Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  Peter rocked forward. “But people don’t cross an ocean just to hide something. Even a treasure. There are easier ways to hide things.”

  “Valid point. In fact evidence exists that the treasures were hidden in Iceland before being transported to America—80 Templar Knights arrived in Iceland in 1217 and an Icelandic researcher believes he has located the cave where the treasure was buried. Later the Templars retrieved the bounty and brought it to America.”

  “So back to my first question: Why come to America?”

  “There are many possible reasons. From his mother’s family Prince Henry surely heard tales of rich fishing grounds and abundant ship-building timber far to the west.” Her tone had flattened, as if she were reciting words memorized from a textbook. “He ruled a large area and Scotland was a poor country being strangled by a trade embargo and recovering from the Black Plague, so there were compelling economic reasons for him to explore new territories.”

  Cam studied her. “But you don’t think that’s why he came.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “You read people well. No doubt you are an effective solicitor.”

  “Enough to know when someone is ducking my question. So I ask again: Why do you think he came?” Her manner toward him had warmed but he still could not count on her full candor.

  For the first time she was off script. Pink colored her pale cheeks—perhaps from the hour spent in the sun, perhaps from unease at his question. “It does not really matter why.” She shrugged. “Either Prince Henry came or he did not. If he did, either he buried a treasure or he did not.”

  Again ducking the question. “Well, I’ll ask the question this way then. Do you think he came? Do you think the legend is true?”

  She straightened her back as the pink on her pale cheeks darkened. “In fact, I do. But, again, for your purposes, it does not matter what I think. It is as I explained earlier: What matters is not whether the legend of Prince Henry is true but that it is relevant. Folks are being blown up and run down because someone is convinced that Prince Henry Sinclair buried something here. What that is, and why he might have brought it here, is not particularly important. People have a way of believing what they want to believe. And someone believes in the Prince Henry treasure.” She stood. The history lesson was over.

  As far as it went, Amanda’s observation was correct. But her line of reasoning revealed something else: Only one type of person expressed no interest in the mystery of a buried treasure and that was a person trying to keep others from digging for it.

  * * *

  Amanda watched Cameron Thorne stroll away, his athletic build carrying him effortlessly across the common. She had been tempted—sorely tempted—to answer his final inquiry candidly. He had a right to know why he was in danger. But her orders were clear: Reveal to him only the basics of the Sinclair history. If he was worthy, he would uncover the hidden secrets himself.

  Of course, most folks did not die as a result of their unworthiness. They made some inquiries, ran a handful of Google searches, perhaps read a few of the fringe publications discussing pre-Columbus exploration of America. But eventually they reached a dead end in their research and moved on. Unfortunately for Cam, someone was trying to bump him off—his dead end could leave him, well, dead.

  She strode through the common and across the street to the yellow Victorian which bore a small brass sign, ‘WKRC,’ an abbreviation for Westford Knight Research Consortium. The Consortium was comprised of a group of Northern European families that boasted Prince Henry Sinclair and his expedition companions as their ancestors. The group did not receive visitors at its offices, which was why there was no doorbell.

  She entered the alarm code password, unlocked a heavy deadbolt and climbed a set of stairs that turned back on themselves a few times—the old servants staircase. Halfway up she stopped to inspect her face in the mirror. “Damn it.” Even in the shade the sunlight had turned her face pink. She hadn’t expected the meeting to go so long. It was a careless, and soon-to-be painful, miscalculation for someone with a sun allergy. She would have been safe in England in September but Boston, despite its colder winters, was significantly closer to the equator—it was only slightly further north than Rome and Barcelona. Tomorrow she would awaken with red, hive-like rashes and blisters.

  At the top of the stairs, she placed her chin on a rubber platform, stared into a camera-like lens embedded in the wall and counted to four while the device scanned her retina. A green light flashed and another thick deadbolt retracted automatically. Today, for the first time in her year on the job, the security measures seemed warranted.

