ChesterfieldtookmedownthestairsandoutthefrontofStratfordHousetothe sidewalk,attheendofthecul‐de‐saccalledStratfordPlace.Ididn’tseemuchof theopulentbuildingbecauseIwaslookingatmyshoesthewholetime.
Whenwegotoutsideintotheearlyeveningair,hesuggestedweduckintothe bookshopinthebuildingnextdoor,coveredbyanimmenseglassrooftop garden,thusavoidingtherestoftheSocietyofButchersastheyscurriedaway.It turnedoutthatthisbuildinghousedthelocalKabballahCentre,anditwastheir bookshop.Westoppedinfrontofadisplayofcommentarieson TheZoharso thatwecouldspeakforamoment.Butwhenwenoticedthateveryoneinthe shopwaslookingatus,wequieteddowntoawhisper.
“SoyouoverheardwhatwasgoingonwhenIcalledyouandyoutracedthecall tofindme?”Iasked.“Iwasshockedathowquicklyyouarrived.”
“Notexactly,”heanswered.“Wehadbeentrackingyourmovementswithyour mobilephonesincewedroppedyouoffatthemuseum.Thenwelostyoufora while.Wethoughtyoumightbeintrouble,sowehoveredintheareawherewe hadlasttrackedyou.IactuallycombedthroughtheTapeNightclublookingfor you,andthroughtheBondStreettubestation.Thenwepickedyoursignalup againatStratfordPlace.WewerelurkingoutsidethisKabballahCentre,thinking youwereprobablyhere,whenIgotyourcallandrealizeditwascomingfrom theOrientalClub.”
“TheytookmetoanartgalleryonHanoverStreet,”Isaid.“Thenwewent throughanundergroundtunneltoatinyroomshapedlikeabeehive,wherethey beheadedabull.ThenIpassedoutandwokeupinthatroomyoufoundmein.
Whywereyoutrackingmeinthefirstplace?”
“BecauseIdidn’tfeelgoodleavingyouattheMuseumwiththatcreepWeirstill afoot,”heanswered.“AndIwasrighttobecautious.”
Justthenhiscellphonerang,andheansweredit.Icouldheartheothersideof theconversationbleedingthrough.ItwasAgentParis.Hewassuggestingthat theytakemeinto“theoffice”(atThamesHouse,presumably)forquestioning, andletWeirsitinacellallnightwaitingforinterrogationtomorrow.
“Ohno,”hesaid.“Letmetakeheroutforadrink,andI’lltalktoherthere.
She’shadaroughday.I’msureshecoulduseabiteandaquaff.”Hewinkedat me.
“Youolddog,”IheardParissay.“Justmakesureyougetsomerealintelligence fromherthistimebeforeyoulethergo.”
“Ohdon’tworry,”saidChesterfield.“Iwon’tlethergetoffeasythistime.”
Hechuckled.Ididn’t.Helookedawayfromme.
“I’llshowuptomorrowmorningwithafullreport,”hepromisedhispartner.
“SodoIhaveanychoiceaboutgoingoutforadrink?”Iasked.
“Notunlessyou’dratherbequestionedatanMI5officebuilding,”hereplied.
“Sojustletmeknow:wherewouldyouliketobeinterrogated,mydear?”
“DoyouknowanypubsintheTempledistrict?”Iasked.“I’dliketoseethatold KnightsTemplarchurchagain,”Isaid.
“Iknowjusttheplace,”hereplied.
Parishadthecompanycarwithhim,sowewalkedouttoOxfordStreet,and acrosstoBondStreetStation,wherewetookaten‐minuterideontheCentral
linetoChanceryLaneStation.There,weexitedonHolborn,wentwestto ChanceryLaneitself,thenfollowedthatroadsouthdowntoFleetStreet,where ourdestinationwas.Onthewayhepointedoutthefamoussilvervaults,andthe formeraddressofAleisterCrowley’sLondonresidence(althoughtheactual buildinghe’dlivedinwasdemolishedin2006).Thiswashiswayofflirting,as itwaswhenhetoldmehehadthoughtIwas“cutebefore,wearingthestinkyold jeansandasweaterwithnomake‐up.”
