Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series)

by David S. Brody

  “Yeah,” the tallest one responded.

  “Okay, I have a deal for you. This is my buddy’s car and we’re playing a joke on him. I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you drive this car over to the police station and just leave it there. But you gotta go right now.”

  “A hundred bucks”

  “There’s another hundred in it for your buddy to go with you.” Cam pulled two $100 bills from his wallet, waved them in the air. “Make sure you leave the car at the police station.” He flipped the boy the keys, dropping the bills on the hood. “And don’t worry if you ding it up a bit. It’s a company car.”

  * * *

  As the BMW tore away, Salazar’s mind was already at work on an explanation that might portray the incident in a positive light: He had followed the blond woman. She led him to Thorne. Salazar gave chase. They evaded him. When he returned, the police, called to the scene by bystanders, had surrounded the BMW. He abandoned the vehicle rather than risk being apprehended.

  A believable story. But hardly a shining moment in his career. Probably not enough to get him fired, especially because he had succeeded in finding Thorne. But enough to remind him of the tenuousness of his position. One unfortunate screw-up and he would be done, tossed aside by his employers in favor of a younger, stronger man. He needed to ensure his landing would be cushioned, preferably by a small pile of gold and jewels.

  Fearing the taser gun, McLovick had directed him to a file containing maps and drawings, insisting he did not know where the treasure was or even what it might be, the fear in his eyes confirmation that he was not holding anything back. But he did confirm the obvious: There was a treasure, buried somewhere, and the property in Westford was somehow related. Salazar photographed the contents of the file with a digital camera and replaced the file; removing the papers would have been inconsistent with a random home invasion and robbery gone bad.

  Using his cell, he phoned in his report to Reichmann. As he waited for his new orders, he scrolled through the photos on his digital camera: maps and drawings of something called the Oak Island Money Pit in Nova Scotia; a map of Westford showing the Gendrons’ property and the Westford Knight, along with the river system connecting the two sites, highlighted in yellow; and a map of New England and southern Canada with a hatched line connecting a series of inland and coastline sites, presumably marking someone’s journey. Important information, but only to someone who had an ability to decipher it. He still had no idea where the treasure was located, or even what it was. And the police were keeping a close watch on the old couple’s property so it wasn’t as if he could just sneak over there one day with a shovel.

  His eyes followed the path of the BMW’s escape. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that Thorne and the girl possessed the wits and the cleverness to evade him. Somebody needed to lead him to the treasure.

  CHAPTER 5

  [Monday Evening]

  Cam and Amanda separated after ditching the BMW. He hiked back to the Touro Park area while Amanda ducked into the tourist shops. They arranged to meet in just over an hour, at 7:00.

  He hailed a cab at the nearby Viking Hotel and asked the cabbie to circle the park so he could view the Tower. He slumped in the seat and peered out the window searching for any signs of surveillance. Nothing. As he glanced back at the Tower, it hit him: The Tower resembled the Gendrons’ clay lantern. He had missed the connection the first time because he was thinking about Harry Potter and the real-life chess game. Was the lantern a model, or a replica, of the Tower? Perhaps a clue of some kind? Or maybe it was just a lantern.

  He paid the cabbie and found the Subaru. After circling the park one last time, he followed Bellevue Avenue south toward the mansions. He turned into a couple of mansion parking lots and reversed his direction, and even backed down a one way street. Nothing suspicious.

  Still ten minutes before he was supposed to pick up Amanda. He dialed Brandon’s hospital room with his TracFone.

  “Hey, how you feeling?”

  Brandon ignored the question. “Shit, Cam.” He seemed more alert, more energized. “The cops are looking all over for you.”

  “McLovick?”

  “Yeah. If he’s dead it means he probably didn’t plant that bomb, right? Somebody else was trying to stop him and us from digging.”

  “Right. I think someone’s trying to hide something. Or keep something hidden. And they got pissed when we started digging around.”

