Cam was glad when Shelby excused herself to make funeral arrangements. They were friends, but not the inner-circle type normally called upon to give comfort in times of crisis. With a heartfelt hug, he made his exit.
Now, ten minutes later, his cell phone rang. Menachem. “I assume you know?” the Israeli asked without preamble.
“Yes.”
“We need to meet. There are still some things I don’t understand.”
“Welcome to the club.” Shelby had told him about Cleopatra’s Needle, wistfully recalling that it was the site of their last date. Cam figured it was as good a place as any. “There’s a giant obelisk behind the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Meet me there in thirty minutes.”
When Cam arrived twenty-five minutes later, Menachem and Ezra were already seated on a bench, their bodies turned away from the obelisk as if not wanting to recognize the cultural achievement of their enemies, the Egyptians. The Israelis stood as he approached.
“Let’s walk,” Menachem said, the operative knowing it was more difficult to conduct surveillance on an ambulatory target. “As I said, there are things we don’t understand.”
Cam had reached a tentative conclusion on his walk over. He tested it. “I don’t think I have the answers you’re looking for. But I think Ezra does.”
Menachem stopped. “Ezra? Why Ezra?”
Cam had been studying the bearded man, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Cam’s suggestion. “Yes. He is, if I’m not mistaken, a high-ranking Freemason. And it is the Freemasons who are the custodians of the Templar secrets and legacy.”
Menachem turned on his friend. “Is this true?”
Ezra puffed out his cheeks, pursed his lips, and let out a long breath. “Yes. Both parts of it.”
“I did not know you were a Freemason. Much less a high-ranking one.”
“You never asked. I joined when I was in graduate school in Brussels.”
“Who would think to ask such a thing?”
“And who would think to volunteer it, unasked?”
Menachem bounced up and down on his toes. “Enough of this. Cameron says you might have answers for us?”
Ezra held up his palms. “Answers? No. Theories? Yes.” He resumed walking, moving slowly as if on a leisurely stroll. “It is true that we Freemasons are the custodians of the Templar secrets. As was the Duke of Burgundy, who, as you know, commissioned the Ghent Altarpiece paintings. And it is also true that, for centuries, rumors have circulated that the Just Judges panel of this painting held the secret to discovering the Templars treasure, embedded there by van Eyck at the direction of his patron, the duke.” The path curved, angling them deeper into the park and away from the bustle of the city, as if the path itself were part of keeping the Templar secrets. “The question has always been, of course, what is the treasure?”
“And?” Menachem urged.
“And nothing. Nobody is certain. When you contacted me, old friend, and told me a story about meteorite rocks and salt water and hydrogen fuel, well, on the one hand it seemed outlandish.” He turned and gestured at the giant obelisk. “But on the other hand, the Egyptians did amazing things. Meteorite rocks made as much sense as many of the other theories. So I agreed to help.”
“But it’s all bunk,” Menachem said.
“Apparently so.” Ezra smiled. “But how does one sit out a treasure hunt?”
Cam sensed there were things Ezra wasn’t sharing. He prodded. “I’ve been doing a lot of research on the Templar secret seals.” He described them to Ezra and Menachem, showing images on his phone. “It seems to me that the concept of duality was the guiding principal of the Templars.”
Ezra beamed like a proud parent. “Very astute. Not many researchers understand this. And even I, trained in Templar symbolism, was unaware of some of these seals. Your interpretation of them seems spot on. Well done.” Ezra stopped walking and bounced from one foot to another, as if his entire body were weighing an important decision. Eventually he nodded, as if agreeing with himself on whatever he had decided. He stopped, pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to Cam. “Here. Look at this. It is a poster that hangs in my study.”
Cam immediately recognized the figure of Abraxas, in this case riding a chariot pulled by four wild white horses. But it was the sun and moon paired above him, symbolizing duality in the Masonic tradition, which caught Cam’s eye. As, no doubt, Ezra intended. Cam ventured another guess. “So the Freemasons worship Abraxas?”
