The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Still, she was only guessing, and by no means certain that ‘BETWEEN THE PILLARS’ was a reference to Samson. It was a possibility. A guess. Nothing more.

  Prince’s third line—‘IS THERE NO PITY FOR THE WIDOW’S SON?’—was equally enigmatic.

  All she had been able to think of was the Bible story in which Jesus stumbled across a Galilean funeral procession outside the village of Nain. On learning that the dead body was the only son of a widow, he had brought the corpse back to life. It was the first of his three raisings of the dead, and was often described as the miracle of the widow’s son.

  But, as she had turned the idea over in her head, she instinctively knew she was on the wrong track.

  The biblical references Prince and K had used in the identification pairs—the ‘URIM’ and ‘THUMMIM’, and ‘JUDITH’ and ‘YAEL’—were drawn from the Tanakh, the Hebrew sacred scriptures better known in the West as the Old Testament.

  So the story of the widow of Nain did not fit alongside them at all. It was from a different source altogether—the New Testament, which was a collection of unrelated Christian writings stapled onto the Hebrew scriptures by the Church many centuries later. Ava found it hard to believe Prince and the katsa would suddenly switch to Christian texts. It would make no sense if they were both working for the government of Israel.

  She shifted in her train seat, trying to block out the noise of the scuffling school party of French teenagers that had just got into the carriage.

  She had reached these conclusions quickly back in the ice cream hut. But as she had forced herself to think of all the possible angles, it had occurred to her there may actually be no biblical link at all to the three lines of Prince’s actual message.

  After all, why should there be?

  The identification pairs were one thing.

  Prince’s message was quite separate.

  Wracking her brain for other possibilities, she had at first drawn a blank, until something had begun to stir at the back of her mind.

  It was a more radical thought, and not something she knew much about.

  But as she had continued to puzzle over the message, it had begun to seem more and more worth considering.

  Freemasonry.

  It was not a connection she would normally have made. But it had popped into her mind as a result of Ferguson’s revelations about Sir Robert Moray and the Invisible College and Royal Society, and Saxby and De Molay’s hint that the Templars were somehow responsible for the secretive fraternity.

  Knowing next to nothing about the freemasons, Ava had been intrigued enough to do some research while waiting at home for the car Saxby had sent to take her and Ferguson to the airport en route to Rome.

  She shifted in her seat again. It was hot in the carriage, and the French teenagers were getting increasingly rowdy. Looking up at the tube map on the opposite wall, she was pleased to see she only had one stop to go.

  Once she had started surfing freemasonry, she had initially been delighted by the amount of information she had been able to dig up on the shadowy brotherhood. But her pleasure had rapidly turned to frustration as she discovered the vast majority of the information was maddeningly cryptic and impenetrable—much of it raising far thornier questions than it answered.

  She had rapidly understood that the information made little sense without certain keys, which she soon discovered were not available to the general public. In no time, she felt as if she was trying to watch a scrambled satellite television channel without the all-important decoding chip.

  After several hours of research, she had come away wrestling with a baffling world of veiled allegories, symbols, and secrets surrounding the building of King Solomon’s Temple three millennia ago.

  But she felt none the wiser.

  However, as she had looked at Prince’s SMS messages in the ice cream hut, she had been surprised to recognize that the three lines of message could easily be connected to the shadowy fraternity.

  From what she had read, ‘BETWEEN THE PILLARS’ could have been a phrase lifted straight from a freemasonic text. Although she had not understood the reasons why, she had seen in her reading that freemasons attached great significance to the architecture of pillars and columns.

  Taken by itself, this connection to freemasonry was tenuous.

  But it was the third line—‘IS THERE NO PITY FOR THE WIDOW’S SON?’—that had stopped her dead in her tracks and made her think of them.

  Although the freemasonic website she had seen it on had been unclear, she was sure she had seen a reference to providing ‘help for the widow’s son’.

  The words Prince had typed were a little different—‘IS THERE NO PITY FOR THE WIDOW’S SON?’ But she was nevertheless struck by the distinct similarity.

  Overall, she had realized, a freemasonic explanation for the enigmatic combination of pillars and the widow’s son seemed more promising than her first thoughts about Samson and the widow of Nain.

  As she had hailed the cab with Ferguson, she also realized that following up on the freemasonic angle presented the perfect opportunity to find answers to something else that had been bothering her.

  On De Molay’s coach in Rome, Ferguson had asked if the Foundation was a front for freemasonry. Saxby had replied cryptically, “Well, yes and no. That is—not entirely.”

  Ava had been struck by his evasiveness, and wanted to ask more. But the conversation had quickly moved on, and she had forgotten about it until later that evening, when she had again been struck by quite how odd an answer it had been.

  What was he hiding?

  Was there some connection between the Templars and the freemasons that he was not prepared to talk about?

  She was not at all sure.

  But it was something she now urgently needed to find out.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the train slowing down as it pulled into Covent Garden tube station.

