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

by David S. Brody

  She had overheard the conversation. And was now waving a revolver. Her hand, unlike the cleric’s, did not shake. “You are sadly mistaken if you believe I’m going to allow you or anyone else to portray Prince Henry as a betrayer of the Church, a Judas.” She motioned with the gun. “Keep moving.”

  He tried to ignore the gun, forced himself not to look at it as he positioned himself between it and Amanda. He was not surprised that Yarborough had a weapon. But it still scared the shit out of him. He swallowed as a train approached from the distance. “That’s why you don’t want anyone digging around any of these sites—you’re afraid of what they might find. Imagine the headlines: ‘Jesus Heirs Reject Church.’”

  “There will be no such headlines, Mr. Thorne,” Yarborough said icily.

  Forcing his eyes away from the black hole at the end of the revolver, he baited her, stalling for time. The train edged closer. “I think a neat sub-headline would be something about how the Native Americans carry more Jesus blood in them than do most Europeans.” Balducci’s eyes widened at the possibility of Christ’s blood coursing through a race of savages.

  Cam glanced over his shoulder at Yarborough. It was time. “The carving is right up there.” They were halfway between the obelisks, at the midpoint of the bridge itself. He slowed, the timing now crucial. “There,” he said, pointing at the shaded side of one of the obelisks. “About eight feet high.” The train was now 100 feet away, chugging along the median strip of the bridge, separated from the vehicle traffic on either side only by a pair of simple iron railings.

  Yarborough quickened her pace, squinting toward the obelisk. “I don’t see anything,” she said, scampering past Cam toward the tower as Balducci shone a flashlight up toward the scratches.

  The train closed to 50 feet. Cam took Amanda’s hand and backed away a bit. He hadn’t planned it this way but a line of graffiti caught his eye. It was too perfect. “There’s also some here, on the walkway.” He pointed to a red-painted splotch near Yarborough’s feet. It read, Screw You!

  As Yarborough crouched, he squeezed Amanda’s hand. “Now,” he whispered. He released her hand and together they took two running steps toward the green-iron railing. They planted their hands on the railing top and vaulted themselves over the barrier. He tightened, half-expecting a hot bullet to sear his body. But nothing. As they soared through the cool autumn air to safety, his eyes found Amanda’s, her hair floating above her like a parachute, her mouth curved into a full smile.

  He filled his lungs and braced for impact. Just before he hit, Yarborough’s voice screeched over the sound of the approaching train. “Get them!”

  He made himself small, allowing his body to knife deep into the tea-colored water of the Charles. Opening his eyes, he waited until he had stopped descending, turned his body and swam underwater beneath the bridge. They didn’t need to swim to the other side but they did need to get far enough under so that Yarborough and the Reichmann posse could not lean over the railing and get a clear shot at them. After about seven or eight seconds underwater he spotted Amanda’s form moving gracefully through the murkiness nearby; he angled upward toward her and grabbed her hand. Together they surfaced under the shadow of the bridge. The sound of the train crossing above them echoed, mocking Yarborough.

  A few yards away a yellow and red water tube—the kind used for towing kids behind boats—bobbed on the surface. “Quick. Get on!” Poulos yelled from a nearby boat. Cam swam to the far side of the tube and he and Amanda linked arms across the top, using each other as resistance as they pulled themselves out of the water. Even before they were completely on the tube, the engine roared and the nose of the boat lifted into the air. A second later, the tow rope tightened and the tube leapt ahead, plowing through the water at first and then quickly reaching a plane and skimming across the surface as the boat accelerated. As they cleared the bridge he looked back. Yarborough and Reichmann and Balducci and the henchman were stuck on the far side of the bridge, blocked from pursuing them or taking a shot at them by a long, slow-moving Red Line train.

  He playfully bounced the tube in the water. “I guess you would have mentioned if you didn’t know how to swim, right?”

