The God Machine (21 page)

“Wait a minute,” Sajan said. “Look again at the triangles formed by the pentagram. Four out of five of them have a circle at the top.”

“Representing the All-Seeing Eye,” Koster said.

“But why did he choose a square as the pentagram's anchor point, over there, on the right? Why not a circle?”

“L'Enfant had a problem with the triangle at the right. The solution was to place Thomas Circle at one of its corners, thus giving that triangle an All-Seeing Eye. The pentagram was placed so that the southernmost point—the spiritual point, as you noted before—is centered precisely on the White House.”

Koster reached into his jacket and took out a pen. Then he drew two lines on the map. “You see? The White House is at the precise point where the two lines formed by Connecticut Avenue flowing from Dupont Circle, and by Vermont Avenue flowing from Logan Circle, come together. Now, look at the pentagram again. You'll notice Scott Circle is located precisely at the middle of the diagram. Interestingly, when you look further north up Sixteenth Street, you come across the Supreme Council Thirty-third Degree Temple. That's the North American headquarters of Freemasonry, exactly thirteen blocks north of the White House. Count them yourself, beginning with the first city block north of Lafayette Square.”

“In Isaiah fourteen, Satan vowed,
'I will ascend to Heaven; I will exalt my throne above the stars of God; I will sit upon the mount of assembly in the uttermost north.'
Spiritually,” said Sajan, “this would mean that control of
the White House emanates from the Supreme Council Temple.”

“It's not as far-fetched as it sounds. Many American presidents have been Freemasons, and each swore an oath to obey his Grand Master. The most famous is George Washington, but the most influential was probably Franklin D. Roosevelt, who did more to advance the cause of world government than anyone else in American history. In total, sixteen presidents have been Freemasons, including Ronald Reagan.”

“I find it curious that L' Enfant would choose a square—Mount Vernon Square—as the anchor, when the rest were all circles. Why'd he do that?”

“I'm not sure,” Koster said. “The symbol of the square is composed of two vertical lines and two horizontal. According to various books on mystical symbolism, vertical lines generally represent spirit. This spiritual force may move either from Heaven to Earth or from Earth to Heaven, or even from Heaven to Hell. The horizontal lines symbolize matter and movement from west to east. They also describe movement in time. That's important when you consider some people speculate Freemasons are committed to taking America in the direction of some new global order. Since the square combines the vertical with the horizontal, it becomes a symbol of the material realm interlaced with both spirit and time. In this instance, the United States is the physical realm, which is moving in time toward the desired direction of the new order. Also, Mount Vernon Square is the easternmost point of the pentagram. In mystical terms, east is the direction from which a person receives spiritual knowledge and guidance.”

There was a sharp rap on the door. Sajan looked up with a worried expression. A moment later she visibly softened. She smiled and said, “Room service.” And it was.

It took only a few minutes for the waiter to set up
their dining table, complete with starched linen tablecloth and a vase of red roses, waxflower and caspia. When he had gone, Koster popped open the wine. It was delightfully chilled. They sat down and started to eat. Koster watched as Sajan removed the leaves of her artichoke one by one, dipping them into the sauce before shredding the flesh off with the tips of her teeth.

“Tomorrow we'll need to get some supplies,” Koster said. “This map isn't nearly accurate enough, and I need to take several exact readings of the position of the various circles. The number of degrees in the angles. That sort of thing.”

Sajan kept on eating.

“I've already noted several numbers that appear with some frequency—like three, five, seven and nine. There are others as well. But what they mean is beyond me. We're no closer to identifying the location of the first part of the map than we were when we started.”

Sajan still didn't respond. She had finished the leaves of her artichoke and was removing the heart. He watched as she carved into it with the tip of her knife.

“According to the journal,” he continued, “in addition to the pentagram, L'Enfant defined a Compass, Square and Rule within the layout of the city—the three major symbols of Masonry. And somehow or other, the first piece of Franklin's map is linked to these physical landmarks: the points of the pentagram, the three symbols of Masonry and their relation to one another in distance and degree. Still, I'm not sure…”

“Joseph,” Sajan said, glancing up. “Let's give it a rest, shall we? I'm exhausted. I guess that accident this morning took more out of me than I realized.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You're doing that thing with your hand again.” She pointed down at the tablecloth. Koster was rapping the edge of the table like the keys of
a concert piano. As soon as he noticed her staring, he stopped.

“Why do you do that?” she asked him.

“I told you, it's a tic. Nervous habit.”

“It looks like you're playing piano. Is that what it is? Are you practicing scales?”

He looked down at his lap. “No,” he said.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Counting.”

“Counting what?”

“Everything. In this case, the threads in the tablecloth.”

“The tablecloth?”

He nodded without looking up.

“How many?”

“Two hundred twenty-five thousand, at seventy-five threads per ten square centimeters, and a cloth of three meters square. I have a mild form of Asperger syndrome,” he said. “It's an autism spectrum disorder.”

“Oh, I'm sorry! And here I was making fun of you. I'm so sorry. How long have you had it?”

“As far back as I can remember. Although I was diagnosed only recently. My parents simply thought I was… quirky.”

“What are they like?”

“Who, my parents? Mom's still kicking about, in New Mexico now. Taught high school physics when I was a kid. She's what you might call rather precise. Although she did enjoy being the wife of a concert oboist for a time. All those evening gowns. All those nights at the symphony. My dad died about three years ago. Three years ago this Christmas. He was hardly ever around. Can I ask you something?”

“That depends.”

“How come you know so much about the Bible? I thought you were born in Mumbai?”

