Treasure Templari

by David S. Brody

  A man’s voice, low and hard. “I was disappointed you weren’t home yesterday. I had a package I wanted to deliver.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Gus Cavanaugh.”

  Cam’s stomach clenched. “What do you want?”

  “Like I said, I have a package for you. My civil Complaint.”

  Nobody liked to get sued. And that was especially true of lawyers, who knew how expensive the process could be and, more to the point, how unpredictable it was. Cam had won many cases where his client was in the wrong, and even lost a few where his client should have prevailed. But after the week he’s had, the threat of a lawsuit barely registered. “Whatever. Leave it in the mailbox.”

  “I did. But I thought you might be interested in my offer.”

  Cam used his free hand to splash water on his face. “Not likely.”

  “I understand why you would say that. But hear me out. I think you’ll be glad you did.” He paused. “It has to do with the Catskills property.”

  Cam exhaled slowly. Didn’t everything? In some ways it seemed like the property was a cosmic black hole, sucking everything to it. As much as he and Amanda wanted to escape its gravitational pull, they couldn’t seem to do so. And now somehow Gus was involved. “I’m listening.”

  “No. In person.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “What, do you think I’m going to attack you?” He sniffed. “Not my style. Besides, it would be pretty stupid. I’ve got you on the hook for a lawsuit worth millions. Why would I give you a chance to counterclaim for assault?”

  Fair point. And Cam had learned years ago that it was always better to look an adversary in the eye, to study his mannerisms, to read his body language. “Okay. Someplace public.”

  “Whatever. You name the spot.”

  The last thing Cam wanted was Gus near his family. He picked a spot fifty miles away, along the interstate. “There’s a 1950s-style diner in Tilton, New Hampshire, just off the exit ramp. Meet me there at seven.”

  Cam dressed quickly, checked his blood sugar, managed to choke down a granola bar and an orange, popped some Advil, woke Amanda to explain where he was going, and hit the road. Ninety minutes after taking Gus’ call, he pulled off Route 93. He parked at the edge of the lot, far from the front door. Gus stood close to the restaurant wearing a neck brace, leaning against a late model sedan and smoking a cigarette. Flicking his butt aside, he nodded and strode over to where Cam had parked. He knew better than to offer Cam his hand.

  They eyed each other in silence. “You want to go in and eat something?” Gus asked.

  “I’m good.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. I think Bruce is up to something, but I can’t figure out what it is. Something big.”

  “Of course he is. The Just Judges painting is worth, I don’t know, a few hundred million. Probably more.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t own it. He has another angle.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Even at one percent, the broker fee on a sale that large is a fortune.”

  Gus shook his head. “No. Something else is going on. I know Bruce. I can feel it. Smell it. I just need your help to figure it out.”

  There was nothing in his body language which indicated to Cam he was being dishonest or duplicitous. “Why should I help you?”

  Gus lit another cigarette. “Because I’m going to make it worth your while. If you help, I’ll dismiss the lawsuit. If not, I’m going to file a motion for prejudgment security. A lien on your house.”

  “You’ll never get that.”

  Gus shrugged. “I think we both know you’re full of shit when you say that. As a lawyer, you would advise your client in this situation that there is a good chance that I will get it.” Gus lifted his chin and spoke in a monotone, as if reading in his mind’s eye from a legal brief he had memorized. “The judge will apply a two-part test. First, is the plaintiff likely to win the case? The fact that the District Attorney is prosecuting indicates the affirmative. Second, does the defendant have insurance to cover any judgment? Given that the attack was an intentional one, the carrier is likely to deny coverage.” He refocused on Cam. “Added to all this is your history as a lawyer: Judges generally don’t look kindly on attorneys who have been suspended for professional misconduct.”

  Gus revolted Cam, but Cam also sensed in him a high level of intelligence, plus street smarts borne of decades spent in prison. His analysis was spot on, including the part about many judges holding Cam in low esteem for violating the attorney-client privilege, no matter how justified it may have been.

