The God Machine (20 page)

S
AM STAMPED ON THE BRAKES.
K
OSTER'S GLASS FLEW OUT OF
his hand, tumbling as if in slow motion toward the Plexi glas partition between the chauffeur and the passenger section. It smashed into pieces as the van struck them again. The car started to spin. Samuel compensated and the limousine fishtailed. The rear of the vehicle slammed into the guardrail and bounced back to the highway.

Koster and Sajan were flung into each other. Their belts cinched them together as the limousine roared. They were out of control. The car began spinning again and the highway and fields, distant hills, other cars swung around them. Koster reached out unconsciously and threw his arm up against Sajan's chest, trying to keep her from pivoting forward.

The car kept on spinning. It struck the guardrail again. There was a terrible sound of rending metal as sparks flashed by the window, and then a loud
pop
as the air bags inflated. Sajan screamed. So did Koster. The air was crushed from his chest as the air bags enveloped him. The guardrail tore open and the limousine seemed
to hover for an instant before it lunged off the highway, plummeting down the embankment.

They hit the ground with a spine-jarring thud. The car hurtled forward, nosing up dirt and debris as the limousine slid down the hill. They burst through a barbed wire fence. Then another. The car kept on going.

Koster managed to catch a glimpse of Sajan as the airbags began to deflate. She appeared strangely calm, with a kind of half smile on her lips. The car struck a bump in the ground. It bounced as it tore past a drainage ditch. They kept hurtling forward. A truck carrying vegetables was puttering along, directly ahead of them on a secondary road, completely oblivious. And a station wagon, sweeping in from the opposite side.

The limousine braked. Both Koster and Sajan twisted forward, despite the crush of the air bags. Koster heard something tear in his shoulder. The limousine hurtled over the lip of the access road, only inches away from the station wagon. They skidded as the truck brushed the tip of their bumper. Then, miraculously, the limousine straightened. It started to slow. Both the truck and the station wagon pulled over to the side of the access road as the limousine finally lurched to a stop. Their drivers spilled out, yelling.

Koster looked over at Sajan. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

She didn't answer. She was trying to push the air bags away.

Just then, Sam opened the door. He had a bloody welt on his forehead, above his right eye, but otherwise seemed uninjured. “Ms. Sajan,” he said, helping her out. “Are you hurt?”

Sajan slithered out of the car. The vegetable truck driver ran toward them along the side of the access road. He looked terrified, and Koster wondered at this. He could feel his heart pound in his chest. And yet, strangely
enough, he was no longer afraid. He felt, on the contrary, completely at peace, though admittedly giddy.
Must be the adrenaline
, he thought. They had barely escaped with their lives, and yet he felt as if he had just stepped off a carnival ride.

The truck driver approached them, huffing and puffing. He was short and bald, and wore a light blue wind-breaker and jeans. “I saw the whole thing,” he gasped breathlessly. “He came up from Bailey, I saw him. The black van. Up the ramp. As you approached the Sports County Park. He started to pass you. Then, he suddenly veered. Just like that. I don't get it. Right into you. Did he have a flat tire or something? Never even seemed to slow down.”

“It was just a car accident,” Sajan told him. Her face was impassive, a blank slate. Then she put on a smile. “We're late for a flight. Could you give us a ride to the airport?”

“You're sure you're all right?” Koster asked her.

Sajan began to examine Sam's forehead. The skin wasn't broken. It looked burned from the hot gases that had inflated the airbags.

“Guy must be nuts,” the driver insisted.

“If it was a him,” Samuel said.

Sajan took a step back. “What does that mean?” she asked him.

“You'll probably think that I'm crazy,” he answered. “But the driver. The one in the van.” He looked up at the highway. “I could have sworn that it looked like a nun.”

K
OSTER AND
S
AJAN ARRIVED IN
W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.,
AT
dusk. They were met by a driver who took them by town car along the Potomac, across the river to Georgetown. Sajan had booked them into the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. They checked in and Koster asked for a map of the city which the concierge handed over with an exuberant grin. Sajan's name must have triggered some flag in his database.

Koster's junior suite featured an imposing view of Georgetown with its tattersall brownstones and checkered brick dwellings. The stone tapestry dotted with garden courtyards, put him in mind of Greenwich Village. The large suite was certainly more deluxe than he was used to but, since Robinson was footing the bill, Koster hadn't put up a fuss. After their experience that morning in California, he was looking forward to spreading out on the bed.

As he finished unpacking, Koster heard a knock on the door. It was Sajan. She had changed into a pair of black pants and taupe turtleneck. “Beware of Indians
bearing…” she said, raising the bottle of wine in her hand. Then she slipped in beside him. “You may want to chill that a bit,” she added, plopping down on the sofa and putting her feet up on the coffee table. “It's a rascally rioja.”

