The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  He did not seem overly troubled by what people thought of him and his fellow freemasons.

  “They’re not just any angels.” She looked at them again, trying to make sense of what they were doing on the heraldic arms of the freemasons. “They’re cherubs, which the Bible tells us had cloven hoofs.” She paused. “The most famous and beautiful cherub was, of course, the devil.”

  “Indeed.” He threw her a sideways glance. There was a hint of interest in his eyes.

  “But that doesn’t make every cherub the devil,” she continued, wondering why he had raised the subject.

  Was he testing her?

  “Just Lucifer,” he nodded, continuing to walk purposefully down the corridor.

  Was he trying to tell her something?

  “Of course, to be technically accurate,” she continued. “Lucifer was never a devil, or even evil.”

  “Oh?” He raised an interested eyebrow.

  “How could he be?” She smiled. “He’s a planet.”

  Cordingly turned to look at her with an expression of curiosity.

  “In ancient Rome,” she explained, “Lucifer was another name for the Morning Star, the planet Venus. The word Lucifer just means Light-Bringer—it’s a direct translation of the Greek name Phosphoros.”

  “Centuries later,” she continued, “early Christians found the mystical Hebrew book of Isaiah, which recounted opaquely how the Morning Star fell from heaven. The early Church artfully blended it with another Hebrew story, not in the Bible, which told how angels had rebelled and been cast down from heaven. So the Church wove these two tales together and spiced up the result by mixing in the attributes of other gods and demons like Satan, Baalzebub, Pan, and Mephistopheles. From all these different forces of darkness, they moulded the one ‘true’ devil—a worthy adversary for Christ and his new Church. In this syncretic melting pot, Lucifer went from being a Roman planet to the infernal Lord—even though the original Hebrew texts never mention Lucifer at all, and specifically state that the leader of the rebel fallen angels was called Samyaza.”

  Cordingly said nothing. He was looking at her keenly, unblinking.

  She decided to press the point, anxious to see if he would be more forthcoming about the tie. “Don’t people ever wonder how the devil can be a burningly beautiful angel, a cunning snake, an infernal monster, a lustful goat, a beast from the abyss with seven blasphemous heads, and a red demon with a pointed tail, all at the same time?”

  Cordingly’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to know an awful lot about it.” His voice was more cautious now.

  “Not really,” she shrugged. “It just interests me.”

  Cordingly lapsed into silence.

  If he had wanted to tell her anything, he had clearly changed his mind, and the moment had passed.

  She wondered if she had gone too far. But she figured she had no option but to play it boldly. She had no idea how long he was going to continue talking to her, and she needed to make sure she got as much information as she could—from what he said, and from what he did not say.

  She glanced back at his tie again, and at the other object on it that had so startled her when she had first seen it.

  It was resting on top of the shield, where normally there would be a helmet showing the bearer’s social rank under a crest of plumed feathers.

  It was the last object she had ever expected to see on an English coat of arms—all of which were officially approved by letters patent from one of the four ancient Kings of Arms at the Royal College of Arms. Nothing got onto a coat of arms without justification. She could only imagine the conversations that must have been had in order to grant the object to the freemasons on their crest.

  She gazed at it again, not quite believing her eyes,

  The Ark of the Covenant, glowing with an inner radiance.

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  She had come to Freemasons’ Hall hoping for a clue to help her decipher the strange text message Prince had sent to her Mossad katsa. But instead, within minutes of arrival, she found herself staring at an image of the Ark—the object that had been propelling her across continents for the last ten days.

  She fumbled for a moment, trying to make the mental connections.

  Had Prince been telling the katsa something about the Ark? Who had it? Where to find it? Why it had been taken? Was there an underlying freemasonic connection? Was that why Saxby had been so hesitant in answering Ferguson’s question about the Foundation and freemasonry?

  Looking towards the end of the dark corridor, she felt a sudden pang of vulnerability.

  She was in an unfamiliar building with a man she did not know, inside the cavernous headquarters of a group known for its implacable secrecy—and, she now knew, with a major interest in the Ark.

  She could not help wondering if she had just walked into some kind of trap.

  As she followed Cordingly deeper into the building, she could feel her pulse quickening.

  She did not mind the adrenaline. It was good—it kept her sharp. But she needed a cool head if she was going to find answers to the meaning of Prince’s text message. And her best hope was the man walking beside her.

  She could not afford to bungle this.

  With the metal tips of his shoes ringing out on the marble floor, Cordingly turned into another virtually identical corridor.

  They passed an open set of double doors with a small brass knocker in the shape of a square and compasses. As she glanced through the doorway, she found herself looking into one of the most peculiar rooms she had ever seen.

  It was square, with walls of lightly striped soft pink and green stone rising to an ornate domed ceiling looking down over a large black and white chequerboard carpet. Around the four edges of the carpet, comfortable red-cushioned antique chairs were arranged in rows, separated by three grand wooden thrones. One had a sun carved into its intricate high back, while another had a moon. She could not make out what was on the third.

  Cordingly saw where she was looking, and quickly pulled the doors closed.

