Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  Whatever the reason, Cam was getting tired of running, of reacting, of playing defense. He glanced behind him again; the SS guy was keeping pace, running upright and stiff with arms pumping the way men did in old cartoons. Cam could probably beat him to the bottom of the dirt road, and even to the highway, but then what?

  As the road curved at the end of an ‘S’ turn, Cam made a quick decision. Momentarily hidden from view, he skidded off the dirt path and ducked behind a tree. Searching the ground, he found a thick branch and broke off the smaller twigs. He hoisted it: about the size and weight of a baseball bat. He switched it to his left hand and grabbed a grapefruit-sized rock with his right. He peered around the tree. The SS guy was about fifty feet away. Bracing his leg against a stump, he stepped forward and heaved the stone across the logging road. It landed on the far edge, thumped, and bounced into the woods.

  The SS guy pulled up, his eyes searching the woods where the rock landed. As Cam hoped, he figured Cam had cut into the woods to try to make his escape. Crouching, searching for Cam, he edged his way off the logging road toward the sound he had heard. Now. With four silent strides Cam crossed, pulled back his club, and swung it down violently across the back of the man’s neck. Soundlessly, he collapsed as the club snapped in two, the top half helicoptering into the woods.

  Cam gasped, the stump of the club raised in case the man somehow fought his way to his feet. He hoped he hadn’t done permanent damage. If so, better him than me. Cam pushed at him with a foot. Nothing. Cam flipped him over to make sure he could breathe and quickly searched his pockets. A wallet with a couple of prepaid debit cards, some cash, and a hotel key card from the Holiday Inn. But no driver’s license. Cam pocketed the room key and found a cellphone. He clicked through the recent calls. There. Hildegard Scientific. Same people who had abducted him, and probably also Amanda.

  After tossing the phone deep into the woods, Cam bent again to make sure the prone man was breathing. The act of kindness cost him. Out of nowhere a claw-like hand grabbed Cam by the hair, followed immediately by a second hand scratching at Cam’s face. Cam, off-balance, fell onto his adversary. The man’s movements were slow and labored, probably a result of damage to his neck, but there was a ferocity about them which alarmed Cam. The operative tried to roll Cam over and get atop him, to use his superior size and weight, but Cam held firm, their faces only inches apart. Cam saw no hatred or even anger in those eyes, only competence and confidence. He was a pro, trained for moments like this. Hatred, Cam realized, would have been less terrifying. Side by side, Cam raised his right arm and swung his elbow into the SS guy’s jaw, then followed that up with a knee to the gut. He tried to spin away, but still the man held strong, this time wrapping his arm around Cam’s neck in a choke hold. Cam lay atop him, facing the sky, locked in place in a kind of death grip he had seen in mixed martial arts fighting.

  Cam’s strength ebbed even as his mind screamed in sirens of panic at his body to do something, to find a way to survive. He fought to free himself, clawing at the man’s grip, desperate to suck oxygen into his lungs. The bright light of the day began to fade, the world turning gray and drab. A bird cawed, raven-like, as if beckoning Cam to a different realm. He felt himself drifting, soaring, in flight as he would have been had he jumped off the zip line platform…

  The thought of the zip line jolted Cam from his stupor. Amanda. Astarte. With a desperate effort, he drove his head backward, smashing into his assailant’s face. Not like this. Not now. The man grunted, the grip loosening a bit, some air squeezing in. Cam repeated the head butt, then quickly followed with an elbow into the man’s muscled abdomen, hoping he had correctly targeted the bundle of nerves which, when spasmed, could incapacitate a man. A second elbow did the trick, striking the solar plexus, causing his foe to recoil and release his grip. Cam pushed hard with his legs and rolled away, gasping. But free.

  Coughing and winded, Cam staggered to his feet as the SS guy writhed on the edge of the logging road. Quickly Cam reached for another large fieldstone, raised it, and smashed it down onto his adversary’s knee. He heard the sickening splintering of bone. No way would the guy be able to run after that. Even getting to his feet would be an effort.

