Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  Men like the now-trouserless Gerry used to be a mystery to her. Then she had come to the realization that most men—in fact, most people—were, at a fundamental level, animals. They had been trained to behave properly in society, just as pets had. But place them in a situation where they believed there would be no consequences for their actions and many of them would act, well, animalistic. Not all people, of course. But most. Nobody who had ever witnessed a mob rampaging could doubt this.

  Which was why all the politically correct rhetoric denying there were differences between races of humans was so ludicrous. Just as certain breeds of horses or dogs were faster or stronger or smarter or more durable than others, so, too, did different races of humans exhibit specific traits. The Negroes, as a result of slavers and their breeding practices, were larger and stronger. The Jews, because of their centuries-long obsession with their religious texts, were more bookish. The Asians, due to societal norms which emphasized the collective over the individual, were more obedient. And the Aryans, thanks to their descent from the ancient, advanced Atlanteans, were generally superior in almost every way. Tonight’s encounter had proven that—Katarina’s synapses and reflexes were faster, her intelligence and composure and strategic planning more advanced. She had planned and executed the fingers-to-scrotum and arm-through-grab-bar maneuvers before Gerry even realized he was under attack. Hell, she had a knife in her boot that she didn’t even need to use; her bare hands had been enough.

  There were exceptions to these racial stereotypes, of course—genetics was an exact science only on a macro level, not a micro one. She knew some perfectly Neanderthal-ish Aryans. But to argue that all humans were essentially identical was akin to postulating that a nag had as much chance of winning the Kentucky Derby as a colt sired by a Triple Crown winner.

  Katarina accelerated into the left lane. Most people realized, at an instinctive level, that the human races were unequal. Only a few were brave enough to state this reality publicly. And even fewer were willing to devote their lives to pushing for a society which embraced this reality.

  Waiting for his flight out of Belgium, Bruce thought about the Saudi offer, wondering what the best way to play it was. After ten minutes of his mind going in circles, he logged into his email server with his burner phone and scrolled through his messages. His missing finger was not an issue when poking at his phone, but he would need to make an adjustment when typing on a keyboard. He had begun to practice on his thigh on the drive to the airport, stretching his ring finger over to an imaginary ‘A’ key. For the rarely-used ‘Q’ and ‘Z’ keys, he would improvise.

  One of the emails caught his eye. From an art auction house in New York. Bruce had represented the seller of a Warhol four or five months ago—the owner needed cash for a construction project in the Catskills which had stalled. The auction house had withheld five percent of the proceeds because the buyer was a California resident and California—like most of Europe, but alone among the states of the U.S.—had an artist resale rights law, allowing artists and their heirs to benefit from future appreciation in their works. Apparently, the law had just been struck down by the courts, and the auction house was refunding the money to Bruce to return to his client.

  Bruce sat back, Shelby’s voice already in his ear. This was the type of situation where, decades ago, he simply would have pocketed the money. His client was an adult, fully capable of protecting his legal and economic interests. Bruce was not a baby-sitter. No, Shelby’s voice countered, he put his trust in you. Hired you to be his representative. Expected you to look out for his best interests.

  “Hold on a second,” he volleyed with her in his mind. “He hired me to help him sell a Warhol. I did that. Got him a good price. He knew about the tax. And the court decision will be in the papers. He could figure it out.”

  She sighed, blinked and turned away. Okay, Bruce, fine.

  Shaking his head, not sure how he had lost this argument, Bruce sent an email to his client, Norman Plansky. “Good news. You’ve got a $30K tax refund coming your way.”

  After he hit send, he felt pretty good. He could have used the thirty grand himself, but not as much as Norman. The poor bastard. He was one of those guys who would perpetually make the wrong decision, fooling himself into believing that success waited just around the next corner. The sale of a single Warhol wasn’t going to change that. But, as Mark Twain famously pointed out, we should be thankful for the fools, for but for them the rest of us could not succeed.

