Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America (Templars in America Series Book 2)

by David S. Brody

Bigelow nodded, the protrusion on his neck bouncing as he did so. “You make a valid point.” Even he must realize many people viewed the Mormons as some kind of cult, like Moonies or Hare Krishnas.

  The Mormons were not exactly desperate to get the Governor elected—for the most part they lived pretty good lives, not just in Utah but around the country. But blue ribbon candidates didn’t come around every day, and the election of a Mormon President would solidify their position in America’s mainstream in much the way John F. Kennedy’s election in the 1960s had quieted mistrust directed at Catholics. And Barack Obama’s election proved that, in America, anyone could become President. So while not desperate, they wanted it badly. Badly enough to recruit non-Mormons like Georgia to help shape political strategy. And they sometimes even took her advice.

  But why would she want to help them? Their policies toward women were anachronistic, and she immediately distrusted anyone she couldn’t get drunk with. Yet her career as an intelligence operative had given her a profound understanding of Islamic hatred for Western culture and ideology—there was no way the Arab world would voluntarily end its holy war against the West. The U.S. was locked in a fight to the death, one that would be won with swords not plowshares. And she, along with most others in the intelligence community, viewed the Mormons as strong allies in this fight. Though she found their religious beliefs to be rigid and oftentimes paranoid in addition to chauvinistic, they were effective and loyal foot soldiers—no other group in America could be counted on to be more patriotic. They were, in some ways, a less violent version of the jihadists who comprised Islam’s most ardent advocates.

  She continued. “The Democrats aren’t stupid—they’re going to try to link the Governor with all the extremist Mormon beliefs they can, just like the Republicans used Obama’s middle name and his ties to radical groups to try to turn Americans against him. The first thing they’ll try to do is bring up the whole polygamy thing. But the Governor has such an All-American family that I don’t think that will fly.” She paused here, choosing her words carefully. “So they’ll be looking for another way to show voters how the Book of Mormon really is far outside mainstream Christianity.”

  “Hold on for second. I don’t understand your point.” The speaker was a bow-tied elderly banker. “Why is it you think our religious teachings would be so distasteful to other Christians? We are just another branch of Christianity, just like the Catholics and Baptists and Methodists.”

  This was no time to pull any punches. “With all due respect, no, you’re not. Since you asked, how many Americans do you think would vote for a candidate who is a devout follower of a religion founded by a convicted con man?” She paused. “A con man who claims to have been told by God to take at least 28 wives, some of whom were as young as fourteen? Where I come from, people who claim to have self-serving conversations like that with God are seen as either kooks or liars. And that’s being kind.”

  She looked around. A few of the men’s faces had turned red; most shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Trey Buckner merely glared at her. “Look, sorry to be blunt, but you guys brought me in here to tell the truth. You have to face reality.” She focused on the few men, including the banker, who seemed to be most bothered by her words. “And how about the Governor’s belief, as a devout Mormon, that all other Christians—the very voters he is depending on—are in a state of permanent sin? Because, as much as you try to hide it, that’s what your religion teaches. Just like it teaches that polygamy is practiced in heaven, where, by the way, unmarried women are not admitted. And how about a candidate who believes that ancient Israelites came here to fight a war against a race of giants, and that the descendants of these people became our Native Americans? News to most people. As is your belief that Jesus, after he was resurrected, ignored his followers in Jerusalem and instead descended to preach to the natives here in North America.”

  “Every religion has certain … extreme positions and unorthodox teachings,” mumbled the banker. “Nobody condemns Hinduism just because its adherents believe they may have been a mosquito in a previous life.”

  “But Americans aren’t being asked to put a Hindu in the White House,” Georgia said. “Remember how the Republicans attacked Obama when they found out about his pastor’s anti-American sermons? That was poison for him—he would have lost the election if he hadn’t thrown that preacher under the bus. Well, the Governor’s going to be in the same position if all the peculiar little details contained in the Book of Mormon become public. But unlike Obama, he can’t just change pastors. He’d have to renounce his entire religion.”