  She entered the outer of the two rooms that comprised her office; her living quarters were on the third floor. The office resembled a men’s club—leather and dark wood and nautical paintings. She could swear she smelled cigar smoke every time she entered.

  The female security operative who had been operating the video camera had departed. Amanda sighed. She had no need for a house full of sorority sisters but she did fancy a mate to catch a movie or go for a cocktail with once in a while. Not that her bosses in London hadn’t been candid with her when they first recruited her based on the recommendation of one of her professors who happened also to be a Consortium member. They informed her this would be a lonely assignment that required weekend hours. It paid twice what she could have made working in London but she hadn’t been prepared for life as a twenty-something single woman living in American suburbia, with no family and no real friends.

  Walking through the outer room, she hung her blazer on the back of the chair in front of her computer. She lowered herself into the chair and faced the screen, holding her head still while the face recognition software scanned her visage. After a few seconds, the keyboard unlocked and she skimmed her emails—a couple of personal messages from old university friends but mostly inquiries from researchers around the world asking for background information on the Knight. Answering emails from strangers and walking tourists up and down Depot Street from the library to visit the Knight occupied most of her time. Her employers were intent on preserving the Knight and related artifacts and on promoting historical research that supported the Prince Henry legend, but beyond that she had no idea what their ultimate mission was. Or why the stakes seemed so high.

  She picked up the cordless phone to ring Beatrice Yarborough, her predecessor and current boss, then reconsidered. For important calls she had been instructed to use the satellite phone. Her computer monitor read 2:34 P.M.—she had spent over two hours with Cameron Thorne. It hadn’t seemed that long. Shrugging the thought away, she dialed the London number. It was 8:30 P.M. London time. Hopefully Beatrice hadn’t gone out.

  “Amanda, darling. Thank you for the lovely note.”

  “And thank you again for the jams.” Now retired, Beatrice had too much time on her hands. And no family to help fill it. Almost weekly a package arrived for Amanda, filled with small gifts or crafts or food items.

  “Not at all. But obviously you have important information. What is it, dear?”

  Amanda pictured the woman, short and round and bubbly, her cheerfulness masking a sharp mind and near-compulsive nature and also making her seem younger than her 72 years. Amanda sometimes watched the old television show, Murder She Wrote—Beatrice could have played Angela Lansbury’s Jessica Fletcher character, a small-town amateur detective. Like the character, Beatrice was a retired teacher, in her case a professor of medieval history. Amanda didn’t have all the details but apparently a love affair with another professor turned bad and Beatrice left the university under a cloud. It must have turned fairly ugly because she not only left academia, she left England altogether, landing in Westford. For 22 years she kept watch over the Knight. For the past year she mentored Amanda from London, though she made it clear she would have preferred to remain in Westford, as she put it, “watching over and protecting the Knight”—thankfully, she did blame Amanda for her forced retirement. When Beatrice had first arrived in Westf
ord few people knew of Prince Henry’s journey. But she introduced the Knight to the town fathers and schoolchildren and promoted his story in the press. Tourists from Scotland visited the site as did weekenders from Nova Scotia, where Prince Henry and Sir James first made landfall in Guysborough Harbor. History buffs, too, made a point of visiting Westford, intrigued by the possibility of European exploration in America a century before Columbus. But Beatrice had not achieved her goal of seeing the Prince Henry legend become accepted as historical fact.

  Amanda began to describe her conversation with Cameron Thorne.

  “Remember, dear, every detail. Nothing is too unimportant.” Which wasn’t entirely true. During Amanda’s first month in Westford, a visitor to the Knight site had asked to view any evidence that aliens had carved the figure. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Amanda dutifully transcribed the request in her log, as was her charge. Later, Beatrice chided her. “Amanda, darling, the Consortium is interested in history, not histrionics.” To this day, Amanda sensed Beatrice wondered if she herself believed in extra-terrestrials.

