The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  Ava could feel the blood pounding through her ears. “Has there ever been any rumour of any of these medals surfacing?”

  Saxby shook his head. “As with all things to do with the Templars, history and myth weave seamlessly together. Who knows whether it’s truth or fiction?” He paused and smiled. “In fact, when it comes to the Templars, the truth often turns out to be far stranger than fiction.”

  As Ava looked around the room, it felt like time was slowing.

  So now she knew what Malchus was after.

  The Menorah.

  It made complete sense. If Drewitt had been right and Malchus was trying to recreate the Temple of Solomon, then it was logical he would need the Menorah as much as the Ark.

  And somehow he had found one of the medieval Vatican’s medals.

  No wonder he killed Drewitt to protect it.

  As Ava let the new information sink in, she felt a chill pass through her.

  If Malchus was collecting the sacred objects from the Temple of Solomon—the home of the Hebrew God—then the quotation from the Book of the Apocalypse took on a whole new meaning.

  It was not yet clear what he was doing, and how it tied in with his neo-Nazi cult, but she suddenly had an icy feeling that Malchus’s plan may indeed involve something biblical and apocalyptic.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  62

  Green Park

  London SW1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Ava and Ferguson emerged from the Royal Society in silence.

  They headed down Pall Mall, and through the small side streets into the wide expanse of Green Park.

  Ava chose an unoccupied wooden bench out of earshot of the other park-goers, and sat down, staring at a group of pigeons pecking avidly at a spray of seeds left on the ground by a well-wisher.

  “So, what did you make of all that?” she asked Ferguson after a few moments. “What on earth is this bizarre Foundation?”

  Ferguson looked at her, his eyes gleaming. “Did you see the portrait on the wall over the fireplace?”

  Ava shook her head. “I didn’t really take it in. Sir Robert something?”

  “Moray,” Ferguson nodded. “Sir Robert Moray.”

  The name meant nothing to Ava.

  “The Sir Robert Moray?” Ferguson hinted.

  Ava was still none the wiser. She had no idea who he was talking about.

  “What did he do?” she asked.

  “What didn’t he do is more the question.” Ferguson answered, sitting down next to her. “He’s legendary.”

  “Well go on then,” she encouraged. “I’ve a feeling this is going to be your moment of glory.”

  “The first of many,” he beamed. “Moray is a famous Scot. He fought in the French army, in the elite Garde Ecossaise under King Louis XIII, and then in the Scots army that captured Newcastle in 1640. He was cosmopolitan and educated—a soldier, diplomat, and literary man. But his main claim to fame was as a spy for the great Cardinal Richelieu of France, then for King Charles I and King Charles II of England.”

  “What was so special about him that everyone wanted him as their spy?” Ava asked, her curiosity piqued.

  “That’s just it,” Ferguson replied. “Here’s the juicy bit. He was the first man ever to be made a freemason in England.”

  “And how on earth do you know all this,” Ava stared at him in amazement.

  “You can’t tell there’s some Scots blood in me? The name Ferguson doesn’t give you a clue?”

  “Yes,” Ava answered, “but—”

  “When I say he’s legendary, I mean that he’s a legend in my grandfather’s village of Craigie, in Perthshire. My grandfather used to go on and on about him. True, he was the only famous person ever to come from there, and it was a long time ago. But my grandfather used to talk about him so much that we figured my grandfather was a closet Jacobite or freemason or something.”

  “I had no idea freemasonry was so old,” Ava frowned.

  Ferguson nodded. “Apparently records of Scottish freemasonry are the oldest in the world, going back to the late 1500s. By Moray’s time, most of the leading Scots revolutionaries were freemasons.”

  This was all news to Ava. “I thought freemasonry was a modern Protestant organization?”

  Ferguson shook his head. “Not according to my grandfather. He was adamant it was a network for aristocratic Scots rebels—many of them Catholics. And it became even more so in the 1700s, when the Scottish rebellions loyal to the Stuarts tried to topple the new Protestant German kings of England. Much of the revolution was planned in secret by Catholic Scots freemasons apparently. It only became Protestant later, when the new Hanoverian kings of England took it over and purged it.”

  Ava looked at the top end of the park, watching the occasional red bus cruising down Piccadilly—stopping to let bag-laden shoppers and sightseers on and off. “So what’s a painting of him doing in the Royal Society?”

  Ferguson pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I borrowed this leaflet from the table outside the room we were in.” He looked pleased with himself. “It says the Royal Society is the oldest scientific academy in continuous existence. It’s a fellowship of the world’s most eminent scientists, elected for life based on their outstanding scientific achievement—people like Newton, Darwin, and Einstein.” He paused. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get the impression either Saxby or De Molay know one end of a test tube from the other.”

  “Is that what you think we’re dealing with?” Ava asked. “Freemasons? Is that what you reckon the Foundation is?”

  “Give me a minute,” Ferguson answered, pulling out his phone and tapping something on the screen.

