The Phoenician Code

by Karim El Koussa

  “We can still give him an offer he cannot refuse,” one of the men, seated on a luxurious couch suggested, while tapping with his right hand fingers on the black desk close by. A silver ring, crowned with a blue precious stone, gleamed from his fourth finger.

  Clothed in a light-blue shirt, topped with an elegant dark-grey costume, he looked to be around his late fifties. A well-trimmed moustache decorated his round face with large blue eyes. Golden hair covered his head. “I mean, we did it before, hmmm, we did it many times before, so why not go with it again?” he added, giving more meaning to his proposition.

  “And how do you suggest doing it, Brother James?” asked the man facing him on the other couch. His thumb swaying a golden ring, capped with a precious red stone on his ring finger. “Do you think he would be interested in our means?” he gazed at him with serious eyes.

  He was clad in a black outfit over a white shirt. In his early thirties, he had a clean-shaven, rhombus-shaped face, with little green eyes, and long black hair streaming down to his shoulders. “He is Lebanese. He won’t fall into our trap. I suggest we give him an ultimatum to leave the country, instead,” he adjoined.

  “Every man on the face of the Earth has a price, Brother Herbert. We all know that. Let us ask ourselves a very basic question here: what does this man, Paul, want? Is it money? Is it fame?” he looked at B:. James, and then at the man still standing by the window, looking older than both of them. “I’m sure we can buy him. He came to Geneva to show himself, and he, well, succeeded, to a certain extent, in attracting the minds of the intellectual community present at the Château. So… if we offer him international exposure, allow him access to the mainstream marketplace in both the UK and the USA, write his name in the Hall of Fame, he would certainly comply with our demands. They all do, in the end. Don’t they?” his words surged more as a matter-of-fact plan that never failed, than as a question addressed to the Brothers, meeting clandestinely, inside a well-furnished room in the style of the Middle Ages.

  B:. Herbert remained quiet. He, in fact, couldn’t find a single word, to contend with the logic proposed by B:. James. He just lingered, perhaps in profound thought, pondering about the possibility of such a scheme working out, without certain public exposure of the Brotherhood by the media.

  “And what if this man fails to negotiate with us?” The old man, probably in his late sixties, moved away from the window to take his place on a large royal armchair, situated on the western side behind the desk. Dressed in a black suit over a black shirt, he looked like a man of powerful status. His long shady face with a dark-grey beard, added to his curly hair of the same color, gave the clear image of a practiced person.

  Attached on the wall behind him, a painting, depicting a Temple, loomed over them like a specter. “Our: Ordo Supremus Militaris Templi Hierosolymitani has been established in the doctrine, implemented principally by the Knights Templar; originating from France in the most sacred year: 1118 AD. Since then, the Craft has been operating; stealthily moving out from the House of Shlomo, and into the Temple of Solomon in the Holy City of Jerusalem.” He looked at them—one after the other—with piercing fiery eyes, took a profound breath and continued, “We will not tolerate a child, at the dawn of the twenty first century, coming from Lebanon, to imperil our very existence,” he said, with finality.

  “Excuse me, Grand Master,” B:. James interfered, “Mr. Khoury is not a child. The report we got on him showed that he is very well versed in ancient history, and particularly that of Phoenicia. He has an insightful acquaintance with the Temple of Ba’al-Melkart in Tyre, something we can never ignore or even judge as a myth because of its historicity. His attack on the historicity of the Temple of Solomon is legitimate, from a historical point of view, something we cannot deny or prove otherwise,” he paused for a thought.

  “Sheer profanity, Brother James,” the Grand Master snapped in anger. “This is total betrayal of the Doctrine. Are you siding with him; with history?” he asked, enraged.

  Brother Herbert was in total shock at what he had just heard. Young and passionate; he must have surely considered the input of B:. James as nothing but a blasphemy against the Craft, something he would not accept as long as the phantom of the Great Temple of Solomon hovered above them in that room.