  “Our entire meeting was videotaped—you may download it if you wish. At the conclusion, Mr. Thorne asked why I believed Prince Henry made his voyage. I answered as I was trained—he did so for economic reasons. But he sensed I was withholding information. I want permission to tell him more, tell him about the other reasons—”

  “Impossible.” Beatrice interjected. “You know the protocol.”

  Beatrice inhaled on one of her French-made cigarettes. No doubt Orkney, her Siamese cat, was curled in her lap. Amanda had once visited the woman’s flat in London’s Kensington district, her devotion to her job evidenced by a life-size plaster mold of the Westford Knight carving displayed in the center of her living room. “Yes, but this is different. Lives are at stake. I believe we should make an exception.”

  “It seems to me that if lives are at stake it is because this Mr. Thorne put them there with his ridiculous plan—what was he thinking, bringing heavy machinery to the encampment site?”

  “He was thinking he did not want a treasure hunter to nick valuables from his clients’ backyard.”

  “Amanda, our mission is to protect the Knight. Not to help some solicitor protect his clients’ vegetable patch. Treasure hunter or not, at least this McLovick fellow is a professional. He would have documented his find, would have followed established archeological protocols to ensure the value of his discovery. But Thorne has no training. He almost destroyed the encampment site—God forbid he actually stumbles upon an artifact and tries to pull it from the ground. The professional archeologists would discredit the find immediately.”

  “I suppose you are correct.” There was a history of the archeological community discrediting amateur discoveries across New England and Quebec.

  “Of course I am.” Beatrice softened her tone. “We need to be very careful, Amanda. From what I know of Mr. Thorne he seems to be one of these American cowboys—out for vengeance and armed with the arrogance of a lawyer. Hardly the type of man suited to pulling delicate artifacts from the ground.”

  Cowboy was not the word Amanda would have chosen to describe Cam. Nor was arrogant. But she let it pass. “Well, that’s even more reason for me to assist him. To make certain he doesn’t do anything foolhardy.”

  “These protocols have been in place for centuries, Amanda. The answer is no. And I assure you, this is not the first time lives have been at stake. Nor will it be the last.”

  Amanda took a deep breath, tried a different tack. “Did you know Mr. Thorne is of the blood line?”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “I ran his genealogy through the computer this morning. His mother’s maiden name is Kahn. She is a Cohen.”

  Beatrice exhaled. “The fact that Mr. Thorne is part of the Rex Deus line is interesting but ultimately irrelevant.” Amanda first heard the term during her Consortium training. Rex Deus described the group of families—mostly European—who believed they descended directly from the 24 High Priests of the Temple of Jerusalem at the time of Jesus. They claimed to be the protectors of the true teachings of Jesus. The Cohen line—Jews and, later, Christians—were the royalty of this priest class, descended from Moses’ brother Aaron and boasting Jesus among its members. Amanda was not quite sure how Rex Deus factored into the Consortium’s mission but she knew it was important to them, knew they tracked the bloodlines of everyone they came into contact with. Europeans tended to care about this stuff much more than Americans but this went beyond even that.

  Beatrice continued in her professorial voice. “As you are aware, the knowledge we possess is shared on a self-selecting basis—it is one of our most fundamental tenets. Those who are worthy prove themselves by discovering our secrets. Only the wise and open-minded succeed. It has always been thus, and must always be.” She paused. “I am hopeful that you, Amanda, will soon be privy to these secrets.”

  “Really, If I am not yet privy to them, then it doesn’t really matter what I tell Cameron Thorne, does it?”

  “Of course it does, dear. He must make the journey, starting from the beginning, himself. As I said, if Mr. Thorne can piece everything together, then he may be worthy of sharing our secrets. If not, well, then he is not. Rex Deus or not, the answer is no. You may not violate the protocols.”

  “But that’s illogical,” Amanda countered, trying to suppress her frustration. “He cannot prove he’s worthy if he’s already dead.”

  “Exactly. I do not mean to be critical, dear, but it is you who are being illogical. If he is truly worthy he will prove himself by staying alive.”

