In less than fifteen seconds the guard strode back to his post, coffee in hand, and sat down. As he turned and reached for his backpack Cardinal Conti crept quietly away around a corner and left the papal office wing. Guards patrolled the corridors – when Conti met one he bowed his head as if on a late night meditative stroll. No one stopped the Cardinal – obviously this holy man, unable to sleep, had chosen to walk these sacred halls deep in prayer.
Reaching his own office, Conti entered and locked the door. He put the photocopy in his desk, walked to a nearby couch and lay down. He would spend the rest of the night here. It would raise less questions than if his late-night departure time were noted on a sentry’s checkout sheet.
He fell asleep easily and dreamed about an ancient box so special it took a legion of Knights to protect it.
Chapter Sixteen
London
Brian preferred the daytime British Airways flight to London. Most planes from the States to Britain flew all night and arrived at the crack of dawn. That seemed counterproductive to Brian. He could leave Kennedy airport at 7:15 am, enjoy breakfast and a light lunch on the plane and arrive at seven pm local time. He rarely carried much luggage – the company flat in London was stocked with his clothes to allow him that convenience.
The express train from Heathrow to Paddington Station put him in central London by eight and he was at his flat in Cadogan Square twenty minutes later. After sitting on the plane all day he was ready for some exercise before bed – he put on his running gear and set off on a neighborhood run. Knightsbridge was busy this evening – pedestrians crowded Sloane Street, window-shopping at high-end boutiques that beckoned them and their money inside. He struggled with the crowds for a few blocks, then gave up. He turned onto Pont Street then up into trendy Beauchamp Place. Its one long block held stores, bars and Brian’s favorite Thai restaurant in London. Patara Thai’s open front door was inviting and the delicious smells wafting out made him hungry. Tomorrow night, he promised himself.
Heading east along Knightsbridge past Harrods, he turned behind the Sheraton into Lowndes Square then zigged and zagged back towards the building where his flat was located. Night had fallen and as he ran the last half-mile he took in the scenery. Street lamps created dim pockets of light along tree-lined sidewalks. This part of London had four-storied buildings in the Victorian style, each with a chimney pot backlit by the streetlights of Sloane Street a few blocks over. They reminded him of the antics of Bert, Dick Van Dyke’s chimney sweep character in Mary Poppins. London was a city and an experience he never grew tired of. Like New York but in a different way, London was another place he loved.
Back at the flat he checked his phone. One call, about an hour ago. He listened to voicemail and heard a familiar Oxford accent.
“Brian, old boy, I hope this call finds you safely back in God’s country. I know your plane was due to land a couple of hours ago so give me a call tonight if it’s not too late, or tomorrow if you’d rather. I’m anxious to see you when you have time to catch up.”
Lord Arthur Borland. The Earl of Weymouth. Brian smiled as he thought of his good friend and their adventures in Central America. He had become very fond of Arthur. He enjoyed the times with him more than with almost anyone else Brian knew. He glanced at his watch – almost ten pm. Not too late for a phone call to this night owl.
-----
The two men talked for half an hour, first about the tragedy in New York involving Bijan Rarities, then recalling the adventures they’d shared in Guatemala and Belize. Arthur was the British aristocrat who worked with Brian to bring down the Mafia boss John Spedino. At first things had appeared grim for Lord Borland in that escapade a year or so ago but it turned out well and Spedino had been put behind bars for life. At least that had been the idea when he was convicted.
“Did you know John Spedino escaped from the Guatemalan prison?”
“I hadn’t heard. That’s disturbing news. How did you find out?”
Brian explained that President Harrison had inquired and discovered Spedino had been missing for some time.
“That’s serious, Brian. Especially for us. Do you think he might have been involved in the bombing?”
