The Oath of Nimrod: Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup (Book #4 in Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  THE OATH OF NIMROD

  GIANTS, MK-ULTRA AND THE SMITHSONIAN COVERUP

  A Novel by

  David S. Brody

  Eyes That See Publishing Westford, Massachusetts

  The Oath of Nimrod

  Giants, MK-Ultra and the Smithsonian Coverup

  Copyright © 2014 by David S. Brody

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author: dsbrody@comcast.net

  Eyes That See Publishing

  Westford, Massachusetts

  ISBN 978-0-9907413-0-5

  1st edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Kimberly Scott

  Printed in USA

  Praise for David S. Brody’s Books

  “Brody does a terrific job of wrapping his research in a fast-paced thrill ride that will feel far more like an action film than an academic paper.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Strongly recommended for all collections.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Will keep you up even after you’ve put it down.”

  —Hallie Ephron, BOSTON GLOBE (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A riveting, fascinating read.”

  —MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Best of the Coming Season.”

  —BOSTON MAGAZINE (Unlawful Deeds)

  “A compelling suspense story and a searing murder mystery.”

  —THE BOSTON PHOENIX (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A comparison to The Da Vinci Code and National Treasure is inevitable….The story rips the reader into a fast-paced adventure.”

  —FRESH FICTION (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “An excellent historical conspiracy thriller. It builds on its most famous predecessor, The Da Vinci Code, and takes it one step farther—and across the Atlantic.”

  —MYSTERY BOOK NEWS (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “The action and danger are non-stop, leaving you breathless. It is one hell of a read.”

  —ABOUT.COM Book Reviews (Unlawful Deeds)

  “The year is early, but this book will be hard to beat; it’s already on my ‘Best of 2009’ list.”

  —BARYON REVIEW (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Five Stars.”

  —Harriet Klausner, AMAZON (The Wrong Abraham)

  “An enormously fun read, exceedingly hard to put down.”

  —The BOOKBROWSER (Unlawful Deeds)

  “Fantastic book. I can’t wait until the next book is released.”

  —GOODREADS (Thief on the Cross)

  About the Author

  David S. Brody is a Boston Globe bestselling fiction writer recently named Boston’s “Best Local Author” by the Boston Phoenix newspaper. A graduate of Tufts University and Georgetown Law School, he is a former Director of the New England Antiquities Research Association (NEARA) and is an avid researcher in the subject of pre-Columbian exploration of America. He has appeared as a guest expert on documentaries airing on History Channel, Travel Channel and Discovery Channel.

  For more information, please visit

  www.DavidBrodyBooks.com

  Also by the Author

  Unlawful Deeds

  Blood of the Tribe

  The Wrong Abraham

  The “Templars in America” Series

  Cabal of the Westford Knight:

  Templars at the Newport Tower (Book 1)

  Thief on the Cross:

  Templar Secrets in America (Book 2)

  Powdered Gold:

  Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Book 3)

  Preface

  This novel is a bit of a break from the Templar-based themes I first explored in Cabal of the Westford Knight and continued exploring in Thief on the Cross and Powdered Gold. In this book I venture down the rabbit hole to examine the hundreds of accounts of giant human skeletons unearthed in the 19th century by American farmers and treasure hunters. Were all these skeletons—numbering over 1,500 by one researcher’s count—fakes and hoaxes? Or was there instead a race of eight- and nine-foot tall humans who roamed the North American wilderness? If so, were these giants somehow related to the giants recounted in the Old Testament?

  Of course, I can’t very well write a book in the “Templars in America” series without delving into the mysteries of the Knights Templars and their possible journeys to America. In this story, I focus on the rituals and beliefs of the mysterious group whom many believe were spawned the Templars—the Freemasons. Specifically, did the early Freemasons venerate a pagan Babylonian king by the name of Nimrod and, if so, why? This inquiry takes on even greater meaning when we learn that Nimrod, like Goliath and so many other figures in the Bible, was himself described as a giant.

  I also weave the CIA mind-control program known as MK-Ultra into the story. This program, hatched during the early years of the Cold War, authorized experiments on U.S. citizens in an effort to unlock the secrets of the mind. These experiments included the use of hallucinogenic drugs, sleep deprivation and psychological torture—the CIA justified these attacks on its own citizens as a necessity in its efforts to fight Communism.

  Readers of the first three books in the series will recognize the protagonists, Cameron and Amanda, and also young Astarte. However, this novel is not a sequel to the prior three and readers who have not read the earlier novels should feel free to jump right in.

  As in the previous stories in the series, if an artifact or object of art is pictured in the book, it exists in the real world. (See the Author’s Note at the end of this book for a more detailed discussion covering the issue of artifact authenticity.) To me, in the end, it is the artifacts that are the true stars of these novels.

  I remain fascinated by the hidden history of North America and the very real possibility that waves of European explorers visited our shores long before Columbus. It is my hope that readers share this fascination.

  David S. Brody, July, 2014

  Westford, Massachusetts

  “The eyes of extinct giants, whose bones fill the mounds of America, have gazed on Niagara Falls just as our eyes do now.”