Koster strolled to the bar in the corner. “How's your room?” he inquired.

“Just like yours. They're identical. Listen,” she said, “I'm exhausted from what happened this morning, and the long flight. Why don't we just eat something light in your suite here while we work? A salad or something?”

Koster agreed. He called down to room service and they ordered a pair of chilled artichokes with a lemon-caper dipping sauce, and a Caesar salad for two. To Koster's delight, Sajan volunteered to add anchovies.

As Koster fussed with a wine bucket, he watched Sajan. She had taken her shoes off—a pair of simple black flats—and sat with her legs curled up underneath her. She looked tired and worried, though she still sported a smile. But it felt unnatural, forced. A photograph smile.

“Did you get any sleep on the plane?” she asked him. “How's your shoulder?”

Koster popped into his bedroom to fetch Franklin's journal. “Couldn't sleep,” he replied through the door. “Too wound up. But the shoulder feels better now, thanks,” he said, stepping back into the room.

“I'm sorry I passed out on you like I did,” she said. “It's always that way. As soon as the plane leaves the ground, I'm out cold. Must be the drone of the engines.”

“I'm surprised you still wanted to go.” Koster placed the journal and map of the city on the coffee table.

Sajan shook her head. “I had to,” she said.

“Had to? Why? We were in a car accident.”

“Nick's counting on us.”

Koster smiled. “Oh, I see.”
How well does she know
Nick?
he wondered. She said they had just been good friends, but how good?

“So, did you make any progress?” she asked him, pointing down at the journal.

Koster studied Sajan for a moment. Then he picked up the journal. “Like I told you, L'Enfant was a Freemason. According to Franklin, when L'Enfant laid out the governmental center of Washington, D.C., back in 1791, he planned more than just streets, roads and buildings. He embedded a pattern of hidden Masonic symbols in the layout of the city, a kind of quasi electrical grid, pulsing with mystical properties, designed,” he concluded, looking down at the journal, “to
‘influence the political, economic and military powers of the land.’”

“What kind of symbols?”

“Like the Pentagram,” said Koster. He leaned over and opened the map, holding the edges in place with Franklin's journal at one end and a small stack of magazines at the other. The map featured downtown Washington, with the Mall at the center.

“Beginning with the top left of the figure,” he said, “right here, at Dupont Circle. Moving down to Scott Circle.” He traced Massachusetts Avenue with his finger. “Then back up to Logan. These three circles form the top points of the pentagram. Washington Circle forms the extreme left-hand point. Mount Vernon Square marks the extreme right-hand point. And the fifth and last point, the bottom of the pentagram, is right here…” He jabbed at the map with his finger. “At the White House.”

“Yes, I see it. The pentagram points downward. Isn't that a Satanic symbol?”

“Some Fundamentalist Christians believe Freemasons really worship the devil. Babylonian gods and all that. In occultic doctrine, the upper four points represent the four elements—Earth, Fire, Water and Air.”

“And in Satanic doctrine, this figure would be called a Goathead, and the fifth point at the bottom of the pentagram would symbolize Satan,” said Sajan, bending over the map. “Does the placement of the White House at the foot of the pentagram mean Satan will influence the White House?”

“That's what the enemies of Freemasonry have been saying for years. They also point to other evidence. Look at the top three circles on the map. Each has six streets coming into it, from all angles. Six, six, six. To them the Satanic objective of Freemasonry is the creation of a new global order, and a new world religion, and Franklin speaks to this in his journal. I'm sure it was this kind of thinking that contributed to the Church's enmity toward him. But, in reality, it's no secret why the Masonic architect L'Enfant chose to use circles. The circle is the most important of all units in mystical symbolism, and nearly wherever it's used, it represents spirit or spiritual forces. It's also a symbol of the All-Seeing Eye, like on the dollar.” Koster reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet and removed a crisp dollar bill. “It's the same icon as in the Great Seal, designed by one of Franklin's committees—the eye hovering over the pyramid.” He showed it to Sajan.

“I've seen it before. But what does it mean?”

“The earliest known history of the All-Seeing Eye dates back to Babylon. It was worshiped as the Solar Eye, the eye of Baal. To Freemasons, it's the all-seeing eye of the Grand Architect. The
Illuminati—
a secret society which deeply influenced Freemasonry—adopted as their seal a thirteen-layered unfinished pyramid with the capstone missing. Hovering above is a sun-rayed triangle, as if waiting to be lowered to complete the structure. According to Franklin's journal, the unfinished pyramid with the thirteen steps represents the work assigned to Freemasons. The symbolism suggests that the
Freemasons have been given the task of building a
Novus Ordo Seclorum
, as it states on the seal, a new ‘order of the ages,’ under the watchful eye of the Priory of Zion. Of course, the pyramid is nothing more than a triangle.”