  She hurried out of the carriage and headed for the elevators back up to ground level—and to the worldwide headquarters of the ultra-secretive fraternity of the freemasons.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  82

  Freemasons’ Hall

  Covent Garden

  London WC2

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Emerging from the dark red tiled exterior of Covent Garden’s well-preserved Victorian tube station, Ava squinted against the bright morning sunshine.

  She stepped through the automated barriers and onto the bustling pavement, and was immediately swept into the ever-present throng of tourists heading for the colourful street theatre and zany entertainers that had long ago replaced the calm of the medieval vegetable garden tended by the monks of nearby Westminster Abbey.

  Walking quickly down Long Acre, she could already see Freemasons’ Hall at the next junction, dominating the surrounding streets. It was a monumental pentagonal building, whose hulking nose nestled within the junction of Great Queen Street and Wild Street.

  Crossing onto the small traffic island in front of its tip, she gazed up at its colossal Portland stone façade.

  The main entranceway featured a large square-panelled door flanked by two vast columns, each rising to twice the door’s height, before giving way to a deep entablature of three stepped cornices, all supporting what looked like an immense open bell tower.

  It loomed inscrutably over Covent Garden like some outlandish ziggurat.

  Despite the building’s oddity, Ava could not help eyeing it appreciatively. The days were long past when people spent money on buildings of its quality. It was among the last of its breed—an art deco masterpiece, personalized by the freemasons with their own special lexicon of arcane architectural symbolism. She picked out multiple sets of columns and numerous groups of tripled features.

  Tearing her eyes away, she hurried towards the entrance. Fascinated as she was by what archaeologists of the future would make of the curious building, she had work to do. She wa
s not there to sightsee.

  Now Prince was dead, time was ticking more urgently. The American’s murder changed everything. The Pentagon would be all over the operation—as would Mossad, if Ava was right about K being one of its katsa agents. Files would be hitting senior desks already, and men in grey suits in corner offices would want answers and results.

  It was going to hot up quickly.

  Someone somewhere would know Prince had been monitoring Ava, so it was inevitable she would be picked up and hauled in for questioning sooner or later. The only real unknown was when and where.

  But before she got dragged into an interview room in Legoland, there were things she first needed to find out. Like what Prince’s final text message meant. And whether her assassination was connected to the Ark.

  Reaching the tip of the formidable building, she climbed the shallow steps up to the great front door, flanked either side by large triple torches.

  As she got closer, she was surprised to note that the doorway had no handle or bell. Peering more closely, she could now see that it was not meant as an entranceway. The large double doors looked as if they were permanently locked.

  She shook her head, smiling to herself.

  It was a good joke. She realized she would have been slightly disappointed if the world’s oldest secret society had a front door.

  Turning, she headed down the south-east side of the building, along Wild Street. But as she followed the wall around, she was surprised to find there was no way in here either—merely high windows and another set of smaller locked doors.

  With increasing concern, she skirted the building’s nose again, and this time tried the north-east, down Great Queen Street.

  To her growing alarm, this side was also unwelcoming, with no obvious public entrance.

  It was a long building, so she kept going, increasingly perplexed by how anyone got in or out. But as she caught sight of the Grand Connaught Rooms further down, she saw to her relief a set of sliding glass doors set into an ornamental stone doorway at the far end of the building.

  Taking a deep breath, she headed for the discreet entrance. Crossing the large pentagram inlaid into the pavement, she entered.

  She had never been to a freemasonic building before, and had no idea if she would even be allowed inside.

  She half expected an alarm to go off, signalling that a woman had breached the outer perimeter. At the very least, she imagined walking straight into a surly guard who would turn her around and frogmarch her straight back out onto the street again.

  In fact, as the glass doors slid shut behind her, she found herself in a vast and sumptuously decorated marble atrium with a grand and ornate double-switchback staircase at the far end. The decoration was breathtaking—an unspoiled gem of art deco interior design.

  To her right, two uniformed men sat behind a highly polished antique wooden enquiry desk.

  Looking confident, she walked over to the desk and addressed the man nearest her. She had no idea if he would be helpful or not, but she was at least going to try—it was why she had come.

  “Is there someone I can talk to?” She glanced hopefully at the athletic-looking man—ex-police, she assumed.

  Above his head, she could see an elegant old wooden board, hung with what looked like the timetable for the day—lists of lodges and what she imagined were the names and numbers of the rooms in which they were scheduled to meet.

  The man looked up from his newspaper.

  “What sort of enquiry, madam?” He was relaxed but alert.

  She had been going over the story in her mind, and had no real idea if it would work. As there was only one way to find out, she took a steadying breath, and began.

  “I’m from Rorschach and Partners—an old firm of notaries in Zug, Switzerland. We’ve recently been engaged by a new client, and have come across an old document in the papers we don’t fully understand. Strange as it may sound, we think we need help from someone who knows about freemasonry.” She smiled a little awkwardly. “Is it possible to talk to anyone here who can help? Discretely, of course.”

  The guard nodded understandingly. He stood up, and passed her a form pinned to a shiny old Bakelite clipboard. “Fill this out, please.”