  He peered at it for a moment, then scrolled down a page. “Here we are,” he replied. “It says the Royal Society was founded in 1660 by a group called the Invisible College, which included many prominent freemasons. And, surprise, guess who was the first chairman of the Royal Society, and got the society its royal status from his friend King Charles II?”

  Ava could see where this was going. “Sir Robert Moray?”

  “Exactly.” Ferguson looked at her with satisfaction.

  She watched as a crowd of tourists headed down towards Buckingham Palace, which stood a few hundred metres to her south. Fitting, she thought, that they should be discussing these ancient royal intrigues within sight of the palace.

  “I’m just wondering,” he continued, “what Saxby and De Molay were doing in there? What kind of a Foundation gets VIP treatment at the Royal Society in this day and age, and is allowed to hold private meetings in one of the main reception rooms under a portrait of Sir Robert Moray? I’d say they would have to be heavily connected.”

  “I don’t know,” he continued, answering his own question. “But I’m not convinced they represent some private trust fund or millionaire’s institute. Their Foundation sounds old and historical from the way De Molay said he was just the current steward, and from Saxby’s admission that it had a special interest in the crusades and possessed relevant records.”

  Ava lapsed into thought.

  “By the way,” Ferguson turned to her. “What did the Royal Society’s motto mean? The one on the crest outside the door—‘Nullius In Verba’?”

  “Oddly enough,” Ava answered, “it’s really quite fitting if we’re dealing with freemasons. It means ‘Take nobody’s word for it’.”

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  63

  Piccadilly

  London SW1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Ava’s head was reeling as she headed north from the calm of Green Park onto the busy hum of Piccadilly.

  Although she had at first been delighted when Saxby had confirmed she was still engaged on the case, her mood had changed when he had told her that Pope Clement III had never issued a crusading bull.

  She felt bruised by having been
so mistaken.

  She had thought all the pieces fitted together so well—Pope Clement, Richard the Lionheart, King Philip Augustus of France. It had seemed such a neat solution.

  All of that was now in the dustbin.

  She was back at square one.

  She retraced the deductive steps she had gone through, trying to isolate where she had gone wrong. But whichever way she viewed it, she was forced to the conclusion she had simply not done her homework. If she had looked it up, she would have known that Pope Clement III did not issue a crusading bull.

  She had been too quick to draw conclusions.

  On the plus side, though, the meeting with Saxby had brought a number of important breakthroughs.

  If Saxby was right about the Templars and the Menorah, she now knew what the Vatican medal was for and, perhaps more importantly, what Malchus was now up to.

  He was after the Menorah.

  And if Ferguson was right, then the identity of the shadowy Foundation might be coming into clearer focus as well.

  She looked up the bustling thoroughfare. The many restaurants and sandwich bars had started putting out their chairs and tables, which were beginning to fill with the lunchtime crowd of office and shop workers, as well as the permanent groups of multilingual shoppers and tourists.

  Ferguson pointed towards a quiet-looking restaurant a few doors up one of the side streets. Ava nodded, still lost in thought.

  It was relatively early, and they were the first lunch customers to enter the low-lit restaurant. A waiter appeared from the back and ushered them to a table by the window—no doubt hoping to entice other diners by putting a young couple on display.

  Ava shook her head. Old habits died hard. She nodded to a small round table in the far corner, well away from prying eyes out on the street.

  She sat down in the heavily stuffed chair and pulled the photographs of the medal out of her pocket, dropping them onto the crisply laundered white tablecloth between her and Ferguson.

  “So, I was wrong about the medal,” she said, failing to keep the disappointment from her voice.

  Ferguson peered closely at the main image. “We need to keep thinking.” He pointed to the large ring of writing around the edge:

  “You mentioned that the crosses between the words ‘THE HOLY CHURCH OF ROME’ are traditional decoration,” he said. “You don’t think they mean anything?”

  She shook her head. “You often find them on religious inscriptions from the period. They usually don’t have any special significance.”

  “I bet Malchus likes them,” Ferguson observed. “They look like Nazi Iron Crosses. Right up his street.”

  Ava gazed down at them. “The shape is called a cross patty. You see them a lot on medieval objects—even in the Crown Jewels of England as the centrepiece of the great imperial state crown.”

  As her mind started to swing into gear, she looked at the photo with a new focus. “Actually,” she conceded, an idea forming, “there could be a connection here.”

  Ferguson raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s also the cross the Templars used as their emblem,” she said, “which could be linked to the fact the Templars found the Menorah.”

  A look of surprise crossed Ferguson’s face. “I hadn’t realized the German military used the Templar cross.”

  “Absolutely,” Ava nodded. “The Germans started using it for their medals and military in the 1800s, I think.”

  “They still do,” Ferguson added. “It’s quite a shock when you first see it on a modern German tank rolling alongside you.”

  “But,” Ava continued, “the interesting thing is that the Germans chose it because it was the emblem of the great medieval German knights of the crusades—the Teutonic Knights. Saxby specifically mentioned them when he said a copy of the Vatican medal was given to each of the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller, and the Teutonic Knights.”

