“Does it?” She arched an eyebrow. “Think about it.”
He was obviously missing something but Peter continued before he had a chance to figure it out. “In fact, many scholars believe Enochian tradition is the basis for Kabbalism, whose earliest practitioners were the Essenes.” The Book of Hiram, p. 222.
The same groups, separated by the centuries, seemed to pop up again and again—Templars, Masons, Essenes, Kabbalists, Sinclairs.
“So, back to your Newport tunnel. As I said, Enoch buried the Delta under a series of nine underground crypts, each one progressively deeper. Each crypt had an arch. You had to pass through eight arches before you reached the treasure, which was buried under a ninth arch. Sound familiar?”
“Actually no.”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t get it either.”
Peter offered a small laugh. “All right, let’s try this: After he buried the golden Delta, Enoch built a temple over the crypts. The structure is described as ‘a modest temple … of unhewn stones and roofless so as to view the celestial canopy that is the work of God.’ Does that ring any bells?”
Amanda grabbed his arm. “The Tower, of course.”
He steadied the wheel with his left hand. “Right. Unhewn stones and roofless.”
She nodded. “And the Tower is an astronomical observatory, used to view the ‘celestial canopy.’ Ideal for a Venus worshiper.”
Peter’s voice, tinny but smug, continued. “Now let’s go back to the arches. Remember what I said: Pass through eight arches; the treasure is under the ninth.”
Amanda ran her hand through her hair. “The Tower has eight arches. But we don’t think the treasure is buried there.”
Cam slapped the wheel. “What if the ninth arch is someplace else?”
“Exactly,” Peter said. “That’s why I’m calling.” He paused for effect. “The Tower accounts for the first eight arches. Find the ninth arch and I bet you’ll find your treasure.”
* * *
Salazar had almost driven off the road when he heard the name ‘Enoch.’ Being able to listen in on their call was a lucky break—Thorne and the girl should have stuck to the TracFone. The mistake would cost them.
He switched lanes and pulled into a rest area as the Subaru disappeared down the highway. He could afford to let them go; he knew where they were headed, which was more than his bosses knew about him. Once the Legions of Jesus’ mission imploded, standard operating procedure was to scatter and run; they probably assumed he was on a plane to South America. But standard operating procedure did not anticipate anything like this. He had a treasure to find and this Enoch thing was a key clue, a gift from the spirits.
From a thin leather portfolio he pulled prints of the digital photos he took of McLovick’s files. Thumbing through the stack, he found a schematic drawing of the Oak Island Money Pit in Nova Scotia with the word ‘Enoch’ followed by a question mark scribbled in the margin. The word had meant nothing to him, even after Googling it. Until now.
Studying the diagram of the Pit, he began to understand why McLovick wondered about a connection to Enoch. The Pit, like Enoch’s crypts, housed a treasure. And like Enoch’s series of nine crypts the Pit was segmented into nine levels, or stories, by wooden platforms ten feet apart in depth. Beneath this ninth platform, according to an inscribed stone at the surface of the Pit, lay the treasure.
He scanned the other pictures. One displayed an Oak Island boulder with a large capital ‘G’ carved into its face; the ‘G’ was a common Masonic symbol connoting ‘Geometry,’ God being referred to in Masonry as ‘the Great Geometrician.’ Another contained a hand-drawn, bird’s eye schematic showing three rocks in the shape of an equilateral triangle. The apex of the triangle pointed directly at the Pit. His chest tightened: Could the triangle represent this Delta of Enoch?
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the seatback. The obvious symbolic connection hit him after a few seconds: The Templars employed the flood tunnels not only to safeguard the treasure but so that informed seekers would draw the parallel between the Money Pit treasure and the Delta of Enoch, also buried beneath floodwaters. The flood tunnels were both a clue to the wise and a booby-trap to the uninformed. The allegory was almost too perfect: The Money Pit—segmented into nine levels, inundated by floodwaters, marked by the perfect triangle and capital ‘G’ of Masonic symbolism—was built by Masons to replicate the crypts built by Enoch, their patron.