  Chapter 4

  “I can’t believe we’re flying to Belgium for just one bloody day,” Amanda said as the Uber driver dropped them off at the international departure gate at Logan Airport. “Who does that?”

  “People working with someone with tons of extra miles,” Cam replied with a tired smile. At least Bruce had sprung for business class. Cam had not been able to fall back to sleep after Bruce’s abrupt 3:00 AM call. Now he faced a night in an airplane seat. But a couple of sleepless nights was a small price to pay for a chance to dig deep into one of the great mysteries of the art world. Especially one which, apparently, involved the Templars and perhaps even the Holy Grail. And an adventure with Amanda, no matter how rushed, was always welcome. It hadn’t taken much to sell her on the whirlwind trip, and a neighbor was happy to take Astarte and Venus for a couple of nights.

  Amanda slipped her overnight bag over her shoulder as they strolled toward the Delta counter. “At least we won’t have to bother checking any luggage.”

  They passed quickly through security, November being a relatively light time for international travel. They ordered burgers and beers at a pub inside the terminal.

  “Astarte was not pleased we didn’t bring her,” Amanda said.

  “She’s getting to be that age where not much pleases her.”

  Amanda sipped her beer. “She’s actually a dream compared to me when I was a teenager. Having said that, the other day she did ask why you and I don’t actually do anything. For society, that is. Apparently, history only matters to the past.”

  “What does she want us to do, go on marches and stuff? Run for office?”

  “Yes. Either. Both.” Amanda shrugged. “She’s at that age. What do they say about the word ‘sophomore?’ It’s a combination of the word soph meaning wise and moros meaning foolish or moronic.”

  Cam chuckled. “So a wise fool. At that age, they’re trying to figure things out. And they don’t know what they don’t know.”

  She nibbled a French fry. “Speaking of not knowing, did Bruce give you any specifics? What exactly are we looking for?”

  “It was the middle of the night. All he said was that the cathedral was full of Templar stuff and he needed me, or us, to figure it out for him.”

  Amanda pulled up her phone. “It says here that Saint Bavo’s Cathedral was built over an older structure, a crypt, called the Chapel of John the Baptist, which dates back to the time of the Templars.” She raised an eyebrow. They both knew the Templars venerated John the Baptist and often named their chapels after him. “And here’s something else. Flanders, which included this area of Belgium, had the highest percentage of Templars in all of Europe.”

  “More than France?”

  She nodded. “The cofounder of the Templar Order, Godfrey of Saint-Omer, was from just west of Ghent. So it makes sense that the Templars were active there.”

  “But the cathedral itself wasn’t built until the 1400s, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Cam sipped his beer. By the early 1400s, the Templars had long been outlawed. What previously was a secret society had now gone underground, making itself even more clandestine. Out of necessity, they moved in the shadows. Whatever clues they may have left about their true beliefs, often embedded in art and architecture, had been buried deep.

  “I do have one possible clue,” Cam said. “Turns out van Eyck and Leonardo da Vinci were friends. And we know da Vinci was plugged into the secret societies and mystery schools of the day. Lots of
artists were.” It was these groups, made up largely of intellects and artists, who carried forward the ancient teachings—many of which were contrary to Church dogma—and handed them off to the Freemasons and other clandestine orders. “And we know van Eyck was close to the Duke of Burgundy, who was also part of that community. So it would make sense that van Eyck had been indoctrinated in some way. If we find symbolism in his paintings, it likely wasn’t put there by accident.”

  “That’s consistent with what I know of his artwork. I studied him a bit in university. One thing I recall is that van Eyck was the only painter known to have accurately depicted a working Masonic lodge. It’s in a painting of his in the Louvre, called Saint Barbara.”

  “Saint Barbara, huh? She was the patron saint of alchemists. And she’s pictured in the Ghent Altarpiece. More evidence that van Eyck may have been indoctrinated.”

  “I agree, lots of intriguing connections and possibilities.” Amanda pulled out a notebook. “But we’ve only got one day. And the cathedral, not to mention the crypt beneath, is massive. We could spend a month there and not see everything. I think we need to work in reverse. Rather than studying every square inch looking for clues, let’s work from what we know, look for the things we’ve identified before as the type of iconography the Templars liked to use.”

