Remembering an episode where SpongeBob’s boss brought in a French chef to make his restaurant seem more upscale, Norman’s seed of a plan began to take root. He phoned Bruce Arrujo and ran the idea by him, hoping he wasn’t taking advantage of Bruce’s generosity with his time. “That might work,” Bruce said. “I can draft something quickly, some kind of contract that will look good.”
“Great, thanks. I really appreciate it. This is what I want.” He described the deal he had come up with: An investment of one million dollars by a French restaurateur in exchange for a fifty percent stake in the Levana Resort and the rights to operate a bistro on site. Norman to retain control of the resort. Closing in one month, deposit of $25,000 now.
“Not the entire $30,000?”
“No. Remember I told you I found some artifacts in the burial ground, a sword that I’m hoping is really old?” Bruce had given him some advice before Norman went in to meet with the bank manager on Friday.
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to have the sword tested. Plus I need a few bucks to, you know, eat.”
“Understood. Do you want me to actually form a new corporation to make this look really official?”
“Can you do that? We only have a week. And I don’t want to piss away money if I don’t have to.”
“Sure. It’ll cost less than a thousand. This stuff isn’t as complicated as everyone makes it out to be. And I think it’s worth it, if you want the bank to take it seriously. I’ll FedEx some documents for you to sign.”
“Great. Thanks.” Norman would submit the investment agreement, along with $25,000, to the bank early this week. Then he’d see about testing the sword and some of the other artifacts.
He lifted Squidward high in the air, then set her down before she got nervous and peed on his head. Instead she waddled over and pissed on the wall in the corner. He threw his shoe at her. “Hey, stop that.” But even cat urine couldn’t kill his good mood. As long as the bank didn’t insist on meeting this French investor, and with Bruce’s help, this plan had a chance to work.
Not a certainty. And probably not even a good chance. But a chance was a lot more than he had when he went to bed last night.
Amanda and Cam landed in Brussels, rented a car, grabbed an early lunch, and made the drive to Ghent in time to be at the doors of Saint Bavo’s Cathedral when it opened to the public at 1:00, after Sunday morning services. They made a point of viewing the multi-paneled Ghent Altarpiece, but didn’t spend much time with it, knowing that the clues Bruce had tasked them with deciphering were embedded elsewhere in the cathedral and/or crypt below.
Together they explored the massive structure, then divided up to cover more ground. Amanda lingered at the edge of a guided tour, half-listening as she studied the choir area. “To the right,” the tour guide said, “you can see the gallery with painted crests of the members of the Order of the Golden Fleece.”
Amanda froze. Order of the Golden Fleece? Cam had told her that the Duke of Burgundy had founded the Order; he was, of course, also the benefactor of Jan van Eyck. And now she had found the Order’s members prominently displayed in the cathedral. A coincidence, or something more? She made a note to do more research on the Duke of Burgundy and his secret order.
Cam was exploring the other side of the cathedral, so Amanda took a side staircase down to the basement crypt, to the Templar-era Chapel of John the Baptist. John the Baptist was normally depicted in animal skins carrying a staff, reflecting his years spent preaching in the desert. But here the focus seemed to be on his head—on a wall, a stained glass image depicted his beheading, and nearby his head alone was featured, a bronze sculpture resting cheek-down on an ornate silver platter.
In and of themselves, these images might not mean anything. But the Templars worshiped a head called Baphomet, which many historians believed to be the recovered skull of John the Baptist. Were these disembodied heads, prominently displayed, another sign of Templar influence in the cathedral?
She continued wandering, snapping pictures as she studied the faded frescoes and wall paintings. One portrayed a clearly-pregnant Mary Magdalene at the foot of Jesus’ cross. Amanda shook her head. How did people not understand this imagery? Mary Magdalene was undoubtedly playing the part of the grieving widow. The clues were as obvious as they were widespread. Only a wife would be allowed the intimate task of washing, or anointing, a man’s feet, as the Magdalene did with the perfumed ointment from her alabaster jar. And only a widow (or family member) would be allowed to dress and prepare a man for burial, as Mary Magdalene did for Jesus.