Ezra took a deep breath and resumed walking. “Worship is perhaps too strong a word. We … recognize him for what he is. All powerful. A divine amalgam of light and dark, good and evil. Abraxas is the supreme force in the universe, above even our Creator. We don’t worship him, because to do so would be presumptuous. Why would he care? As the African proverb says, why should the lion care what the mouse thinks?”
Menachem jumped in. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ezra. How could something be supreme over the Creator?”
“But who created the Creator, my friend?” Ezra smiled. “Below that poster, on my wall, is printed this quote: The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God’s name is Abraxas.”
Before Cam could digest the passage’s full meaning, Menachem’s impatience surfaced. “But so what? Eggs and birds? How does any of this help us figure out what the treasure is?”
“You are thinking too literally, Menachem. Step back, try to see the big picture.” As Cam hoped, Ezra was warming to the task, sharing Masonic secrets he probably shouldn’t be sharing. “Cameron is correct. Duality is the key. That is what Abraxas truly represents, just as it is the key to his power.”
“Aargh. You drive me crazy with your oratory, Ezra. No more riddles. The treasure—that is what I care about right now.”
Cam understood Menachem. Though the Mossad operative was resigned to the meteorite rock technology having been lost, he still wanted to identify some kind of treasure to justify the time and energy and expense spent on this mission. As it stood now, he looked like a fool. If there were some kind of treasure, something he could point to, at least he might save face.
Ezra smiled patiently at his friend, the way a parent would treat a slow child. “Very well. I will make things simple for you. One of the key aspects of duality is the importance of the separation of church and state. The government rules the secular world, while the church is in charge of spiritual life.” He pointed south, toward New York harbor. “The Statue of Liberty stands proudly as a symbol of this country’s belief in that separation. Remember, this was a radical concept when first proposed. Until then, the church and state were seen as unified, singular.”
For the hundredth time this week, Cam thought about the Just Judges painting. “Van Eyck devoted an entire panel to men he described as ‘just judges.’ That has to be important.”
Ezra was nodding even before Cam finished his statement, as if anticipating, and agreeing with, the comment. “Exactly. And think about their placement. The judges are behind the Templars, watching them, observing. They have allowed the Templars to approach the center of the painting, where the holy rituals are taking place.” Cam nodded—Amanda had made that same point a few days ago. “Remember,” Ezra continued, “the Templars had been outlawed by the Church. So one would think that the judges—at least judges employed by the Church—would not have allowed the knights to get so close. But van Eyck makes it clear that these are civil judges, not religious ones—in fact, he used the likenesses of prominent citizens of the day in depicting his judges so viewers would be clear on this fact. The civil judges are just. The religious judges, the ones who wrongly outlawed the Templars, are, by implication, unjust.” Ezra spread his arms. “At its core, the painting depicts man’s salvation. Salvation is ours, van Eyck tells us. An earthly paradise, as depicted in the center of the painting, is attainable. We can approach. But only in a society which employs just judges.”
A
wave of warm understanding washed over Cam. Finally, he felt like he was close to understanding the true meaning of the Just Judges painting. As he had suspected—and, in fact, as Amanda had postulated—the treasure was not gold or religious relics or even an ancient secret technology. “So that’s the hidden treasure,” Cam said. “It’s nothing physical. It’s spiritual. An understanding, a path forward, a way for society to become healthy. What van Eyck was telling us is that we need duality and balance—in this case, a separation of church and state—for humankind to advance and thrive.” Amanda, following the Henry Beaufort clues, had reached the same conclusion. It was a classic Templar stratagem, laying out multiple hidden paths leading to the same destination, each validating the other.
The three men walked in silence for a few seconds, the chirping of birds the only sound on the path.
“So even if we had found the lost painting, there’d still be no treasure?” Menachem asked quietly.