  “Good idea. We’ve got one already: The chapel is named after John the Baptist. That screams Templar.”

  Amanda made a note. “Good. Along the same lines, let’s look for other John the Baptist imagery.” She bit the end of her pen. “Also Mary Magdalene stuff. Especially anything showing her pregnant or holding a child.” Their research had shown that the Templars believed in the marriage of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, and in their bloodline.

  “Bruce already mentioned a black-and-white checkerboard floor. But we should look for more of those.”

  “And things on the ceiling, especially stars and constellations.” She wrote. “You know, as above, so below.”

  Amanda’s comments caused Cam to reflect, not for the first time, that Templar doctrine could be summarized in a single word: duality. They believed in balance, what the Chinese called the Yin and Yang. Black-white, cold-hot, dark-light, male-female. Nature demanded this balance, and organisms—including the human race—were most healthy when they operated within a state of equilibrium. The Templars venerated Mary Magdalene because they understood that society could only be healthy when its deity had his masculine side balanced by a female influence. Likewise, the Templars worshiped John the Baptist because they believed Jesus the king (descended from the line of King David) should rule alongside a religious leader, sharing power—John the Baptist, being a descendant of the priestly line of Aaron, brother of Moses, was the obvious choice. The Founding Fathers validated this dualistic approach centuries later, mandating the separation of church and state. The black-and-white checkerboard was another manifestation of this belief in duality, as was the expression, as above, so below.

  The airline called the flight, interrupting Cam’s musings. He rubbed his face. This Templar research was challenging, trying to decode symbolism embedded into art and iconography by a secret society operating hundreds of years ago. And who knew how deep the symbolism revealing a secret map leading to the Holy Grail would be buried? But as the expression went, if it was easy, everyone would be doing it. He grabbed Amanda’s shoulder bag and flung it over his shoulder. “Come on. The Holy Grail awaits.”

  She smiled and took his arm. “Either that or we’re flying three thousand miles just for a Belgian waffle.”

  Shelby spent Saturday morning playing Escape the Room with a group of other mentors and girls from the Big Sister association. Then she returned to the Big Sister office at the Park Plaza hotel to do some paperwork. She had volunteered at the charity ever since her days as a Harvard law student, and had watched her little sisters become lawyers, doctors, community leaders and, most satisfying of all, big sisters themselves. Shelby had lost her parents and only brother to a drunk driver at a toll plaza when she was in her early twenties; the staff, volunteers and girls had become a surrogate family for her. The devastating accident had left her with a shattered heart—she had no desire for children, unwilling to test her emotions in much the same way a person who almost drowned might be unwilling to try to swim again. She simply didn’t trust herself to be able to handle the overwhelming feelings, and potential loss, associated with parenthood.

  Which was one of the reasons her relationship with Bruce worked. He adored her—she was as certain as anyone could be in this life that he would never leave her. He was far from perfect, with his crazy travel and rigid view of the world and disdain for most people he met. But at least she didn’t have to worry about him breaking her heart. And he had no interest in children himself.

  Leaving the Park Plaza just before noon on a blustery day, she pulled her coat collar up and decided to walk the mile east through Chinatown to her condo along the waterfront. As was often the case, she wrestled with the fiscal challenges of managing a non-profit organization. It seemed like every year their expenses rose even as contributions fell. Why couldn’t people see that investing in the next generation—especially inner-city girls—not only was it the morally right thing to do, but was also an investment in the future which yielded lucrative returns? It had gotten to the point where the organization was having difficulty offering even basic services, even as groups like the United Way were paying their top executives over a million dollars per year in salary. She balled her hands into fists in her jacket pocket. She would not, could not, let Big Sister fail…

  As she angled across Arlington Street and turned onto Boylston, a slightly-built man with an Irish flat cap and red hair stepped out of a doorway.

