Mitchell was hesitant, no doubt gun-shy after the Mossad raid of his apartment, but eventually Ezra convinced him to meet at a coffee shop on the NYU campus. Ezra returned to his room, quickly removed his beard, combed his hair, waxed his moustache, dressed in a tweed blazer and freshly-pressed slacks, and, in his Bertrand persona, taxied south to lower Manhattan. The ponytailed Mitchell sat in the corner wearing a black t-shirt with a dinosaur playing a guitar across the front, nervously sipping at a coffee with tobacco-stained fingers. Ezra ambled over and sat without being invited. “I have more bad news, in addition to Bruce’s death.” He looked Mitchell in the eye. “You’re not going to be a millionaire.”
Blinking, Mitchell set down his coffee. “I don’t understand.”
“First of all, Bruce’s death last night was a suicide. He jumped from the Tappan Zee Bridge.” Ezra handed his phone across the table, displaying a newspaper story describing Bruce’s death. He waited for Mitchell to get to the second paragraph, where it described the note Bruce left tucked into his wallet: The painting’s a fake. Sorry to those I hurt. As Ezra expected, Mitchell’s chin fell.
Ezra continued. “Which leads to my second statement, about you not being a millionaire: Bruce killed himself because he’s been running a scam. Like the story says, the Just Judges painting, your painting, is a fake. Obviously, the two things—the suicide and the fake painting—are related.”
“But, how? Why? I don’t get it.”
Ezra leaned forward and took back his phone. “As I understand it, Bruce planted a fake version of the painting in your apartment, in the meat locker, for you to find.” Ezra was just guessing here, but he was pretty sure he had pieced it all together correctly. “Then he convinced you it was real and offered to help you sell it.”
“Why? He must have known he could never sell a fake of such a famous painting.”
“It was never about the painting itself. The painting was a feint, a red herring. It was just bait. He used it to sell people on a fake treasure buried in the Catskills. It was all just a real estate play, to inflate the value of the Catskills property by making people believe in the treasure.” Ezra sat back. “In fact, it worked perfectly.”
Mitchell stared out the window. “Not for me it didn’t.”
“No. I suppose not. Nor for Bruce.”
“Fuck him. I’m stuck with a worthless painting.”
Ezra bit back a retort. Mitchell was a man trying to sell a stolen painting; he didn’t exactly occupy the moral high ground here. Instead, Ezra smiled and replied, “Well, not entirely worthless.” Careful now. Ezra counted silently to five before proceeding. “The painting you own is an expert reproduction. I think Bruce paid five thousand for it. And it now has some notoriety as being part of an elaborate, and successful, art scam.”
“Great. So ten grand instead of five.”
Ezra shrugged. He was pretty sure the real Just Judges painting, the one Mitchell now possessed, had been in the meat locker all along, hidden there with the other paintings by Mitchell’s grandparents and discovered recently by Bruce and Mitchell, just as Mitchell originally believed. The brilliance of Bruce’s plan was that Mitchell now was convinced the painting had been planted by Bruce as part of a scam. In Mitchell’s mind, down was up and up was down; real was fake and fake was real. He had no inkling that real actually was real. “Perhaps seven or eight is more like it. Which brings us to the purpose of this visit.” He pulled out his checkbook. “Mr. Klein, to be clear, my flight leaves for Amsterdam tomorrow morning. So, we do this now or not at all.”
Mitchell peered across the table. He bit at his pinky nail. “Fine. Eight grand. But I want a bank check. I’m tired of getting screwed.”
Gus drove north out of New York City, cursing the early afternoon traffic. He hit the horn. “Get the fuck out of the left lane!” He had never understood why Boston drivers had such a bad reputation. Yes, they were aggressive. But they got to where they needed to go without driving like old ladies.
Part of his frustration, he knew, was because of Bruce. Partly because he had gotten away with it and partly because Gus hadn’t figured out what he was up to beforehand. And, yes, partly because his childhood friend was dead.
Or was he?
Despite the suicide note and three eye witnesses who claimed he never resurfaced, Gus wasn’t buying it without a body. And even then, he’d be skeptical. Bruce had allowed himself to be put into a corner. Which was something he would never do. Which meant the corner might not be a corner after all. Was there an escape hatch, a trap door? Gus had done some research. Five percent of those who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge survived. And the Tappan Zee was no higher.
Gus exited the highway in Tarrytown, where Bruce’s car had been found at a McDonald’s. Gus had made some phone calls: Salvatore was taking credit for Bruce’s death, telling people his men had chased Bruce over the bridge. That was fine with Gus. If Salvatore was intent on extracting his pound of flesh as revenge, better it come from Bruce’s hide rather than his own.
Gus found the marina, then the office where earlier he had called to arrange for the rental of a fourteen-foot fishing boat. Claiming to be an insurance adjuster, he made small talk with the dock master, learning which observation platform Bruce had jumped from. Twenty minutes later he puttered away from the pier and angled south on the Hudson, the river slapping at the aluminum vessel as the westerly wind buffeted him from his starboard side. As he traveled, he considered the story the dock master had told him: Apparently, the bridge was built at one of the widest spots on the river—spanning three miles, rather than one—because of financial reasons. Had it been built closer to the city, the Port Authority, rather than the State of New York, would have been entitled to the tolls. As always, Gus reflected, follow the money.