  “On the contrary, I’m siding with the Lodge,” B:. James rejoined calmly. With his time-tested tactics in critical situations such as this one—and being a shrewd speaker—he explained, “Mr. Khoury’s profile revealed that he has a deep tendency towards everything related to esoteric science and Secret Societies. In fact, his familiarity with his ancestor, King Hiram of Tyre—whom we consider the second great symbolic pillar, representing Strength—could be an asset to us.”

  “How is that so?” B:. Herbert asked in a nasal, yet ironic tone of voice.

  “Let me finish,” B:. James retorted, with a strange authority that impeded the man facing him to open his mouth. Assured that he would not add anything else, he continued, “Again, Paul’s awareness of the Architect, Hiram Abif—a man he considers one of his great ancestors; while we, the Brotherhood, deem him the Master Craftsman, forming the third great symbolic pillar of Beauty—could add even more to that asset.”

  “Hold on a second, Brother James,” the Grand Master veered on his regal armchair, with eyes probing the air left and right. He leaned, all too slowly, on the desk; his ten fingers interlocked, and faced the man he had just addressed, “I don’t know if I understood well; or maybe my aged ears are deceiving me. But are you, in a way, insinuating to offer the enemy a membership into the Craft?”

  “Not at all. I’m merely suggesting that I arrange a meeting, and try to reason with him on the concept that King Solomon, who embodies the first great symbolic pillar to us—that of wisdom—was but a good friend, a brother to his ancestors. Playing on his national ego, I can also show him puzzling documents that would wash his brain completely, and turn him into a friend.” He paused for a thought, his thumb wobbling his silver ring. The blue precious stone sparkled in the room, legitimating his crafty mind.

  The Grand Master and B:. Herbert were in total incredulity upon hearing that.

  “When this transpires,” B:. James resumed his talk, breaking the silence that had reigned for a few seconds, “We keep him at bay, a confused friend, not an enemy. Only then will we offer him riches in a world that he so much desires, the world of intellectual Shows; something we can afford to do easily. Therefore, blinded by his success and fame, Mr. Khoury would unconsciously be giving us… total Obedience,” he finished with great tenacity, took his pipe out from his small leather case, and lit it in a calmness only sly people can master.

  “You, Brother Herbert, what do you think of the plan?” the Grand Master invited the young master to speak.

  “Well, I’m not actually as experienced as either of you, Masters, to know what is the right thing to do under such circumstances,” he replied in a modest voice, respecting the hierarchal status each man had within the Craft. “The plan sounds practicable, however, if it was solely me deciding on that, I would revert to my previous thoughts; give that Lebanese an ultimatum to leave the country at once.” He gave a forthcoming look at Master James.

  “Aha, and what would we have gained from that?” M:. James asked pryingly. “Mr. Khoury would keep on attacking the sole cause of our existence, something we cannot accept,” he uttered, in a tranquil motion, using the logic of the Grand Master, who turned his eyes towards M:. Herbert.

  “Nothing at all!” he answered almost automatically. “In fact, we would have gained nothing, and lost nothing. As long as the man speaks in Lebanon, he would cause us no danger.”

  “Aha... but what if Mr. Khoury got another chance to communicate his ideas in some other western country, such as this one?” M:. James asked, considering.

  “No one would take his words seriously. Have you forgotten? We control the western media, and it is, indeed, the most powerful weapon we have. Do you really think t
hat the audience that heard him speak yesterday will remain under his scholarly influence for so long? I don’t truly think so.” He paused for an idea, and continued, “Have you forgotten what happened to the Copenhagen Group?”

  Silence reigned for a few seconds.

  “Very well, Brother Herbert, since you’re not truly afraid of an imperative damage done to us by his speech, in the long run, as you said, though contrary to our beliefs; why make such a big fuss over sending him out of the country? He could stay here instead and talk as much as he wished against us.”

  “Quite the opposite! I...” B:. Herbert rushed to counter his brother in the Craft, but was instantly interrupted by the Grand Master. “That is enough!” he snapped loudly, as he looked at each of them in turn, with an authoritative motion.

