Powdered Gold: Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant (Templars in America Series Book 3) Read online

  POWDERED

  GOLD

  TEMPLARS AND THE

  AMERICAN ARK OF THE

  COVENANT

  A Novel by

  David S. Brody

  Eyes That See Publishing

  Westford, Massachusetts

  Powdered Gold

  Templars and the American Ark of the Covenant

  Copyright © 2014 by David S. Brody

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author: [email protected]

  Eyes That See Publishing

  Westford, Massachusetts

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except as otherwise noted in the Author’s Note, any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Kimberly Scott

  Printed in USA

  POWDERED

  GOLD

  TEMPLARS AND THE

  AMERICAN ARK OF THE

  COVENANT

  David S. Brody

  Praise for David S. Brody’s Books

  “Brody does a terrific job of wrapping his research in a fast-paced thrill ride that will feel far more like an action film than an academic paper.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Strongly recommended for all collections.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Will keep you up even after you’ve put it down.”

  —Hallie Ephron, BOSTON GLOBE (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A riveting, fascinating read.”

  —MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW (The Wrong Abraham)

  “Best of the Coming Season.”

  —BOSTON MAGAZINE (Unlawful Deeds)

  “A compelling suspense story and a searing murder mystery.”

  —THE BOSTON PHOENIX (Blood of the Tribe)

  “A comparison to The Da Vinci Code and National Treasure is inevitable….The story rips the reader into a fast-paced adventure.”

  —FRESH FICTION (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “An excellent historical conspiracy thriller. It builds on its most famous predecessor, The Da Vinci Code, and takes it one step farther—and across the Atlantic.”

  —MYSTERY BOOK NEWS (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “The action and danger are non-stop, leaving you breathless. It is one hell of a read.”

  —ABOUT.COM Book Reviews (Unlawful Deeds)

  “The year is early, but this book will be hard to beat; it’s already on my ‘Best of 2009’ list.”

  —BARYON REVIEW (Cabal of the Westford Knight)

  “Five Stars.”

  —Harriet Klausner, AMAZON (The Wrong Abraham)

  “An enormously fun read, exceedingly hard to put down.”

  —The BOOKBROWSER (Unlawful Deeds)

  “Fantastic book. I can’t wait until the next book is released.”

  —GOODREADS (Thief on the Cross)

  “A feast.”

  —ARTS AROUND BOSTON (Unlawful Deeds)

  About the Author

  David S. Brody is a Boston Globe bestselling fiction writer recently named Boston’s “Best Local Author” by the Boston Phoenix newspaper. He serves as a Director of the Westford Historic Society and is a former Director of the New England Antiquities Research Association (NEARA). A graduate of Tufts University and Georgetown Law School, he is an avid researcher in the subject of pre-Columbian exploration of America. His Cabal of the Westford Knight novel was recently made into a full-length feature film entitled, “The American Templars.”

  For more information, please visit

  DavidBrodyBooks.com

  Also by the Author

  Unlawful Deeds

  Blood of the Tribe

  The Wrong Abraham

  Cabal of the Westford Knight: Templars at the Newport Tower

  Thief on the Cross: Templar Secrets in America

  Preface

  This novel is a continuation of the themes I first explored in Cabal of the Westford Knight and continued exploring in Thief on the Cross. Specifically, did ancient explorers visit the shores of North America, and if so, why? Readers of Cabal and Thief will recognize the protagonists, Cameron and Amanda (and also young Astarte), as well as the Knights Templar themes. However, Powdered Gold is not a sequel to Cabal and Thief and readers who have not read the earlier novels should feel free to jump right in.

  As in Cabal and Thief, the artifacts and sites pictured in this story are real, actual objects. If it is pictured in the book, it exists in the real world. (See the Author’s Note at the end of this book for a more detailed discussion covering the issue of artifact authenticity.)

  I venture outside of New England in this story, which takes place largely in the American Southwest. The story features artifacts such as the Tucson Lead Artifacts, the Mustang Mountain Rune Stone and the Los Lunas Decalogue Stone—do these objects somehow tie back to the Knights Templar or their French forbearers? Readers may enjoy learning about a strange, seemingly-magical substance called White Powdered Gold, or ORME, derived from the desert sands of Arizona. I was intrigued by the similarities between this substance and manna, the miraculous food that nourished the Israelites while they wandered in the desert. Is it possible, I wondered, that White Powdered Gold is the key to understanding the mysteries of, and power behind, the sacred Ark of the Covenant?

  These musings result in me (through my characters) exploring and offering up some rather unorthodox interpretations of Biblical stories and religious history. Please therefore be forewarned that this book contains themes that may be offensive to readers with strong Christian, Jewish or other religious beliefs.

  Every present-day story must be set against a modern backdrop; the plot turns in this novel are triggered by a Survivalist community attempting to go “off grid” in the Arizona desert. I found learning about the beliefs and practices of these Survivalists to be almost as compelling as researching the ancient artifacts themselves. Note that I said “almost.”