Glancing up, he located the platform Bruce had jumped from and steered for the nearest bridge stanchion. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. But he was sure he couldn’t not look.
Near the waterline, as the waves slapped against the massive concrete stanchion, a narrow rope caught his eye. Someone had wrapped the rope around the stanchion, pulled it tight, and knotted it. Attached to the rope, just above the waterline, hung a couple of bright red bungee cords. Gus stared at them, his mind racing, trying to imagine the possibilities. He knew how Bruce thought, how he liked to scheme things. Maybe Bruce hung some scuba gear off the cords? Or even just a snorkel, mask and flippers? Gus glanced up and pictured the jump: Bruce, an ex-high school diver, surviving the plunge, swimming underwater to the stanchion, wriggling himself into the hidden gear, and, finally, escaping undetected just below the water’s surface to the near shore.
Or maybe it was just some kids securing their boat to the stanchion while they fished.
That was the thing with Bruce. You just never knew.
Epilogue
Three Weeks Later
The FedEx truck arrived at ten, just as Cam had finished his morning run and put on the morning news on CNN while he cooled before showering.
The package contained a plain white envelope. The return address said, simply. Shelby.
“Amanda,” he called to the bedroom. “You might want to see this.”
Before he could open the envelope, the CNN anchor announced a breaking story: “We go now live to Belgium, to the city of Ghent, where it is now four o’clock in the afternoon.” Cam would never know for certain if the timing of the letter arriving from Shelby just as news broke out of Ghent was a coincidence. But he had his doubts.
His eyes widened as the camera panned over Saint Bavo’s Cathedral, reinforcing those doubts. He called again. “And I have a feeling you’re going to want to see this, also.”
An Asian woman with a French accent stood in the plaza outside the cathedral. “From what we are hearing, authorities have recovered the lost Just Judges painting, one of a series of paintings comprising the Ghent Altarpiece, considered by most art historians to be one of the world’s most important pieces of art.
We are expecting the announcement any minute.”
Amanda was now by his side. “It’s only been three bloody weeks.”
He showed her the envelope. “And look what just arrived.”
“Well, open it.”
While the reporter gave background information on the painting and its history, Cam ripped open the envelope. A single piece of paper, folded in thirds. Inside was a bank treasurer’s check drawn on Bank of America. Cam pulled it free. One million dollars, payable to himself. His heart thumped. “What the fuck?”
Amanda leaned in and gasped. “Bloody hell.” They stared at it for a few seconds. “What does the note say?”
Hands shaking, he read aloud, recognizing Shelby’s flowing cursive. “As you may already have heard, the Just Judges painting has been found. We owe you a complete explanation, and a sincere apology. But for now, we want you to know that the version of the painting which you decoded was the real one. And so it is entirely possible that the Templar treasure is, indeed, buried in the Catskills at the Levana Resort. We know a proper dig takes money. As does housing whatever artifacts you may find. Please accept this with our gratitude; perhaps you can use it to fund a research foundation. We hope to catch up over a bottle of wine when the dust settles. And, to answer the question you no doubt have—no, I did not know.”
“Bloody hell,” Amanda repeated. “And what’s with the we stuff?”
Cam’s mind raced. Had Bruce run a feint off his feint? If so, it had worked perfectly. The Saudis, facing Astarte’s restraining order and having soured on the property anyway, had sold the resort back to Norman Plansky for something well south of two million dollars. Norman, in turn, had used his windfall millions to buy an adjoining parcel of land to house the septic system. Cam guessed Norman would be happy to allow a respectful dig—he’d been fully supportive of Astarte’s injunction efforts. And the possibility of a second chance at finding the Treasure Templari treasure excited Cam. The abstract treasure—the Founding Fathers bringing duality and individual liberty to America to form a New Jerusalem modeled after the Templar traditions—resonated for Cam in many ways. But with the Templars, there were usually many levels to their symbolism and messaging. The painting, along with the Templar secret seals, on one level pointed to America and its allegorical treasure. But there was no reason that the Just Judges painting couldn’t, on another level, also direct savvy searchers to a physical treasure hidden in America, much as Cam had teased out of the Just Judges landscape clues. And, of course, the four cave map symbols pointed to the Neversink area.
On the television, the news camera panned to a make-shift podium. A handful of dignitaries sat in folding chairs. The city’s mayor spoke quickly, then made an introduction. “Recovery of this incredible piece of art would not have been possible without the efforts of the various Freemasonic bodies of Belgium and, in particular, Senior Warden Ezra Hirsch of the Grand Orient of Belgium.”
“Well, of course,” Cam chuckled. “Round up the usual suspects.”
