The Solomon Key (13 page)

Daniel shrugged and pulled something out of his pocket. “We will never be safe so long as we have this.” He held it up so that Scott could see.

It was the ring.

“But we have some time,” Daniel added.

“What… never mind,” he interrupted himself. “Does the hot water work?”

He nodded. “This house belonged to the man that oversaw—”

Scott held up a hand and backpedaled out of the room. “Maybe later.”

It was a stand-up shower, and so it didn’t have much room to move around in, but that was fine with him. He leaned against the back wall, feeling where the fiery debris had burnt him, and closed his eyes. The hot water splashing down on him forced his body to relax, to unwind. But his brain only seemed stimulated into thinking about Daniel, that Roswell nonsense the priest talked about, Edward, the ring...

He pushed it all out of his mind and tried only to feel the water hit his skin.

Twenty minutes later, he was slipping his sore feet into the running shoes and tying the laces. His feet were bruised and cut, but the amount of relief the sneakers offered was wonderful. He pulled the red t-shirt down over his head, tucked the pistol back into his pants, and went to find Daniel and Mayhew.

It was time to find out what exactly was going on.

PART II

UNHOLY SECRETS

The World is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.

—Benjamin Disraeil, Prime Minister of England, 1844

G
ondamer stepped out of the Al Aqsa Mosque
and onto the Temple Mount itself. He paused, resting a hand on his hip while running the other through his long disheveled black locks. A cool evening breeze traveled over the one hundred and forty-four acre expanse and pulled at his white habit. He watched as the sun disappeared below the Holy Land, taking the relentless heat with it. Sighing, he moved his gaze away from the sight and set it on
Templum Domini
, the converted Dome of the Rock, which sat adjacent to him now. His soul was troubled this night, and, as he gazed at the cross transfixed atop the church, he found that it actually stirred
more
conflict within him rather than quenching it.

Torches began lighting up around him, and he heard footsteps.

A shadow stopped beside him, staring off toward the Kidron Valley. He knew it was Rossal.

“What is it that troubles you?” Rossal asked, his own white habit whisking around his ankles.

Gondamer didn’t bother looking over at the figure beside him. He didn’t have to. They were all family, the original nine, and the familiarity between them was so great that he need not see Rossal’s face to pick out of his voice more than concern but intention as well. “You know what I struggle with, Rossal. The conflict that I feel.”

Rossal crossed his arms and looked down at his feet. He waited a good while before speaking, letting the faint sounds of Jerusalem do what they could to reach his ears. “The Holy Father wills it, Gondamer.
God
wills it.”

“And yet, still we have found nothing.”

“Patience is often the sacrifice required in order for God’s will to be realized.”

Gondamer finally set his eyes on him. “Or made known.”

“He does that through the mouth of the Pope. We must continue with our part, trusting.”

“We have been here for nearly three years,” Gondamer quietly objected. “And what have we to show for it? Empty caverns, stale cisterns?”

Surrendering any thought of debate, Rossal simply put a hand on Gondamer’s shoulder. “Come, let us observe the ruins before the others leave their work for the night. Perhaps, with prayer, God will provide a nugget of hope for your weary soul.”

And with a gentle nudge, he allowed Rossal to lead him to the ruins below the Temple Mount, to reunite with the rest of the new Order and its mission to find what Pope Urban II insisted had to be here. But if it
was
here, Gondamer thought again, why then could not the Babylonians, the Romans, nor the Muslims find it? It was a mystery that seemed somewhat easy to solve. But to question such things was to doubt the infallibility of the Holy Father.

As if reading his mind, Rossal said, “God’s power has kept it hidden from His enemies. That is why it has yet to be found.”

“Then why have we yet to find any trace of it? If God’s power keeps it hidden from His enemies, then certainly His power can reveal it to His children.”

“And that is precisely why we dig.”

Gondamer sighed with frustration as they descended into torchlight and a myriad of tunnels. The sounds of digging came echoing about them, and just as Rossal was about to continue on, Gondamer grabbed his arm, stopping him. In a whispered hush, he asked, “How much longer can we pretend to escort pilgrims from Jaffa’s coast?”