Ezra put a meaty hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The treasure, my friend, is something we now call the Enlightenment. A way of thinking which changed human history forever. It is worth far more than any gold or silver. And the roots of Enlightenment—the ideals of liberty and individual rights and, yes, separation of church and state—in turn are founded in the concepts of duality and balance as championed by both the Templars and the worshipers of Abraxas before them. Do you think it was an accident that so many of the United States’ founding fathers were Freemasons?” Ezra didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course not. They, and the Templars before them, had been championing and promoting Enlightenment ideals for centuries. When the time came, in 1776, they made their move.” He puffed out his chest. “We, the Freemasons, made our move. We created a new government, what we in Freemasonry call the New Jerusalem. In this New Jerusalem, in this grand experiment in democracy, the government does not derive its power from, or answer to, any divine authority. This is a government, instead, of the people, by the people, and for the people.”
Ezra spoke his words in a passion usually reserved for the stage. And his sentiments resonated with Cam—it had never occurred to him that the roots of democracy could be traced back to the Knights Templar, much less to a serpent-legged pagan god named Abraxas.
Cam replied in a whisper, more to himself than to his companions. He wasn’t particularly religious, but the words flowed from his mouth almost involuntarily.
“And amen for that.”
Amanda had watched with pride as Astarte marched into the Sullivan County courthouse, the location of yesterday’s foreclosure sale drama. Astarte asked to see a civil clerk and explained the situation of the Saudis disturbing a Native American burial ground by conducting an unauthorized dig at the resort property. The clerk, a short, older woman with gray, closely-cropped hair wearing a blue blazer and khakis, had listened patiently, growing more attentive as Astarte spoke.
“And you want to get a restraining order?”
“Yes.” Astarte lifted her chin, “Right away, before it’s too late.”
The clerk pulled a pair of eyeglasses from her jacket pocket. “The test for getting a restraining order is that you need to prove to the court that you have a strong chance of eventually winning the case, and that you will suffer irreparable harm if you don’t get the restraining order.”
“Okay. Both of those are true. They don’t have any permit to dig. And once the burial ground is destroyed, it’ll be gone forever.”
“But the question is, will you suffer harm? You, my dear, are the moving party.”
Amanda watched as Astarte wrestled with the problem. It didn’t take her long to find a solution. “I’m a Mandan Indian. My people lived in this area before heading west. Some of my ancestors are probably buried there.”
“Oh. Well then. That ought to suffice.” The clerk offered a half-smile. “Obviously your ancestors can’t argue the case for themselves. So you, as a descendant, should do the trick. Do you have any evidence to show the judge about this dig?”
Astarte turned to Amanda. “Mum. You need to drive out there and take some pictures. Then text them to me. I’ll wait here for the judge to hear my case.”
“Okay.” Apparently Amanda was now a paralegal. She turned to leave.
“Wait, Mum.” Astarte offered a winning smile. “Before you go, I need your credit card to pay the filing fee.”
Cam watched Menachem and Ezra walk away, gesturing at each other in an animated fashion. No doubt trading barbs and insults. He had come to like Ezra, though he sensed there was another layer to the man which he had not penetrated, something more that the Freemason was hiding. As for Menachem, well, Cam supposed men like that were needed in a world like this.
His phone rang. Amanda. “Guess where I am.” She didn’t give him a chance. “Sullivan County Courthouse. Your daughter has a future as a lawyer.” She explained the preliminary injunction. “The judge is going to hear it after his lunch break.”
“You want me to come up?”
“Actually, no. She’s doing well on her own.”
“Courts are funny that way. When a party comes in without a lawyer, the clerk and the judge sort of take them under their wing. Sometimes it can actually be an advantage. Especially an earnest young girl.”
“And especially compared to a lawyer who’s been suspended.”
Cam chuckled. “Touché. But maybe we can stop talking about that?”