“Butnowyoulookpositivelyradiant,”headded.
“Thanks,”Ireplied.“IguessIcleanupwell,atleastwhenIhaveapersonal stylistandI’mlyingunconscious.”
“Youmeantheychangedyourclotheswhileyouwerepassedout?”hesaid.
Helookedhorrified.
“Idon’tthinktheyviolatedme,”Isaid.“AtleastnomorethanwhatI’vealready toldyouabout.”
WearrivedatYeOldeCockTavern,apubwhichhadbeenaroundsince1549.
SamuelPepys,CharlesDickens,andAlfredLloydTennysonalldrankthere.
Afterwe’deatenanddrunkourfill,Chesterfieldsaid,wecouldtaketheback dooroutthepubandthroughtheenclosedcourtyardtoseeTempleChurchjust beforeitclosedfortheevening.
Weorderedbeerand“beefburgers,”astheycallthem.Thenwestuffed ourselveswhileIspilledmygutstohimabouteverythingthathadhappened sincemyadventurebegan.ItoldhimallabouttheMetecofferandLeopold,the allegedlectureI’dbeenhiredtogive,theflightdelay,Leopolddroppingoutof contact,andbeingquestionedbyhimandParisatParliament,whereIfoundout thetruthaboutLeopold’sidentityfromhimandAgentParis.
ThenIrecountedmyexperienceatthemuseum,whereIlearnedthatthecoffer wasgone,ranintoLeopoldforreasonsunknown,andwaschasedoutsideby peopleIthoughtworkedforAccountsReceivable.Finally,Idescribedthe kidnapping,theblindfoldedmarchthroughthesubterraneanpassage,thebull sacrifice,andtheforceddivinationfromthebullliveratOrientalClub.Ieven mentioned,inpassing,theirclaimthattheyneededhelplocatingan“evil
magician”whointendedtodestroyexistenceasweknewitwitharitualto topplethe“pillarsofHeaven.”
“ChickenLittles!”saidChesterfield,amused.“‘Thesky’sfalling!’Whatabunch ofnutters.”
Hecouldn’tbelieveitwasthattherealButchers’liverycompanywasinvolved, especiallyconsideringthatLeopoldhadliedabouthisname,hisso-calledbarony,andhisphonyseatintheHouseofLords.SoAgentChesterfield gotouthissmartphonetoinvestigate.
“Whatdidyousayitwascalledagain?”heasked.“TheWorshipSocietyof Butchers?OrtheWorshipfulCompany?Because‘WorshipfulCompanyof Butchers’isthenameoftheactualliverycompany.”
Idugthroughtheemailarchivesonmyownphone.
“Leopoldcalledit‘Society.’Hesaiditseveraltimes.”Iponderedforamoment.
“Theydidactuallytellmespecificallythattheyweren’taliverycompanybuta
‘differentsortofentity.’SoIguessIwaslookingattheWorshipfulCompany’s websiteallalong,thinkingitwasforLeopold’sgroup.Butitlookslikethe Butcher’sSocietyisjustasfakeashissupposedpeerage.”
“WhichwouldexplainwhytheymeetatOrientalClubinsteadofButcher’s Hall,”hesaid.“Becauseanyonewhocanmeetthedresscodeandaffordthefees canbooktimethere,eveniftheydon’tbelongtotheactualOrientalClub,which yousayWeirneverspecificallytoldyouhewasamemberof.”
“Butthebutleractedlikehehadn’tletthemthroughthefrontdoor,”Isaid.
“Somaybetheysneakedinthroughanundergroundtunnel.Maybethere’sa memberoftheclubwhoknowsasecretwayin,andletthemthrough.Something thatconnectswiththetunnelsIwasinsideof.Andtheremustbeamuchwider entrancetothetunnelssomewhere,orelsehowdidtheygetthebulldownthere inthefirstplace?”