  --Abraham Lincoln, 1848

  PROLOGUE

  [May, 1952, Buenos Aires]

  The tall, stiff-backed American college professor blew on his hands as he waited in the passenger seat of a jeep at an Argentine military base. He leaned away from the window, away from the rain blowing into the vehicle, and pulled his hat lower on his head. When Leonard Carmichael had left Boston three days earlier the long winter was finally yielding to a late spring. Now he had returned to the cold. Apparently it didn’t snow in Buenos Aires, but sitting here for almost an hour in the rain and fog had numbed his extremities and frayed his patience. For one of the few times in his life, he wished he smoked.

  “I think I see them coming, sir,” the unnamed corporal seated in the driver’s seat said. “Headlights on the left.”

  Carmichael nodded. When he had accepted his appointment as Secretary of the Smithsonian Institut
ion, he had been expecting a semi-retirement spent rummaging around in the nation’s attic. What he had not expected was to be thrown into the middle of the Cold War.

  But when the President asks a favor, one does not say no. “I have a very important mission,” Truman had explained. “A secret mission. And, unfortunately, a distasteful mission. The mission requires someone with an expertise in behavioral psychology. And I need a man I can trust.” Truman had smiled. “Know anyone like that?” What the President had not said, but which Carmichael understood, was that the mission also required a private citizen so that the government could deny involvement if things turned ugly. Since Carmichael would not be sworn into his Smithsonian post until January, he fit the bill. The meeting with Truman had been three months ago. Tonight’s meeting would be a culmination of Carmichael’s efforts since.

  A black sedan pulled alongside the jeep; the driver nodded, stepped from the car and opened the rear door. As if on cue, the rain fell harder, propelled by a cold wind. Carmichael shivered. He slid out of the jeep, his knees stiff, and ducked into the rear seat of the sedan. As he closed the door, cigarette smoke and the dank smell of wet wool engulfed him. He coughed into his hand and turned to eye the man seated next to him. The German looked older than his thirty-nine years—soft-bodied, balding, a gray pallor to his skin. Hardly an archetype for the Master Race. Only his cold gray eyes marked the man as any kind of menace. Carmichael did not offer his hand. “Herr Weber, I presume.”

  “I am Doctor Weber.” The man’s breath reeked of garlicky meat gone bad.

  Carmichael exhaled and edged away. He wanted to take the man by the throat and tell him he had forfeited the right to use that title. But that would mean he actually had to touch him. “You can guess why you are here?”

  “Guess? I do not need to guess. I can deduce.”

  Pedantic little prig. Had he been a student of his, Carmichael would have boxed his ears. “Go ahead, then. Deduce.”

  “If you were going to turn me over to the Israelis, or put me on trial for war crimes, there would be no need for this meeting. I would be on a plane already. So I must deduce you want to make me an offer.” He smiled, revealing a mouth of undersized yellow teeth that made Carmichael think of rats in an alley.

  “Incorrect. I may determine, based on this meeting, that you do not suit our needs. In which case there will be no offer, and within the hour you will indeed be on a plane to Tel Aviv.”

  Weber eye’s widened—he knew that would be a death sentence. But he recovered quickly and lifted his chin. “Well, then I will have to prove myself to you. What type of services are you in need of?”

  That was the crux of it. Few people in the history of mankind had conducted the kind of human experiments Weber had conducted; few people had been able to probe so deep into the secrets and mysteries of the human mind and psyche. And of those few people, the rest were dead.

  “You spent time at Auschwitz?”

  He nodded. “I was first assistant to the chief medical officer, Dr. Wirths.”

  “And you worked with Mengele?”

  “I assisted Doctor Mengele in many of his medical experiments, yes.”

  Carmichael studied the man. Millions had died during the war. Tens of millions. Brave men and women, innocent children. Yet this rodent sitting next to him—who had done more evil in one week than an army of men could do in a lifetime—somehow lived. And was now about to be rewarded.

  He took a deep breath, stared out the window. When he had accepted this mission, he knew it would be distasteful. But to be sitting so close to the man, to smell the evil on him….

  But there was no other way. The Soviets had already recruited Nazi death camp doctors, had already begun to experiment with mind control and brainwashing. Who knew what they might accomplish? Actually, Carmichael knew all too well—studying the mind had been his life’s work. A drug or chemical introduced into the water supply, or seeded inside a rain cloud, or imbedded into the jet stream—the Soviets could incapacitate America without ever firing a shot. And Carmichael had no doubt they would not hesitate to do so. The modern world had never before seen a man as evil as Hitler, but neither had it seen one as dangerous as Stalin.

  An old Bulgarian proverb popped into his head. You are permitted in times of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge. He took a deep breath and stared into the eyes of the devil sitting next to him. There was no other way across the bridge.

  CHAPTER 1

  Cameron Thorne exhaled. He never should have agreed to participate in this conference. A couple hundred conspiracy theorists fueling each other’s paranoia at a hotel in central Massachusetts over a mid-winter weekend. Even Amanda had taken a pass. “Astarte is in desperate need of new socks,” she said, kissing him on the nose. “But you have fun. And don’t let them convince you that aliens built the pyramids.”

