The God Machine (31 page)

“The Rosicrucians?” said Lyman. “I've heard of them. A kind of Masonic group, right?”

“Not exactly, though they certainly influenced various Scottish rite rituals.”

“The Order was created in the year 46,” said Sajan, “when an Alexandrian Gnostic named Ormus and six followers were converted by Mark, Jesus's disciple. Rosicrucianism was a kind of fusion of early Gnostic Christianity with the Egyptian mysteries. The mystery schools of Ancient Egypt date back to fifteenth-century B.C. under the reign of the Egyptian Pharaoh Tuthmosis the Third. One of the most famous pupils was the Pharaoh Akhenaten, who is best known for creating one of the world's first monotheistic belief systems.”

“How did you know that?” asked Koster. He looked at her quizzically.

“You're not the only one who's been reading,” Sajan said. She seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I spent some time on-line yesterday, while we were at the hotel.”

“Well, you're right. And some think there's an Islamic connection as well. According to the
Fama Fraternitatis
, in 1614, at the age of sixteen, Rosenkreutz—from whom the order gets its name—started on a pilgrimage to Morocco, Egypt and Arabia, where he came into contact
with Eastern mystics who revealed to him the ‘universal harmonic science.’ Dantinne believes Rosenkreutz may have found his secrets amongst the Brethren of Purity a society of philosophers originally from Basra, Iraq. Their doctrine had its roots in the study of the ancient Greek philosophers, but it became more neo-Pythagorean over the centuries. They eventually adopted the Pythagorean tradition of envisioning objects and ideas in terms of their numeric values.”

“But what does all this have to do with Ben Franklin's map?” Lyman asked.

“I'm not sure. As a Freemason, Franklin was undoubtedly familiar with these legends,” Koster said. “The number lore of Freemasonry has its roots in the Pythagorean tradition. I guess we'll find out.”

Lyman motioned toward the waitress and she returned with their bill and a small plastic bag. Lyman and Koster both patted their pockets as Sajan dropped a twenty-euro note on the table. Then Lyman turned toward the waitress and said, “Remember, Victoria. No one's to come in while we're in there. And don't mind the row.”

The girl in the tartan skirt smiled. She had a large gap between her front teeth, Koster noticed.

“Don't worry,” she said with a wink. “I'll see to it. There's a lock on the door. And I have the only key. Good luck, Chief Inspector.”

They made their way from the tea shop across the courtyard toward the entrance to the caves. As they walked, Koster poked an elbow into Lyman's left side. “Chief Inspector! I thought you'd retired.”

Lyman laughed. “I swear I didn't tell her a thing. Just a few stories from the old days. She simply guessed the rest.”

“I'm sure.”

“Once a cop, always a cop. People sense it sometimes. Besides, I thought that we needed some privacy. Here.” He stopped for a moment by the gate to the caves and reached into the small plastic bag he was carrying, removing three flashlights. “We'll need these.”

T
HE ENTRANCE TO THE CAVES WAS AT THE FOOT OF THE FAUX
Gothic arch. They passed through a gate to a small antechamber. “These tunnels aren't natural,” said Koster as he swung open the great wooden door. The passageway appeared as if it had been shaved out of flint. “As you get deeper,” he added, “you can see it's a chalk mine.” He pointed up at the walls and the ceiling above him. The flint had been replaced by a well-worn white sheen. “The system was greatly extended from 1748 to 1752 by Sir Francis to provide work for unemployed villagers after a crop failure.” He paused by a plaque on the wall. It illustrated the location of the various caves in the system. “Instead of digging a quarry, Dashwood opted to carve out a series of tunnels and caves. As you can see.” He pointed up at the plaque.

There were eleven major caverns in all. Just ahead, to the right, was a toolroom of sorts. At least, that's what it was called on the plaque. Then the tunnel turned sharply to the left. Next, came Whitehead's Cave, followed immediately by the Lord Sandwich circle, then
Franklin's Cave, with the Children's Cave jutting off of it, and the Banqueting Hall. Finally, the tunnel passed through the mysterious Triangle, the Miner's Cave, across the so-called River Styx, eventually terminating at the Inner Temple.

As they reviewed the plaque, they were suddenly greeted by the disembodied voice of the most recent Sir Francis.
“Welcome,”
he bellowed,
“to Hell-Fire Caves…”
Apparently the caverns were equipped with a multi-channeled tape recorder, connected to speakers at various points in the system. No need for guides, Koster thought.

They ventured down the tunnel, shining their flashlights ahead of them. There were only a few other lights—mostly red—generally set in the ceiling. As they walked, they noticed white faces carved out of the chalk in the walls. Koster took out his digital camera and snapped a few pictures. Some of the etchings seemed genuinely ancient, but others looked like they had been made only yesterday. Distracted tourists, no doubt, Koster thought. Longing for eternity.

The tunnel wound on, each branch, every cavity, stuffed with some tacky life-sized wax mannequin of Francis or Whitehead. The figures seemed to pop out of nowhere. Franklin's Cave was no exception. It was disappointingly empty except for a bad, pasty waxwork of the American diplomat wearing a ridiculous wig. The deeper they traveled, the more idiotic Koster felt.

The tunnel suddenly parted and rejoined, and then changed direction for no apparent reason. Koster took more pictures. Then they entered the Banqueting Hall, a huge musty round cavern with moss-covered classical statues placed in alcoves around the circumference. But, apart from a few plaques on the wall, the chamber was basically empty.