“I can’t imagine how or why Spedino would have done this. It looks more like this was a very elaborate move to steal what I originally considered to be a worthless eighteenth century manuscript. You could be right but I think it’s something else. There’s no doubt it took someone with a lot of power and a lot of money to orchestrate the bombing of a building on Fifth Avenue and the murders of eleven people including a suicide bomber. All that for one volume of a set of old Knights Templars books? It just doesn’t make sense. Am I missing something?”
“Actually you are, Brian, if my hunches are right. I have an idea about that manuscript. Didn’t you tell me earlier it was one of several old books found in Nova Scotia?”
“Yes, it was. The collector bought it years ago, maybe around the same time as he acquired the other seven books. Some of those are virtually priceless – one of a kind and in unbelievable condition. All of those survived the explosion because they were locked in the vault.”
“Interesting, but I don’t think those seven have anything to do with this,” Borland replied. “I think the Templar book does, and I’m certain Nova Scotia does as well. I’ve been doing a little research over at the Monument Club and I have an interesting theory to present to you. Let me ask you, did you possibly make a copy of the manuscript that was stolen? Or any parts of it?”
“I didn’t. I just didn’t see the value in it and tossed it aside. I’m intrigued by your mysterious questions and I can’t wait to hear your theory. Are you available for lunch one day this week?”
“I know you just got to town, old boy, but I could meet tomorrow. Is that too soon?”
“For you, my Lord? That suits me just fine. How about 1 pm at the Club?”
-----
The Monument Club sits on the Victoria Embankment overlooking the Thames River. The massive building that has always been its home was erected in 1894, a few years after a group of men, linked by the common thread of archaeology, founded the club itself. There are a few women members today but its reading rooms, extensive library, bar and restaurant are dominated by men. The place is primarily a gentlemen’s club, an aroma of fine cigars lingering in the dark bar, the clink of an obligatory gin and tonic or martini preceding a leisurely lunch or dinner.
Some of the members are professional archaeologists and anthropologists. Others are amateurs or those otherwise interested peripherally in ancient things and interesting stories of the past. One of the latter, Brian had hoped for years to become a member someday. Once he owned Bijan Rarities and began to make a name for himself in the world of rarities, he petitioned his old friend Oscar Carrington for help.
Carrington, the owner of an exclusive antiquities shop in London’s posh Knightsbridge area, was pleased to put up his American friend for membership. It was convenient that the Monument Club had a location on Manhattan’s Upper East Side as well as the one in London and before long Brian Sadler found himself frequently at one location or the other for drinks, lunch or dinner. He also occasionally used its world-class reference libraries; each location contained tens of thousands of books, manuscripts and articles that were invaluable for research. If a needed tome weren’t available on one side of the pond, it was quickly dispatched from the other for a member’s use.
Lord Borland was also a member of the Monument Club. He had been invested automatically as the descendant of a member. His deceased father, Sir John Borland, the eighth Earl of Weymouth, had been perhaps the club’s most flamboyant and outspoken representative in its history. “Captain Jack,” as Arthur’s father was affectionately known to all, inherited a vast sum of money and spent much of it on adventure and treasure hunting.
Arthur Borland and Brian had met when the former requested help finding his father who had disappeared on an expedition to Guatemala. That
search revealed far more than just the fate of Arthur’s missing father. A vast horde of newly discovered Mayan codices and gold was now on display in a new museum at the ancient site of Tikal, Guatemala. Because of their significant involvements with the find, that museum bore the names of both Brian Sadler and Captain Jack Borland.
Lord Borland and Brian Sadler sat in the beautifully paneled bar enjoying glasses of Sancerre. Their table, Brian’s favorite, was next to twenty-foot windows overlooking the Thames. Waterloo Bridge was only a few hundred yards east of the club. The ultramodern London Eye Ferris wheel had been erected around the river bend to the west, out of sight of the Club’s lounge and restaurant. Brian was grateful not to have to gaze on that modern monstrosity every time he wanted to relax over a drink.