  “Which simply is not going to happen.” The attorney Bigelow clenched his jaw. “So what do you advise we do?”

  “I can’t guarantee it will work, but here’s what I would suggest. The liberal press in this country is incredibly self-righteous—they won’t bring up the religion issue head-on. That’s why, once the Governor clearly stated his opposition to polygamy, Mormonism wasn’t an issue last time he ran. But the press will happily report on a controversy involving religion once they get the whiff of that controversy brewing. And that’s the danger of January and his artifacts—in order to cover a debate about whether the artifacts prove the authenticity of the Book of Mormon, the press will first have to summarize the truths stated in that Book.” She raised her chin. “And then our candidate is done.”

  Bigelow squinted at her over a pair of reading glasses, impatience in his voice. “Perhaps I did not hear correctly. What specifically is it you are suggesting?” She was glad she was not a female associate in his law firm.

  Georgia sat back. This was one of those times when her CIA bosses might not approve of her political recommendations. But she did what she always did in these cases—she went with her gut. “Apparently I need to spell it out: You do whatever is necessary to bury January and his artifacts.”

  Cam’s cell phone rang as the corporate jet descended toward Providence. Salazar. January had returned to the cockpit so Cam answered.

  “I’ll be at Foxwoods in an hour.”

  “I’m probably flying over your head right now.” Whispering, Cam quickly described his trip. He wasn’t sure it was wise to ally himself with the mercenary, but after spending a few hours with January he knew he didn’t have much choice. January was the most dangerous of adversaries—he believed he was doing God’s will, and he wasn’t afraid of death. “I can meet you around midnight. Assuming he lets me go.”

  Salazar considered this for a few seconds. “He doesn’t gain anything by keeping two hostages. He’ll let you go. By the way, I brought a friend.”

  “A friend?” One mercenary was bad enough.

  “I’ll let her say hi.” After a few seconds a sharp bark echoed across the phone line.

  “Is that Venus?” Cam and Amanda had left her in a kennel, expecting to pick her up after a night at Foxwoods.

  “I think we might need her. She knows Amanda’s scent.”

  “How’d you get her?”

  “You told me her name and breed. I called the local kennels. Convinced them you asked me to pick her up.”

  “You could have just called me first.” There was something overly … familiar about the mercenary’s actions. Sort of like an acquaintance who pulled up a chair at the dinner table uninvited.

  “No need.”

  Hopefully he could spring Amanda just as efficiently. “Okay, whatever. So what next?”

  “I’m pretty sure I know where January lives—an old army buddy owns a fence company and he remembers doing a job for a middle-aged guy near Foxwoods a few years ago. Not many residential jobs around there, so I think this is the property.” He gave Cam directions to a Burger King not far from the highway. “Meet me there. Swing by your hotel first and get some of Amanda’s dirty laundry, a sock or panties. Wear black and dress warm.”

  Cam hung up. He had no idea what they would be doing, but it would feel good to be doing something.

  Amanda did her best to remain a
n animated and energized playmate to the little girl, swallowing both the pain in her ribcage and the bitter taste of being held captive. Astarte was extremely bright—she read and wrote well above her third-grade level—and she seemed to have a good knowledge of current events and the world around her. What she lacked were playmates and the chance just to be a kid. Eliza had brought them popcorn, and now they sat on the floor and watched The Little Mermaid. It was ten o’clock, but apparently Astarte didn’t have a bedtime.

  “Aunt Eliza doesn’t like this movie—she says Ariel misbehaved by disobeying her father. But Uncle Jefferson says it’s okay because her destiny was to find her prince.”

  “Does he ever tell you who your prince might be?”

  “No. He says only God knows.”

  On the screen, the mermaid Ariel swam to her secret hiding place. “When I was a girl in England,” Amanda said, “I had a secret hiding place in my house that nobody else knew about. It was quite an old house, and it had a room hidden behind a closet.” Not exactly true, but worth a try.