  * * *

  Salazar watched in his rearview mirror as Thorne and the girl leaped from the bridge and escaped on the tube. Pretty good plan for a couple of amateurs. But risky—Reichmann was under orders to eliminate them and Yarborough had grown so unstable that she might do so in broad daylight. There must have been something Thorne needed from the Vatican scholar, some key piece of information. Judging by the smile on Thorne’s face as he bounced on the tube, he got it.

  He slowly accelerated away from the scene as police lights flashed and troopers rounded up Reichmann and the rest of his team. A couple of quick turns and he lost himself in the streets of Boston’s Beacon Hill. He had smelled a trap right away—the pleasure boat cruising up and down the river was a dead giveaway. The woman captained the vessel with too much authority; most women were content to let their husbands drive—a sexist observation but true. And the man should have been reading the Sunday paper or casting a fishing line, not scanning the bridge deck.

  Things had worked out perfectly. As far as Cam and the girl knew, Yarborough and Reichmann and his men were now out of action. They would let their guard down. And he didn’t have to take orders from Reichmann anymore.

  * * *

  The boat slowed as it approached the Science Museum bridge, a half-mile from the Longfellow, Cam and Amanda still bouncing along in the tube behind. Poulos grinned at Cam as he pulled the tube toward the boat and handed Cam his phone and insulin pump. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

  “Fun ride?” Brandon asked over the sound of the engine.

  “Best ever. How’d it look from up there?”

  “It went perfect. For a second, I thought Yarborough was going to jump in after you. And you should have seen them jumping around and waving their arms when they realized the train was blocking them from getting to you.”

  He told Brandon about the graffiti, which elicited a whoop of joy. “What’s the word from the bridge?” he asked Poulos.

  “Went perfect. FBI and Staties moved in, arrested the whole lot of them.”

  “Did they resist?”

  “Nah. Once they saw they lost you guys and were trapped on the bridge, they knew it was over. The Vatican guy is already claiming diplomatic immunity.” Poulos shrugged. “We’ll see what happens.” He looked at Cam. “That was a pretty risky operation.” Poulos and the Staties had been pushing for arresting Yarborough and Reichmann and his gang before he and Amanda even got on the bridge but Cam had insisted on the encounter on the Longfellow. “Did you learn what you needed to?”

  Cam recalled Balducci touching his hair, his mouth, his lip. “Yeah, everything.”

  CHAPTER 18

  After spending a few hours at the FBI headquarters in Boston answering questions, Amanda and Cam retrieved their bags from Poulos’ car, showered in a health club in an office building next door and hailed a taxi for the short ride to Mass. General Hospital. Amanda felt unburdened; it was nice to not worry about being followed, to not have to scan the sidewalk for surveillance. But the thought of Beatrice spending the final years of her life in jail saddened her. Somehow her fixation on Prince Henry and the Westford Knight had consumed her, accentuating her obsessive-compulsive personality traits. Perhaps she’d be placed in a hospital rather than a penitentiary.

  Her cell phone rang—Leopold Babinaux again. He had left two messages thus far, apologizing for Beatrice’s behavior and for the Consortium’s tepid efforts to assist Cam and her. “We believed Beatrice, believed she was telling the truth. We were mistaken, and I am sorry.” She believed him, and she was glad he phoned, but calling him back was not high on her priority list at the moment.

  A uniformed policeman escorted them into Brandon’s room; presumably the officer would be reassigned soon now that the danger had passed. She lowered her eyes as Ca
m embraced his cousin. “You look good,” Cam whispered. Even reclined in a hospital bed, Brandon was thick and rugged-looking with color in his cheeks and vibrancy in his eyes.

  Brandon smiled. “Speaking of looking good, you going to introduce me to the pretty girl?”

  “I don’t need an introduction,” she declared, stepping around Cam to hug Brandon. “After what we’ve gone through, we’re practically family.” The muscles in his back rippled as he embraced her even as he was careful not to press his body against her chest. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Brandon.”

  After a few minutes of small talk, Cam removed the lantern from his bag and handed it to Brandon. “Check this out.” He explained its history and their theory that it was a clue to finding the treasure.

