She was silent. He sensed her fighting to maintain control, though he wouldn’t have blamed her if she blew up. Her voice raised an octave. “What about the fact that you didn’t even want the blooming property. Someone just handed it to you out of the blue.”
He sighed. “I was thinking about that. But we have the cop who saw me cut the lock and enter the property, and he knows who I am. In the law, that’s called exercising dominion and control. Once I did that, the transaction was complete.” He continued. “And just to top off my stupidity, I told the tax assessor’s office to send me the property tax bill when I was at Town Hall last week.”
She asked the obvious question. “What if you had gotten the Superfund letter before we went over there?”
He rubbed his eyes with his hand. “Then I would have rejected the tender and gone to court to rescind the transaction.” Just five lousy days.
“Well, damn it all. Who would do this to you, Cameron? What kind of sick bastard would pull the pin and drop a grenade in your lap?”
Cam slumped against the steering wheel. “The same guy who handed me a lottery ticket and then pushed me off the pier?”
Amanda considered it. “That makes no sense. No sense at all. The deed was dated before the lottery ticket shenanigans, after which you were supposed to drown in the harbor.” She continued her metaphor. “Why drop a grenade in the lap of a dead man?”
“I agree.” He felt weak, almost sick. “But other than that, I have no idea.”
Numbed by the EPA letter, Cam mindlessly navigated his way home. He had been involved with a Superfund case once before—a gas station owner who disposed of used car engine oil at a licensed disposal site was held liable for cleanup costs at the site even though he had behaved perfectly legally the whole time. And the government had been ruthless, squeezing the poor guy for almost a quarter of a million dollars. Cam did some math in his head—the lake house was worth maybe a hundred grand more than the mortgage, he had about twenty thousand in savings and another forty in his retirement account, and he owned some shares of Google worth maybe another ten. Plus he was due a quarterly royalty check of about fifteen thousand. Altogether, less than $200,000—not nearly enough to pay for even the smallest Superfund cleanup. Even if the EPA took it and let him walk, where would they live? How would he pay for the wedding? Would the EPA attempt to garnish future earnings and book royalties as well? What about Amanda taking time off to have a baby? And Astarte’s college?
He banged the steering wheel, cursing. Who had done this to him, and why?
He took a deep breath and exhaled, forcing his mind to focus on the mystery rather than fixate on the misfortune. If he could figure out who had orchestrated this, he might still wriggle out of it. The obvious question was, did the stone chamber have anything to do with the conveyance? Almost assuredly. Whoever did this must have suspected Cam would be more likely to exercise dominion and control of the property once he saw the chamber. Another owner, uninterested in the chamber, might not have been such a cowboy and charged onto the property like Cam did. So it was likely the culprit targeted Cam at least partially because he or she knew of Cam’s interest in ancient stone structures.
Which basically narrowed the possible culprits down to Cam’s friends, family, associates, and anyone who had attended one of his lectures or seen him on a television documentary or read his book. Not exactly an intimate group.
There was, also, one additional clue: Whoever did this had a good knowledge of the law, or at least access to a lawyer who did. But that still left thousands of possibilities. Without an apparent motive, there was no way to identify the culprit.
He cursed again. What a fucking nightmare. And the worst part about it was that Amanda and Astarte were going to have to live through it with him.
Amon collapsed back into the plastic seat of the subway car and closed his eyes. The taste of Rachel’s lip gloss lingered in his mouth just as the smell of her perfume wafted from his clothes. He sighed, exhausted and exhilarated by the past forty-eight hours. They might have stayed in bed for another week had she not had to catch her Monday flight to Chicago. As it was, Rachel left half her belongings in her dorm, she and Amon barely having the time to stuff a few suitcases and rush her to the airport.
She had blown him a final kiss, grinning from the front of the security line. And then she was gone, swallowed by the airport body scanner tunnel.
Cocooned in rapture, Amon almost missed the subway transfer to North Station where he would catch the commuter rail back to Brandeis. He had willingly spent sixty dollars on a taxi to get them to the airport, figuring the extra hour it gave them in his bed to be worth ten times the cost. But there was no urgency in his return trip. There was nothing for him in a Waltham without Rachel. When he got on the train he would phone his father. But for now he stretched out and wallowed like a cat in the winter sun….
His father answered on the fourth ring. “Yes, Amon, is everything okay?” He must have been sleeping because he spoke in Arabic.
“Everything is fine, father.”
Zuberi switched to English. “But it is past midnight.”
Amon looked at his watch. He had completely lost track of time. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “it is still evening here. I can phone you tomorrow.”
“No, no, I am awake. How are you, my son?”
They made small talk, Amon omitting any mention of Rachel. There would be time enough to discuss this if the romance continued. “I had an interesting conversation with a Brandeis student that I wanted to share with you.” He related Rachel’s recounting of the Abraham story, his father interrupting often with a comments and questions.
“She said,” Amon concluded, “that it could mean the Pharaoh, not Abraham, is the real father of the Jewish people.”
“Very interesting,” his own father replied. “I believe the Pharaoh at this time was Tuthmosis III.” He paused, filling the silence with a clicking of his tongue. “This could be very important.”
