The God Machine (4 page)

“What's the God machine?”

“Of that, we'll talk later, if you're up to it. But first, do you know all your lines?”

Franklin sighed. He flipped back to the page in the volume that was marked with the ribbon. He glanced at the text for a moment, then nodded and said, “I'm prepared, Brother Price. I've been practicing.”

“Very good.” Price picked up the apron. He flared it and the material wafted down to the surface like a tablecloth. Franklin stared at the intricate stitching.

The apron featured a black-and-white checkerboard
pattern representing the floor of the Temple of Solomon—good and evil. It was framed by four pillars: In the rear were the pillars of Boaz; in the front, the two pillars of Enoch. Each was crowned by a globe. At the rear of the checkerboard pattern rose an altar, fixed with a compass and square. And above it, the six-pointed stars of the liberal arts—all seven of them; the all-seeing eye of the Grand Architect; and a rainbow, the great arch of heaven. The whole thing was bordered by a ribbon of red, white and blue. “It's beautiful,” Franklin said. He drew in his breath. “It's…” But he could not quite finish. The diagram from the book still swam in his head. He felt it imprinted within him, like the memory of the sun on his retina after closing his eyes.

“It was made in the Orient. Can you interpret these signs?” Price pointed at a number of symbols embroidered throughout.

Franklin hesitated. Then he plucked out a pair of gold spectacles from his topmost coat pocket. “The eyes,” he exclaimed. “I'm half blind in this light. Like my father. Soon my hair will fall out, mark my words.” He settled the glasses on the bridge of his nose and looked down.

“The border is plain,” he continued. “Red is the color of Royal Arch Masonry, of courage and fire. White stands for purity. And blue is the color of Symbolic Masonry, the Blue Lodge, and of faith and eternity.”

Price pointed at the figure of a box topped with two squares on their edges.

“The forty-seventh problem of Euclid. Although it's really a theorem, not a problem,” said Franklin.

Price sighed. He pointed at a series of other illustrations, one by one.

“The plumb line admonishes us to walk upright through life…”

“And before God,” countered Price

“And before God. The Trowel spreads the cement of
goodwill amongst Men. The Pentagram represents the five points of fellowship, with the letter
G
in the middle for geometry…”

“And God.”

Franklin followed Price's finger as he tapped at the apron. “The Beehive is the emblem of industry. The Square and the Compass are the Great Lights of Masonry.”

“Very good,” Price replied. “And the Sword at the Heart?”

“Shows how justice will soon overtake us and that—though sometimes obscured from our brothers—our actions are never invisible to the All-Seeing Eye.”

Price's finger stopped moving. Franklin peered down at the apron. The Grand Master was pointing at a tiny black coffin at the base of the checkerboard pattern. “And this?”

“Death,” Franklin said with a shrug. “What we all face.”

“Some sooner than others,” said Price. He placed his right arm across his stomach, the palm turned toward the floor. Slowly, and with a small noise at the back of his throat, he ran his thumb along his abdomen, as if cutting open his stomach. Then he dropped his right hand at his side. “If one fails to keep secrets.”

Franklin nodded. Price's meaning was obvious. He watched as the tailor from Boston picked up the apron. “Come forward,” he said.

Franklin did as he was told. The Grand Master slipped the apron around him and tied it. “It's time,” Price continued, standing back and admiring his handiwork.

They entered the main room together. It was laid out exactly like the picture on his apron, with an altar at the rear of the chamber and a checkerboard floor. On the surface of the altar, illuminated by candles, Franklin noticed a compass and square, and a Bible. Tomlinson sat on a chair to the left of the easternmost corner, and Oxnard
and Carpenter—the Grand Wardens—to the south and the west. Price led Franklin forward until they stood by the altar. Then Franklin knelt down.

“I now present my right hand in token of friendship and brotherly love,” Price continued, “and will invest you with the grip and the word. As you are uninstructed, he who has hitherto answered for you will do so at this time.”

Carpenter came forward. He stood beside Franklin.

“Brother Senior Deacon,” said Price.

Carpenter snapped to attention. “Worshipful Master.”

“I
help.”

“I conceal.”

“What do you conceal?” Price replied.

“All the secrets of Masons in Masonry to which this…” Carpenter took Price's hand in his own. He pressed his thumb against the first knuckle of Price's right hand. “…token alludes.”

“What is this?” Price pressed his thumb to the first knuckle of Carpenter's hand.

“The grip of an Entered Apprentice.”

“Has it a name?”

“It has.”

“Will you give it to me?”

“I did not so receive it, neither will I so impart it.”

“How will you dispose of it?”

“Letter it or halve it.”

“Letter it and begin.”

“You begin.”

“Begin you.”

“A.”

“B.”

“O.”

“Z.”

Then Price turned and looked down at Franklin. “Boaz, my Brother,” he said, “is the name of this grip, and
should always be given in the customary manner, by lettering or halving. When lettering, always commence with
A.”

Franklin nodded. He was trying to concentrate. He was trying to remember each moment. But all he could think of was that strange illustration in the book Price had shown him. The God machine. And the Gospel of Judas, he thought. And he wondered how many more rituals he'd have to endure before seeing that volume again.

