Revelation 9: 11 states: “They had a king over them, the angel of the abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek, Apollyon. The 'angel' of the Abyss is really the chief demon whose name is Abaddon. Masons claim then, that the deity they worship is Abaddon!”
“So,” Dan ventured slowly, “You are saying the United States of America was, is, based on Devil worship?”
“No, not at all,” George answered. “But a form of Satanic worship, yes. I cannot go into the research Vivi and I are conducting at the moment. But it is my contention that the Knights Templar, through the efforts of the Cathars, transmitted knowledge that eventually became the foundation of Freemasonry. Furthermore, I believe the True Cross is a cornerstone of this secret worship.”
“Is there a difference between devil worship and the worship of Satan?” Anna asked.
“Yes,” Vivi replied clearly perturbed.
Frankie George gave a hearty laugh while ordering another round of ale. “Well, my love, why not enlighten our new student.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “The difference is enormous. In Satanism, to a degree, you are your own ‘god’, and when you worship the Devil, you worship him or herself as the highest force, as a god. Also, Satan in Satanism is pre-Christian. The deity comes from the Pagan image of power, sexuality, sensuality, and virility. To most Satanists, Satan is a force of nature, not a god. It has nothing to do with Hell and evil, unlike the Satan that is worshipped.”
“So,” Anna interjected, “We are talking about the forces of good and evil.”
Vivi nodded. “To a certain extent, yes. Devil worshippers build their beliefs on the Christian beliefs, because they worship the evil Satan, ruler of Hell, the Devil in the bible. To Satanists there is no God, no heaven, no Devil, and no Hell. The only God, so to speak, is themselves. If they do believe in another God, it's one of their own personal creation. There is also a difference when it comes to ceremonies. Devil worshippers hold their ceremonies with the purpose to gain power from the devil himself, and they make sacrifices. Sometimes it is their own blood or the blood of an animal or sometimes much worse. Satanists on the other hand hold their ceremonies with the purpose to build an emotional, controlled energy, also known as magic.”
Anna reveled in being referred to as their ‘new student.’ She could also envision this perplexing French lady worshipping at Satan’s altar. A shiver crawled up her spine. “Thank you, Vivi. That was enlightening.”
“And, the end of the lesson,” Dan stated. “George, I can escort you to your office and wait while you make my copy. Anna, you can wait with Vivi at her apartment. Anna, I’ll come around to collect you when the Professor is finished and we will be back down to the Cape.”
Anna gave a cool look to Vivi which was returned in kind. Dan picked up on the vibe. “Or we could just all go to Professor George’s office together.”
Henry Sinclair sat on his porch. The hour was late. The wind swept over the waves, across the dune, and through his ever frail body. He hardly seemed to notice. Allen Wittenborn had not answered his phone. That fact was ominous. It meant he was not in possession of the map and quite possibly their secret had been uncovered.
Slowly he rose and made his way to the ancient mound his forefathers had built so long ago. He tread carefully. John Kilkenny had laid small yet deadly mines. The memory of a Viking America would remain unspoken. The secret rituals of Freemasonry would remain just that.
Entering into the mound Sinclair heard the sounds of lust. One voice a sound of conquest, the other of pain, agony, and loss. It gave him a thrill. He waited until the symphony subsided.
“Sir John,” he called after a proper interlude.
John Kilkenny emerged from behind his makeshift bedchamber. “Yes, Sire.”
“We still have work ahead of us I’m afraid, my son. The map is yet to be secured and this devil of a man, Dan Burdett, is still seemingly acting to bring us down. You know what to do.”
“Yes,” Kilkenny replied simply. He retrieved his leather bag. Looking inside he appeared satisfied all was in order. Then, without word, he exited the chamber.
Sinclair sat down at the table and filled his glass with wine. A strong sense of desire overcame him. For too long he had ignored the wishes of his flesh. Sinclair entered the bedroom and let his eyes linger on Kilkenny’s ‘wife.’ She did not seem to notice being too consumed in her sobs. He undressed. Then, sensing another threat, her head turned and she looked up from the bed.