“We are not pretending, Gondamer.”

It was true and not true at the same time.

After the Crusaders drove the Muslims from Jerusalem in 1118, they had considered their vow fulfilled and thus returned to Europe, eager to spend their acquired booty. In their absence, pilgrims journeying from the coast to the Holy Land were often harassed and killed by bitter Muslims still living in the Islamic territories surrounding Jerusalem. So it served as a good excuse for nine pious knights to appear humbly before Baldwin II, King of Jerusalem, and offer him their services. Impressed with their dedication, the King was delighted to have them as protectors of those traveling to Jerusalem. But that was only for appearance sake. The reason the Pope sent them to Jerusalem was much more important than that. And it was no coincidence that the King made their dwelling place the Mosque that now rested over the very ruins of Solomon’s Temple — an arrangement encouraged by the Pope, to be sure. The whole thing was his idea, the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.

So while it was true that they protected those traveling from the coast, such a mission was only to mask the real reason they were stationed in the Kingdom. But before Gondamer could speak according to these things, a loud cry arose from somewhere in the darkness.

“Did you hear that?” asked Rossal, a flash of concern sweeping his face.

“Of course I heard it. Where did it come from?”

Then they heard it again. But this time it lasted for a prolonged amount of time. And, in fact, it was growing louder. Suddenly, from a tunnel adjacent to them, Andre de Montbard emerged, laughing and yelling excitedly. He was smeared with dirt and stained by sweat. And he was holding something in his hand.

“What is it? What did you find?” asked Rossal.

“I found a golden scroll!” He was dancing in circles, hopping up and down like a child.

With great doubt, Gondamer grabbed hold of him and forced him to settle down. “Let me see it!”

It
was
a scroll.

“Be careful with it!” Rossal warned. “It must be brittle with decay.”

But Andre de Montbard disagreed. “No! It is in perfect condition!”

So Gondamer took it and examined it. It was some kind of metal, though not gold. It could be copper, but he wasn’t sure. Very carefully, he started to unroll it, curious to see what this strange scroll could possibly contain within itself. De Montbard was right. It was as if the scroll had been hidden just yesterday. It unrolled with ease, no threat whatsoever of corrosion. That, in and of itself, was strange.

Hebrew inscriptions. Greek letters.

“Where did you find it?” he asked.

“In the cavern, under the floor.” He was pointing back into the darkness.

“What is happening?” It was Hugues de Payens. He emerged from the tunnel they were standing in front of — Godfrey de Saint-Omer, Geoffrey Bison, and Payen de Montdidier with him.

“I found a scroll!” Andre exclaimed.

Gondamer handed it over to the co-founder of the group, also his relative. “It does appear to be something of significance.”

Hugues de Payens looked at it, his eyes intensely searching it over, marveling at the bizarre discovery. “It seems impossible that it should be this well preserved.” Then he looked up to Andre. “Show me where you found it.”

They all went into the tunnel.

The torches hanging along the walls on either side gave off enough light to see what had happened. Up ahead, the tunnel widened and disappeared into a huge room. They could see, before even entering the room, that Andre de Montbard had been working at one of its walls, crumpled rocks lying in a pile by some tools.

“I was just striking the wall, trying to knock out that adjoining piece, when I noticed that the ground beneath my feet seemed to move. I brushed the dirt away and found that stone slab.” He pointed toward a large flat stone now resting beside a dark spot in the ground — a hole, indiscernible beneath the shifting light. “The stone had a word carved into its face, so I worked it free and flipped it over.” He was still excited, talking fast. “I could not see into the hole, so I just reached down into it. It was deep, deeper than the depth of that stone. I was just able to get my fingertip on it.”

Hugues de Payans approached the hole, kneeling beside it. Then he looked up to the ceiling far above, wondering out loud if it was where the Holy Father said it would be. And then he bent over and stuck his hand into the blackness. Immediately, he retracted his hand, shaking it. “It is cold.” His words came bewildered with shock.

Andre agreed. “I thought my fingers would fall off before I could retract it.”

He tried again, this time his arm disappearing up to his shoulder.