  “Well, I Googled the stuff you asked about and found a couple of books that talk about the Westford Knight and treasures and stuff. One of them even said this Prince Henry guy may have buried Jesus’ bones over here.”

  “I haven’t heard that one yet.”

  “Most of what I read talks about a place up in Nova Scotia called the Money Pit, on Oak Island. That’s where McLovick was digging before he came down here. Every time someone tries to get to the bottom of the pit it fills with water, like it was booby-trapped or something. There’s some elaborate tunnel system going all the way to the ocean. A bunch of people have died trying to get to it. FDR even tried digging for it.”

  “The President?”

  “Yup.”

  “So is this pit related to Prince Henry?”

  “Could be. One possibility is he brought the treasure with him in 1398—remember, he made landfall in Nova Scotia. But here’s an interesting little fact: When his grandson built Roslyn Chapel in the mid-1400s, he brought dozens of stonemasons and other laborers to Roslyn for the job. And check this out—work didn’t begin on the chapel for five years. Why pay all these guys to sit around and do nothing?”

  “That’s how you run a job site, right?”

  “Yeah. Guys sit around for five minutes and I’m ready to explode. Five years? Just not gonna happen, even back then. The theory is they weren’t sitting around. They were in Nova Scotia building the Money Pit.”

  “So then why’d McLovick come down here if the treasure is on Oak Island?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe he thinks there’s something here that will help him figure out the Pit. Or maybe they split the treasure up and some of it is in Westford. My mom is bringing me more books tonight. I’ll dive in.”

  “You have energy for this?”

  “Yeah, enough. I read, then I nap, then I read some more. Doc says it’s fine. Probably good for me to keep my mind off … things.” He paused. “Hey, how can I reach you?”

  Cam explained the TracFone. “I don’t want to give you the whole number on this line, in case it’s tapped.” He gave the first six numbers. “The last four digits are O’Reilly, and Wendy’s age.” O’Reilly referred to Terry O’Reilly, Brandon’s favorite hockey player as a kid, number 24. And Wendy was Brandon’s ex-girlfriend, who recently lamented her 30th birthday. So 2430 were the last four digits.

  “Got it. A TracFone? Does that mean they can track you on it?”

  “I think just the opposite. That’s why the terrorists and drug dealers use them.”

  “Sounds like you’re in good company there, Cam. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

  It was good to hear him joking a bit. “You should get one too in case they’re tapping your phone. Tell your dad to grab one.”

  A few minutes later, as arranged, he picked Amanda up in front of the Brick Alley restaurant just as the sunlight was fading. She skipped across the cobblestoned Thames Street to the car, slid into the front seat and offered him a small package wrapped in gift paper. “I happened upon a gift for you,” she said, smiling.

  He had taken a course in body language while in law school; it had been invaluable both in the courtroom and at the poker table. Scientists said smiles that wrinkled the skin next to your eyes couldn’t be faked. He took some extra time with the paper as he pondered both the gesture and her smiling eyes. His attraction to Amanda, the pain from his loss of Pegasus, his rage at the assault on Brandon, the constant fear that someone was trying to kill him—everything festered inside him. It was as if he was full and th
e next drop of emotion would cause him to overflow, to bawl like a baby in front of Amanda.

  Unable to prolong the unwrapping any longer, he pulled a navy blue t-shirt out of a gift box. He held it up and read the inscription on the front: ‘I Outrun Cars and Bears.’ Laughing, he looked at Amanda. “That’s a hell of a thing to be known for.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Well, it seems you have an affinity for it. But I must say, you Americans take sport in some odd activities.”

  The water-skiing with Brendan was, what, four days ago? It felt like four months.

  “Well then, what next?” she asked.

  “Well, first of all, let’s get you to a bus station or something so you can get home.”

  She scowled. “Home? Not bloody likely.”

  “Look, this is my … problem. There’s no reason to get both of us killed.”