  Not that Cam could run right now either. But a slow, painful shuffle was all he needed to make his escape.

  Cam had used his cellphone to call Amanda from the logging road to tell her, with a raspy voice through damaged vocal cords, that he was okay but to be on guard. Then he hitched a ride back to town. Stiff-necked, he went immediately to the Holiday Inn. Fortunately, the SS guy had left his key card in its paper sleeve, which had the room number on it. Cam listened at the door, heard nothing, and slid the card into the slot. The lock whirred open.

  Bed made, a single overnight bag in the corner, a box of granola bars and some fruit on top of the television. Ignoring his aching body, Cam strode across the room and dug into the overnight bag. There. A manila folder tucked into the front pocket. He opened the folder to find his own face staring up at him, attached to a report and short bio. Quickly he snapped pictures and then began to read. The report summarized the Just Judges clues leading to the Catskills location. It also added information new to Cam: We had a guy sneak onto the property last night with a metal detector. He found more artifacts. There is no doubt: This is the spot.

  Cam shook his head. These neo-Nazis were nothing if not efficient—just as he had feared, they had already accessed the property and, more to the point, confirmed the location of the Templar treasure. Cam gritted his teeth: He hated the idea of thugs and reprobates pawing around at a historic site which should be, needed to be, preserved and studied and documented.

  Putting the report aside, he glanced at his bio. Basic stuff, other than the final sentence, which had been underlined: Knows too much.

  He exhaled. Knows too much said it all. A treasure had been found, and Cam stood in its path. He stared out the window, at the mountain face scarred by ski trails. If he knew too much, so did Amanda and Astarte. And also Shelby and Bruce. Clearly someone wanted to eliminate the competition, remove from the scene anyone who might be a rival in their search for the Treasure Templari.

  Replacing the manila folder, Cam left the room. He was in over his head. He couldn’t just let the white supremacists have the treasure. Nor could he fight them on his own; he had been lucky to best the SS guy, as attested to by the pain in his larynx every time he breathed. But hoping for continued good luck was not much of a strategy. Not to mention the danger to his family. He needed allies.

  An adage from the Middle East popped into his head: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  He pulled a plain white card from his wallet. It was time to call his new friend, Menachem.

  The late afternoon call came in on Bruce’s cellphone as he was rubbing a cleaning solution onto the teak wood of his boat, restoring its luster. Most boat owners complained about the tedium of the chore, not to mention the smell and the mess and the backache. But Bruce enjoyed few things more.

  “This is Bruce.”

  “It’s done.” A flat voice.

  “Tell me.”

  “I will, but my price just doubled. I didn’t plan on a compression fracture in my neck and a shattered kneecap.”

  Bruce exhaled. He appreciated the man’s devotion to his job, and the fact that he worked on such short notice, but he was beginning to run short on cash. “You agreed on five grand. I’ll make it seven, but that’s it.”

  “It has to be ten. I’ve got three grand just in medical bills.”

  “Tell me what happened, then I’ll decide.”

  “I did what you said. Followed him. Made him think I was part of the white supremacists. Let him get the drop on me and steal my room key.”

  “Good. Did he find the report?”

  “Yup. I left it in the room, in my bag, with a thread in the folder. When he opened the folder, the thread fell out. I found it on the floor.”

  Excellent. “And you’re sure he wa
s convinced you were a neo-Nazi?”

  “I saw him staring at my tattoo. That’s what spooked him.” The man took a deep breath. “You’re lucky you hired me for this. Most guys wouldn’t have taken the beating I did. I fucking wanted to kill the guy.”

  “You sure he wasn’t on to you?”

  “No way. I strangled him until he almost passed out. He thought he might die. No way does he suspect anything. Oh, and I arranged to have the scientific place call my phone, like you told me.”

  “Okay.” Bruce was sorry Cam had to live through another attack, but this had grown bigger than the both of them. “Good work.” It always paid to hire pros, no matter what the cost. “Check your account. The ten grand will be there by tonight.”