The Knights all stepped closer, anxious to see if there was anything else to be found.

Slowly, and in almost melodramatic fashion, de Payans pulled his hand out of the darkness.

Wanting a better look, and feeling impatience overtake him, Gondamer grabbed the torch out of Geoffrey Bison’s hand and held it over the hole, hoping to see if there was anything in de Payens’ hand. But the torchlight didn’t help at all.

Hugues de Payens lifted his hand to examine what was in it. “Light,” he commanded.

Tearing his attention away from the hole, Gondamer moved the flame over to illuminate de Payens and whatever he was holding.

A ring.

Hurrying to his feet, de Payens scrambled out of the room and into the tunnel, calling back over his shoulder, “Bring the scroll! Bring the scroll!”

Everyone followed after him, eager and excited to see more closely what it was they had discovered.

Except Gondamer. He stood unmoving by the hole, the torch still in his hand. His eyes narrowed as he tried to look into its depths, and a strange feeling made the hairs on his neck stand tall. Bending to one knee, he brought the torch closer. But the flickering flame wouldn’t shed any light into the darkness. In fact, when he stuck the tip of the torch into the hole itself, he couldn’t even manage to illuminate its sides. It was as if the hole itself was swallowing the light.

He stood straight and looked around, suddenly not enjoying the solitude. Before he left though, he tossed the torch into the hole.

He watched it fall. And fall. Until it was just a little speck of light. Until it disappeared.

Grabbing the nearest torch off the wall, he ran.

By the time he reached his relatives and fellow Temple Knights, they had split into two groups, one examining the scroll and the other the ring. As he walked past those bent over the scroll, Rossal looked up from it with a big grin and called out to him.

“How is this for a sign? I told you it is His will!”

Gondamer continued walking straight into the Mosque where Hugues de Payens was holding the ring up to the light. He was mumbling something. Gondamer couldn’t make it out. He walked quickly, calling out to him, urgency and foreboding in his voice.

Hugues de Payens, the French Knight and veteran of the Crusade, the Grand Master of the Order, turned and looked at him with a strange gleam in his eye.

“Wait, I must tell you—” But Gondamer’s warning was ignored.

Hugues de Payens smiled as he slid the ring onto his finger.

And from that moment on, everything changed.

14

T
he man thrust his hands into his pockets, the cold bitter air biting at his face and turning it a flush of red as the wind disheveled his graying hair awkwardly against his head and whipped his tie back over his shoulder. He squinted down at his watch before scanning the landscape.

There was no loitering of any kind allowed anywhere near the White House these days, sightseeing and educational tours a thing of the past. Even government employees found the patrolling troops in black battle gear too intimidating to linger on the streets any longer than necessary. It was for this reason that the man’s contact should be relatively easy to spot.

He began walking, staring at the ground until he reached the foot of the reflecting pool, the obelisk’s capstone like the tip of a spear, pointing right at him. He raised his eyes, taking in the resurrected 555-foot Washington Monument. Rebuilt after the earthquake of 2015, its esoteric significance was now close to being fulfilled.
Close.
That is why he still had to exercise such caution, why the Senator in New York had to be “quarantined” the other day. Now was no time to get sloppy, not with the finish line in sight.

Another glance at his watch. Only fifteen minutes until the “glitch” was corrected, and the face-scanning cameras would identify him. He swore under his breath, a quick sideways glance at some people walking along the pool toward him. They had coffees in their hand and were quickly making their way back to whatever building they worked in. He went back to the obelisk, his mind skipping the facts surrounding its construction and settling instead on the connection between America’s symbols and the ancient mystery religions that birthed them… that the Great Pyramid, said to have been missing its capstone for most of history, had been showcased for so long on the now obsolete federal reserve note, the all-seeing eye of Horus illuminated by the light of Sirius. He thought about the esoteric traditions claiming that the return of the capstone to the Great Pyramid would signal the return of the Great Initiate, which would finally bring to reality the Latin words on the nation’s Great Seal,
ANNUIT COEPTIS NOVUS ORDO SECLURUM
. And of course he recalled the date at the base of the pyramid, 1776 — the year the Illuminati had been formed.