Why was all this important? Again, it tied back to the Templars and their beliefs. Rejecting Church orthodoxy, the Templars embraced Mary Magdalene and her importance as the feminine, wifely influence in Jesus’ life. This embrace of the Magdalene eventually got them outlawed and, in some cases, killed when the Church turned on them in 1307. But not before they had been able to hide their treasures and artifacts, spiriting them out of France—and perhaps out of Europe—in the dead of night. Which brought her back to the Ghent Altarpiece and the cathedral which housed it. Bruce had been correct. Everything here seemed to scream Templars. It meant they were on the right track. But it brought them no closer to finding the Treasure Templari.
She found Cam crouching, studying the floor in a side room of the basement crypt. “This must be what Bruce found when he called me,” he said, standing on a black-and-white checkerboard floor featuring a splayed, equal-sided cross.
She stared down. Not much doubt that it was a Templar cross. And the black-and-white pattern was a common motif of the Templars, patterned after the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, the site where Jesus was said to have been both crucified and buried.
“He was spot on. This place is full of Templar symbolism.”
Cam nodded and stood. “I found it also. There’s also some strange stuff going on with van Eyck and the Altarpiece. I went back and studied it more. It’s subtle, but I think he was questioning some of the teachings of the Church.”
Amanda considered Cam’s comment. If van Eyck were part of the secret society of artists and intellects who doubted some of the teachings of the Church, like the Duke of Burgundy and Leonardo da Vinci, this would make sense. “How so?” she asked.
Cam pulled out his phone and found the Saint Bavo’s website. “Look at his depiction of the Virgin Mary on one of the Altarpiece panels. Hair down, in a royal gown, wearing a crown. Not at all chaste and demure. More like a queen than a matron.”
Amanda nodded. “And reading a book. Forbidden knowledge.” She studied the image. “Almost like the artist is trying to empower her. She’s not just some receptacle used to carry God’s baby. She’s a woman in every sense of the word—attractive, passionate, confident, knowledgeable. Everything the Church found threatening in women.”
“So, basically, van Eyck agreed with the Templars. Whether it was Mary Magdalene or the Virgin Mary or both—a healthy society needed a strong feminine presence.”
Amanda linked her arm into his. “As do you.” They had squeezed enough meaning out of the chapel for one afternoon. As they climbed the stairs out of the crypt, she had another thought. “I wonder—”
Leading Cam back to the Altarpiece display area by the front entrance, she focused on the Hermits panel—she knew Mary Magdalene was pictured in the background, easily identifiable by her ubiquitous alabaster jar. Using her body to block the view of the security guard, Amanda snapped a quick picture and blew it up on her phone, then placed it side-by-side with the image of the Virgin Mary displayed in the panel above it.
Amanda held her phone up to Cam. “Am I daft?”
He grinned. “No more so than usual. Seriously, you could be right. Look at the hair, the mouth, the knob of her chin, the line of her cheeks. Looks like the same woman to me.”
Amanda stepped back to take in the entire altarpiece. They needed to view this painting from the perspective of the 1400s, when it was painted. During that
time, Mary Magdalene was thought of as the sinning prostitute. “Could it be?” she said. “Both Marys, the prostitute and the virgin, one and the same?” The two Biblical figures represented different aspects of the sacred feminine. The medieval Church would have been appalled to see the harlot Magdalene equated with the saintly Virgin Mother. But there were some, like the Templars, who believed in the Jesus bloodline and worked in the shadows to glorify Mary Magdalene.
Amanda shook her head. “Jan van Eyck, you sneaky devil. I think you really were hiding some secrets in this painting.”