  “Bollocks to that. I’ve spent a year on this job. All I do is answer posts and walk tourists up and down the hill. Now that something exciting is happening, I fancy to be part of it. Besides, what makes you think they’re just going to leave me be?” He didn’t have a good answer. “I reckon I’m better off here with you, trying to figure this all out.”

  Cam thought about Brandon and Pegasus and McLovick, did some reckoning—which was a term apparently common in England as well as the southern U.S.—of his own. “You may be right. They probably would come after you. Maybe you should go back to London.”

  “What, these folks don’t know about planes?”

  “Good point.” He could use her help. And if she was working against him, she would have already turned on him when the thug from the BMW was chasing them. “All right, I suppose I’m stuck with you.”

  “Indeed you are.” She winked, a lightning-quick gesture that had him wondering if he’d imagined it.

  Face flushing, he cleared his throat. “All right. First thing, we need to get out of Newport.” He pulled out into traffic. “I think we lost our tail in the BMW, for now. But I don’t want to push our luck. Any idea who these guys are?”

  She stared out the window. “I’ve been having a go with that. I agree that it must be somehow related to the treasure. But that’s as far as I’ve managed.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry but the Consortium is very secretive, very segmented. It’s really a cabal more than anything else. Folks assume that I know all there is about the Knight, and in some ways I do. But I’m really just a glorified intern. There’s a whole separate layer to this, a world of secrets and legends and mysteries that I’m not privy to. I know many facts about the Knight—and about other sites like the Newport Tower—but I don’t necessarily know what these facts mean.”

  Terrorist cells worked the same way—the field operatives knew very little about the overall operation, often not even knowing the ultimate target or means of attack. Only the inner core of senior commanders understood how the disparate pieces fit together. “Well, what do you know about this cabal you work for, other than their interest in Prince Henry?”

  “Near as I can tell, it’s comprised of two groups—families who descend from Prince Henry or other members of his expedition, and families who are part of the Rex Deus line.”

  “I’m sorry, Rex Deus? Is that like a secret cabal within the cabal?” He resisted making the Animal House double-secret probation comparison—the Brits had Shakespeare, the Americans John Belushi. Actually, Amanda seemed like the type who might appreciate both.

  She explained the blood line tracing back to the high priests of Jerusalem. “They believe they are the guardians of the true teachings of Jesus. Many of the Consortium families are in both categories—they descend from Sinclair and they are also Rex Deus. One of the reasons I was recruited for this job is because I descend from a Templar family.”

  “Wait, I thought the Templars were celibate.”

  “Apparently some of them joined the order later in life.”

  “Apparently. Back to this Consortium—so what’s their agenda?”

  “It almost feels funny saying it. Especially in the States, where you folks scoff at the whole concept of royal blood. But I reckon they want to prove their worthiness through their ancestry. They want to show Prince Henry, not Columbus, discovered America. Somehow it validates them, enhances their family name.”

  “What about the Vikings? They were here before Columbus or Prince Henry.”

  “Fair point. But the Columbus supporters say the Vikings weren’t exploring, they were merely out fishing and lost their way. So they don’t really matter. Not that it’s much of a distinction if you ask me. Again, this is more important in Europe than it is here.”

  He shook his head. “Does anyone really care what your ancestors did 600 years ago?”

  “In Europe, yes.”

  “Then could it be that the Consortium is trying to find this treasure, whatever it is? I mean, isn’t that the type of things cabals do?”

  Amanda stared out the window again for a few seconds. “I suppose it’s possible. For one thing, it would definitively prove Sinclair was here. And it would explain many things about the Consortium, about their secrecy and the resources they commit to the Knight. But I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions—I’ve never heard anyone from the Consortium even mention the word treasure.”

  “Well, if the Consortium is after the treasure, could they also be behind all the violence?”

  “Again, it’s possible.” She turned in her seat, studied his face as if weighing a difficult decision. “Do you recall when you queried why Prince Henry came to America and I told you it was for economic reasons like timber and fishing?”