“No,” screamed the voice with a loud animal like intensity. Papi tried with all his might to unhinge his chains. It was of no avail. The poor lady, arms tied to the bedposts, had no recourse other than kick and scream. Again, the loud moans of lust, disgust, and despair filled the chamber. Ashamed that he had not, could not, do anything to rescue this damsel, Papi said a prayer that God would spare her life and grant her a time for revenge.
Then there was silence. Had she finally given up the will to live? Papi began to weep.
George filled four glasses with a shot of whiskey. The map had been delicately placed on his office scanner. “This will take a while,” he announced.
“We have all night,” Dan replied.
“And what will you do with this copy? It won’t be worth anything, Burdett.”
“A remembrance. I’ll frame it, put it on my wall, and hopefully it will serve as a reminder to mind my own business next time.”
George shrugged. “You have earned at least as much I suppose.” The professor remained silent for a moment. “This office,” he began unsolicited, “Is really quite something isn’t it? Valuable artifacts from all over the world, a photo with President Bill Clinton, books, awards, you name it and I’ve achieved it.”
Dan raised his glass. “Here’s to your success,” he cheered rather wearily.
“But it is not about that at all. Is it my dear Vivi?”
She came over and gently kissed him on the cheek. Though there was a twenty year difference in age, they fit well together Dan acknowledged. They shared a bond.
“It began with my father, you see,” George continued waving his arms across the room.
“Your father was a historian also?” Anna asked.
“No. My father was a spy. OSS, CIA. He was an assassin and he was assassinated.”
Perhaps the Professor was drunk. In any case, Dan was not comfortable hearing George air his family’s dirty laundry. “No need to go into that now, Professor.”
“Ah but there is, Burdett. Now is precisely the time. My revenge is nearly complete.”
Dan listened becoming increasingly perplexed. “Revenge? That is what this is all about?”
“Skull and Bones. My first secret society. Upon initiation, they ask you to divulge a secret, something that you have never trusted anybody else with.”
“Skull and Bones? The Yale Secret Society?” Dan asked for clarification.
“The one and only,” George replied. “My father had been a member and it was because of this affiliation he was recruited into the OSS, then the CIA, and, of course, a fully vetted Freemason.”
“Fully vetted?” Anna interrupted. “So, as you said, there are different levels of membership. Different expectations then?”
“Precisely. And with each level more responsibility is bestowed. In Hebrew the ‘God of the Abyss’ is known as Abaddon while in Greek it is referred to as Apallyon. Now, as Vivi has pointed out, this god of hell has little to do with the Christian Devil. But, if we can try to grasp the ancient’s belief in the forces of black and white, good and bad, a picture emerges where one who can harness the power of the abyss, darkness, would be formidable indeed.”
George went over to one of his book cases and reached for a dusty tome. He placed it on the table and opened it to a page that presented a figure. He invited Anna and Dan to look.
“And this god, Abaddon, holds great significance?” Dan asked.
George raised his glass in the air. “A force so powerful to drive you t
o rarefied heights.”
“How does this tie in to what we have potentially discovered through this map?” Dan asked trying to direct the conversation to the present.
“Nothing can be more powerful one could suppose than to consider yourself godlike,” George continued. “If my theory is true, The Knights Templar stumbled upon, or perhaps initiated, a new powerful religious tonic. One in which the initiated could, through a series of steps, rituals, thirty three to be exact, transform you from a man to a god.”
“That would be a powerful elixir,” Dan admitted. “Give me your life and I’ll give you immortality.”
“Exactly!” George agreed. “Now, my initiation began huddled in the small cubby hole located under our basement stairs as a young teenager. My father was considered a god in the halls of the Central Intelligence Agency. A master assassin, he was also a 33rd degree mason. He had reached the top. Whether it was his job, the tensions of thirty plus years engaged in covert espionage, or a combination of both, he began to crack. My dad was always a womanizer and by the time I was old enough to understand some of what was hidden in the cubbyhole he had long been lost to the bottle.”