  Under any other circumstances, she would have had a dozen questions about such an intriguing room. It did not look Satanic, she had to admit, although it was plainly for something unusual.

  But she was not there to get distracted.

  Focusing back on the reason she was in the building, she turned to Cordingly. “Why do you have the Ark of the Covenant on your crest?” She tried to keep the question casual sounding.

  He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Freemasonry places a great emphasis on King Solomon’s Temple—the building, and the people who created it.” He touched his tie, as if to reinforce the point. “The Temple was, of course, built to house the Ark—so the Ark has always been an important,” he hesitated, trying to find the right words, “symbol for us.”

  It sounded like a weak explanation, and from the expression on his face, he knew it. “According to a leaflet I saw at your front desk,” she countered, “freemasonry was only founded in AD 1717. So how can there be any connection with King Solomon’s Temple, which dates from around 957 BC, if it ever existed?”

  Cordingly smiled briefly. “You are discounting the possibility that freemasonry is older than it looks—or than we openly acknowledge.”

  She shot him a quizzical glance.

  “Take this coat of arms that fascinates you so much.” He indicated the crest on his tie. “It’s medieval—traceable to at least the 1400s, to the London Company of Stonemasons. If you’d looked at the leaflet closely, you’d have seen the wording is very precise. It says freemasonry ‘announced itself’ to the public in 1717. As I’m sure you will appreciate, that leaves wide open the possibility of a secret existence for many centuries before that. After all, there are clues.”

  “Like what?” Ava asked, her curiosity piqued.

  “You may not witness a pebble being thrown into a pond,” he replied, “but you may come across the ripples that tell you it happened.”

  Ava had sp
ent most of her professional life interpreting just such ripples. “So what allows me to connect the medieval London Company of Stonemasons to King Solomon’s Temple?”

  Cordingly smiled. “I’d start with the gothic arch if I were you.”

  “In architecture?” Ava wanted to hear this.

  He nodded. “European stone masons flocked to the Holy Land during the crusades, and they learned the techniques of pointed arches from the Muslims. When the stonemasons returned to Europe, they bought the new technology back with them.”

  Ava was unimpressed. “If that’s true, it’s only a link to the medieval crusades. You’ve still got another two thousand years to get back to King Solomon’s Temple.”

  Cordingly closed another partly open door as they walked past it. She thought she saw another black and white chequerboard carpet inside.

  “Well, what if some of the crusaders lived on the site of King Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem? And what if they used armies of European stonemasons to build their castles and palaces? What if those stonemasons dug down into Temple Mount for stone, right into the remains of King Solomon’s Temple itself?”

  Ava could feel her mouth growing dry.

  Another connection.

  “When you say crusaders,” she asked slowly, “you’re talking about the Knights Templar, aren’t you?”

  Cordingly flushed. His demeanor changed immediately. He hesitated, then answered hurriedly. “I’m not sure of the details. Anyway, this small talk is not why you came here today.”

  It was obvious she had hit a sensitive area. She could see he looked uncomfortable. The polite move for her now would be to back off. But she needed answers, and this meeting with Cordingly was possibly her only chance.

  She tried another angle. “Wasn’t the Templars’ battle flag black and white, like the chequerboard carpets in the rooms we’ve been passing?”

  “I don’t know,” he brushed the question away. “I’m really not an expert on these things.”

  Ava was becoming increasingly unnerved by his growing reticence.

  She not sure how any of what Cordingly was telling her fitted in with Saxby, the Foundation, Malchus, Prince, or the Ark—but she had the strong sense a number of currents were beginning to converge.

  She also could not help feeling she was nearing the far edge of the shallows, and any minute now the coastal shelf was about to drop away to very deep dark waters.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  83

  Freemasons’ Hall

  Covent Garden

  London WC2

  England

  The United Kingdom

  The Deputy Grand Secretary of the United Grand Lodge of England led Ava into a wide and elegant two-storey room. It was built in the same lustrous marble and polished wood as the long corridors they had just passed through, but was laid out as a library and museum.

  As they hurried through, she tried to look into the enticing mahogany display cases set at regular intervals. But she barely had time to take in any of the exhibits, and only caught a fleeting glimpse of Sir Winston Churchill’s aging apron, and a collection of miniature wooden squares, compasses, and other freemasonic objects carved from bed bunks by Allied prisoners of war.

  “So, Miss Adams,” Cordingly’s tone was more formal now. “I understand your visit is a professional one, on behalf of your firm.”

  Frustrated that he had been so tight-lipped about the Templars, Ava hoped he would be more forthcoming about Prince’s message.

  She pulled a square of paper from her pocket, and unfolded it to reveal a set of geometric symbols.

  She held it out for him to see.

  “One of our clients recently lost a patriarch who had led the family for thirty years,” she began. When we opened the strongbox of deeds and legal records entrusted to his executor, we found this document filed away with the other papers.”

  Cordingly took the sheet from her, pulling a pair of slim silver glasses from his jacket’s top pocket. He scanned the page briefly, before taking the glasses off again.