He put the car into gear. He still didn’t know how to get to the Money Pit treasure. But he had a clue that nobody ever had before. More answers lay in Newport, where Cam and the girl were about to learn more about both the ancient secrets of Enoch and the people who built the Money Pit.
* * *
Cam and Amanda lingered at the tail of the tour group. The guide, a 60-something man wearing a maroon bow-tie with eyes magnified by thick glasses, explained that Touro Synagogue was the oldest in the country, built before the Revolutionary War. “George Washington once famously wrote a letter in support of the congregation, stating ‘the Government of the United States … gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.’” He pointed to the ionic columns supporting the gallery. “Twelve columns, representing the 12 tribes of Israel. And, of course, the women sat upstairs so as to not distract the men from their prayers.” He shrugged. “In many congregations they still do.” Probably not a bad idea—as a teenager Cam used to peer down the blouse of a girl sitting in the pew in front of him whenever she bent over in prayer. The guide led the group around a square platform in the center of the sanctuary. “It is a custom of Orthodox Jews to place the altar, called the bimah, in the center rather than at one end of the sanctuary.”
He nudged Amanda. “Brandon said the trap door is under the altar.” He pushed to the front of the group and motioned to get the guide’s attention. “I’m sorry, we have to catch a flight. Thanks.” He took Amanda’s hand, guiding her toward the front door. Once out of sight of the guide, they ducked into a janitor’s closet. He pulled a small triangle of wood from his daypack, which also contained flashlights, tools, a GPS device and some food along with the Tower replica. Using his army knife, he gently tapped the wood into the crack between the door and its jamb, wedging it tightly into place.
Amanda nestled against him. “What if they check the door before they lock up?”
“I put the jamb in by the knob so hopefully it’ll feel like a deadbolt. If he’s just a guide, he probably won’t know if the door has a lock or not.”
She turned over a plastic bucket and sat on it. “Do you really reckon there is a secret tunnel?”
“Yeah. Back when they built this place they would have needed some kind of escape route. And apparently they used the tunnel as part of the Underground Railroad. If Brandon’s right, they probably built the synagogue over an existing tunnel. A very old one.”
The tour, the last of the day, ended fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes after that, the guide shuffled past them into the foyer area. They heard the beeping of an alarm system being enabled, then the guide closed and bolted the front door. “If there’s a motion detector, we’re screwed. Hopefully they just alarmed the doors and windows. That would be enough to keep kids out and there’s nothing really worth stealing in here.”
They waited a few minutes before Cam pried the jamb from the door. He pulled out a flashlight but Amanda covered his hand before he could flick it on. “There should be ample daylight. We don’t want passersby to see the light.”
He slowly pushed the door open. They entered the dark foyer; crouching, they found their way back into the sanctuary. After circling the bimah via the aisle opposite the street windows they climbed three carpeted stairs. He dropped to his knees. “Feel around for a gap in the floor. Or maybe a raised area.”
“I have a better idea. Give me that torch.” One ear against the carpet, she tapped the floor in a grid pattern with the hard end of the light. After a few passes, she smiled. “I found it. A hollow area
.”
He located a seam in the carpet and, using his knife, pulled the covering away. They stared at a rectangular wooden hatch. She took a deep breath. “Why am I certain there are rats down there?”
He fit his fingers along the rim of the hatch and folded it out. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to outrun them.” He shone the light into a dirt-floored opening four feet below. “You just have to outrun me.”
“We’ve already established my ability to do that, I believe.”
Sitting on the edge of the trap door, he rolled his eyes and swung his legs into the hole. “I’ll go down and help you from below. Unless the rats get me first.”
“My hero,” she said as he dropped into the hole. “Shall I cover the hatch?”
He shone his light into an arched tunnel extending beyond his light beam. “No, leave it open. It’s creepy enough down here.”