  Gus continued. “And we both know what happens when I get the lien. Your credit score gets ruined, plus it puts you in default on your mortgage. And I will be sure to send a copy of the lien to your bank. Not to mention what happens when I actually win the case.” He smiled and pulled at his neck brace. “Liability is clear. The question is just how much money the jury wants to give me.”

  Cam swallowed his anger. As an extortionist, Gus knew his business. But he was offering Cam a path to freedom. Not for the first time, Cam recalled that old Bulgarian proverb: In times of grave danger, it is acceptable to walk with the devil across the bridge. The problem was, what to do with the devil once you reached the other side? “What is it, specifically, you are asking of me?”

  Gus blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Not much, actually. Like I said, Bruce is up to something. Something big. But I can’t get near him. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”

  “So spy on him.”

  Gus nodded. “It’s not like you owe him anything. He dragged you into this, put your family in danger. I’m guessing he didn’t mention the Mossad and the neo-Nazis when he asked for your help.”

  Gus was right about that. Cam thought back to his first meeting with Shelby. This was supposed to have been nothing more than a research project. Not that he believed Shelby was part of any subterfuge.

  Continuing, Gus said. “Look, if I’m wrong, if Bruce really is playing it straight with you, if there really is no scam, then there’s no harm done. Whatever you tell me will just be harmless information. But if I’m right … well, then, Bruce deserves what he gets.” He held Cam’s eyes. “Why be loyal to someone who’s screwing you?”

  Cam considered the past week. His head crammed against a toilet by a Mossad agent. Being assaulted and abducted by white supremacists. Amanda getting taken and drugged. The SS tattoo guy practically choking him to death. The memo calling for his elimination. Was Bruce to blame? Hard to say, but he had clearly set the events into motion. Cam chewed his lip. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Gus snickered. “Trust me? Are you fucking crazy? You can’t trust someone like me.” He pulled a large envelope from his jacket pocket. “But here’s an agreement of dismissal of my lawsuit. There’s a UPS store up the road that opens at eight. You give the word, and we can go have it notarized.” He smiled. “In a week I’ll be out of your life for good.” The smile disappeared. “Unless you fuck me over. Then I start coming to more softball games.”

  Cam blinked. He wanted nothing more than to get this man out of his life, away from his family. And it was a tempting offer, a good offer. In fact, too good to refuse.

  Norman found a flat, ovular stone near the edge of the river. The morning sun reflected off the still water as a light mist floated atop the surface. The river widened here, which was what made it such a nice swimming and boating area. He tossed the rock up and down in his hand, recalling a similar scene some thirty years earlier when his grandfather first brought him to Levana.

  “This kind of rock,” Grandpa had preached, “is a perfect skipping stone. Watch how I do it.”

  He had held the stone sideways, cupped between his right thumb and forefinger, and tucked his elbow into his ribcage. “You know how to swing a bat, right? It’s the same motion, with just one arm. Try to keep the stone flat, and then it will skip across the surface.” He had flung it out, and together they had counted the s
kips. Norman still recalled that once Grandpa had managed thirteen skips. Grinning, Grandpa had exclaimed, “Thirteen! Unlucky my ass. Nobody can beat that.”

  Norman examined the stone, placed it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and pictured his grandfather’s motion. Cocking his arm, he practiced the motion a few times. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Here goes.”

  With a quick step he flung the stone toward the river. It flew flat and even, like a Frisbee, just as Grandpa had instructed. A smile began to form on his face as the stone dropped to kiss the river thirty feet off-shore. Would he, could he, beat Grandpa’s record? The stone grazed the water’s surface and then, with a sudden plunk, disappeared without a single skip. Norman’s shoulders dropped like the rock. “Shit.” It was called the Neversink River, but for Norman it was more like everything sinks.

  He kicked at the dirt. Why had he expected anything different? What was that old expression about the definition of insanity being to do the same thing over and over while expecting a different outcome? He was a loser. Always had been, always would be. Of course the stone would not skip. Just like of course the resort project would fail.

  Head down, he began to trudge back up the slope to his trailer. A booming voice interrupted the sad tranquility of the morning. “That’s not how your grandfather taught you!”