  Menachem took the call as he and Ezra taxied to their hotel in midtown Manhattan, fighting evening rush hour traffic. “Yes,” he said simply.

  “This is Cameron Thorne. We need to talk.”

  Menachem sat up. “I’m listening. But you sound different.”

  “Long story. Damaged larynx. Anyway, I think I’ve solved the mystery of the Just Judges painting.” Menachem held the phone out so Ezra could hear as Thorne explained why he believed the treasure was in the Catskill Mountains. Much of it Menachem already knew, but he kept quiet, allowing Thorne to prove his trustworthiness by confirming what Jonah had already reported. “And I think there’s a group of neo-Nazis and white supremacists who are after it. They know where it is also. Which explains my voice.”

  Menachem demurred. “Interesting. And do you know what it is, this treasure?”

  “No. I have theories, but I don’t know for certain.”

  Menachem nodded. Had Thorne been lying or playing some kind of angle, he would have embellished his story by identifying the treasure. His claim of ignorance added to his credibility. “And what are these theories?”

  Thorne breathed in. “I’ve always thought the treasure was something esoteric, something intangible. Ancient knowledge or secrets. Something lost to humankind during the Dark Ages or when the library at Alexandria burned or even during the Flood.”

  Ezra nodded in agreement.

  “So not gold and silver?” Menachem asked.

  “No. Think about it. A treasure chest full of gold coins would only be worth a couple million dollars. And how many chests could there be? Even taking into account the collector value of old coins, it’s just not that much money in the scheme of things. Twenty million, maybe thirty million?” Cam sniffed. “The Red Sox pay that for a mediocre starting pitcher.”

  “Still, we’re talking millions. That’s a lot of money to a lot of people.”

  “People, yes. For a large organization or company, no.”

  “What about for neo-Nazis?”

  “My guess is they have plenty of money.” Thorne paused. “This feels different. They are desperate for this.”

  Menachem agreed. The Nazis never seemed to lack for cash. “Could it be some kind of ancient artifact?” Menachem asked. “The Ark of the Covenant or the cross of Jesus or the Holy Grail?”

  “Could be. That’s what Hitler believed. But I have trouble picturing the Ark of the Covenant buried in the dirt along the banks of a river. I mean, if you had something like that, wouldn’t you keep it? Or at least put it in some kind of shrine someplace?”

  Ezra bobbed his head back and forth, as if weighing Thorne’s words, before pursing his lips and nodding again.

  “Good point,” Menachem said. “So you’ve told me what you think is not buried. What do you think is?”

  “I don’t know. But, like I said, whatever it is, the neo-Nazis are desperate for it.”

  “And what’s good for them is probably bad for Israel.”

  “That’s why I called you.” Thorne let out a long breath, as if finally relieved of a heavy burden. “I can’t stop them alone.”

  Bruce sat on his condo balcony, fifteen stories up, overlooking Boston Harbor in the early glow of twilight. A cold November wind buffeted him. There would not be many more nights sitting outside this year. Or, he feared, any year.

  He allowed himself a moment of reflection. Leaning out, he peered down at the harbor, some 150 feet below. In his younger days he would not have been afraid to attempt a dive from this height, like those crazy cliff-divers in Acapulco. It was all about knowing how to hit the water. Sort of like sailing—the key was to slice through it, not plow into it. In fact, sort of like life in general. “Slicing,” he whispered.

  Speaking of which, his next play would require surgical precision. He had been waiting to play this card; in some ways it was his ace in the hole. But he also knew there were three other aces in the deck. “Bertrand,” he said into his phone, “this is Bruce Arrujo. I need your advice.”

  “Of course, my friend.”

  Friend? Tell that to my missing pinky. But Bruce had long mastered the ability to separate emotions from business. “Are you certain your line is secure?”

  Bertrand clicked his tongue twice against the roof of his mouth. “Of course. I am not an amateur.”

  “No. Of course not.” Bruce paused, waiting for Bertrand’s impatience to carry the conversation.

  “So. What can I help you with? Normally you are not one to ask for advice.”

