being on top of the red-haired woman, touching her, smelling her perfume—it was like rubbing salt on a sunburn. Had Cam done the same? Amanda shook the vision away and pointed. “Go into that carwash. Make sure to get the treatment that washes the undercarriage. If there’s a tracking device on our car, that should knock it off or short it out.”

  Fifteen minutes later they were back on the highway. “I didn’t see anyone following,” Cam said.

  “If they’re pros, you probably wouldn’t,” she replied.

  They drove in silence.

  Within minutes of the taxi dropping them off at his apartment on Monday afternoon, Amon and Rachel were naked in his bed. He felt like the gentlemanly thing to do was to talk a bit, maybe cuddle. “I have missed you,” he said, nibbling on her shoulder.

  “Mmm,” she purred. “Me too.”

  “Have you thought about what you’d like to do for dinner?”