Ezra lifted his girth from his chair and stepped forward to the microphone. Disheveled as always, but relaxed and confident. “There will be time for many speeches going forward. For now, a few important points. First the Just Judges painting is finally home.” He paused for applause. “Second, we are gratified that Saint Bavo’s Cathedral has agreed to display the painting with appropriate signage elucidating what we believe was Jan van Eyck’s key message in painting this masterpiece: To wit, that the concept of duality is crucial for a healthy society. Humankind, like all of nature’s organisms, requires balance and equilibrium to thrive. Both our masculine and feminine attributes must be respected; likewise, we must make room in our lives for both faith and reason.” He smiled. “And now, if you’ll come inside, we can show you the Ghent Altarpiece, on display, in its entirety, for the first time in more than 80 years.”
Cam and Amanda exchanged a quick glance. “Sounds like the Freemasons told them the only way they could have the painting back was with the signage,” Amanda said.
“Good for them,” Cam replied. “Make the Church acknowledge that they’re not the only game in town. It’s a small price to pay.” He watched the procession file into the cathedral, his mind on the letter from Shelby and its meaning. “I’m having trouble putting the pieces together. Bruce had the painting, then it turned out he was faking it because he wanted to pull off a real estate scam, and now it turns out he did have the real painting all along?”
“That sounds about right. I’m guessing that when the owner heard about Bruce’s suicide, with his note saying the painting was a fake, Ezra moved in and bought it. Hence, today’s press conference.”
“But if Bruce had the real painting all along, why not just sell it and pocket the broker’s fee? It would have been seven figures. Why all the crazy misdirection stuff?”
“Didn’t Shelby tell us the mob was after him for, like, eight million? I’m guessing that’s why. They think Bruce is dead now—he’s going to have to go off the grid for a year or two, but he’s a loner anyway, so who cares. And even if they figure out he’s alive, they have no idea the millions in auction proceeds funneled back to Shelby. And if Bruce had just taken a broker’s fee, the mob would have known about it and grabbed it.”
“Wow. What a play.” Cam paused. “So do you think Bruce and Ezra were working together all along? Talk about strange bedfellows.”
“No. And, based on the final line of her note, I don’t think even Shelby knew the whole plan. At least not the fake suicide. But I do think there’s more to Ezra than meets the eye.” She shrugged. “Maybe if we ever sit down with that bottle of wine, they’ll tell us the whole story.”
“But why Ezra? How did he end up with the painting?”
“One thing Shelby told me about Bruce, that day at breakfast, was that he hates it when collectors acquire artwork and hide it from the public. So this, for him, is probably a happy result: The painting’s on public display, where everyone can see it. If he had just sold it, the Saudis or whoever would have locked it in some palace vault.”
“Okay, that makes sense. He clued Ezra in, knowing Ezra, being a senior Freemason, would do the right thing by the painting because of its Masonic and Templar importance. And Bruce still got his big payday—he left Shelby a few million, which no doubt they’ll share.”
“Which she in turn just shared with us,” Amanda said, kissing him quickly as she walked out of the room.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“To pack, of course.” She tossed him a towel and smiled. “Go take a shower. Chop-chop. We have a treasure to find.”
The End
Dear Reader
I love to get reader feedback, both to help me continue to write about things that you (hopefully) enjoy and also to improve on the things you don’t. Please feel free to reach out to me at [email protected], and/or also to leave a review at Amazon or Goodreads.
If you enjoyed Treasure Templari, you may want to read the other books featuring Cameron and Amanda in my “Templars in America” series, all of which have been Kindle Top 10 Bestsellers in their categories (see below). And if you enjoyed the Bruce and Shelby characters, you might want to check out the three legal thrillers in my “Boston Law” series, featuring Bruce and Shelby in their earlier years: Unlawful Deeds, Blood of the Tribe, and The Wrong Abraham (https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0753CRT9D)
“Templars in America” Series
Cabal of the Westford Knight
Templars at the Newport Tower (2009)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GWTZYLS
Set in Boston and Newport, RI, inspired by artifacts evidencing that Scottish explorers and Templar Knights traveled to New England in 1398.
Thief on the Cross
Templar Secrets in America (2011)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B006OQIXCG
Set in the Catskill Mountains of New York, sparked by an ancient Templar codex calling into question fundamental teachings of the Cathol
ic Church.
Powdered Gold
Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (2013)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GWTYJ5K
Set in Arizona, exploring the secrets and mysteries of both the Ark of the Covenant and a manna-like powdered substance.
The Oath of Nimrod
Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Cover-up (2014)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NW13QTG
Set in Massachusetts and Washington, DC, triggered by the mystery of hundreds of giant human skeletons found buried across North America.
The Isaac Question
Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (2015)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016E3X2QK
Set in Massachusetts and Scotland, focusing on ancient stone chambers, the mysterious Druids and a stunning reinterpretation of the Biblical Isaac story.
Echoes of Atlantis
Crones, Templars and the Lost Continent (2016)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MXJ0BNX
Set in New England, focusing on artifacts and other evidence indicating that the lost colony of Atlantis, featuring an advanced civilization, did exist 12,000 years ago.
The Cult of Venus
Templars and the Ancient Goddess (2017)
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0767Q4N1S
Set in New England, triggered by the discovery of a medieval journal revealing that the Knights Templar came to America before Columbus because they were secretly worshiping the ancient Goddess.
The Swagger Sword
Treasure Templari Page 32