  “Yeah, and I thought you were hiding something from me.”

  “I know you did.” She reached over and touched his arm. He noticed the car drifting right, realized he had leaned slightly toward her to meet her hand. He quickly adjusted. “And you were spot on. I’m sorry.”

  “Look, Amanda, you barely knew me then. Heck, you still barely know me now.”

  “I know. But for some reason I trust you. I trusted you then, also, but I didn’t have the courage to violate the protocols.”

  “Protocols?”

  “A set of rules that have been passed down for centuries. One of the primary protocols is that the secrets of Prince Henry and his expedition are never to be revealed, only discovered. As I said, the Consortium is comprised of families who either descend from Sinclair or other Templars, or are otherwise Rex Deus. But its inner circle is a self-selecting group comprised of the most knowledgeable members—the cream rises to the top, as it were.”

  “What secrets?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently I’m just the milk,” she laughed.

  “Wait. I’m confused. If you don’t know the secrets, what was it you were hiding from me?”

  “Sorry, I’m nattering but not being clear. In your case, you asked a question and I gave the cursory response. But the information I withheld from you was only the first or second step of what would be a long journey.”

  “So are you willing to give me this information now?”

  “And violate the protocols?”

  He squeezed the wheel. “Yeah.”

  “Well, of course.” She grinned. “I’m here, am I not? I was just waiting for you to ask.”

  “I can tell this is going to be a long car ride,” he said, shaking his head. “But won’t you get in trouble?”

  “Doing research is part of my job. And if they sack me for trying to save your life, well, then it was probably time for me to move on anyway.”

  “Speaking of moving on, any ideas where I should be headed?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Go north, toward the Maine coast. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But back to the Sinclair expedition. The information I withheld from you is this: One of the main reasons he journeyed to America was to map out the New World for future settlement. They were coming to stay, not merely trade and fish and explore, which is why they broug
ht artisans and clergymen along with soldiers.” The revelation was really not that surprising. “And if they planned to stay, they needed accurate maps.”

  He remembered something she had pointed out about the Newport Tower. “You said the Tower functioned as some kind of lighthouse or beacon.”

  “Exactly. That was part of its use. But one thing you’ll begin to notice, a theme that will continue to repeat itself, is that these structures and artifacts have multiple uses. Without modern tools, it was extremely difficult to carve an effigy in a rock or, of course, build a stone tower. What I mean is the Westford Knight effigy was not just an effigy but also a directional marker—the Knight’s sword points due north. And the Tower was not just a beacon but also many other things as well.”

  “Such as?” He felt like a kindergarten kid trying to learn algebra. Even worse, Amanda knew algebra but had no knowledge of calculus. In order to figure all this out, they were going to need to learn calculus on their own. And on the run.

  “For one thing, the eight pillars line up on the eight compass points. And the windows are placed in the Tower to not only aid in navigation but also perfectly sight to events such as the winter and summer solstices, as well as other astronomical occurrences which I do not understand well enough to explain to you. Recall that there were no calendars during medieval times. Yet one needed to ascertain exact dates for religious observances and also for day-to-day life.”

  “So you’re not buying the whole Colonial windmill theory?”

  “Not a bit of it. An archeologist just completed a dig of the Tower. She couldn’t say for certain who built the Tower but she was clear on one thing: It was not your Colonial settlers. If you want to view a Colonial windmill, there’s one straight across the bay in Jamestown. It’s wooden, its shape is tapered and there are no pillars blocking the windmill’s blades. And it’s built on a firm base.” She paused. “The Tower may have been built by someone other than Prince Henry. Perhaps the Vikings, perhaps the Portuguese. But it wasn’t built by Benedict Arnold.” She explained that the unit of measurement used to build the Tower was the Scottish ell, not the English foot which was used on every other Colonial structure. “The Narragansett Indians have a legend that the Tower was built by ‘fire-haired men with green eyes who sailed up river in a ship like a gull with a broken wing.’”