  “It’s the Freemasonic Cipher.” He looked unimpressed. “It hasn’t been a secret for several centuries. You can find it in most elementary codebooks. You really don’t need me or anyone else in this building to tell you about it.”

  Ava thought she heard a note of bitterness in his voice. Or was it disappointment?

  “So we were right,” she continued. “It’s definitely freemasonic?”

  He nodded. “Freemasons used it centuries ago, and so did our good friends the Rosicrucians. The seventeen-hundreds were dangerous times, and brotherhoods like ours required secure ways to communicate.”

  He looked at the paper again. “It was a good code back then. But the world is more sophisticated now. I rather suspect a twelve-year-old today would have few problems solving it.”

  Ava was perfectly aware of what it was—an extremely primitive substitution cipher. She had scribbled the symbols onto the paper herself while in the underground carriage in the hope of giving a plausible excuse for visiting Freemasons’ Hall.

  “All you have to do,” he continued brusquely, “is draw two noughts and crosses grids then two X-shaped grids. Together they give you twenty-six segments in which to write out the letters of the alphabet in sequential order. To distinguish the second of each pair of grids, you put a dot in each of their segments. That’s it. You now have twenty-six distinct and identifiable shapes to use instead of the twenty-six letters of the alphabet.”

  “Yes, we got that far,” Ava confirmed. “We were able to decipher it pretty quickly. It reads: ‘OLD LONDON STATION. BETWEEN THE PILLARS. IS THERE NO PITY FOR THE WIDOW’S SON?’”

  She paused for a reaction, even a flicker—hoping the references to ‘THE PILLARS’ and ‘THE WIDOW’S SON’ would mean something to him.

  His stern expression remained unchanged. “If you were able to decipher the message by yourself,” his tone was testy, “then what do you need us for?”

  “We wanted to be sure it was freemasonic,” she explained. “So I’m very grateful for your confirmation. But more importantly,” she glanced down at the paper in his hands, “we hoped you might help us with the meaning, which our research suggested could also be freemasonic. We can’t make any sense of it.” She looked at him hopefully.

  As they were talking, they drew near to a tall display cabinet, its glossy wooden frame glowing under the light of the delicate chandeliers. Inside, she could see a collection of pictures and photographs of famous freemasons. She was surprised to recognize so many—Isaac Newton, Christopher Wren, Voltaire, Mozart, Goethe, Conan Doyle, Oscar Wilde, Bakunin, Mark Twain, Robert Burns, Walter Scott, Houdini, Edmund Burke, Kipling. Hogarth, and a wealth of U.S., British, and other statesmen and soldiers. There were dozens of familiar faces.

  Cordingly stopped suddenly and wheeled around, frustration and anger clouding his face. “Let’s not waste any more of our time, shall we, Miss Adams? Or should I say, Dr Curzon? So let’s stop pretending. Why are you really here?”

  Ava heard her name like a slap. It caught her off guard, and she struggled to keep her face expressionless, barely registering his question.

  He waved an arm over his head, indicating the scale of the vast building around them. “Don’t be so surprised, Dr Curzon. And, if you’ll permit me, don’t be so naïve, either. Our brotherhood has survived in various guises for many centuries.” His voice dropped lower. “I should’ve thought it was obvious we are careful.”

  Ava was still reeling from having her identity exposed so starkly.

  How could he have known?

  There had been no security—no request for her identity. And the name she had given the guard downstairs had been false. It was simply not possible that Cordingly could know who she was.

  She replayed a mental film of her arrival at the building, reliving how she walked down both its sides before entering the glass doors and speaking to the security guard.


  As she focused on remembering, her eyes settled on the tall display case of pictures and photographs behind Cordingly. There was a small dog-eared card attached to it. Only half reading it, she saw it requested viewers not to touch the glass.

  With a sudden surge of realization, she understood. “The guard.” She looked accusingly at Cordingly. “He checked me at security.”

  Cordingly nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “The Bakelite clipboard,” she continued. “He took a set of my prints from it.”

  Cordingly blinked slowly.

  She took it as a ‘yes’.

  “Dr Curzon, we have friends who help us. We have no choice, you understand, because we also have enemies who would hurt us. Our survival does, at times, require certain measures.”

  She was not sure what he meant by that.

  Was he threatening her?

  She could feel the alarm bells beginning to go off in her head.

  She was deep inside a building belonging to one of the world’s most shadowy organizations. Her identity had been compromised, and she had been caught lying to them. For all she knew, they had murdered Prince, and laid a trail for her to walk right into their lair.

  She was confident she could take care of Cordingly if things turned ugly. But she had no idea who else was in the building—or how to exit quickly if she needed to.

  He fixed her with a hard stare. “However, Dr Curzon, I don’t believe you’re one of our enemies.” He handed the piece of paper back to her. “But you have lied your way in here, and I’d appreciate an explanation.”

  Glancing out of the window to clear her head, Ava was acutely aware her options were now very limited.

  If she made up another story and continued trying to bluff it out, she would be moving forward blind, risking a wrong move which could land her in even more trouble.