  Astarte’s eyes lit up. “Me too! There’s a secret room where Uncle Jefferson keeps his important things. I’m the only person he lets go in there.”

  Amanda feigned disappointment. “Well, that doesn’t really count. If you can’t go in there without him, it’s not really your special place.” She turned back to the television.

  Astarte’s cobalt eyes fired. “I can too go in there myself! I know the combination and everything.”

  “Astarte,” Amanda said, adopting her best Mary Poppins voice, “young ladies of proper breeding do not make up stories.”

  “I did not make it up!”

  The girl was obviously not accustomed to being chastised. The collection was why Amanda had been abducted; it might also be a key to her escape. Eliza had said goodnight, and Judith sat guard outside the bedroom door, but otherwise the house seemed to be empty. Was there a way to access the private room without Judith intervening? “I find it hard to believe your uncle would entrust such important information to … someone so young.”

  Astarte jumped to her feet, her long dark braids swinging in anger. “Follow me. I’ll prove it.”

  Instead of heading toward the door, the girl stomped across the room and pulled a toy chest away from the wall next to her bed. Along this wall the roofline allowed only three feet of headroom. A small door was set into the low wall; Astarte yanked it open to reveal a narrow storage area tucked into the roof eaves running, apparently, the entire length of the building. Pulling a flashlight off her night table, Astarte stepped into the alcove. “Follow me. Unless you’re afraid.”

  “One second.” Amanda stuffed a couple of pillows under the blankets on both beds and turned the lights and television off; if Judith checked, it would look like they were asleep. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Astarte was able to walk almost upright, while Amanda, trying to avoid twisting her ribcage, bent her knees and neck to squeeze her way along. They seemed to have moved along the entire length of the three-bay garage until, at the far end of the structure, Astarte’s light illuminated another small door. “What’s on the other side?” Amanda asked. She had no interest in meeting up with Judith’s flashlight again.

  Astarte’s anger had faded, replaced by a giddy excitement. “It’s the dining room. But we always eat at the kitchen table.” She nudged the door open and ducked through. Amanda followed, cupping her hand over Astarte’s flashlight. Moonlight illuminated the room as she strained her ears, listening for Judith. Nothing.

  “Where to next?”

  “This way.” The girl passed into the kitchen and pointed to a deadbolt on a paneled door. “That lock is hard for me to open.” Amanda snapped it sideways and slowly pulled the thick door toward her. A steep staircase descended in front of them, the same stairway that had brought Amanda to her upstairs prison. Astarte led the way with her flashlight. Amanda paused, her eye catching the glow of a cordless phone mounted on the wall next to the door. She lifted the receiver, slid it into her pocket and pulled the door closed behind them. Hopefully nobody would notice the phone missing.

  Cool air and the faint smell of gasoline filled her nostrils as she followed the princess down the darkened stairwell. “Don’t worry, we won’t be in the garage for long. And it’s warm in Uncle Jefferson’s room.” The girl must have noticed Amanda shivering. “He calls it his bunk-bed, but I don’t know why.”

  Astarte actually had quite an elevated vocabulary for her age. “Do you mean ‘bunker,’ perhaps?”

  The girl grinned. “Oops, bunker.”

  Astarte jumped off the bottom step and led Amanda to the back corner of the garage. She shone her light on a steel bulkhead door, the kind usually used to access basements from the back yard. Amanda reached down. “Shall I open it?”

  “Yup. Just pull.”

  Another stairwell led them down another full flight, bringing them outside the footprint of the garage and into the space between—and below—the yard separating the compound’s main house and the garage. Apparently either structure accessed the underground bunker. At the bottom of the stairs they reached a landing in front of a steel door. A keypad glowed green next to the door. “This is where we need the combination,” Astarte announced.

  Amanda didn’t want to come this far only for the girl to have second thoughts. “I still have trouble believing your uncle gave you the combination.”