Just before the end of the system they came to the Styx, a natural underground river that flowed through the network. It was modeled with false stalagmites and stalactites that seemed to have been imported from some other location; they certainly weren't natural. In Franklin's day, apparently, the Friars had been forced to cross over by boat. Since then, a bridge had been built.

When Koster shone his flashlight down into the mysterious flow, coins glimmered back. Moments later, they entered the Inner Temple.

Once again, they were met by a bevy of mannequins. There, to one side, was Sir Francis. He was wearing a turban and raising his glass in a toast. He stood by a tiny round table, surrounded by mannequin ladies and gentlemen in period costumes, and, off to one side, a stuffed monkey with creepy glass eyes. Once again the loudspeaker crackled. It was Dashwood, giving his toast to the devil. At the mention of Satan's name, there was a great crash of thunder and a bright flash of light. The effect was cheesy at best.

The loudspeaker droned on.
“Who can say what mysterious ceremonies took place in this chamber?”
Sir Francis intoned. They stood there and waited until the voice-over had concluded. Then Sajan turned toward Koster and said, “What now?”

Koster shrugged. He felt completely deflated. “Let's go back. I've seen nothing to suggest twenty-two. I've recorded the number of steps, the degrees in the turns of the tunnel, the… you name it. Nothing.”

“Except for that number, carved into the wall,” Lyman said.

“What? What number?” asked Koster.

Lyman hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there. Didn't you see it?”

“You were looking right at it,” Sajan said.

Koster rolled his eyes. “I must have been distracted by some rubber bat.”

They started back down the tunnel. “It was right before Franklin's cave,” Lyman said as they recrossed the Styx. He stabbed at the darkness with the beam of his flashlight. Slowly but surely from cavern to cavern, they retraced their steps. Then Lyman stopped short. He pointed up at the wall.

There it was: the Roman numeral XXII, carved right into the chalk in the wall. And now that he saw it, Koster couldn't understand how he could have possibly missed it. It was so glaringly obvious. Then again, he hadn't been expecting such a literal landmark.

As Koster examined the wall, Lyman went back to the toolroom. A short while later, he returned with a shovel and pick.

Koster ran his hand around the numerals. They had been etched with precision. But, try as he might, he could not discern any crack in the surface around them. They hadn't been carved on a tile and then placed there. “I guess the best way to begin—” he said, standing back. But he never finished.

The steel tip of the pick vanished right into the heart of the numerals. Lyman levered it out; a thick clot of chalk crashed to the floor.

“Or we could do that,” Koster added, as Lyman took another swing with the pick. He dug and dug, now with Koster's assistance, as Sajan kept them illuminated in the beam of her flashlight. The wall was amazingly soft. The chalk simply crumbled with each blow of the pick. It did not take long before they had carved out a hole almost two feet wide and a foot or more deep. Then Lyman struck something hard. They all heard it at once. The tip of the pick seemed to glance off the surface.
Sajan shone the beam of her flashlight into the narrow opening. Inside appeared to be a kind of container, made of stone. Koster reached in. Slowly, with great care, he wiggled it free. It was a stone box. He placed it on the earth and they knelt down around it.

T
HE BOX WAS ABOUT SIX INCHES LONG AND FOUR INCHES
wide. It was decorated with a pyramid, topped with the all-seeing eye that shone like a sun. Sajan lifted the lid carefully. There were no hinges. It just slid off, like the top of a tiny sarcophagus. And there, nestled within, was a small piece of vellum. She pulled it out but Koster could already see what it was. The second piece of the map. It looked much like the first one. Sajan unfolded it gently.

“Is it the map?” Lyman asked.

Koster nodded. Once again, it looked more like a schematic than a map, with that same distinctive pattern of circles and squares nestled in a maze of fine lines. He could see that immediately. And so could Sajan.

“I wonder,” she said, “if the map and the schematics Franklin mentions in his journal aren't somehow related—the ones by Abraham of El Minya and da Vinci. You know, I keep thinking…” She paused. “This reminds me of something.”

Koster took the piece of the map from Sajan. Once
again the edges were frayed, as if the page had been torn long ago. “Franklin's journal mentions his going to Paris, to the house of the Marquis d'Artois. He was looking for something, apparently. A drawing he found on the back of a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. A study of Cecilia Gallerani. But, frankly, it seemed an improbable tale. And besides,” he continued, “what do these schematics have to do with the Gospel of Judas? I don't get it. They're related, but
how?”

“And look,” Sajan said, pointing down. “More Masonic Code. Just like on the first piece. What's it say?”

Koster studied it closely. It took him a minute to translate the text. Then he said, “It's a series of letters.
L-U-C-D-I-X-D-I-X-H-U-I-T.”
He looked up at Sajan. “It's in French. Luc is Luke.”

“Luke, chapter ten, verse eighteen. From the Bible,” Sajan said.

“I don't know the—”

“‘Jésus leur dit,’”
said Sajan.
“‘Je voyais Satan tomber du ciel comme un éclair.’
Which means,
‘And Jesus told them: I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven.’”

“You certainly know your Bible,” said Lyman. “What does it signify, though?”

“I have no idea.”

“And why is it in French?” Lyman added. “The first clue was written in English.”

“Because,” Koster said, “this clue refers to the third piece of the map. The one hidden in Passy.”