  * * *

  After leaving Amanda in the common, Cam walked to his SUV in the library lot. Suddenly even the act of starting his car seemed potentially life-terminating. Knees weak and a bit light-headed—whether from fear or lack of food, he wasn’t sure—he dropped to the ground and slid under the Jeep. He knew enough about cars to know what belonged on a chassis and what did not.

  Seeing nothing, he popped the hood and released it gently, exhaling as it opened without incident. Nothing on the engine block either. This time.

  The memory of Brandon’s bloodied leg fresh in his mind, he slowly turned the ignition and waited for his world to end. The engine roared but did not attack. Exhaling, he drove across the street to the white clapboard police station abutting the Colonial-style Town Hall. He parked next to a cruiser near the front entrance to the station, leaned against his door and pulled out his cell phone. But he felt far from safe even here.

  He replayed in his mind the past 24 hours. The Bobcat had obviously hit a nerve—someone didn’t want him digging in the yard. McLovick, or whoever it was, probably figured the bomb would scare him away. When he made an appointment with Amanda Spencer and visited the Knight site, it led to his close encounter with the Cadillac grille. They had probably figured out how to intercept his cell phone calls and been following him. But who “they” were was still unclear.

  Pacing in the police station parking lot, he phoned an old friend from law school, Claude Blank. Claude and his family had lived in Paris for a few years when Claude was in high school and he liked to mock Americans and their lack of culture. But he was more interesting than the other lawyers Cam knew and they had lunch in Boston a couple of times a year.

  Cam got right to the point. “Isn’t your sister an archeologist for the state or something?”

  “Actually, she was just promoted last year. She’s head of the state archeology department.” Claude had a habit of closing his eyes—almost like extended blinks—as he spoke, especially when he wanted to make a point. “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s for a client. I need someone with some archeological expertise. Any chance she might be able to spare five minutes for a quick call today?”

  “I don’t see why not. Give me your number.”

  A couple of minutes later his cell phone rang. “This is Rhonda Blank.”

  “Hi. Thanks so much for calling. I�
��m sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”

  He waited for a response; getting none, he plowed ahead. “I’m looking for some information on the Westford Knight, it’s a carving on--”

  “Bunk,” she interrupted.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “It’s bunk. It was carved by some boys in the late 1800s as a prank.”

  He hadn’t expected such a definitive response. He wondered if she, like Claude, closed her eyes when she spoke. “Oh, so you’ve studied it?”

  “I don’t need to waste my time studying it.”

  She made the cheerless Claude seem downright affable. “Well, what about the Boat Stone, in the town library?”

  She snorted a response. “Also bunk.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to question your expertise but my cousin is clinging to life in a hospital room because someone thinks there’s something to this legend. And I almost got run down by a car today for the same reason.”

  “You’ve asked for my opinion and I’ve given it. There is absolutely no credible evidence, in Massachusetts or elsewhere, of any pre-Columbus exploration of America other than the Viking settlement in Newfoundland.” He imagined a long, dismissive blink. “I’m sorry you were taken in by all this. Goodbye, Mr. Thorne.”

  * * *

  Instead of driving all the way home after Rhonda Blank hung up on him, Cam stopped a block from his house and left the car on the side of the street. He cut through a neighbor’s lawn and descended the slope to the lake’s edge. After tying his sneakers together and draping them around his neck, he rolled up his jeans and slogged through the knee-deep water. He crouched low as he approached his house, listening for Pegasus. The wind was at his back—the dog should smell him as he approached and run to greet him.

  He climbed over a dock and hugged the shoreline. Nothing from Pegasus, not even a short bark of inquiry. Sweat dripped down from his underarms even as the lake water numbed his toes. He moved some branches aside and peered through the brush toward the cottage. No dog, no movement of any kind. He had left Pegasus in the fenced yard, free to chase squirrels and nap in the sun. He gave a low whistle. Nothing.