Chesterfieldaskedmetobringoutmylaptopsothathecouldlookatalarger imagethanhisphonescreen.Afterjustafewseconds,heletoutan“aha!”
andswiveledthescreenaroundtoshowmesomething.
“Isthistheroomwheretheybeheadedthebull?”heasked.
HeshowedmeareportonabuildingsurveyfromtheCityofWestminsterfrom 2014.ItwascommissionedtomakesurethenewexpansionsoftheBondStreet tubestationatnearbyHanoverSquaredidn’tinterferewiththeStratfordHouse basement.Thisbasementdid,asthereportshowed,jutoutsignificantlyfromthe frontofthebuilding,sothatitwasessentiallyunderneaththemiddleofStratford Place,thestreetoutfront.Liketherestofthebuilding,thebasem
ent datedbackto1774.Aphotographincludedinthereportshowedthatbeehive ceiling,whichI’llneverforget.
“Soifthereisanotherintersectingtunnelthatleadsto10Hanoverandallthe otherplacesyouwent,itmusthavebeenbuiltwithoutcitypermissionsometime after2014,”saidChesterfield.“Andsomehowthepeoplebuildingthetube tunnelsneverranintoiteither.Unlessoneofthemisinonit.Whichis possible.”
“Really”Isaid.“Youthinktherearepeoplebuildingnewsecrettunnels underneathLondoneventoday?”
“Oh,weknowthereare,”heanswered,hushinghistoneagain.“Look,thenew boominbothresidentialandcommercialrealestateinLondonisunderground.
Thewealthyarebuildingbasementsthreeandfourlevelsdown,becausesquare footageissovaluablehere.Hundredsofapplicationsarebeingapprovedevery year.Therehavegottobesomethatgetbuiltwithoutpermission.”
Chesterfieldrolledhiseyesupsuckedinhislips,likehewasdebatingwhether ornotheshouldtellmesomething.Thenhecontinued.
“WeatMI5havefoundseveral.We’vebustedsome,we’rewatchingothers.We thinktherearehundredsmorethatwehaven’tfoundyet.ThatissomethingI shouldnothavetoldyou.Butmaybenowyoucantrustmewithsomethingyou wouldn’thaveotherwisetoldme.”Helookedatmedeeply,expectantly.
“I’veactuallytoldyoueverythingIknow,”Ireplied.“EverythingIcanthinkof thatyoumightbeinterestedin.”
“Welllet’sgodosomething you’reinterestedin,”hesaid,standingup.
“Let’sgolookatthosedeadTemplarsacrossthecourtyardoverthere.”
Wewentdownthestairsfromwherewehadbeensittingandoutthepub’s backdoor.Thenwewalkedthroughtheenclosedcourtyard,pastthetombofthe IrishwriterOliverGoldsmith(which,wewerewarnedbythebartender,was haunted),andthroughthebackdoorofthemedievalTempleChurch,builtbyand fortheKnightsTemplar.
Ihadn’tbeenthereonmyfirstvisittoLondon.Thiswasmyfirsttimeseeingit.
ButIhadseenmanypicturesoftheoldtombsoftheTemplarsrecessedinthe floorthere.Eachtombwasdecoratedwithalife‐sizedreliefontopdepictingthe deceasedinfullarmor,usuallywithadogathisfeet.Ididn’thaveany revelationsuntilChesterfieldspokeup.
“It’sfunnyhowtheirlegsareallcrossedisn’tit?”hesaid.
IlookedattheTemplareffigies.Indeed,thecrossedlegswereverypeculiar.
“Andtheyalllooklikethey’reinpain.Almostlikesomebodyjustkickedthem intheballs.Orchoppedtheirdicksoffwithasword.Haha!”Hespoketoo loudly.Thetwopeoplewhoweresittingthereinthepewsquietlyprayinglooked up.
“Sorry!”hesaidnervously.Butitgotmethinking.