“Why is that, father?”
“First thing I think is, this helps explain the story of Joseph. Do you remember?”
Amon related the story as he recalled it: Joseph was the son of Jacob, who was the son of Isaac. Jacob had many sons but Joseph was his favorite. His brothers were jealous of him so they sold Joseph into slavery in Egypt. While in Egypt Joseph ended up in jail but then correctly interpreted one of the Pharaoh’s dreams, thereby winning his freedom and also winning the confidence of the Pharaoh, who eventually made Joseph his vizier, or prime minister.
“So, my son, what part of this story gives you questions?”
Amon considered the inquiry. “The vizier was usually part of the royal family, not a foreigner and definitely not a slave.”
“Very good. But if what you say about Abraham is true, then Joseph—who is Isaac’s grandson—is cousin to this Pharaoh, yes?”
“Aha,” Amon exhaled. “Now the story makes more sense. Somehow Joseph proved his lineage. So now, when his dream interpretations prove correct, he is given a position befitting his royal blood.”
His father exhaled. “You do good work, Amon. This is important information, and it is only one week in America. We will discuss more later—I think we find more in this story. Remember, many scholars believe Moses was also part of Egyptian royal family. Maybe all pieces are part of one big puzzle.”
Amon thought about remarking how the name Moses was similar to the name of the Pharaoh Tuthmosis III, but he assumed his father had already made the connection. “Good night, father.”
“You do good work,” he repeated. “I am proud of you.”
Cam spent the next twenty-four hours alternately moping, apologizing to Amanda and lashing out in anger at his unseen enemy. He had nothing pressing at the office—and little ability to focus in any event—so he paced around the living room most of the morning Tuesday ignoring both Venus’ whines for him to play with her and Amanda’s attempts at normal conversation.
De
sperate to do something productive, he dropped onto the couch and used his laptop to research the chemical, TCE. For decades, trichloroethene, a colorless solvent used to clean metal parts in industrial use, had been seeping into the groundwater beneath factories all across America, slowly making its way into drinking water supply sources downstream. The technology existed to remove the cancer-causing chemical from groundwater, but it took time and money—lots of both.
After lunch on Tuesday, during which Cam did little more than pick at his sandwich, Amanda came up behind him while he sat and draped her arms over his shoulders. “Hey, honey, maybe you should go to the office for a few hours? Astarte will be home soon and she’s sensing something is wrong.”
He nodded and sighed. “You’re right. I’m about as much fun as ants at a picnic. Give me a few hours to try to rally.”
She kissed him on the head. “That assessment’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Not really. I’m definitely a downer.”
She cuffed him playfully on the side of the head. “I meant it was harsh on the ants.”
As he drove he tried to force himself to depersonalize the situation and analyze it coldly, rationally. If he had hired himself as a lawyer, what would Attorney Thorne advise? “Find a lawyer who’s not such a fucking idiot,” he murmured.
But he pushed himself to go through the exercise. The primary objective should be, obviously, to get Cam-the-client out from underneath the liability spotlight. But the strict liability of the Superfund law provided very little wiggle room. Failing that, a second objective would be somehow to shield or shelter Cam-the-client’s assets from the long, sticky paws of the federal government. Cover your assets, it was called.
He had advised clients on how to hide assets during the last real estate downturn and he knew some pretty creative and effective tricks. But most of these tricks required a decent lead time—a client would approach him early on, with trouble far off on the horizon, and Cam would craft a plan to convey assets to a spouse or to a trust or to a retirement account or to some offshore bank. One client even converted two hundred thousand dollars into gambling chips, hid them, and cashed them in once the litigation was over. But, again, this only worked with a long lead time. And it only worked against banks or other creditors who did not have the power of the federal government.
He went through a mental checklist of other strategies. He had, in the past, worked with clients to hide funds by prepaying their federal income taxes. One client under duress from a bank had declared $420,000 in income on his tax return rather than the actual $120,000 and paid an extra $100,000 in taxes; later, after the litigation, he claimed a clerical error, filed an amended return with the IRS, and received the $100,000 back as a refund. But even that wouldn’t work here—the EPA, as a sister agency to the IRS, had access to Cam’s filings and would more than likely see through the ruse. Another client slowly emptied his bank account by purchasing scores of $1,000 American Express gift cards, which he then used for living expenses; Cam could purchase a few of those now, but there was no way he could empty his account without the EPA getting suspicious.
The reality was that his current assets—savings, home, retirement, stocks, royalties—were probably lost, either forfeited to the government or squandered on legal fees. At best he could come up with a plan to limit the loss. That meant protecting Amanda’s assets, and protecting his future earnings. But it sucked to be sucked dry.
Amanda had never seen Cam so dejected. He hadn’t even wanted to kick the soccer ball around with Astarte yesterday after school.
