Faint traces of snow dotted patches of grass along the sidewalk and in the corners where concrete met brick buildings, a stark contrast to the warmth of the Atlanta spring Sean and Tommy left behind a few hours before.
People rushed around busily on the sidewalks. The cars were in less of a hurry, due to traffic congestion. The vehicles would move a few feet, stop, then repeat.
A gust of frigid air blew down the street, causing Sean to clutch his coat a little tighter around his shoulders.
Sean loved the city of Boston. It was a town full of fascinating history. Much like when he visited Washington, Sean felt like every step he took was on ground where someone important might have stood hundreds of years before. He viewed it with a sense of reverence and appreciation, often wondering if anyone else did the same. He figured Tommy did, but outside the two of them, Sean assumed that all these people running around to get to work or grab a quick cup of coffee took where they lived for granted.
Another blustery gust smacked him in the face and ripped through his hair. Then again, maybe all these Bostonians in such a hurry were just trying to keep warm.
The two friends turned the corner and, seeing the WALK sign still lit, hurried across the road to the other side.
Red and white signs hung from light posts, staking a claim to that section of town for Boston University.
The college occupied a narrow strip of land along the Charles River to the east of downtown and just north of the suburb of Brookline, home to one of Sean’s favorite baseball parks in America: Fenway.
Boston University was a hodgepodge of old historic buildings, bland 1970s architecture, and more modern and contemporary designs. The college stood directly across the river from some of the most prestigious universities in the world: MIT and Harvard, although BU had a stout reputation of its own.
Sean and Tommy turned left and made their way onto the campus. To a first-time visitor, the layout might have been a bit confusing, although it was difficult to get lost between Commonwealth Avenue and the river, even with some of the buildings now on the other side of the street. You could always turn back and figure out where you went wrong without much trouble.
This wasn’t their first time visiting the campus, and while Sean and Tommy had only been there a few times prior, they knew where they were going.
The College of Arts and Sciences building stood ahead on the right. An imposing gray edifice with rows of large windows facing Commonwealth Avenue, it gave the impression of strength and power to anyone who walked under its commanding stare.
Sean and Tommy turned onto the sidewalk leading up to the building and made their way to the entrance. Inside, the narrow corridors were full of students scurrying here and there on their way to classes or morning study sessions. The ceilings angled up to a point in the center; the air smelled of books, varnish, and wood.
The two made their way down the passage to the eastern end of the building and then made a sharp left. After climbing the stairs up to the second floor, Tommy led the way to an office on the right where a placard displayed the name of Dr. Cameron Wilkins. The door was slightly ajar, which Tommy took as an invitation to push it all the way open.
The hinges creaked. Inside, a man with deep bags under his eyes, white hair sprouting in a sort of low crown that hugged a bald head, and black spectacles sat at his desk writing something on a piece of paper.
He looked up, momentarily scowling at the intrusion until he realized who it was. Then his frown flipped, and he greeted the two with a broad smile.
“Tommy. Sean. Come in, my boys!” Wilkins stood up with arms open wide. He pulled the glasses off his nose and embraced Tommy first, then shook Sean’s hand. It wasn’t that Sean wasn’t a hugger. He just reserved that for people with whom he had close relationships. Wilkins was more of an associate.
Tommy, on the other hand, had known the old man for several years and conferred with him on numerous research projects. Wilkins had become one of Tommy’s go-to guys after the death of Dr. Borringer several years before—a professor at Kennesaw State University just outside Atlanta.
Wilkins was a foremost expert in several areas of ancient history, as well as archaeology and anthropology. Like many in his field, he knew Greek, Latin, and how to interpret Egyptian hieroglyphics. He could read Sanskrit and was, last Tommy heard, working on his understanding of Sumerian cuneiform.
Wilkins had been a friend of Tommy’s parents going back to the early 1970s, and the relationship had continued with their son when Tommy founded the IAA.
The old man’s crimson blazer contrasted with his khaki pants, but, oddly, matched his socks.
“Please, have a seat,” Wilkins said, motioning to two chairs with upholstery that looked like it might be as old as the man himself.
The two guests accepted and eased into the seats while Wilkins returned to his. The man lowered himself gingerly, bracing the armrests with both hands as he sat. Then he leaned back and tapped his fingers together.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure? I have to admit, you were a bit vague when you called yesterday.”