  I remain fascinated by the hidden history of North America and the very real possibility that waves of European explorers visited our shores long before Columbus. It is my hope that readers share this fascination.

  David S. Brody, October, 2013

  Westford, Massachusetts

  PROLOGUE

  [AD 1214, Present-day Arizona]

  Climb the mountain of snakes. Find the priest with the milky eyes. Trading for the information had cost Hurech his best dagger—a trade well worth it if the intelligence was correct. But why did quests like this always seem to end amidst snakes and strange oracles? Couldn’t just once the secret be safeguarded by buxom maidens frolicking on the banks of a cool stream?

  After wandering in this strange, arid land for almost two years, Hurech welcomed the portending closure—even if it meant a milky-eyed priest who would no doubt speak in riddles. Three of his fellow knights had died and another made lame. Only he and Geoffrey remained of the expedition that had left a ship and its crew two thousand miles to the southeast. Hurech turned to his young compatriot. Perhaps not so young anymore—the fuzzy-chinned monk who had left Staffordshire with him three years earlier was now a man. Not as solid yet as Hurech, but already a bit tal
ler. “Be wary of the snakes,” Hurech said.

  Geoffrey nodded. He rarely spoke, perhaps a product of the years spent in silence in a Cistercian abbey before training as a soldier monk at Hurech’s preceptory. Geoffrey’s sword did most of his talking.

  If Geoffrey was now a man, Hurech mused, surely gangly Elizabeth had flowered as well—had she grown into a willowy beauty like her mother? And the twins were now old enough to begin training with wooden swords. Hurech stopped and turned to the eastern horizon. Perhaps five thousand miles of desert and mountains and ocean separated him from his family. But sometimes their faces were so real he felt he could reach out and tousle their hair….

  The cursed cactus bushes intruded on his thoughts, clawing at his legs like angry house cats as he climbed. Between the snakes on the trails, the scorpions in their bedding and these needle-like plants bloodying their skin, Hurech would not miss this land. He wiped the sweat from his brow and sipped from his water skin. Not to mention the dust and cursed desert heat.

  After an hour climb they reached the ridgeline and, as instructed, followed a narrow descending path. Despite the heat, a smoky campfire smoldered at the base of a cliff face, serving as their beacon.

  They approached the fire, Hurech in the lead. He exhaled and straightened himself. An elderly priest sat cross-legged in front of a cave, facing them as if awaiting their arrival. His gnarled skin was caked with dirt and his nose, unlike the flat features of the natives, protruded beaklike off his narrow face.

  The priest sniffed the air as they closed to within five body lengths. “You have come,” the priest sang out in Latin, his cloud-white eyes somehow focusing on Hurech’s face. His reddish-brown hair and beard, streaked with gray, were long and unkempt, and he wore a dark vest over a dirty white robe. Based on the way the vest hung, Hurech guessed it was made of some kind of heavy metal.

  “How do you know it is I?” Hurech asked.

  The priest chanted his response, as if following the cadence of some ancient prayer. “Our people different smell than people of this land.”

  Hurech nodded. He didn’t ascribe to his Order’s prohibition on bathing, but the reality was that there was little fresh water in this desert land and he and Geoffrey no doubt reeked. “Our people?”

  “Yes. My ancestors from Gaul fourteen generations came to this land. But already that you know. That is why here you are.” In addition to the chanting, the priest formed his words slowly and arranged them oddly, as if he rarely used them. Which made sense—how much Latin would be spoken here, half a world away from Rome?

  “So the French legends are true.”

  The priest nodded. “It is good you now came. Of my people I am last.”

  “The last? There are no others?” So much for the maidens.

  The priest shook his head slowly. “God wills it not.”

  Hurech looked past the priest, into the cave. “The legends also state you possess the Aron Habrit. Can this be so?”

  The priest turned up his palms and smiled, showing a mouth empty of teeth. “You must determine. Merely I am caretaker.”

  The priest angled his head toward the cave opening, inviting Hurech inside. Hurech sighed. He lit a torch from the campfire and peered deeper into the cave, allowing his eyes to adjust after the midday glare of the desert. Propped against the cave walls stood a dozen swords and crosses fashioned out of a dark metal.

  Hurech bent and lifted one of the swords. “Too heavy even for the strongest man,” he said to Geoffrey. “Lead, I think. Probably ceremonial.”

  Geoffrey dropped to one knee in front of one of the crosses as Hurech held the torch. “I see writing,” Geoffrey said. “Latin, and also some Hebrew.”

  “As the legends suggest. We will decipher it later.”

  Hurech moved deeper in, following the cave as it angled to the left. His torch illuminated a large rectangular object resting inside a cavity in the back of the cave. Could it be?

  “Geoffrey, stay back. The legends speak of grave danger to those who approach too close.” He wondered if the metal vestment the priest wore was a necessary precaution. But precaution against what?

  Hurech took two small steps. Then another. He held the torch forward as far as he could, straining to make out the details of the relic in the niche. The flame reflected off the object, dancing as the torch flickered. Hurech had spent his adult life searching for this sacred artifact, not only in Europe and the Holy Land but now far across the western ocean. He took a deep breath and moved closer still.