She power-walked through the neighborhood, headphones playing U2, Venus trotting along beside her in the early afternoon sun. The idea of losing a couple of hundred thousand dollars along with their house obviously didn’t thrill her, but it hadn’t debilitated her like it had Cam. She had grown up in a wealthy but dysfunctional family—given the choice for Astarte and any future children they might have, she much preferred a loving husband and father over a wealthy one. And it’s not like they were going to starve; she and Cam were both professionals who could increase their work hours if necessary. Sure it might mean cutting back on their research, but such was life…
And then it hit her. Of course. She pulled her phone from her pocket and jabbed at the speed dial. “Cam, listen. What if whoever did this is trying to stop you from doing further research?”
“How would this stop me?”
She resisted reminding him how mopey he had been the past couple of days. “Well, first of all, this litigation is going to totally distract you for the next however many months. And, more to the point, it’s going to force you to work more hours and focus on income generation rather than research.” She took a breath. “I think someone did this to knock you out of the game.”
“Then why give me land with a stone chamber?”
“That was just the bait, to get you to swallow the hook. My guess is you haven’t thought about that chamber since you received the EPA letter.”
Silence for a few seconds. “True, I haven’t. Maybe you’re onto something. But who? Who cares enough about this stuff to put together such an elaborate ruse?”
She hadn’t gotten that far. In the past both the Catholic Church and U.S. government had tried to block their research, but in those cases there had been an obvious connection between the research and some secret those entities were trying to hide. But not this time. “All right, let’s brainstorm. What about the Freemasons?” They had not been thrilled last year when Cam connected some of their rituals to the pagan god, Baal. “I told you before I don’t trust Randall Sid.”
Cam shook his head. “I don’t think so. They’ve been pretty supportive of my research.”
He had a point. In the past year Cam had been invited to lecture at a dozen Masonic lodges, and based on the emails he received they were buying his book by the truckload. Not to mention Randall had been spoon-feeding Cam Masonic secrets.
“Maybe we’re thinking too broadly,” Cam said. “Are we researching anything specifically right now that might be threatening to anyone?”
“I’m looking at Baphomet. I don’t see how that threatens anyone, and I don’t think anyone even knows what I’m doing. What about you?”
He sighed. “I started looking into the Scota legends a few weeks ago. Zuberi has been sending me stuff to read.” Cam had shared some of his research with Amanda—Zuberi claimed that thirty-five hundred years ago a daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh married a prince of Scythia, a land known today as Iran. When her father the pharaoh was deposed and exiled, this daughter, known as Princess of Scota (the name Scota being a derivative of Scythia), fled to her husband’s homeland with a group of followers before later sailing west. They settled first in Spain and eventually continued across Europe to Ireland and Scotland, where their descendants lived today.
Cam continued. “It turns out, Zuberi may be right about Scota. Ever hear of the Declaration of Arbroath?”
“The Scottish Declaration of Independence. We learned about it in school.”
“Right.” In the year 1320 the Scots sent a declaration to the Pope, requesting that he force England to respect Scottish sovereignty. Many historians compared the petition to the American Declaration of Independence in term of importance. Cam continued. “The Declaration of Arbroath began by reciting the history of the Scottish people. I have it right here; I’ll read the relevant parts: ‘Most Holy Father and Lord, we know from the chronicles and books of the ancients that the Scots journeyed from Greater Scythia and dwelt for a long course of time in Spain. Thence they came to their home in the west where they still live today.’”
“That’s pretty matter-of-fact,” Amanda said. “From Scythia, across to Spain, west to Scotland.”
“And it matches Zuberi’s version of the story, though to be fair it doesn’t say anything about Princess Scota being the daughter of a pharaoh.”
“How could it?” Amanda asked. “Think about it. The Scots couldn’t very
well claim to be descended from the pharaoh who ruled during the Exodus and then expect the Pope to do them any favors. The pharaoh of the Exodus was probably the biggest villain of the Old Testament.”
“Good point. And Zuberi sent me other sources that fill in the blanks and document the Scota stuff, including some strong DNA evidence linking the Scots and the Egyptians. I have to admit, Zuberi makes a strong case. So I’m willing to buy that the Scots descend from the Egyptians. But getting back to your original question, why would anyone care? And like you said, I don’t think many people even know what I’m working on.”
She considered his question. “Well, if the Scots really do descend from Egyptians, I could see where that might have some interesting repercussions in the Middle East. Perhaps the Israelis would rather not have Scotland tied historically and ethnically to Egypt?” It was a reach, she sensed.
“Maybe.”
“Look, just because we don’t know exactly who it is doesn’t mean we can’t deduce why it was done. Someone wants to stop your research, Cameron. No, I don’t know who it is. But that has to be the reason. Like I said, they want to knock you out of the game.”
“I guess you could be right.”
He still seemed down, listless. She tried another tack. “I know you’re bummed out about this. Someone outsmarted you, and I know how you hate that.”
“They ran circles around me, Amanda.” He exhaled. “They kicked my ass.”
“And that’s usually my job, so I’m pissed also.”
He forced a chuckle.
She continued. “So, yes, they kicked your ass. But why? Like I said, because they want you to stop your research.” She paused. “So are you going to let them get their way? Are you going to curl up in the corner and feel sorry for yourself?”
He exhaled again. She knew he knew she was right. But she also knew how fragile the male ego could be.
The Isaac Question: Templars and the Secret of the Old Testament (Templars in America Series Book 5) Page 11