“Sorry about that, sir,” Tommy said. He didn’t want to tell his old friend the reason he’d held back on the details. Instead, he went straight ahead for the purpose of their visit. “We’re working on something pretty interesting, and we really need your help.”
“Oh? Another project? That’s a surprise. You usually don’t come to me more than once a year, and that’s when it’s really busy.” He chuckled to himself.
“Yes, sir. And I’m so sorry to bother you.”
The professor dismissed the notion with a wave of the hand. “Please. You’re no bother at all, my boy. Now, what can I help you with?”
“Actually, Professor, it’s not a new project. We have some questions about the Massachusetts project, the stuff we sent you some weeks back.”
“Oh,” the man said. “Certainly. What would you like to know? I thought I was clear in my reports on the matter, but perhaps I forgot something.”
“No,” Tommy said with a shake of his head. “You didn’t forget anything. It’s just that,” he fought off the awkward feeling in his gut, “we were curious who you may have shared that information with.” He hated interrogating an old family friend, and a globally respected one at that.
Wilkins’s face tightened in surprise. “Shared?” His shoulders raised slightly, and he glanced up to his right for the briefest of seconds. “I don’t think I shared it with anyone. I had my assistants do some looking around for a few things, but I did most of the work myself. They never had access to the images of the tablet and the other objects.”
The professor went on about his process, explaining to Tommy everything he’d done to try to unravel the ancient code carved into the stone.
Sean’s mind wandered. He didn’t care about any of that. He knew the professor’s methods. They were the same as any other person would use in his profession.
Sean turned his eyes to the bookshelf to his left. It wrapped all the way around to the corner behind him, packed so tight with volumes that he wondered if the sides of the shelf would split apart and cause an avalanche of books, spilling them onto the floor.
He noted classical works by some of the most famous authors of all time. They were philosophical works, mostly, but there were also books about world history, geography, and dozens more in the periphery of those subjects. He stopped his gaze on one book in particular. Putting on his poker face, he didn’t show any change of emotion, instead hiding his sudden curiosity from the other two.
He looked farther down the row and found two more books on the same subject. Was it a hobby? Or was Dr. Wilkins an expert on that subject as well? They were each books about the Knights Templar.
“Anyway, I’m sorry if this has been a big waste of your time,” Wilkins said. “I can appreciate how valuable it is for you and Sean.”
Sean heard his name and snapped back. He played it off like he’d been paying attention the entire time and rapidly switched subjects. “I do have another question for you, Dr. Wilkins.”
“Excellent. Inquisitive minds are sharp ones, I always say.”
Sean pointed at the bookshelf to the volumes that caught his eye. “Those three,” he said, “what’s the deal with those? Are you a fan of the Knights Templar, or are you doing a project on them?”
The secretive organization had started off as an elite Catholic military unit. While they weren’t officially recognized until midway through the twelfth century, the group had been around long before that.
They were known by many names: the Order of Solomon’s Temple, the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ, and the Temple of Solomon. But the Knights Templar was the most common term.
Rumors and conspiracy theories abounded on the group. Books had been written, and movies made, about the order. Some believe they were the ones who possessed the Holy Grail, and others posited that the Templars were the ones who took the Ark of the Covenant from Solomon’s Temple and hid it somewhere in Europe. Still others believed they’d crossed the Atlantic and brought it to the New World, hundreds of years before Columbus’s famous maiden voyage.
People had spent fortunes trying to find the sacred Ark. Others had paid the ultimate sacrifice in pursuit of it. To date, no one had come close, not that anyone knew of. It was certainly possible that the Ark had been found and the discovery kept secret. Sean doubted that was the case.
The last known sighting of the Ark came from the Bible’s Old Testament, in passages that detail events just before the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. After that, whatever happened to the mysterious golden box was left to the imagination—or the stuff of legend.
Wilkins turned his head to the bookshelf, following Sean’s eyes.
“Ah,” Wilkins said with crack in his voice, “I’ve always found the Templars to be a fascinating subject. So little is known about their true identities and purpose. Of course, there is much fiction surrounding them. People want to believe they were heroic bands of secret agents doing their best to rid the world of evil. Pure fantasy, I assure you. The reality of their existence was much simpler than that, and more sinister.” He waved his hands around to emphasize his point.
“Sinister?” Tommy asked. He’d done his fair share of research on the Knights Templar, but he was no expert on the subject.