  “Wait a second. Something about this looks … wrong.” Brandon studied the object for a few seconds. “Hand me that book over there, will you?” Cam did so; Brandon thumbed through until he found the page he was looking for. “This says there are seven windows in the Tower.” He tossed the lantern to Cam. “Count them in your model.”

  She moved closer; together they rotated the replica slowly. “Eight,” she exclaimed. “How did we miss that?”

  “Probably because you haven’t been lying in bed for a week trying to figure out who built the damn thing. I thought maybe the seven windows were significant—you know, seven days in the week, seven sacraments, seven deadly sins, seven dwarfs, something like that.”

  “Seven dwarfs?”

  “Just ignore him, Amanda,” Cam said, smiling. “But why does the lantern have eight windows?”

  “Gee, Watson, you think it might be a clue?” Brandon turned to her. “It’s amazing he didn’t get you killed. Give me that thing again. Let’s compare it to the original.”

  Using a diagram in one of Brandon’s books they ascertained that seven of the windows were correctly placed and that the extra window was positioned on what would correspond to the north side of the Tower model, a few degrees east.

  Cam pulled up Google Earth on his laptop. She peered in as he zoomed in on the Tower neighborhood. “Look,” she said. “The window is pointing directly at the Touro Cemetery.”

  “That’s not all, I bet.” Brandon scribbled a diagram and a few lines on a piece of scrap paper. “Cam, how far away is this cemetery from the Tower?”

  Cam used the ruler function. “About 250 yards.”

  Brandon consulted the Tower diagram in the book. “This is rough and dirty but it looks to me like a person standing on the second floor of the Tower, in the center, looking out that eighth window, would be staring right at the cemetery.”

  Cam grinned at her. “They buried their treasures in the Touro Cemetery. Who would have guessed?”

  * * *

  Cam appreciated the symbolism of the window clue. A window let in light, which was a metaphor for knowledge and understanding. It was exactly the type of clue Prince Henry and the Templars would leave. Subtle but clear.

  “So what are you guys waiting for?” Brandon asked. “Get the hell out of here and go find out what’s buried in that cemetery. If I could sneak past the nurses, I’d hop on out of here and come with you.”

  “But we can’t simply go and start digging.” Amanda said.

  “Who said anything about digging?” He hoisted himself higher in the bed, grinning at the befuddled looks on their faces.

  “Out with it Brandon,” Cam said. “What’s your plan?”

  “Well, like I said, I’ve been reading all I can about the Tower. One thing leads to another and pretty soon I’m reading about these secret underground tunnels all around the old Newport neighborhoods. They were used in the 1600 and 1700s by smugglers and pirates. But who built them?”

  “Benedict Arnold, after he finished the windmill?” Amanda deadpanned.

  “Don’t laugh. One of the tunnels runs beneath old Benedict’s property. But here’s the really interesting thing. Another tunnel begins under the Touro Synagogue. You access it through a trap door under the altar.”

  “Another coincidence involving the Touro family?” he asked.

  “Not bloody likely.” Amanda grabbed her bag. “They give tours of the synagogue every day. If we hurry we can make the last one.” She turned. “Though I can’t say I’m overjoyed about getting back in that Subaru.”

  * * *

  Amanda locked her green eyes on Cam as he navigated the Subaru, which Poulos had retrieved for them, south out of Boston. “So, based on Balducci’s reaction, are you confident we got the story correct?” she asked.

  “Maybe not every detail but the main gist of it. Somebody was here, and they came for a reason.”

  “I agree. And it stands to reason that that somebody must have been Prince Henry. He possessed the means and the family background and the opportunity and the motive to do undertake the journey. And the carvings at Roslyn Chapel point directly to the Sinclair family. It’s either him or we’re back to the aliens.”

  His phone rang. “You gotta call my dad,” Brandon announced. “He’s got some cool shit to share with you.”

  “Your dad? But he thinks we’re chasing Elvis or something.”

  “He did. But once you guys convinced him about the Templar-Mason connection … well, you know how he is—he’s like a bulldog. Somehow he got permission to go through all the books and records at the Masonic Lodge in Washington, D.C.; he must have used a secret handshake or something. Anyway, call him. Now.”