She landed soundlessly next to him, her gymnastics training evident. “Look, Cam. It runs back up the hill, straight toward the Jewish cemetery.”
He took her hand. “This should be good.” Pushing aside cobwebs with his flashlight, he pressed ahead. A shoebox-size ball of fur scurried away from the light beam. “I think that was a cat. At least I hope so.”
The tunnel was narrow and arched; they moved single file, Cam needing to duck his head when not in exact center. The walls were cobbled together with rough stones pocked with grout and plaster patches. “Someone’s been maintaining this.” Otherwise there was no sign of human intrusion.
They continued upward, following the slope of the hill, walking the equivalent of a city block. He illuminated their path while she scanned the walls, in vain, for carvings or other markings. He stopped and examined a compass and street map. As he did so, the sound of something moving behind them echoed forward.
“Cam, what was that?”
He angled his light back toward the tunnel entrance. “Probably just the cat. The tunnel magnifies sound.”
He refocused on the map. “Assuming this leads to the cemetery, we’re about halfway there.” The air, already damp, turned dank and heavy. Rivulets of water ran down the tunnel walls, moistening the cobblestone floor. He illuminated the floor. “Careful, these stones are slippery.”
“How does something like this remain secret?” she asked, her free hand braced against the wall.
“We’re tracking the path of Touro Street. In Colonial times it was called Jew Street because, well, all the Jews lived there. My guess is that the Jewish community knew about the tunnel but also knew enough to keep their mouths shut. Remember, it was also an escape route for them.”
The tunnel bent to the right. They followed the bend another twenty feet, the tunnel now flattening and straightening. He slowed as his light beam hit a void in the space ahead, diffusing and dimming. “That’s weird. There’s some kind of opening.”
“An intersecting tunnel?”
“Could be.”
She squeezed his hand. “Have we reached the cemetery yet?”
“No.” He shook the compass. “Unless this thing doesn’t work down here.”
His beam bounced off a solid wall ahead. “Come on. We’re here.” Five steps later they stepped into a circular stone room, a rotunda. He aimed his light up. “We’re in some kind of tower.”
She focused on the walls. “Look, there are archways recessed into the walls.” She raised her beam. “And window-like boxes recessed higher up.” She faced him. “This looks like another Tower replica. Life-size.”
“I agree. It’s about 25 or 30 feet high, just like the Tower. The only difference is those stairs.” He illuminated a narrow stone stairway spiraling upward along the interior tower walls.
“Actually, the Tower originally had a spiral stone staircase. You can see the marks on the inside surface.” She smiled. “You may not be surprised to learn that the spiral is another symbol of the Goddess.”
They spent a minute studying the rotunda, marveling at the effort and workmanship that went into constructing it. He paced off the diameter. “Eight paces, about 24 feet. What’s the Tower?”
“Just over 23. As you said, this appears to be a replica.” She ran her light along the circumference. “Eight arches. I was hoping for a ninth.”
“Well, it must be here somewhere.”
She took the pack from his shoulder and removed the lantern replica. “I wonder if the two models match up.” She held the model, rotating it slowly and comparing the windows. “Have a look—all the windows are the same. Even the extra one that’s not on the Tower itself.”
“Really? Which one is it?”
She pointed her light to an indented square about halfway up the tower wall. “That one. It must be there for a reason.”
“Only one way to find out.” Pressing his body tight against the tower wall, he climbed the foot-wide spiral stairs. “Pretty cool to think that escaping slaves used this as part of the Underground Railroad.”
“Pretty cool to think it was built 600 years ago.”
He looked down. “I thought you Europeans didn’t think something was old unless it predated the Romans.”
“Obviously you Yanks have lowered my standards.”
He continued slowly upward. The past week had been truly exhilarating; today’s adventure was sweetened by the fact they were no longer being stalked by a team of hired killers. He reached the indentation representing the extra window. “Here I am. The indentation is right beneath the step I’m on. What should I do now?”
“I don’t know—what would Indiana Jones do? Can you reach it? Press it or some such thing? Perhaps kill a few snakes?”