“Youknow,theRomancultofthegoddessCybelehadafullycastrated priesthood.TheycalledthemtheGalli.Theywouldbecomepossessedbythe goddessduringtheirfestivals.Thentheywouldgocrazyandcutofftheirown genitalsinafrenzy,inhonorofAttis,Cybele’sconsort,whohaddonethesame thing.AndAttiswasoftendepictedwithhislegscross,justliketheseTemplars.”
“Sothepriestscastratedthemselvestobelikehim,becausetheythoughtthat’s whattheirgoddesswanted?”Chesterfieldsaid.
“Yep,”Ireplied.“Thatwashowtheywereinitiated.Acoupleofdayslater,they wouldputtheseveredsexorgansinasacredcofferandparadethemaroundina celebratoryprocession.TheyactuallyhadallthesefestivalsinlateMarch, aroundtheSpringEquinox,rightaboutnow.Thecastrationritewascalledthe DayofBlood.ThatwasonMarch24.”
“Really,”saidChesterfield.Hewasgoingpale.
“Yeah,Isaid.Nobodyeverpointsoutthatthiswasthedaythatmeninthe Heaven’sGatecultcastratedthemselvesbeforetheycommittedsuicide.They
believedthattheyweregoingtobetakenupintoaportalthattheythoughtwas ridingpastEarthwiththeHaleBoppcometthatnight.Theythoughttheyneeded tobecastratedtogetin.Theywantedtobethe“eunuchsofHeaven”thatthe Bibletalksabout.SomepeoplethinkthatcometwasactuallyNibiru,alsocalled PlanetX,whichtheBabyloniansidentifiedwiththetimeoftheSpring Equinox.”
“Mylittlejokebroughtallthattomind,didit?”saidChesterfield,inaveryun-jokingmanner.
“WellIwasthinkingabouttheMetecoffer.TheBritishMuseumlabeledthe pictureonthelidasbeing“Cybele.”AndHammer‐Purgstallsaidthatitlooked likeher,exceptshe’sgotabeard,andshewaslabeledMete.Hewassurethat she
wasthesamefigureasthe‘Baphomet’demonthattheTemplarssupposedly worshipedintheirsecretceremonies.”
Chesterfieldnodded.Icontinued.
“HealsosaidthattheTemplarswerecovertlypracticingOphiteGnosticism.
AndtheOphitesweresaidtohaveincorporatedtheCybelecultintotheir syncretisticsystem.NowherewehavetheTemplarknights,depictedontheir tombstoneswiththeirlegscrossedasthoughthey’vebeeninjuredinthegenital region.It’sjustliketheFisherKingintheGrailstories,whichtheTemplarswere associatedwith.It’sallstartingtoaddup.Look!”
Itypedafewwordsintomyphone,andbroughtupEliphasLevi’sdepictionof theTemplardemonBaphomet.
“Look,”Isaidagain.“ThisisBaphomet.ThisisthewaytheoccultistEliphas Levidepictedhim.I’mjustnowrealizingwhyheshowedthedemonwitha caduceuscomingoutofhiscrotchinsteadofapenis,eventhoughhesaiditwas ahermaphrodite.BecauseitwasactuallyacastratedHermaphrodite,justlike CatullussaidCybelewasoriginally.”
IguessIdidn’tcareifChesterfieldwasabletofollowmylogic.Iwasmainly sayingitoutloudformyownbenefit,toaidmythoughts.Bythistime,thetwo peopletryingtopraypeacefullyinthishouseofGodhadgottenupandleftin disgust.Chesterfieldlookedatmedirectlywithapainedexpressionandstood silentlyforamoment.Atlasthespoke.
“Pamela,Ithinkthereissomethingthatyouneedtosee.Let’sgobacktothe tavernsowecanuseyourlaptopthere.You’llneedadrinkafteryouseeit.”
Chapter12:EasterSundayAprilFool
Aprilisthecruelestmonth.