  Peter answered on the first ring. Cam put him on speaker, glad to be using his higher-quality cell instead of the TracFone. “Cameron. Brandon says you’re on the way to Newport to search for some tunnel.”

  “Beneath the Touro Synagogue.”

  “Answer one question: Do you think the Masons have anything to do with this tunnel?”

  “Probably. If our theory is right, the guys who safeguarded the Tower and the cemetery all these centuries was a Masonic cabal.”

  Amanda leaned toward the microphone. “If the tunnel exists, and it leads to a secret treasure of some kind, somebody had to maintain it and keep it secret. It almost had to be the Masons. Who else could it be?”

  “I agree. And you convinced me the Masons and the Templars are one and the same, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And this Prince Henry was a Templar.”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, then here’s what you need to be on the lookout for: A symbol called the Delta of Enoch.”

  “The what?” Cam had never heard of it.

  “You’ve probably seen the symbol—it’s basically a golden triangle with Hebrew letters inside. If you go into any Masonic lodge or look at any Masonic artwork you’ll see it. Hold on—if I can figure out how to work this thing, I’ll email a picture to you.”

  Cam pulled into an office park off the highway and found a wireless connection for his laptop. A few seconds later the image appeared.

  http://info.brad.ac.uk/webofhiram/?section=ancient_accepted&page=ArchofEnoch.html

  THE DELTA OF ENOCH

  “I’ve seen that,” Amanda said. “But what’s Enoch?”

  “Not what, but who. Enoch was Noah’s great-grandfather. The Bible says Enoch had a dream and in the dream he had two visions. First, he foresaw the great flood—I’ll get to that later. Second, he saw a brilliant golden triangle. Inscribed on the triangle was God’s name, which he was forbidden ever to speak. You may have seen the name written with the Hebrew letters Yud, Hey, Vov, Hey; it’s pronounced ‘Yahweh,’ though religious Jews are not allowed to say it aloud.”

  “The tetragrammaton,” she said.

  “Correct—the Greek word meaning ‘word of four letters.’ In addition to the written name, during this dream Enoch also walked with God and saw God’s face.”

  “They put you away for telling stories like that nowadays,” Cam said.

  “Don’t joke. In Masonic ritual, Enoch is a very important figure.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just tha
t you’ve been such a skeptic. Why the sudden conversion?” Cam merged back onto the highway.

  “If you let me continue, you’ll see.”

  “Fine. We’re listening.”

  “According to Masonic legend, after his vision, Enoch took a triangular plate of gold and inlaid the name of God—the name that is not supposed to be spoken—on it with precious jewels. He then sank the gold plate into a cube of agate. That’s the Delta of Enoch. Knowing the flood was coming, and wanting to preserve the name of God for future generations, he buried the Delta in a series of underground crypts. You with me so far?”

  They exchanged glances. “Sure.”

  “Later, after the flood, King Solomon built his temple on the ruins of Enoch’s crypts, at the base of Mount Moriah. During the construction his workmen found the Delta of Enoch, which Solomon placed on a marble pedestal and hid deep within the Temple of Solomon.”

  “The same temple the Templars excavated?” Now the relevance was becoming clearer.

  “Yes. It may be one of the treasures they found and, if your theory is correct, brought to America. The reason this is significant to the Masons is that Enoch, in his crypt, also buried twin pillars engraved with mankind’s accumulated secrets of science and the building trades so that these secrets would not be lost in the flood. These are the symbolic twin pillars upon which Freemasonry is built. I’m telling you this so you understand the connection between Enoch, King Solomon and the Masons.”

  “Other than the 12th-century excavations, do the Templars tie in?” he asked.

  “Yes. Enoch was the father of astronomy. He and his followers tracked the movements of the sun and the planet Venus. I believe Monsignor Marcotte would have called Enoch an early worshiper of the Sacred Feminine.”

  Cam took his eyes off the road for a second, glancing first at the phone and then at Amanda. “But how could Enoch worship both God and the Sacred Feminine? Doesn’t it have to be one or the other?”