Menachem followed from a distance, far enough away not to be seen but close enough so that the sound amplifier in his ear allowed him to hear every word the Americans said. From what he had heard, and from what his team had been able to learn about the couple in the last hour-and-a-half, Arrujo had chosen well—these two seemed smart and capable. He hoped it turned out they were neither.
The problem, of course, was that if they were correct about the Just Judges painting leading to the Holy Grail, then it would not lead him and his team to the secret stash of alien rocks needed to perfect the salt water fuel technology. It was one or the other—the painting surely didn’t lead to two lost treasures. Menachem didn’t give a damn about the blood of Jesus or some old cross or the head of John the Baptist. He needed to find the meteorite rocks.
As he often did in the field, Menachem made a split-second decision, one based on decades of experience and knowledge. Of course, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t blow up in his face.
Cam retreated back down the cathedral stairs to the basement rest room. He was feeling a bit off, and wanted to check his blood sugar level. Travel, with the irregular sleep and meal times, always messed with his diabetes.
He found an empty stall for privacy. From his back pocket he pulled a portable glucose tester, inserted a fresh barb and pricked his pinky finger. As he looked down to the get the reading, the stall door swung in—
“Hey, I’m in here.”
A compact man with olive skin and a crewcut smiled and stepped in, nudging Cam back a step. He closed the door and, with an accent, said, “Please, finish what you are doing.”
Something hard in the man’s eyes caused Cam to swallow any protest. He slid the monitor back into his pocket. “What do you want?”
“My name is Menachem.” The two men were face to face like an angry manager and umpire; Cam noticed the smell of salami on his breath. “It is time for you to serve your homeland.”
Cam edged his way around the toilet, another foot deeper into the stall. “My homeland? Are you CIA or something?”
Menachem shook his head, almost sadly. “No. Your other homeland. Israel.”
“I’m not Israeli.” Cam suddenly recalled Bruce’s comment about the Mossad being interested in the painting. “I’ve never even been to Israel.”
“But you are Jewish.”
“My mother is Jewish. My father’s not.” He was raised celebrating both Christian and Jewish holidays.
“Which makes you a Jew under Jewish law.”
“Yeah, well, fine. But that doesn’t make me an Israeli. I’m American.”
Menachem made a ‘tsk’ sound with his lips. “Silly boy. When the next Hitler comes, do you think the black-booted soldiers will stop to ask how you identify yourself before dragging you away?” He shook his head sadly, his large steel-gray eyes on Cam. “Of course not. If you have Jewish blood, you die. Simple as that.”
“There’s not going to be another Hitler.” Cam wasn’t sure what he was doing stuck in a toilet stall having a debate about religion. But he sensed Menachem wasn’t going to stand aside and let him pass. And there was something undeniably lethal about the older man which kept Cam pinned behind the toilet.
Menachem’s facial expression changed. He almost looked sad. “I wish you were correct, Cameron. That is your name, yes?”
Cam nodded.
“But I am afraid that what will come next will be, if anything, worse than Hitler. Our enemies are stronger, more numerous, wealthier. And the world is so much smaller than it was in the 1940s. The next madman may very well succeed where Hitler failed.”
Cam understood how an Israeli might feel that way. They were surrounded by enemies vowing to destroy them. “Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”
Menachem shook his head. “I’m sorry, that is not good enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that we need your help.” His eyes narrowed as his tone hardened. “I am not asking for it. I am requiring it.”
“And if I say no?”
“Nobody says no, Cameron. We are the Mossad. We get what we want.” He took another half step closer. “I’m sorry it must be this way. But there is no time for niceties. Our very survival is at stake. Mine, yours, Astarte’s.”
Cam heard the implicit threat. “Even the Mossad wouldn’t hurt an innocent girl.”