Ezra tugged at his beard, testing the glue as he studied his face in the hotel bathroom mirror. He looked forward to growing it back for real once this mission was over. But, for now, the fake beard would have to suffice. Thankfully, he had convinced Menachem of the need for separate hotel rooms—just in case his old army friend barged in, he needed to keep the beard on. Just as he had arranged things so that Menachem never saw him in his Bertrand persona when the Mossad confronted Bruce at the Hunebedden site.
After returning from their walk with Cameron behind the Met, Ezra had made an excuse to return to his room before lunch. Leaving the bathroom, he locked the door and put the television on to make sure Menachem could not hear him, then sat in the desk chair and dialed an international number. “Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” he said, speaking Arabic in his best Dutch accent.
“Bertrand De Jong,” the Saudi hissed. “You are lucky I don’t cut you into tiny pieces and feed you to the dogs.”
“So you heard?” Once Shelby Baskin told the police that the whole thing was a ruse, that Bruce never had the painting, it would not take long for word to filter back to the powerful Saudi.
“Yes. The painting was a fake. Which means there is no treasure. Which means I just paid forty million dollars for a piece of property more worthless than your mother’s rancid cunt.”
Ezra sat forward in the chair. “I did not know. I swear it.”
“I do not believe you. You are a lying, thieving jerboa.”
The Saudi had just delivered a pair of stinging insults. Ezra would need to be careful not to continue to antagonize him. “Why should I lie to you? As the saying goes, Follow the money, as it always leads you to the truth. Why would I risk alienating a wealthy client, not to mention besmirching my reputation? I am not an amateur, so easily fooled. There was nothing for me to gain here, and plenty to lose. I, too, have been cheated.”
“You say to follow the money. I will do so. It better not lead back to you. If so, I will cut off your tongue and make you eat it.”
“It will not, I give you my word.” The Saudi was angry, but it didn’t sound like he had puzzled out that the Israeli auction bidder and his Dutch art broker were the same person. Ezra’s beard disguise, along with his overall schlep-like appearance, had worked. Just as it had fooled Bruce Arrujo, who had never guessed that the real Bertrand De Jong, a Masonic brother of Ezra’s, had passed away a few months ago and that Ezra had taken over his identity when the Just Judges painting—long coveted by the Freemasons—came into play. “Again, what do I have to gain from all this? I would have preferred t
here be no treasure and simply sold the painting. A simple sale, a nice commission.” He offered a nervous laugh. “And nobody threatening to cut out my tongue.”
His words seemed to placate his client. “Just in case, I am going to continue to dig. If there’s anything buried at the fucking property, we will find it. And if not, may Allah curse it and all the dirty Jews who ever visited there.”
Ezra lunched with Menachem at a bistro near their hotel, purposely aggravating his compulsive friend by languidly working his way through four courses.
Finally, Menachem erupted. “You are driving me crazy, Ezra,” he barked, standing as Ezra studied the dessert menu. “I need to learn more about the Arrujo suicide. Then I have a report to write. I can’t spend all day here like a pair of old hens.”
Ezra grinned. “Don’t forget to pay the bill before you leave. And will I see you for dinner?”
“Only if it is fast food.”
Finally rid of Menachem, Ezra dialed a number. “Yes, Mitchell Klein? My name is Bertrand De Jong. I am an associate of Bruce Arrujo.” He had tracked down Mitchell by casually questioning Menachem about the Mossad’s raid of the meat locker in Mitchell’s apartment, eventually obtaining a cell number from the apartment building superintendent in exchange for a one hundred dollar bill. “I don’t quite know how to say this, but Bruce is dead.” He paused to let the words sink in, his mind on the text he, or rather Bertrand, had received from Bruce the day before, apparently just before he had jumped: Don’t assume anything. And please do right by the painting. Ezra was left with one puzzle piece, and only one opening to place it. He had trouble believing that the piece fit, but perhaps that was just a testament to the brilliance of Bruce’s machinations. Ezra continued. “I am in New York for the day, Mr. Klein. Is there any chance we could meet?”
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