“And,” Dan interjected, “What exactly did you find there?”
George refilled his glass. He then raised it above his head and answered simply, “The lie.”
It was a harbinger of success. The hazy reddish moon, not often seen in these parts, seemed to be sending a message. John Kilkenny would know about such things. On too many nights to remember, he had followed the moon’s nightly trek through the sky. In some respects, they had become friends. His Viking forefathers had also made union with this celestial body. Indeed, it was an important element in his rise as a Freemason.
The auspicious sign imbued him with confidence. He knew where he was heading. Both in the moment and also as an abstract idea. His place, his redemption, would be secured. Then he cleared his mind. No distractions. The doling out of death was a sacred if solemn task. John Kilkenny closed his eyes and tread across the Harvard Commons stone path.
Bobby Lombardi walked his nightly patrol across Harvard Yard much as he had done over the course of the last three decades. He enjoyed the evening shift. Peaceful, uneventful and, most importantly, free of stress. He had had enough of that during his two tours in Vietnam. Retirement was coming soon.
He would miss his nightly rituals. Leaning up against the sturdy chestnut tree, he opened up his pack of smokes. Rothchilds. It brought a smile to his face. A few years back he had bummed a smoke from Professor Francis George. He later remarked as to how he enjoyed the flavor but the price was a bit too dear. Ever since then a pack of the upscale cigarettes would greet him at the beginning of each week. Frankie George was good people Lombardi thought to himself. He would miss so many things about the University. The students, the staff, the lecturers, Bobby Lombardi would miss this tree.
It wasn’t unusual to see students come and go through all hours of the night. Research never sleeps. So he was not surprised to see Frankie arrive late with his stunning young lady and friends. But on this night something appeared slightly off kilter.
“The lie?” Dan questioned.
“That you can become the equivalent to a god. That lie,” George replied. “You see, my Father had reached the pinnacle of success. An OSS legend, a feared man in the halls of Langley, Virginia, wealth, ill-gotten or not, a beautiful wife and a woman in every port. He certainly lived like a god. I’ll give him that. But, in the end, he found he had nothing.”
“Curious that a man of your father’s qualities would invest such knowledge in his teenage son,” Dan quizzed. Anna nudged him and gave him a disapproving look. “Look, I am tired. Tonight’s events have left me drained and more jaded than I thought possible. How much longer for the copy, Professor?”
“Just about ten minutes and you can be on your way, Burdett. And, no, my Father and I rarely talked. Back to that little cubby hole. It was there that I met my Father. You see, he kept a record of almost everything. All the cloak and dagger episodes that propelled him into an OSS icon, the sexual escapades with women from faraway lands, the love affair he had with a Thai upper class lady, which, incidentally, lasted longer than the good looks of their youth, CIA plots and assassinations, his love for the Red Sox, everything that colored my Father’s existence, was there for me in that cramped space.”
Anna sat listening. She was transfixed. “That history, very personal, is that what led you on your career path?”
“Yes,” George replied wistfully as if he had transported himself back to the crouched position in the cubby hole. Then a broad smile lightened his mood. “And I would not have had it any other way. I wish one of the cartons had included a warm reference to me. I searched in vain. But, Dan, you asked about the ‘lie’. One night I was stuffed in my small world when my father and two men came down in the basement. At first the conversation was innocuous, then, slowly, as the alcohol began to flow, it became much more intense. Finally, he shouted, ‘I’ve got it all written down, I will tear the whole thing down. Names, membership, rituals, murders, have all been collected, filed, and stored. Try to push me out. Hell you’ll be doing me a favor.’ I’m not sure if my Father knew I had discovered his documents. The next day he was off to the Cape and as so often was the case I was left with my nannie. Two days later he was dead.”
“And that was the secret you told to the Skull and Bones, the Bonesmen, on your initiation night?” Dan asked.
“Yes. But I went into more detail as to what I found. Ah, now your copy is coming to completion.”