  Suddenly the object glowed and crackled. Before Hurech could back away a bolt of lightning shot out, striking him in the chest and catapulting him backwards. He had been thrown from a horse a few times, and clubbed across the back by a battle ax, but nothing had ever incapacitated him like this. His entire body felt like it was afire, and he could not force air into his lungs. A crushing pain spread through his chest. So this is it. This is God’s will. He fought to meet death with honor.

  “Geoffrey,” he whispered, “you must bury my body and mark the spot. Just as we discussed. Then you must find the ship and return home to tell of what we have found.” He gasped, forcing the words out with his last breath. “Do not try to retrieve the relic. God has decreed it is not yet time to do so.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Willum Smoot peered out the window of his two-passenger helicopter as he banked toward the winter sun rising over the Arizona foothills. Below, just cresting a ridgeline, a cluster of hikers scampered for cover. Willum made out a handful of kids and a few adults—probably a family of illegals hoping for a better life than the one they had just abandoned in Mexico. Good luck with that.

  Circling back, he swooped in lower for a better look. Yup, Mexicans. Nine of them, their entire lives stuffed into plastic bags and vinyl suitcases. If they died out here, or were killed, nobody would miss them. They looked up, fearful, the copter now barreling toward them on the mountain ridge. A man, probably the father, shouted instructions. Willum steered the copter directly at him.

  The Mexican knew nothing about Willum—his time in prison, his belief in the pending collapse of society, his decision to move to a fortified desert compound. Five minutes ago Willum never existed, and after today—assuming he made it out of the desert alive—the man would never see Willum again. But now, at this moment, the copter plunging toward him and the bearded, crazy-eyed pilot in its cockpit were the very center of his universe.

  The man took a deep breath and raised himself up, ready to accept the full brunt of whatever Willum intended to throw at him. Down the slope, crouched behind a boulder, a dark-haired woman reached out to her man, fingers clawing at the air.

  Shifting his bulk as best he could in the tight confines, Willum reached behind his seat and grabbed one of the half-dozen tightly-bundled canvas packs he kept on board. Aiming carefully, now only fifty feet above the ground, he tossed the bag out the open doorway. “Welcome to America,” he mouthed, knowing his voice would be drowned out by the sound of the copter. The pack thumped to the ground, bounced and came to rest a few yards from the man.

  The Mexican’s first reaction was to recoil from the balding hulk of a man tossing things from the sky. But Willum knew the man’s curiosity, and perhaps desperation, would win out and he would cautiously approach the pack. He would probably probe it with a stick, perhaps nudge it with his toe. But, eventually, hands shaking, he would reach down, unclasp the buckle and slowly fold back the flap…

  Willum wished he could stick around to see his reaction, see his eyes grow wide. He would look skyward, find the retreating copter on the horizon and wonder about the crazy copter pilot who delivered care packages from the heavens—water, trail mix, a couple of blankets, even a few hundred bucks in cash.

  Everyone deserved a chance at a better life. And shame on his government for treating these people like criminals.

  Good deed done, Willum turned his attention back to his mission. He banked the copter to his right, using the morning sun as a
spotlight to illuminate the crags and nooks along the east-facing peaks. Was it possible that hidden in these hills rested a golden chest, presumably filled with some kind of treasure?

  Common sense told him it was unlikely. And it was even more unlikely that an aging, overweight ex-con who happened to be a whiz in chemistry would be the one to find it. Yet Willum couldn’t shake from his memory the dying words of his jailhouse cellmate.

  “It’s up there, Willum,” Boone had said. “Up in the Mustang Mountains. My great-granddaddy used to prospect in those hills, and he swears he saw it. He and another fellow. He drew a picture of it.” Boone had lifted a shaky hand up to the narrow shelf above his bed, removed a manila envelope from a cigar box, pulled out a brownish and crinkly piece of paper and handed it to Willum. Other than its age, there was nothing remarkable about the drawing—a simple rectangular chest with a pair of long poles passing through eyelets on either side of the chest, apparently to carry it.

  Boone had continued. “When my great-granddaddy’s buddy reached out to open it, it electrocuted him. Killed him dead. Almost like magic.” The old man had sat up a little. “My great-granddaddy said God was protecting it, didn’t want anyone to take it from the mountains. I tell you what: If I get to heaven, I’ll ask the Good Lord. If he says it’s okay, I’ll come back and guide you to it.” Boone had smiled, probably for the last time in his life. “And I get half.”

  Willum had bunked with Boone for almost two years, and he was pretty sure the old con man wasn’t going to heaven. But the dying Boone had nothing to gain by sending Willum on a quixotic quest. Boone really believed the golden chest was up in those hills. Was he right? Well, a treasure chest was not the kind of thing one could just walk away from. At least Willum couldn’t. And, fortunately, he was at a time in his life where he could indulge in some harmless treasure-hunting. The government had taken a huge chunk of his fortune, but not all of it, and he had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.