  “So the cross patty was the emblem of both the Templars and the Teutonic Knights?” Ferguson was frowning. “Wasn’t that confusing?”

  Ava nodded. “The medieval Germans were so impressed with the Templars that they created their own special version of them—the Teutonic Knights. They even adopted the Templars’ cross patty, although they flipped it from red to black.”

  “So we’ve got a medal covered in crosses that could either be decorative, or related to the Knights Templar or Teutonic Knights.” Ferguson drummed his fingers on the table in thought.

  Ava could feel her spirits lifting. It felt good to be thinking it all through—opening up other avenues and possibilities.

  “I had no idea the cross patty was so widely used,” Ferguson mused. “Apart from the German military, I’ve only ever seen them used as consecration crosses.”

  Ava looked up with surprise. “Consecration crosses?”

  “Yes—you know,” he stopped drumming, “on the walls of traditional churches.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.” Ava paused. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she framed the question carefully, “but how do you know about consecration crosses?”

  “Twelve crosses on the walls of churches showing where the building was blessed with holy oil,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone, implying everyone knew such an obvious thing. “Come on, Dr Curzon, keep up—you of all people should know that.” He looked at her with an expression of feigned disappointment.

  “Either you were once a very geeky altar boy,” she replied slowly, “or there’s something major you’re not telling me.”

  “Definitely never an altar boy,” he confirmed.

  Ava could see it was not something he wanted to talk about, and felt her curiosity rising even further. “Go on,” she pressed. “You’ve got me interested now.”

  “It’s not a very interesting story.” He fiddled with a bread roll the waiter had placed beside him.

  “Seriously,” Ava replied, “If we’re going to be spending time together, then I need to know all your secrets.” She tried to keep her tone light, but failed to entirely mask her genuine curiosity.

  Ferguson’s expression folded into one of resignation. “Okay,” he replied slowly, rubbing his hand over his face. “I did some studying a long time ago—to be an architect.”

  Ava’s eyes widened.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” he looked bemused. “When I was younger, I was fascinated by buildings. I used to spend hours trying to work out how they had been put together—the engineering, the physics, the behind-the-scenes bits that people weren’t meant to see. Like most fans of buildings, I became intrigued by the amazing designs of old churches and cathedrals, where I often saw consecration crosses bolted, carved, or painted onto walls. At first I didn’t know what they were, so I looked them up. There you are. It’s no great mystery. That’s how I know about consecration crosses.”

  “What happened?” Ava asked. “Why aren’t you hovering over a plan table with a set-square and compasses as we speak? When did you decide guns were more fun?”

  He pulled the bread roll apart, and began buttering it mechanically. “During my third year of study, my parents and elder sister were killed in a car crash … .”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” Ava instinctively put her hand onto his. He looked up at her, surprised.

  Embarrassed, she pulled it away.

  “It was a long time ago,” he replied, recovering quickly. “I gave up studying and looked after my younger brother for a few years. When I eventually needed money for the pair of us, I had no real qualifications, so joined the army. As I said,” he concluded, “it’s not a particularly interesting story.”

  Ava recognized his difficulty in talking about it. She found herself equally tongue-tied in talking to strangers about her father’s death.

  “Anyway,” he changed the subject. “What looks good on the menu?” He ran his eyes down the stiff cream card—it was covered in French cursive writing, designed to look like a sign in a Parisian vegetable market.

  “Wh
o eats this stuff for pleasure?” His voice was filled with incredulity. “Steak tartare? That’s raw bloody beef, isn’t it?”

  As she heard his words, Ava felt a bolt of electricity shoot through her.

  The colour rose in her cheeks.

  “What did you just say?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Ferguson looked lost. “I asked who would actually choose to eat raw beef? I mean, if it’s a question of survival, I’ve definitely eaten worse, but to pay good folding money—”

  Ava shook her head, interrupting him. “You asked if it was bloody beef.”

  Ferguson continued to look blankly at her.

  Flushed with excitement, Ava pushed back her chair, and stood up. “We’ve got somewhere we need to be,” she announced hurriedly.

  Before Ferguson had time to stand up, Ava was at the door, leaving him to apologize to the waiter, and follow her out onto the street.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  64

  Soho

  London W1

  England

  The United Kingdom

  Once outside the restaurant, Ava made a quick call on her mobile phone to make sure Cyrus Azad was at his office.

  He was, and readily agreed to look into what Ava hurriedly asked.

  She was ninety-nine per cent sure she was right, but of everyone she knew, Cyrus would be able to confirm it the quickest.

  And time was of the essence.

  Her main fear was if she really had now cracked the puzzle on the medal, then it was possible Malchus might already have solved it, too—or he soon would.

  If Cyrus confirmed her conclusion, they would have to act fast. She was keenly aware there was a clock ticking in the race with Malchus, and there would be no prizes for second place.

  Hailing a black cab, she jumped in, giving the cabbie an address in Soho. Ferguson piled in after her, pulling the door closed on the already moving car.