“Brian, it’s really good to see you. Given the circumstances you look well. I know this tragedy has been a burden on you. And the loss of Collette. How horrible for her family and for you both personally and professionally. She was an asset to Bijan, I know. And you lost a friend as well.”
They talked for half an hour about the bombing, possible reasons behind it and the ongoing investigation. Brian did most of the talking, Arthur interjecting a question or comment here and there. They finished the wine and moved to the dining room. More wine on the way, they placed their orders.
“All right, Arthur. You’ve kept me in suspense long enough. What’s your theory on the stolen manuscript?”
“You’re aware how extensive the Club’s collection of very old works is.”
Brian nodded.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Oak Island in Nova Scotia.”
He nodded again, a slight smile on his face.
Arthur sighed dramatically and reached into his briefcase, retrieving a sheaf of papers that appeared to be his notes.
“I see your smile. You’re thinking I’m just another crazy treasure hunter with yet another hunch about the contents of the Money Pit. But I’ve come across something very interesting. So hear me out. You may just learn something new today!”
Chapter Seventeen
Brian settled back in his chair, ready for a story about Oak Island. The British Earl was a great tale-teller. He managed to captivate Brian every time he had something new and mysterious to report. This time was no exception – the enigma of Oak Island was something that had interested Brian since he was a kid. A classic mystery set in North America – an ancient story involving pirates, treasure perhaps beyond imagination and someone who went to amazing lengths to create a booby-trapped pit. Who did it and why? Brian was surprised most of the world didn’t even seem to wonder. Most people had never heard of Oak Island.
Lord Borland referred to his notes occasionally as he told the story. “As you know, the theories about what lies at the bottom of the Money Pit range from pirates to the Vikings to native Americans to Inca lords and much more. Some have speculated that the crown jewels of France were hidden there in the Middle Ages. Or the gold the Spanish were seeking from the Mayans in Mexico. Or the manuscripts that will tell who William Shakespeare really was. Or that aliens who came on spaceships secreted the knowledge of the ages. No one knows. But there is one theory, one possibility I haven’t yet mentioned, that keeps turning up in my research. I think I know who built the Money Pit but I don’t yet know why. Any ideas who?”
Brian smiled. “You’re enjoying this guessing game, aren’t you, Arthur? I give up – at the moment I can’t recall my Money Pit history well enough to think whom you haven’t mentioned.”
“Then I’ll tell you, dear boy. I’ve spent hours here in the Monument Club’s library. They have copies, originals too sometimes, of the actual records of the earliest syndicates who tackled the Money Pit. I found the original journal of a man named Simeon Lynds. He lived near Oak Island and organized the first expedition. It was called the Onslow Syndicate.”
“I’ve read about Lynds and the Syndicate. I think it’s fascinating that our Club has his account of it.”
“So do I. His old journal was written in 1804 and 1805 at the time these fellows took the Money Pit down nearly a hundred feet. According to Lynds’ diary, they hit what he described as a wooden chest. When they arrived the next day the pit had flooded almost to the top. That was the first encounter with booby-traps in the shaft. A year later the syndicate dug a new pit alongside the existing one. They went down over a hundred feet, tunneled sideways to reach the Money Pit and that new shaft flooded too.”
Brian said, “I remember this vaguely. That’s when the Onslow Syndicate gave up, correct?”
“Right. They ran out of patience and money and apparently the syndicate members, like the three teenagers who had first dug out the pit, went their own ways. Interestingly, those teens grew up. One bought property Oak Island; he and some former members of the Onslow Syndicate invested in the search again years later.”
“So did you learn anything new from old Simeon’s journal?”
“Ah, I haven’t gotten to the interesting part yet. Patience, dear boy. Patience.”
Over the next half hour Arthur Borland told Brian what else Simeon Lynds had written in his journal. Lynds was a well-educated and wealthy man and he was a member of the Masonic Lodge.