  She quickly wrote out her assumed name—‘Kate Adams’—a contact telephone number, and a fake signature, before handing the clipboard back.

  “Please wait here for a moment.” The guard took the clipboard and form and disappeared into a back room.

  Her training had drummed into her that the best cover stories were the ones closest to the truth. They were the easiest to remember, and there was no need for elaborate details that could be forgotten under pressure, or faked documents that risked discovery.

  But to be convincing, even a simple cover story needed thought to flesh it out as credible and strong, and she had not had the time.

  She had opted instead for second best—a cover that was plausible but hard to verify. One she could be tight-lipped about without arousing suspicion. She figured no one would expect to find details about a firm of notaries in green and sleepy Zug, where for the last fifty years the world’s rich had been increasingly managing their affairs away from the public eye. It was not the type of business that had a website or glossy brochures.

  She looked about the vast atrium, tapping her foot. The guard seemed to be taking a long time. She checked her watch. He had been gone six minutes.

  She was about to ask the other guard if everything was okay, when the first guard reappeared from the backroom, nodding. “Sorry to keep you, madam. You’re in luck—Mr Cordingly will see you.”

  Ava followed the guard’s directions, and headed off down a grand corridor of shiny inlaid marble floors and glossy dark wood-panelled walls.

  The air was still and heavy with the smell of floor polish. Geometric chandeliers hung discretely from the ornate creamy ceilings, casting a low light into the endless lengths of corridor. It was a very male atmosphere, and she could not help wondering how long it had been since a woman’s shoes had walked down its dark hallways.

  Stopping in front of the door the guard had described, she read the brass nameplate screwed neatly onto it:

  MR L CORDINGLY

  DEPUTY GRAND SECRETARY

  UNITED GRAND LODGE OF ENGLAND

  She knocked twice, the sound resonating deeply in the heavy wooden door.

  It was opened almost immediately, just a crack.

  “I need to be somewhere else, Miss Adams.” The voice was polished, warm, and smooth—a man used to talking. “If you don’t mind accompanying me as I walk, please tell me how I can help.”

  The door opened wider, partly revealing a tall alert man in a dark pin-stripe suit.

  He stepped through the doorway into the corridor, and as he did so, she got a full look at him, bathed in the gentle light from the small chandelier above.

  As her eyes focused, her heart missed a beat at what she saw.

  His tie.

  While the rest of the world was awash with a kaleidoscope of patterned ties bought everywhere from railway stations to glitzy designer boutiques, a certain type of English gentleman could still be relied upon to wear a traditional striped or crested tie announcing his school, university, or regimental affiliations.

  She continued to stare in disbelief at the neat strip of material around Cordingly’s neck.

  It was like nothing she had ever seen before.

  It was plain black, ornamented in the centre with a large coat of arms.

  The Latin motto emblazoned in a blue banner across the bottom was troubling enough:

  AVDI VIDE TACE

  which she quickly translated as ‘Hear. See. Be Silent’.

  She was unsure whether it was an observation, a command, or a threat.

  But it was not the words that stopped her dead—it was the image itself.

  The full achievement of arms, as her colleagues specializing in heraldry would call it, was a shield in the centre bearing the act
ual coat of arms, supporting figures left and right, and an object resting on top of the shield.

  Her eyes skirted over the shield, which was unexceptional. It was charged with the usual array of stylized castles, chevrons, and lions that most old English organizations seemed to favour. It was more tasteful than many she had seen, enlivened with striking reds, yellows, and blues—or, using the quaint medieval vocabulary of heraldry: gules, or, and azure.

  But what caught her eye and her breath were the two supporting figures standing either side of the shield—and the very recognizable object they were sheltering.

  She peered intently, double checking she had seen it correctly.

  She had.

  From what she knew, heraldic supporters were typically lions, unicorns, bears, or other impressive beasts. Occasionally, they were people, or even plants.

  But what she was looking at fitted into none of these categories.

  They were angels—but not the chubby infant putti that decorators of chocolate boxes loved so much.

  Their nude adult torsos were male, but the voluptuous faces, oval eyes, long eyelashes, pouting mouths, and flowing black hair rendered them unmistakably androgynous.

  Each had a long wing raised high over the top of the shield, almost joining to create a feathered canopy protecting the object they sheltered.

  “It’s the crest of the United Grand Lodge of England,” Cordingly informed her.

  She looked up at his face, embarrassed to have been caught staring at the tie.

  “The crest gives us a lot of trouble,” he smiled, setting off down the corridor. Ava fell into step beside him. “If you look at it closely, you’ll see the angels have cloven hoofs.”

  Of course they had.

  It was one of things that had first caught her eye.

  “Conspiracy theorists see it as proof we’re devil-worshippers.” He chuckled. “And they don’t stop there. They say our eccentric American Brother Albert Pike’s infamous writings confirm our Satanism, as do our links with the Illuminati. That’s before we get into our supposed crimes, like murdering our Brother freemason Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart for spilling our secrets in his mysterious opera The Magic Flute.”