I
T WAS A BALMY
J
UNE DAY, WITH JUST A HANDFUL OF CLOUDS
in the azure blue sky, and Nick Robinson was speculating if he should step out for a sandwich in Union Square Park or work through lunch once again when Robert Macalister buzzed him. Robinson leaned across his Louis XV desk and tapped at his intercom.

“You have a package, sir,” said Macalister.

Robinson sensed the note of urgency in Macalister's voice. Robert had been working for the family for as long as he could remember. “Enlighten me.”

“You're going to want to look at this personally, sir.”

“All right. Come on in, Robert.”

Tall and broad-shouldered, with slightly graying black hair, gray eyes and eaglelike features, Nick Robinson sat back in his chair and surveyed his office. As he was the president of midsized publishing company Compass Press, the last of the great independents, one would have expected the room to be filled with books. Instead, the office was decorated as if it were somebody's living room, with tasteful satin sofas and chairs of the most
sublime blues over a silk Persian rug, with landscapes by Homer, a Frederic Remington bronze and a Hudson River scene by Durand.

Robinson belonged to that rare group of businessmen who worked for the fun of it. He had already made several fortunes as a commodities broker in his youth, retired at thirty and then surprised everyone by purchasing this broken-down publishing company called Compass Press, only to bring it back from the brink of extinction with a spate of best-sellers. All of this would have been bad enough, but Robinson was already the sole heir to one of America's largest family fortunes—railroads on his father's side, and steel on his mother's. If there was anyone who didn't need more money, it was Nick Robinson.

There was a knock and the door to his office swung open. Tall and gangly, with a shock of black hair and startlingly blue eyes, Robert Macalister entered the room. He carried a box of PUMA running shoes in his hands.
Cobalt Blue Karmaloops
, it said on the label.

Macalister brought the box over and laid it gently on Robinson's desk. “From Philadelphia. A Knight Commander of Temple named Wilson,” he said as he lifted the lid.

Robinson peered over the lip of the box. Inside, on a bed of clear bubble wrap, lay a book, hand-stitched with a tan cowhide binding. Eighteenth-century, guessed Robinson. He reached into a desk drawer and removed a pair of white latex gloves. Then he slipped them on, snapping them noisily about the wrists, and removed the small leather volume. He opened the cover with care.

There had been moments like this before, Robinson thought, when everything had suddenly and unequivocally changed. Graduation from high school and college. His one hundredth million. The night he'd proposed to
Theresa. Sean's birth. But nothing in his life had prepared Robinson for his first view of that signature. It seemed so strange and familiar at once. He was convinced he was seeing things until he drew the book closer. That double-helix flourish. The curve of the lettering. The weight and the texture of the paper. The feel of the frontpiece and spine. All of these details rushed together within him, and he felt his heart seethe in his chest. “You found it,” he said at last.

“It appears so, Mr. Robinson. But, I'm afraid—as we feared, sir—it's written in code. I've done my best…” said Macalister, his voice trailing off.

Robinson began to flip through the pages. The text was in English but the words were nonsensical, and they were clustered in long sets of three. “But can we be sure?” added Robinson. “It could be his gambling debts, or his sexual adventures, or his…”

Macalister reached out across Robinson's desk and began to turn the pages one by one. After a moment, he paused and pointed at the journal.

Robinson scanned the text. Once again, the letters made no sense until he reached the final sequence of the twelfth line: The Gospel of Judas. And then, right below, the same words in both Hebrew and Greek. But not just any Hebrew, Robinson knew. Mishnaic Hebrew. Before the Coptic rendering. So old! He felt a shiver snake down his spine. The Gospel of Judas. The God machine!

Robinson closed the book. He caressed the front cover one final time, and then placed the journal back in the shoe box. “Bring it to Karl, in Restoration,” he said. “Call Savita and tell her to expect company. How are the plans for the party?”

“Mrs. Robinson just telephoned. She said nearly everyone's coming.”

“Good, good. Add another name to the list.” Robinson turned and looked out the window.

People were milling about on the square. Playing Frisbee. Eating lunch. Making out. Completely oblivious, he thought.

“Who's that, sir?”

“Joseph Koster,” said Robinson.
The fuse has been lit. It's already aglow in that box of blue Karmaloop sneakers. It's burning already, and they are oblivious
.

Robinson turned back to his desk. He pulled off the white latex gloves and dropped them unceremoniously into the garbage can at his feet. “Thank you, Robert.”

As soon as Macalister had left the room, Robinson reached into the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, and removed a small canvas gym bag. He unzipped the zipper. The holster and pistol were curled in the bottom, shiny and black as an adder. Robinson removed his Glock 19 and loaded a bullet into the chamber.

Poor bastard
, he thought. But if anyone could break Franklin's code, it was Koster.

T
HOMAS
P
ENN STROLLED THROUGH THE HERB GARDEN OF
the Pennsbury Mansion, at his father's country estate in Bucks County. A large man, with an egg-shaped head, small mouse-brown eyes and delicate white hands that quivered like a pair of cabbage butterflies before him as he talked, Penn sported a long snow-white wig and a blue velvet coat with a gold-colored waistcoat beneath. He was chatting with Presbyterian Church Elder Jedediah Andrews, when he turned abruptly and pointed at a pair of outbuildings at the far end of the garden.