“Only if we felt like we had no choice. In times of war, sacrifices must be made. Collateral damage is unavoidable.” He removed a cellphone from his pocket and showed a picture of Cam’s neighbor’s house, the one Astarte was sleeping at. “It is nine o’clock in Westford, Cameron. Your daughter is probably just waking up to take your dog for a walk. The sun is bright. So bright that a driver might be blinded.” He shrugged. “It would be a true tragedy—”
Cam strode forward and grabbed the man around his shirt collar. “So help me…”
With a lightning-quick flick of the wrist Menachem reversed Cam’s hold and dropped him to one knee, his chin pinned to the rim of the toilet by Menachem’s boot. “Enough of that,” he murmured. “As I said, we will have your assistance. The only question is what happens between now and when you agree to give it.”
Cam gasped, the smell of urine filling his nostrils. He knew when he was beat. “Okay. I’ll help. Just don’t hurt Astarte.” He realized he didn’t even know what was being asked of him. “What do you need me to do?”
Menachem removed his foot and gently pulled Cam to his feet. “Your duty to your people. Nothing more.”
As Cameron Thorne and his wife exited the cathedral, Menachem signaled Tamar to take over the surveillance. It had been a lucky break that, in only one hour, they had tracked Thorne’s daughter and dog to the neighbor’s house. But luck was the residue of hard work and good planning, so perhaps not lucky at all.
Now Menachem had another meeting to keep, one in which luck was likely to play no part. Ten minutes after leaving the cathedral Menachem ambled into a coffee shop overlooking the River Leie. He took a seat near the window with views of the historic Graslei quay; its medieval row houses with ornate facades were reflected in the tranquil river, doubling the picturesque effect. Menachem sighed. It was no wonder that so many painters lived in this part of Europe.
“I see you are taking the good view, leaving me with a view of, well, your ugly face.” A gray-bearded, hulking man with crooked glasses and teeth to match dropped into his chair and offered a meaty hand. “Menachem. Good to see you.”
“And you as well, Ezra.” He smiled. “Since I know you will insist I pay, I took the liberty of claiming the best seat.”
Ezra Hirsch rubbed his hands together, showing the worn elbow patches on his seventies-style tweed blazer. “Nehedar. Glorious. I have not eaten all day.”
“I’m sure that is because you just rolled out of bed.” Menachem smiled, noticing the wrinkled shirt. “Probably with a hangover and a young Belgian beauty.”
“Not so beautiful, and not so young.” Ezra shrugged. “But I’m not such a catch myself anymore, heh?” He rubbed his face with his large hand. “As for the hangover, you are, unfortunately, correct again.”
“We are in our sixties, my friend. Isn’t it time to slow down?”
Ezra guffawed. “On the contrary, this is the home stretch.” He pumped his arms as if running. “And I am sprinting to the finish.”
They each ordered coffee and a mastel, a ba
gel-like pastry cut in half, covered on both sides with butter and brown sugar and then flattened with an iron. “Not the same as a bagel,” Menachem said, licking his fingers, “but in some ways better.”
“I agree. I say we order another.” Ezra grinned, his teeth pocked with bread and his beard flecked with brown sugar. “After all, you are paying.” He leaned in. “And last night I worked up quite an appetite.”
When the waitress left, Menachem took a deep breath. “So, old friend, I need your expertise. I am working a case.”
Ezra dipped his head. “Of course.”
They had fought together as young men in the 1978 invasion of Lebanon, clearing terrorists away from Israel’s northern border. Ezra was bear-like in both his appetites and appearance, in many ways the complete opposite of the compact, disciplined Menachem. War, as it often did, forged a close bond between the two men. After their service Ezra pursued a career in Biblical studies and later became one of the leading experts in Israel on the history of Christianity. Menachem still recalled the explanation his friend had provided: “Why would I want to study Judaism? For every three Jews, we have four experts. But an understanding of Christianity, the world’s most powerful religion? With an ability like that, even a schlub like me could find himself useful.” He had leaned closer. “Plus, do you know how many single Christian women there are out there?” Now a college professor in Tel Aviv, where he was also active in a local theater group, he was currently on sabbatical, which for Ezra meant he was eating and drinking and whoring his way through Europe.
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