  “Enough with that winner-or-loser kind of debate.” He forcefully banged his fist on the wooden surface of the desk, enough to cause them to swerve quickly towards him in submission. “Your plot, Master James, of brainwashing that fellow called Paul might truly work. A possibility I don’t neglect, but I will not debate it now for the simple reason that we do not have enough time to play games with him. It is only fear that I believe works most of the time. Bullying him and sending him out of the country is just the right method to get his mind paralyzed; in a world we govern: the New World Order,” he uttered with great firmness.

  After hearing that, M:. James lowered his eyes slowly away from the Grand Master, and looked elsewhere. His scheme of winning the enemy over by rational means had failed. “La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure,” he mumbled under his breath in French. The fumes rising from his pipe made him think that the Grand Master had opted for force rather than diplomacy.

  “My mind is set,” the Grand Master revealed, as he looked at M:. Herbert. “Send Mr. Khoury the ‘BB’s’ ultimatum without delay. This meeting is through. Thank you, Gentlemen, and good night.”

  M:. Herbert was very pleased, indeed, by the decision of the Grand Master. He smiled back at the old man, who was standing up, preparing to leave the room. His wrinkled hand reposed on a black wooden cane, crowned with a white silver skull. “Right away, Grand Master,” he uttered in the total silence that ensued.

  ***

  Back at the Eden Hotel, Paul had just finished surfing the Internet, checking his emails, communicating with friends, and enjoying his second cup of tea outside on the terrace. With a grin, he greeted a nice blonde couple, sitting on a table nearby. He reckoned they were German from their looks and language. As usual, Paul left the coffee table, and strolled to the lane beneath the terrace. He sat on the bench and lit a cigarette, his eyes set on the smooth water of the Geneva Lake. He seemed to have been thoroughly enjoying the picturesque scene ahead of him. Yet, time flew by him, and he couldn’t believe the watch on his wrist when it marked 8:47 PM.

  Dressed in a casual outfit: a pair of jeans and a red shirt, he walked into the Lobby with his laptop on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Khoury, Mr. Khoury, excuse me Sir,” an animated voice he seemed to recognize echoed all around the Lobby. Paul quickly turned in the direction of that sweet sound, and walked towards the person who was standing with a grin behind the reception desk. It was the beautiful Fiona this time. When he reached her, she extended a hand, delivering an envelope to him. “This is for you, Sir,” she uttered softly to him.

  Paul didn’t budge, not moving an inch towards or away from her. He just stood there like a statue. The envelope looked like the previous one he had received two days ago—the envelope that contained the threatening message. Only this one was a bit bigger. His heartbeat accelerated, his breath faded.

  “Thank you, Fiona,” he said, trying to get past this turbulent power. With a smile that he managed with difficulty Paul took the envelope from her delicate hand.

  “It arrived about… an hour ago,” she asserted softly, as she looked at the clock hanging on the wall. “Two men dressed in black suits, wearing white gloves, delivered it. Gosh, they looked so serious.”

  Paul didn’t say a word. He just nodded, and left the Lobby to his room. All he could hear behind him was her asking, “Are you ok? Is everything alright?”

  Like the previous envelope, this one had also been sealed with the red wax often used in official correspondence. Only, this time, two letters seemed to have been imprinted upon the seal: the letters ‘BB’. What could that be, now? Paul was even more confounded than before in the very depths of his mind. Strengthening up, he lifted his eyebrows, and unlocked the packet.

  The intense words inscribed on the black paper shook him to the bones. “An ultimatum this time, not just a warning!” he muttered under his breath. With a hollowed and anxious look on his face, Paul felt something else that was concealed within the package. A rope, something wiry, perhaps for strangling or at least that’s what he concluded. With a mixture of fear and rage showing on his round face, he tossed the package on the bed.

  The black paper read:

  The Temple of Solomon is a reality.

  You have 6 hours to leave the country.

  No room for mercy.

  Time is ticking… 5 hours and 59 minutes left

  .8.

  The Escape

  Sunday, 02:07 AM

  In the middle of ROOM 404 at the Eden Palace Hotel, Paul was pacing the floor back and forth in total confusion. He didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. How could he? His mind was completely blocked, no clear thoughts whatsoever. In fact, the MEA, Middle East Airlines flight back to Beirut was an impossible option at this moment, and not even 6 hours from now. It was scheduled 4 days later on Wednesday morning, the 13th of October.