  Bruce did his best to adopt a strained, tired tone. “Well, this is different. You had warned me about the mystique of this painting, about the power and allure of a hidden treasure. I fear you were right. I may be in over my head.”

  “How so?”

  “A man working with me has been abducted. And your friends from the Mossad tried to rob me, at gunpoint. Fortunately, I had made a copy of the painting, which is what they got.”

  “You duped the Mossad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And lived to tell about it?”

  “So far. Ask me again tomorrow.”

  “Mon Dieu. And what does the Mossad want with the painting? I thought they were just interested in monitoring the sale.”

  “I’m assuming the same thing as the Saudis.”

  “I’m not following you. I know the Saudis want the piece. They made you a more than fair offer. But I am not privy to their motivations.”

  Bruce paused, wondering how much he could trust Bertrand. The answer, of course, was not at all. But that did not necessarily mean everything he said was a lie. “From what I understand, the painting really does lead to a treasure. And that treasure, from what I have gleaned, is some kind of ancient secret or ancient knowledge, something the Israelis are intent on finding.”

  “I agree. It cannot be just a monetary treasure. The Israelis have enough money. What’s a few million, or even tens of millions, more?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about this treasure. It’s also probably not related to the Holy Grail, like Hitler thought. After all, why would the Israelis care about Christian religious relics? So, like I said, I think it’s some kind of ancient technology. Something important enough to get the Mossad involved.” He paused. “Which is why I assume the Saudis are so hot for it also. Whatever that technology is, it’s a game changer.” He let the words hang.

  Bertrand took a deep breath. “Again, I don’t know my client’s motivations. He is, I can tell you, part of the royal family. I assumed he was just interested in the painting itself.” Bertrand paused. “But this ancient technology adds another layer. I will speak again with him.”

  Bruce guessed, and hoped, that Bertrand was planning to use this information to continue whetting his client’s appetite for the painting. He pictured the various players—the Mossad, the Saudis, the neo-Nazis—all sitting around, anxiously trying to figure out why their enemies were so intent on the treasure, wondering what it could be and why it was so important. It reminded him of the Cold War, with the Soviets and Americans each convinced the other was on the verge of some cataclysmic breakthrough which would change the balance of power. Or, on a more inconsequential level, of how opposing football teams, when playing the New England Patriots, al
ways assumed Bill Belichick was cheating and cutting corners to get an advantage over them. The fear of the unknown, of their enemies doing something to gain an advantage, often became an advantage itself, causing otherwise rational actors to do irrational things. In fact, Bruce was banking on it.

  “Yes, thanks, speak with your client,” Bruce replied. He lowered his voice. “But, Bertrand, be discreet. As I said, the Mossad is serious about this. They think they’ve located the treasure site someplace in the Catskill Mountains. I’m guessing they don’t want any company out there.” He was also guessing the Saudis, once they found out, wouldn’t care what the Mossad wanted. In fact, to repeat the cliché, he was banking on it.

  “I will, of course, be discreet.” Bertrand rushed to end the call. “I will be in touch, my friend.”

  Bruce hung up and smiled. Bertrand didn’t even realize Bruce had never actually asked for any advice.

  Chapter 10

  Cam’s cellphone woke him from a sound sleep. Disoriented, he fumbled for the device, the sudden movement causing a jolt of pain to shoot down his neck. The time display read 5:30 AM. He strolled into the bathroom of their hotel, head angled to one side, hoping not to wake Amanda and Astarte. Venus pawed at the door, and he let her in to join him, her head rubbing against his leg. “Hello,” he mumbled, blinking back the pain in his throat. Calls this early in the morning were rarely good news. Not that yesterday had been a bed of roses. After reading the report in the SS guy’s hotel room, Cam had managed to reconnect with Amanda and Astarte and, together, they had fled the Loon Mountain area. They had driven east, crossing the White Mountain range on the scenic Kancamagus Highway, and found a Hampton Inn an hour away in North Conway, taking precautions not to be followed. He was reasonably certain they were safe. For now.