  Norman looked up. A burly, bearded man approached, wearing only a pair of cut-offs and a Hawaiian shirt against the November chill. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Ezra. Ezra Hirsch. I used to come here as a boy. Your grandfather was a young man then. And he taught me how to skip stones.” The man grinned. “Better than that, I might add. Come on, let’s try again.”

  The man marched by Norman toward the river, much as he would have done as a paid guest fifty years ago. Reaching down, he found a half-dozen stones. He handed three to Norman. “This’ll do for a start. But I’m guessing we’ll need more. We have a lot to discuss.” His eyes twinkled. “And you need a lot of practice.”

  Amanda did jumping jacks and thrusts in front of the hotel television, following the prompts of a workout video. A pillow covering her head and Venus splayed across her legs, Astarte slept on the sofa bed on the far side of the room. Cam had rushed out to meet Gus, and Amanda didn’t feel safe leaving Astarte alone in the room. She picked up the pace, her anger and frustration fueling her energy. How had they ended up in someone’s crosshairs yet again?

  Actually, the how didn’t really matter. A better question was, how were they going to extricate themselves from this mess? Somebody, or perhaps more than one somebody, believed she and Cam were the key to finding a lost treasure. As much as she hated to admit it, the only certain way to end all this was for the treasure to be found and carted off. At that point she and Cam would be of no further use to anyone, a pair of screwdrivers in a world put together with nails.

  She finished her workout, showered, woke Astarte, and ordered fruit and omelets for breakfast. Cam strolled in as they were finishing.

  “How did it go?” Amanda asked, trying to remain cheerful. After all, it wasn’t his fault they were under siege.

  “He’s scummy. I feel like I need another shower.” Cam recounted the meeting with a raspy voice, ending with a shrug. “In the end, I agreed.” He pulled out the papers dismissing the lawsuit. “One less headache, at least.”

  Astarte weighed in. “So that whole heckling thing was just for, like, leverage?”

  Cam replied, “I think so. He knew he would need something from me down the road. This gave him currency to get it.”

  “When you said ‘scummy,’ you were being generous,” Astarte said.

  “Yeah, well, it sounds like he and Bruce deserve each other,” Amanda added. “A pair of nut jobs. So what next? Where to?”

  “I’m not totally comfortable going home yet,” Cam said. “Same with going back to Lincoln. So I think we have two choices: Stay on the run, or go to the Catskills, where the action is.”

  Amanda shook her head. “I knew you were going to say that. And I get it. I really do. There’s a Templar site about to make history, and you want to be there. Normally I would join you. But there’s no reason for Astarte, or us for that matter, to be put in more danger.”

  Menachem sat in the back corner of Sweet Sue’s diner in the Catskills town of Phoenicia, his head buried in a newspaper, picking at a corn muffin the size of a grapefruit. No wonder most Americans were fat. He was on his third cup of coffee, the caffeine aggravating his already jittery mood. Where was Ezra? He had let his old friend convince him to reconnoiter with Norman Plansky alone. But that had been almost four hours ago.

  “You need a soft touch for this, Menachem. You are too brusque. You’ll just scare the poor boy away.”

  “And you know this just from reading his file?”

  Ezra had nodded sagely. “I know this because I know a hundred men like Norman Plansky. Mama’s boys. They sit in my classroom and visit me in my office asking inane questions. They’re too awkward to interest even the plain girls attending university just to find a husband.” He had taken a deep breath. “I know them because I once was one of them.”

  “And now you are Casanova.”

  “Yes.” He had smiled and winked. “It took me a couple of decades, but I am finally at a point in my life where women find me desirable. Yet I still remember what it was like to be a nothing.”

  Menachem nodded. Ezra was correct. When Menachem first met him, he was shy and awkward. Something later in life had nurtured him, given him confidence. The younger Ezra never would have been comfortable on stage, much less charming strange women.