—T.S.Eliot, TheWasteland
Wewalkedbackintothepubandupthestairstothethirdfloor.Wepickeda tablenexttoawindowthatgaveusaviewoftheformerlocationoftheBankof England,nowmovedtoThreadneedleStreetnearWalbrook.Thissamebuilding, onthewesternsideofthecornerofChanceryLaneandFleetStreet,hadbeen, beforethat,hometotheverypubwewerestandinginatonepoint.However,the originalpubburneddowninafire,aswelearnedfromaninformativeplaque mountedonthewallnearourtable.
IpluggedmycomputerinandstarteditupwhileChesterfieldwentandgotusa coupleofdouble‐shotwhiskeyswithbeerchasers.Thenwebothsatwithour backstothewindowandthecomputerscreenonthetableinfrontofus.That way,wefigured,wecouldmakesurenobodywalkedinonusandsawwhatwas onthecomputerscreen.Webothdownedabouthalfofourwhiskeys.Then Chesterfieldtookasmallblackthumbdriveoutofhispocketandhelditupin frontofme.
“ThisfilewassenttoMI5throughouranonymoustippage.Itwasencrypted intoavideoofacatplayingwithaballofyarn,andwrappedwithamalignant viruswhichwewereabletoneutralize.Thenwedecryptedthevideo,whichI’m abouttoshowyou.Don’ttellanyoneIshowedyou,orIwilllosemyjobandgo toprison.”
Inodded.Hepluggedthedriveintomycomputer.
“Playitfromthedrive.Don’tcopyit,”heinsisted.
Obviously,Ithoughttomyself.
Iopenedthedrive,andthenthefile,whichwasnamed
“easter.sunday.april.fools.mov.”Chesterfieldgrabbedmyhandandclasped tightlyashelookedatthescreeninabsolutedread.
Thevideo—orrather,thevideoofthe“film”(foritwas,itappearedtome,shot on35mmblackandwhitecelluloid)—start
edwithasequenceofthreeold-fashionedtitlepagesofthetypeonceusedfordialogueonsilentfilms.They said:Inanefforttobirthagrandnewcultus,‘thesynthesisofallpersecuted beliefs’....
...theGrandChaplainoftheTempleMilitiaremarriedOurFathertotheGreat Mother....
TogethertheyengenderedachilddestinedtoupsettheorderoftheAeons.
ThesonbecametheSun,theSunbecameOurFather.ThenhemarriedtheGreat Motheragain.
Thenextscenesarehardtodescribe,becausetheyaresoawful.Ishalldoso
matter‐of‐factly,becausethat’sallIcando.
First,wesawagroupofboys,agesspanningfromtentotwelve.Theywereall wearingsuitsandtiesandsmokingcigarettesonsomestepsoutside.Theshot widenedtoshowthenow‐familiarstatueofAnterosatPiccadillyCircus,with thesignfortheErosCinemavisibleinthebackground.Thentherewasanother titlepage.
Enticedbythepromisedrevelationoflove’smysteries,theEasterFoolstumbles downtherabbitholeintothelairofcounter‐love.
Inthenextshot,framedupontheboysagain,anadultwhitemalehandemerged fromscreenleftholdingacopyof PlayboyMagazine.Thecoverfeaturedthe backoftheheadofawhiterabbitwhowaswatchingawomaninabluedress smilinginfrontofafilmcamera.Whenthekidssawthemagazine,theirfaceslit upastheygrabbedatitexcitedly.Theoneontheleftgothishandsonitfirst.
Thentheadulthandholdingitstartedmovingovertotheright,withthechild followingalong.Atthatpoint,thefilmabruptlycuttothenexttitlepage,which said:
Thefishhasbeencaught,andisdraggeddowntoHades.
ThiscuttoashotofabustoftheRomangodSerapis,a.k.a.Hades,Dispateror Pluto,withhistraditional modius(agrain‐measuringbasket)ontopofhishead.
Thiswassetagainstadarkbackground.Next,therewasawidershotofthe head,showingthatitwassittingontopofacrumblingcolumn.Thiswas followedbyashotwithanevenbroaderframe,revealingthatthecolumnwas partofthedecayedfoundationofanancientrectangularbuildingnowinruins.
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