“Yes. You see, the knights used their power and position to build a massive amount of wealth. At one point, they were wealthier than many of the kings in that region, indeed in the entire world. Their vast land holdings put them in the position of almost being a sovereign state. If they’d had their way, I imagine the knights would have pushed for that.”
“Like the Vatican.”
Wilkins’s head bobbed back and forth. “In a way. Except theirs was a military state, governed by martial law. They abused their power, their strength, and took what they wanted. They taxed people heavily, claiming it was in the name of God or calling it tithes. When kings or the pope needed something done, they charged extravagant fees for their services, extorting all who came to their door.”
His voice trailed off for a moment, and he reached for a coffee mug on the edge of his desk. After taking a sip, he set the mug down and continued. He shook his head as if he’d just done a shot of whiskey. Maybe there was one in the coffee. “At any rate, they were eventually found out by the king of France and the pope.”
“Found out?” Tommy asked.
Wilkins flashed a glance down at his desk and then looked back up, his eyes darting from Tommy to Sean and back again. He folded his hands on the desk top as he leaned forward. “The Templars have this reputation of being upstanding, God-fearing men. They claimed to be servants of the Almighty.”
“You don’t think they were?” Sean put the question out there even though he had a feeling he knew the answer that was coming.
“I’ve heard all sorts of things about what happened to the Templars. It’s no secret that many of them were publicly executed for heresy. It was a famous date in history, and why Friday the 13th is surrounded by so much speculation and superstition.”
To the mainstream and public at large, most people didn’t know the real reason behind the irrational fear of this unfortunately numbered Friday. Sean and Tommy, however, were well aware.
“Knights were pulled out of their homes,” Wilkins said. “They were tortured, eventually resulting in mass confessions from nearly all of them. Only a few managed to escape.”
“Doesn’t sound like you feel sorry for them,” Sean said, his tone cool and even.
“Pfft. Why should I? Those men were convicted of witchcraft, sorcery, and worst of all, using blood sacrifices in their rituals.”
“Blood sacrifices?” Tommy’s forehead wrinkled.
“Yes. It eventually came out that the Templars were kidnapping children from other villages and towns to use in their worship of the dark one. Their satanic practices were, thankfully, discovered and rooted out. No one knows what happened to the sparse number of them that managed to evade justice.”
Sean listened to the explanation. He’d heard something similar before, and read some of the same things Wilkins was telling them. “What proof did the king’s men have to put those knights to death? Surely there was some kind of evidence.”
“The evidence was in their confession. Back then, proof was a luxury. It was easier to hide things back in those days. If you knew what you were doing, you could get away with anything.”
Wilkins stole a quick glance over at the clock on the wall and abruptly stood up. “Oh dear. Guys, I’m terribly sorry, but I have a class to prepare for. I didn’t realize what time it was. I guess I got absorbed in my work before you two came in.”
Sean and Tommy stood.
“No problem, Professor,” Tommy said and shook the guy’s hand.
“Yes, thank you so much for your time,” Sean said, waiting his turn for a goodbye handshake.
“My pleasure, fellas. Say, how long are you in town? Maybe we can grab a bite to eat for dinner. My treat.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Sean said, cutting off his friend before he could accept. “But we really need to be getting back to Atlanta.”
Wilkins didn’t see the nonverbal exchange between his visitors that let Tommy know to just go with it.
“Yeah, work to do,” Tommy agreed. “Perhaps we can come back soon and take you up on that dinner.”
“That would be great. I’d love to see you guys and catch up some more.”
The two friends showed themselves out and made their way back to the street. The gusty wind had died down, and the sun was doing its best to warm the chilly air embracing the pedestrians.
They walked down the steps and veered back to the left, making their way to the T (what locals call the subway system).
“Well, that was pretty much a waste of time,” Tommy said, glancing back over his shoulder at the building as if the professor could hear them all the way out there.
Sean drew a long breath through his nose and exhaled. He shook his head one time. “No, it wasn’t.”
Tommy looked over at his friend with a confused frown. “It wasn’t? You heard Wilkins. Everything he knows about the Massachusetts project was in his reports. And those were fairly useless.”
“That part is true. The reports he sent us weren’t that helpful.”
“So…what are you getting at?”
They stopped at the crosswalk and waited for the sign to change. Sean took a quick look over his shoulder and then stared into his friend’s eyes. Tommy knew that look. It was one he’d seen before. It meant that Sean had something serious on his mind.
“Wilkins was lying.”