  “He didn’t give it to me. I watched him push the buttons.” She paused, her eyes sad. “Sometimes people think because I’m little, I’m not very smart.”

  Amanda resisted the urge to bend down and comfort the girl. Not yet. “Well, you must be quite smart if you really do remember the secret code.”

  Astarte reached up and flipped open the cover to the keypad. As Amanda watched, she carefully pressed the buttons one-by-one, her mouth silently forming the letters as she worked to spell the word correctly: P-R-I-N-C-E-S-S-4-0. The red light on the bottom of the keypad flashed green and a hidden deadbolt released. “There. I told you I could do it.”

  Amanda pushed the door open. “Well, it seems as if I owe you an apology!” She crouched and hugged Astarte. “Now let’s go explore.”

  They passed through the door into a simple rectangular-shaped room with a series of museum-like, glass-covered display cases running down the middle and both side walls of the room. Amanda walked around, scanning the collection. Each case displayed a number of artifacts, most of them stone, and each artifact featured a small card with a typewritten explanation of its provenance and significance. There were probably hundreds of artifacts in total, arranged chronologically, with dates ranging from 500 BC to medieval times. “These are absolutely fabulous, Astarte.” She would love to spend a week here. With Cam.

  “Uncle Jefferson says this is the best collection in the world.”

  At the far side of the rectangular room another door and keypad entry system sat recessed in a wall. “What’s behind that door?”

  Astarte marched over and input the same code. “More artifacts.” She pushed open the door and lights automatically came on as they walked in. This room was smaller, but as in the first room the artifacts were arranged chronologically. The display cases in this room were painted black, unlike the white-painted cases in the larger room. “Why are the cases painted different colors, Astarte?” For some reason it seemed important.

  “Uncle Jefferson says the artifacts prove that God’s people came to America a long time ago. He says rocks can’t lie.” She waited until Amanda looked her in the eye. “But some rocks were made by the devil to confuse us. So he keeps those ones in the black cases. Nobody’s supposed to see the devil’s rocks.”

  The girl said it matter-of-factly before turning and returning to the larger room. “Devil’s rocks,” Amanda whispered to herself. On impulse, she lifted the hinged cover of one of the display cases and slipped a carved white stone the size of a paperback book under her shirt.

  CHAPTER 6

 
; “How was your meeting, Uncle?” Astarte asked, her eyes wide with interest.

  “Very good, my little princess. But I’m surprised you’re still awake. It’s past midnight.” The two of them sat kitty-corner at January’s small square kitchen table, like lovers at a Paris café.

  “I heard your car come in. Aunt Eliza made me eat dinner without you. I wanted to wait.”

  A wave of warmth gushed through his decaying body. He and the girl always ate dinner together, just the two of them. It was his one chance to be alone with her, to share his knowledge, to tutor her on what she needed to know to fulfill her destiny. It was his favorite time of the day. And it was thing that made him most sad about dying. “And how was your day with Miss Amanda?”

  “We had fun playing. Then Miss Amanda tried to run away. But Judith brought her back.”

  January had heard this all already. “What is she doing now?” He picked at a piece of cold chicken.

  “She’s asleep.” But he had not adequately answered her original question, and she was not to be dissuaded. She leaned closer. “You haven’t told me anything about your meeting.”

  He sighed. “Well, Mr. Thorne—”

  She pulled back and crinkled her nose. “Sorry, Uncle, but your breath is smelling worse.”

  He smiled sadly. You could always trust an eight-year-old to be brutally honest. “I’m sorry,” he said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “It’s because my body is decaying on the inside.”

  Astarte took his hand. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. I still love you.” She leaned back in. “Please tell me about Mr. Thorne.”

  He blew his nose into a handkerchief. Somehow the love of this little girl had become the most compelling thing in his life. Other than his mission, of course. And thankfully the two were intimately intertwined. “So, our Mr. Thorne is a very capable fellow. Intelligent, but not the kind of intelligence you get just from reading books. He has the kind of intelligence you get from observing the world and learning from it.”