  The pyramid theory had been the least of it; it turns out the aliens had been far busier than that. From a seat on the side of the dais, Cam listened as the jowly, middle-aged Frenchman concluded his presentation. Finally. Jacques Autier was his name. “As I said, these reptilian aliens came to earth thousands of years ago.” In his French accent he pronounced it thew-sends, as if from an old Pink Panther movie.

  “The aliens came to mine our gold, but once here they crossbred with our females. These aliens were skilled lovers, apparently, and the earth women welcomed them to their beds. Even today, many of us, especially those of us who descend from the French noble families, carry this alien blood through our veins.” Autier’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, as if hinting that this ancestry accounted for his prowess under the sheets. Autier continued. “It is this reptilian blood that flowed through the ancient kings of Israel, through the Pharaohs of Egypt, through Jesus Christ, and through today’s royal families of Europe.”

  Autier scanned the hotel ballroom, shifting his shoulders as he pulled his charcoal-colored suit coat tight around his midsection. Cam’s eyes followed Autier’s. Not a yawn or a fidget in the entire crowd. That was the problem with being a student of alternative history: You ended up surrounded by conspiracy theorists willing to believe pretty much anything.

  Autier clasped his small-fingered hands together. “Through this interbreeding, these reptilian aliens have always ruled the earth.” He raised a hand as if anticipating the obvious question. “And they shall rule forever. Because if we rebel, they will kill us.” He bowed his head. “Merci.”

  Cam clapped politely, pulling himself to his feet as the crowd rose. How was he going to follow a presentation like this?

  Cam found a men’s room. They were taking a twenty minute break, after which he was going to discuss European exploration of America before Columbus and these explorers’ connections to the Knights Templar and Freemasons. The topic fascinated Cam, and the Freemasons and Templars were usually good fodder for conspiracy buffs. But Cam’s topic didn’t compare to reptilian aliens mating with humans to create a sub-species of cold-blooded earth-rulers. Not even close. The good news, he supposed, was that this crowd would hardly be likely to dismiss him as a kook.

  What was that expression? Even a bad day skiing beats a good day at the office. Well, similarly, lecturing even at a bad conference beat practicing law for a living. He still maintained a limited real estate law practice to help pay the mortgage but, thankfully, the days of seventy-hour workweeks in a downtown firm were behind him. Between his law practice, speaker fees and his fiancée Amanda’s income as a museum curator, they lived comfortably.

  As Cam threw his tie over his shoulder a diminutive, chestnut-skinned man sauntered over and leaned into the urinal next to his. He turned and smiled, his brown eyes bright and playful beneath a pair of dark, bushy eyebrows which contrasted with a full head of cottony-white hair—if Barak Obama had a short, kindly grandfather, he would look like this, Cam decided. “Pardon me if I do not shake your hand,” he said, enunciating every word. “My name is Randall Sid. I have attend
ed this conference for the sole purpose of hearing your lecture.”

  Cam looked down at the man. Cam was only of average height, but he towered over Randall by almost a foot. Even taking into account that most elderly people lose a couple of inches, Randall could never have been much more than five feet tall. “Mine?” Cam asked.

  “Indeed. And to meet you. I attended your lecture once before. You spoke at a Masonic Lodge in Rhode Island a number of months back.”

  Cam walked to the sink and washed his hands. “I guess I should be flattered.” He smiled. “I can’t even get my mother to hear my lectures more than once.”

  Randall grinned. He wore a gold and black argyle sweater vest over a button-down cream dress shirt and a pair of khakis. Cam wondered if he dressed like a prep school student because he couldn’t find clothes in his size. Or maybe he just liked the sweater. “An attractive young lady accompanied you in Rhode Island. British. Amanda, perhaps, if I remember correctly?”

  Randall spoke in the Boston Brahmin accent made famous by President Kennedy and later Charles Emerson Winchester III in the M*A*S*H television show—he omitted the letter “r” from the end of words as did other Boston speakers, but otherwise he cherished every letter of every word like a favorite pair of khakis. He seemed to enjoy the act of speaking, as unwilling to rush through a sentence as through a snifter of fine brandy.

  “Yes, Amanda Spencer-Gunn, my fiancée.”

  He winked. “Truth be told, I came here today to see her more than I did to hear you.”

  Cam chuckled. Despite Randall’s stilted way of speaking the man exuded an air of jovial irreverence. “I get that a lot,” Cam said. Amanda was strikingly beautiful, like something out of a Grimm fairy tale—cream-colored skin, lime-green eyes, blond flowing hair and a lithe, gymnast’s body. And highly intelligent, as much of an expert on the Templars and their exploration of North America as was Cam. In short, Cam liked to joke, way too good for him. But she didn’t enjoy public speaking so she was happy to stay home with Astarte, the nine-year-old girl they were in the process of adopting. Cam smiled wryly. “Apparently Amanda had a desperate need to go shopping for socks.”