“But, Professor,” Anna began with hesitation, “Wasn’t that rather dangerous? I mean, if you had the documents, wouldn’t those men have been a danger to you?”
“Quite the opposite, Anna. It gave me entrance to practically any opportunity I chose. They are kept in a very secure place. If anything should befall me they will be placed in a very public forum. But now, Dan Burdett, I present you with your very rare and very worthless souvenir.”
Dan took the map and began to roll it up. The door suddenly burst opened with fury. Vivi Carcasonne screamed. Dan pivoted around. A towering man stood in the doorway. His face held a menacing smile and in his right hand an axe.
“John Kilkenny,” Dan murmured breathlessly.
The response was an axe hurtling through the air. It happened so fast. Dan and Anna stood paralyzed. Perhaps their shock is what saved them as the lethal weapon sliced through the one foot which stood in between.
“That was almost the end of you,” Kilkenny stated as he strode forward this time with a pistol in his grip. “I won’t miss with this.” He continued on towards Vivi and roughly grabbed her around the waist and placed the nozzle of the gun at her temple. “Mr. George, please provide me with the map. And, I believe you have some documents, your blackmail, my boss would like to place into his possession.”
“Let her go, Chum, and we can work out an arrangement,” George replied trying to remain as calm as he could manage.
Kilkenny smiled. “Very well, Sir. You may think you are quite clever. Please sit down and watch the consequences your words have on this unfortunate lady.” Kilkenny then, with his free hand, ripped the front of Vivi’s silk shirt causing the buttons to scatter. Next, Kilkenny ordered her to undo the bra.
“No, you beast!” Frankie George yelled.
Kilkenny held Vivi tightly and focused the gun at George. “Professor, you will die. That needn’t be the case for your Lady. Give me what I need and she goes free.”
George arose slowly. “Very well. Here,” he pointed. “The map, it is yours, now. Please let her go. The documents are at another location which I’ll be happy to escort you.”
Vivi shook her head fiercely. “No, Francis, don’t give in to this fiend. This is your life’s work. Don’t give it up!”
John Kilkenny caressed her hair and then let his hand skim down to her breasts. He grabbed them roughly and squeezed. “Now your skirt, Miss. My hope wa
s to leave her untarnished. Truly, all I want is to carry out my Master’s orders. But you have lied. Torture can be delivered in many ways but, I suppose, none is worse than a man watching another man have his woman turned into a whore, taken as pleasure.”
“Like what happened to you many years ago, John Kilkenny?” Dan interjected. “You had a terrible thing happen to you, John. Your wife, your unborn child. Nobody should have that burden their soul. Do you really want to visit that on another woman, another man? Remember, you were ‘Johnny Kill’, Whitey’s hammer, a respected man, a feared man. In Boston you are legend. ‘Never hurt a man who didn’t have it coming,’ is what they said about you. What would people say about this?”
A look of uncertainty crept into Kilkenny’s eyes. “John Kilkenny died thirty years ago,” the born killer mumbled. But Kilkenny stepped away from Vivi. He gave her a slight shove towards George. He then aimed the gun at Dan. “You are correct, Burdett. Unfortunately from my point of view, you do have it coming. Move away, Miss Chase. I wouldn’t want you sprayed with Mr. Burdett’s blood.”
All eyes were fixed on Kilkenny. And his alert gaze scanned his captive audience. Then, a surprise voice entered the fray.
“Hands above your head right now, Mister.” Bobby Lombardi stepped through the doorway which had been left slightly ajar. He held his gun uneasily. In truth, he had never fired the weapon outside the range.
Kilkenny pivoted in a sudden motion and dropped to one knee while firing off two rounds. Dan lunged for the pistol he had deposited in his backpack. Hastily he fumbled for it. The sound of gunfire ringing in his ears. He held it tightly in his hands and raised it towards where Kilkenny was standing. He saw Bobby Lomabardi standing, shaking, shocked, but unmoved. Dan looked down to see Professor Francis George hiding beneath the desk. Anna and Vivi cowered together, embraced in fear, behind the sofa.
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 21