He dropped to his knees and bent over the cold, damp step. Reaching down with one hand like a cat feeling for a mouse, he pressed against the indentation. Nothing. Shifting forward, he exerted more pressure. Still nothing. “Are you sure this is the right window?”
She consulted the compass and the replica. “Yes.”
“Well, any other ideas?”
She fixed her light on the indentation. “How about the window ledge. Could that be a lever of some kind?”
He tried the bottom ledge, yanked up on one side. It budged slightly so he braced himself against the wall and pulled harder. As centuries of dirt and grime and settling gave way, the ledge pivoted upward a few inches. A ball or some other round object rolled down a track and the wall beneath the window slid back slightly.
“Cam, the wall moved!”
“I saw it.”
She aimed her light on an area about five feet off the ground, the beam muted by dust venting from the outlines of the wall opening. “It’s difficult to see but it seems the piece that moved is about the size of a modern window.”
“Let me guess. It’s not a perfect square, is it?”
She waited a few seconds for the dust to settle before responding, though neither doubted what she would see. “The ninth arch,” she breathed.
A firm, low voice poured into the rotunda, carried along the path of a fresh beam of light. “Good job. I knew you’d find it. Now, Mr. Thorne, please get down from there.”
* * *
Salazar waved his Glock 22 in front of his flashlight, illuminating the polished steel. “Mr. Thorne, I’m not asking again.”
Thorne turned to the girl. “I guess you were right. That sound we heard was a rat.”
Actually, it was a cat. And it led Salazar right to his quarry. His ribs throbbed from the exertion of hiking the tunnel. “For the record, I’m sorry about your dog. That wasn’t me who did that. Same with your cousin and the priest.”
“What about Eric Forsberg? And McLovick?”
Thorne was stalling, probably trying to think of a plan. “No more talking. Time to see what’s behind that arch.”
Thorne descended the stairs slowly. Salazar moved his gun from Thorne to the girl and back to Thorne. “I don’t want to kill you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”
The girl glared at him. “We are aware you’re working for the Legion
s of Jesus. Of course you plan to kill us. Your group will do anything to keep the truth from coming out.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong. I’m working alone now. Like you, all I care about is what’s hidden behind that ninth arch.” He motioned for Thorne to stand next to the girl. “But unlike you, I happen to have a gun.”
* * *
Cam had never stared down the barrel of a gun before—on the bridge with Yarborough and Balducci he had managed to keep his eyes averted. It had an almost magic-wand-like ability to compel obedience. There was no way Salazar would shoot him if he refused to descend the staircase. He was sure of it. Yet his legs carried him downward nonetheless.
He took Amanda’s hand, the sweat trickling down his armpits down and into his waistband. Her fingers were cold.
“Put your bag and your lights down.” As Salazar spoke, the tunnel cat rubbed against his leg. He reached into the outer pocket of his pack, tore off a chunk of cheese and dropped it into the cat’s mouth. Odd. “I’ll shine my light on the wall. You two push.”
Cam and Amanda pushed against the wall, shoulder high, rocking it from side to side to keep it flush in its track. It moved slowly, catching once in a while but after a few minutes they succeeded in forcing it back a couple of feet. The air behind it was stale and thick, even more so than the tunnel itself—the void had probably been sealed for 600 years. He reached in and felt an opening on either side of the slab and a floor beneath. “There’s enough room for us to squeeze through.”
“Good. The girl goes first.”
Amanda spun. “Really, I have a name.”
Salazar bowed. “I don’t doubt it. Truth is, I never knew it.”
She looked at him incredulously. “You’ve been tracking us for a week, you almost killed us a couple of times and you don’t even know my name?”
Something in his eyes indicated he agreed that it sounded absurd. “No.”
“Amanda.”
“Okay, Amanda. You seem like a nice person. You both do. But now I need you to crawl through that hole.”
Cabal of The Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower (Book #1 in the Templars in America Series) Page 36