  “Hello, Shelby,” he said, smiling.

  She stopped and blinked, searching his face. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  He bowed slightly, his hands behind his back. “Not officially. Not yet.” With a dramatic flourish he swung his left arm forward, producing a single red rose. “For you,” he announced.

  She hesitated, not sure what to do. “I’m sorry, but who are you again?”

  He pushed the rose toward her. A voice in her head warned her to be careful. There was something disquieting about his demeanor. “I’m an old friend of Bruce’s. I’m sure he would want you to have this.”

  As she took a step back, his hand squeezed tight around the thorny stem. Droplets of blood spilled to the pavement.

  “My name’s Gus, by the way,” he said, his hard, blue eyes locked on hers as his blood continued to drip. “The rose and blood. Intimately related. Both red. One a symbol of love, the other a symbol of death.” He paused. “That’s always the question with Bruce, isn’t it? Is one worth the other?”

  Norman rolled out of bed late on Sunday and, even then, did so only because Squidward kept pawing at his face, waiting to be fed. It used to be he slept late on Sundays because that was the only day the construction crew didn’t wake him at 7:00. Now he did so because, well, there was no construction crew to wake him at all. That, and he had nothing to get up for.

  Popping open a cold Mountain Dew, he dragged the trailer’s lone chair in front of his computer and flopped into it. The cable bill was long past due, with a shutoff scheduled for tomorrow or the next day. Given a choice between heat and internet, he chose to keep warm. Which meant today was the day to catch up on email. Clicking through, he hit the delete button, removing solicitations and junk and—

  His finger froze mid-air. What? He read the message a second time. Thirty thousand dollars. Just waiting for wiring instructions. Totally unexpected, too good to be true, like a snow day in April when you hadn’t studied for your chemistry test. But even better than that—more like being asked to the prom by the hottest girl in school when you thought you were going to have to bring your cousin.

  After letting out a whoop that sent Squidward scurrying under the bed, Norman jumped into the shower, where he did his best th
inking. Belting out old show tunes, he let the hot water pour over him as his mind raced. He had been convinced the game was over, but had been granted a miracle reprieve. A second had been put back on the clock—time for one last desperation play. But what should that play be? A half-court shot? A pass to under the basket? An attempt to draw a foul?

  In actuality, the basketball metaphor wasn’t even a good one. He was down by more than a point, needed more than a single play. Plus, he sucked at sports. The question was a simple one: Was there anything he could do with this windfall that might make the bank reconsider its foreclosure? One option was to walk in on Monday with a check and pay down the loan, offering the money as a good-faith gesture and then begging for more time. But these were bankers—he guessed they would gladly take his money, but the underlying economics of the project hadn’t really changed, and they would clearly see that. What about getting the artifacts tested? Scientific testing was not cheap, but what if he could prove the burial grounds were not Native American after all? A bead of shampoo dripped into his eye, stinging him in what he took to be an allegorical rebuke—what else could the burial grounds be? Why throw the money away on a dream? The water began to cool, the trailer’s hot water tank not designed for more than a quick shower. The temperature change sobered him. Maybe the smartest thing was to just walk away and keep the money to start a new life.

  As he toweled himself dry, another idea began to germinate. Bankers were, he had observed, some of the most risk-averse people in society. They saw danger, downside, peril in every transaction. Only when someone with a dream walked through their door, and sold them on that dream, could they bring themselves to make a loan. (This was an exaggeration, he knew, but he allowed himself the indulgence as his mind raced.) At one point he, Norman the Nebish, oversized head and all, had sold them on his dream. What if someone else, someone fresh, could do so again? What if he could convince the bank that he had a new partner, a new source of funds, someone offering the capital needed to restart this project? The thirty thousand would be a down payment, a show of good faith, with much more to come. It just might, if Norman played things correctly, buy Norman the one thing he needed and didn’t have: time. (Actually, that was another exaggeration. He needed time and money and a septic system and a construction manager to make sure they stayed on budget. But first things first: He needed time.)