  Another half hour passed. Menachem had been tempted to shake salt into a glass of water and see if he could make it ignite, but realized it might create the wrong sort of attention. Instead he was reduced to checking his horoscope: “It’s okay to cry today.” Great. Just what he needed. He could use his body’s own salt water excretions for more experiments. But before he could shed his first tear, Ezra burst through the door, pushing his way between tables and tempting fate by plopping his girth onto a narrow chair.

  “Mission accomplished,” he said.

  “Tell me.”

  Ezra grinned. “Not before you buy me lunch. I’m famished.”

  “Lunch?” He gestured toward the remains of his muffin. “I haven’t even finished breakfast.”

  Ignoring him, Ezra motioned to the waitress, a thin, forty-something woman with an easy smile who, Menachem noticed, had just reapplied her lipstick. “What do you recommend for a man with a cultured palate and a healthy appetite?”

  Plates of food came, another forty-five minutes passed. Finally, Ezra wiped the detritus from his beard with a thin napkin. “Okay. You have fed me, so now, like a whore, I will give you what you want.”

  “It was a cheap lunch, so feel free to keep your clothes on.” Menachem leaned back. “In fact, I insist.”

  “Very well, use me instead for my brains.” Ezra shifted his bulk. “The bottom line: I don’t think Plansky knows anything about any treasure. There are some artifacts buried on his land, but they are mostly Native American. An old sword that he hoped was medieval, but testing indicates it is not.”

  Menachem squinted. “Not medieval?” He recalled his recent conversation with Cameron Thorne. “I was told it was 12th century, based on metallurgy testing.”

  Ezra shrugged. “I don’t think Plansky was lying to me. Perhaps someone was lying to him.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I am not some amateur, Menachem,” he said affectedly.

  “No. I suppose you are not.” Menachem stirred his coffee, studying the liquid for insights. Someone was, indeed, lying. Not that this was anything new in Menachem’s world. But why? What did it mean? There were no answers swirling in his cup, unfortunately. Better to concentrate on things he knew rather than guessing at the unknown. “So Plansky knows nothing about any treasure. And, in fact, may be misinformed about the sword. So what
did you learn?”

  Ezra shrugged and held up his palms. “In short, I learned nothing.”

  Menachem took a deep breath. “Nothing? Then why did you say mission accomplished?”

  “Because, my friend, sometimes learning nothing puts us on the path to knowledge.”

  Cam drove south through New Hampshire while Amanda rode shotgun and Astarte tapped at her phone in the backseat. Venus, as usual, pressed her nose to the backseat window. But it was not the same window as normal—they had left their SUV in Lincoln in the condo garage and instead drove an old Honda Accord, not traceable to them, which Cam had stashed in New Hampshire in case of an emergency.

  They had come up with a plan that none of the three of them was completely satisfied with: They would drive together to the Catskills, where Cam would drop Amanda and Astarte off at a hotel that took dogs and then continue on to the resort property. Cam was not happy because he preferred that his wife and daughter stay someplace further away to be safe; Astarte wanted to be part of the search, to be on site when and if a treasure was found; and Amanda wanted the entire family, including Cam, to drop the quest and go off the grid for a few days. Amanda, he had to admit, probably made the best case. But he couldn’t bear to walk away from a possible Templar treasure.

  “So,” Amanda said, “you never got a chance to explain your theory about the Templar symbolism.”

  He appreciated that she wasn’t wallowing in her displeasure. He knew that bringing Astarte closer to danger was eating at her. At the same time, he knew she resented that he alone might witness the treasure discovery. So she was doubly miffed. “Right,” he said. “You were too busy jumping off a cliff to pay attention.”

  On the one hand, ancient mysteries surrounding Templar symbolism no longer seemed important now that the treasure apparently had been located. And, as an academic exercise, focusing on the symbolism seemed frivolous in light of the danger they were in. Yet a voice inside Cam’s head insisted that he not abandon his research, making him wonder if there might be relevance to the ancient symbolism after all. This was, after all, a Treasure Templari—Templar symbolism was clearly significant. He took a deep breath. “Okay. We’ve talked about Abraxas. Why would the Templars use the image of a pagan god on their secret seal? So I started looking at their other seals. They used a handful of them, each for different purposes, in case one got stolen.”