Borland pulled an index card from his pocket. “Pardon my relying on notes but this next part is tricky. In addition to being a Mason the diary says Simeon was the leader of a shadowy group called The United Religious, Military and Masonic Orders of the Temple and of Saint John of Jerusalem, Palestine, Rhodes and Malta. That name’s a mouthful, and after using the complete moniker once Lynds only refers to it as ‘The Order’ afterwards.
“Lynds led the Order. He and other members invested in the Onslow Syndicate. Members of that mysterious secret group he called the Order wanted what lay hidden in the Money Pit.”
Brian’s interest was piqued now. He leaned forward, wanting more information. Taking another sip of the Sancerre he asked, “What else do you know about the Order? What are you holding back, Arthur? Because I know you are. You weave too good a tale to give me everything up front.”
Borland smiled. “The Order had several subsets, several of which became part of Freemasonry. These sub-orders include The Knights of Malta, the Knights of Saint Paul and the Knights of the Red Cross. Have you heard of any of them?”
“Not that I recall. Are they relevant to your story?”
“Not really.”
“OK, Arthur. Is there a point to this tale? I love Oak Island mysteries but what secrets are you holding back?” Brian smiled as he chided the British Earl.
Arthur gave him a wink. “Perhaps I forgot to mention one other sub-group that sprang out of this association which Simeon Lynds nicknamed the Order. The other part was called The Knights of the Temple.” He stopped, leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. He smiled as he watched Brian.
“The Knights of the Temple. That’s awfully close to…wait a second. Are you saying…?”
“Am I saying what, Brian? Do you see where this is going?”
“Are you saying Simeon Lynds and the members of the Onslow Syndicate were Knights Templars?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Not the same Knights Templars as the ones who were exterminated in 1310, but directly related to them in terms of thought, deed and purpose. These later Templars restarted the order in secret in the 1400s. They were dedicated to preservation of what the early Templars began, they were committed to Templar ideals and they knew the secrets of the earlier group. These secrets were passed down in coded books over the centuries. Including, I’m certain, the answer to whatever was hidden at the bottom of the pit the Templars built on Oak Island.”
“So these Templars were the Masonic Knights Templars? I think my grandfather might have been a member, actually.”
“Absolutely not. The Templars I’m talking about have nothing to do with the Freemason Templars. Same name, different groups entirely. Simeon Lynds’ Templars are directly tied to the tenth century Order through
the Catholic Church.”
“Really? Incredible. Does the secret Order of Templars in the Catholic Church still exist?”
“I’m still researching that but I believe so. If I can find out more about them it may explain why someone went to such lengths to get the manuscript that was at Bijan Rarities’ gallery in New York.”
The story stopped as the men ordered coffee. Thoughts swirled through Brian’s head. Arthur said nothing, watching as Brian processed the information he had heard.
Finally Brian said, “So the manuscript that I got was part of a set. And I presume it’s one of the books you’re talking about – the ones with coded secrets of the Templars. Am I right so far?”
“Absolutely.”
“Obviously the one given to me was very important to someone. Do you have any idea where the others are? Have they been stolen as well?”
“No, they haven’t. They’re safe and sound.”
Brian saw Arthur’s impish smile. The Earl was still playing games, revealing almost nothing.
“OK, Arthur,” Brian said, serious now. “Knock it off. Tell me the rest.”
“All right. There are five volumes in all, each bearing the title Opus Militum Xpisti or The Work of the Soldiers of Christ. The first was recorded by the original Knights Templars, the ones who were rounded up in 1307 by King Philip of France and exterminated in 1310. It would have been a stand-alone account of the two hundred years of Templar existence had it not been for the men who came along in the 1400s and secretly resurrected the Order.”
Arthur paused to allow Brian to soak in the information.
“So volumes two through five are records of the Knights Templars who followed the earlier ones? The volume that was the reason for the bombing of my gallery is part of that set?”
Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries BoxSet Page 75