  Then, a thought came rushing into his mind like a glimpse of hope. He turned on his laptop, hooked onto the Internet, and checked for alternate airlines flights. The cheapest one he found was listed for the next day at 2:10 PM, almost 17 hours from now. The closest one was around 6:00 AM, almost 9 hours from now, and it was very expensive. Either way, I will be dead by then, he pondered. That specific thought frightened him to the last neuron in his brain.

  “Damn!” he snapped. Paul took a quick glance at his watch. It marked 9:27 PM.

  5 hours and 32 minutes left, his mind calculated. “Think. Think. Think,” he uttered under his breath.

  Then, he thought of checking the train stations. Why not? he reasoned. Paul spent almost another half an hour calling them, one after the other, but nothing worked. No train was leaving Montreux before the deadline, except one, which was unfortunately packed.

  4 hours and 57 minutes left, his mind analyzed. His heart throbbed faster. Then, out of nowhere, it dawned on him like the early rays of the sun. He moved along the room towards the bedside table, picked up the phone, and called the reception desk.

  “Hello, Fiona, it is Paul Khoury,” he greeted her, calmly.

  “Oh, Hello, Mr. Khoury. How can I help you, Sir?” she asked softly.

  “I need you to connect me to Mr. Thomas Lampson’s room, please.”

  “Right away. Please hold a second.”

  “Thank you.”

  The few seconds that elapsed, before Fiona succeeded in linking the two men together, seemed like an eternity to Paul. His mind was relieved when he heard the voice of the erudite Professor over the phone.

  “Mr. Khoury, how are you?” Mr. Lampson asked in a warm tone.

  “I’m doing ok, Professor. Thank you. Hope you’re doing fine as well. I thought of contacting you in hopes of meeting you for an urgent matter. Would it be possible to meet now?” Paul asked all at once.

  “Sure. Listen, I feel like having a glass of wine at the restaurant. Would you care to join me in 40 minutes?” the Professor inquired.

  “Definitely. That sounds good.”

  “Very well, Mr. Khoury. I’ll see you then. Bye for now,” Mr. Lampson hung up with a concerned frown on his face despite presenting a posture of contentment.

  At the restaurant, almost 45 minutes later, Paul and Thomas were
sitting side by side in a classy bar—displaying chestnut wood furnishings—enjoying their first sips of wine. The waiter interrupted the little chat they were having about the seminar by serving them wine a couple of minutes earlier. He placed some French cheese arranged in a nice plate in front of them.

  “Courtesy of the Hotel,” he said, smiling.

  Paul and Thomas nodded kindly to the man. Behind them, the restaurant was packed, although it was big enough to welcome over two hundred people, maybe more. A series of rectangular beige pillars, linking the carpeted floor to the wooden ceiling, divided the bar from the dining tables. Nicely furnished with fine tableware and perfumed candles to the side, the tables were framed by lovely plants, placed in light-brown wooden pots, adorning the restaurant. The lights were soft.

  3 hours and 52 minutes left, Paul chewed, as he looked at his watch. It marked 11:03 PM.

  “What’s wrong, Paul?” Thomas queried, pensively. “I have a strange feeling. I mean, ever since you came to meet me here, a few minutes ago, your mind seems to be elsewhere, as if preoccupied with something that is bothering you. Is that so?”

  Paul didn’t answer right away; he just looked at Thomas for a few moments. Somehow, he felt assured that the man sitting next to him was a caring person. It was clear from the sound of his voice, and the look in his eyes. He pulled out the two envelopes from his jacket, and placed them on the bar.

  Mr. Lampson extended a hand to get a hold of the envelopes, and a minute later, he froze. “What is this?” he asked determinedly. “Who sent you this?” he was looking at Paul, intently.

  “I don’t really know. They were delivered to the reception desk by two men, dressed in black suits and wearing white gloves,” Paul answered. “The receptionist informed me that they looked very serious.”