“I was,” she replied. “But my parents were Christian, not Hindu. My dad worked for a large pharmaceutical company and we moved to England when I was just three. I grew up there, in a small town near London. Then, when I was thirteen, he was transferred to the States and we moved to New Jersey. That's what brought me to Princeton.”

“So your dad was a scientist too?”

“A chemist,” Sajan said, helping herself to a small plate of salad. “Do you want some?” She made a plate for him, too. “Then, after grad school, I moved to Europe for a while where I met my husband and—”

“Your husband!” Koster had been reaching out for his salad when she said this and he stopped in midair. “I didn't know you were married.”

“For a time,” she said cryptically. “What about you?”

“What does that mean?”

“How old are you, anyway?”

“I'm in my mid to late forties,” said Koster. Why was
he
on the defensive? She was always doing this to him.

“That's rather imprecise for a mathematician.”

“And yes, once. Long ago. I'm divorced.”

“Any children?”

“A boy.”

“Oh, how wonderful. How old is he?”

Koster felt the air catch in his throat. No matter how much time had slipped by, the wound still felt fresh. “He's dead. He died as a baby. Crib death. They call it SID syndrome these days. No one really knows why it happens.”

For a moment Sajan didn't speak. She simply sat there with that same brittle smile on her face. Then she murmured, “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.”

She put her napkin back on the table. “No, it's not. Not for you, at least. What happened to you, Joseph?
Was it your wife or the French girl? Your mother, your son?”

Koster didn't know what to say. He looked down at the plates on the table. He studied the clawed leaves of her artichoke.
Who died on that basement floor?
“I don't know what you mean,” he replied.

Sajan reached across the table for his hand, but Koster pulled it away. “I guess it's getting late,” she said with a sigh, standing up. “And we've got an early start in the morning.”

Koster followed Sajan to the door. As she turned to say goodbye, she leaned into him, saying, “We're both a little like Franklin. We both have our Frankies. Just so you know.”

“Excuse me?” Koster could feel the warmth of her body right next to him. He watched her lips move. He heard her, but he didn't know what to do with the words.

“I had a son, too, Joseph. Long ago. Just like you. You're not the only one.”

“What happened?”

“It was my husband Jean-Claude's turn to drive him to school that day. I was at a conference in Monaco. His name was Maurice—our son. He was four. He had beautiful brown eyes and the softest black hair. It was raining that morning. That, I remember. The car must have skidded, they said. They died instantly.”

For a moment, the memory of their mishap that morning made him dizzy. Koster felt the car spinning again. He heard the snap of the barbed wire fence.
It was just a car accident
, she had told him. He stared down at Sajan, filled with a new sense of wonder. She had insisted on proceeding to the airport. Without hesitation.

“I moved back to the States after that,” she said with a shrug. “Just so you know.” Then she reached out and kissed him—once, on the cheek.

Koster wasn't expecting it. Again, he pulled back instinctively. “I'm—” he started but she put a hand to his lips.

“Don't say it,” she whispered. “It is what it is. And I'm sure they're in a far better place, as silly as that may sound to you.” She squeezed his hand gently and opened the door.

“I wish I had your faith,” Koster told her.

“No, you don't. Not really. If you did, you couldn't worship your demons.”

Later that night, Sajan knelt on the floor of her suite, trying to pray in a halo of candlelight. She was surrounded by small bowls of oil—pine, orange, lime and juniper. “I acknowledge one great invisible God, the Un known Father, the Æ
on
of Æ
ons,”
she whispered, “who brought forth with His providence: the Father, the Mother and Son…”

But no matter how hard she tried, Sajan couldn't quite shed the memory of that morning's events, the way that the car had sailed off the highway, and then plunged down that embankment. She thought about Koster, his face and his odd way of lecturing her, as he peeked out from behind his intelligence.
He counts
, she thought.
He sees numbers in everything
. And she pictured him as a small boy, precocious beyond understanding, a mathematical prodigy. And his mother, Katrina, trailing after him to all of those conferences, feeding off his fame. Until he had faltered.

Sajan pressed her hands to her face.
Concentrate!
she scolded herself.
What are you doing?

She prayed and she prayed, but she kept seeing his face, his sandy blond hair, his pale eyes. He still grieved for his son, just like her. And for his Mariane, too. He was so wounded, so broken that she longed to protect him,
to tell him the truth. But she couldn't. For his own sake. She couldn't!

“Almighty God,” she prayed, “whose footstool is the highest firmament: Great Ruler of Heaven and all the powers therein: Hear the prayers of Thy servant who puts her trust in Thee…”

Sajan shook her head.
What is wrong with me?
She had to stop worrying about Joseph Koster. She had other more pressing concerns. She reached for the locket which hung from her neck. The Gospel of Judas—that's what was important. Revealing the
logoi
of the Æ
on
to the world.

“Hail Sophia,” she prayed, “filled with light, the Christ is with Thee, blessed art Thou among the Æons, and blessed is the Liberator of Thy light, Jesus. Holy Sophia, Mother of all gods, pray to the light for Thy children, now and in the hour of our death.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, K
OSTER AND
S
AJAN MET IN THE MAIN
dining room for breakfast. As Sajan made arrangements for another town car, Koster put together a short shopping list of essentials. Twenty minutes later, the driver arrived, a taciturn Russian named Petrov with a bullet-shaped head and a nose that had been broken more than once.

They made their way in the black town car to a row of electronics stores just a few blocks from the hotel. Koster picked out a Canon ELPH digital camera and a Garmin Rhino GPS radio and personal locator. He also selected a measuring laser, some memory sticks and a few extra batteries, just in case. It took them longer to find the right geographical software. Then they were off.