“Morgan, how lovely to hear from you,” Ben said as he answered on the second ring, the tiny video screen filling with his old face. Morgan smiled to see him, for after her own father died, he had become the person she most trusted. He was also one of the most learned of her colleagues, and even though ARKANE had powerful databases, Ben had the benefit of many decades on earth, his mind a catalogue of things never written down.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ben, I know it’s still early there.”
“Anytime, you know that. I’ve been worried since I found out that you discharged yourself from the hospital early. Now it looks like you’re gadding about on another mission. What’s going on?”
Ben was frowning with concern and Morgan could feel his eyes searching her own for the truth. He had a past with ARKANE, and she knew that he disapproved of her working for them. He had been attacked during the hunt for the Pentecost stones, but he continued to help her. Theirs was a bond not easily broken.
Morgan told him about the hunt for the Ark, and what they had found so far, omitting the X-rated details of sex and violence that had happened along the way. Ben was intrigued, as she had known he would be, for what theologian could resist the Ark of the Covenant?
“I’ve been watching the news from Israel, of course,” Ben said. “There’s been an escalation of violence in the past few days, but I had no idea that this was behind it. What do you need from me?”
“I’m emailing you the file Martin compiled which links the Ark with the British Freemasons. I wondered if you could have a look while I’m in the air, and if there’s anything you can think of, let me know. We don’t have much time, because the Peace Summit signing is tomorrow and that’s the deadline for the appearance of the Ark in Jerusalem. Martin has been trawling the databases, but you know how secretive the Masons are.”
Ben nodded, as he wrote something on the pad beside his computer.
“I might know just the person who could help us, Morgan. Come home now and I’ll meet you in London this afternoon. It’s only a short train ride and I could do with getting out of the College.”
After the call ended, Morgan took two more heavy painkillers and reclined her chair backwards to get a few more hours’ sleep before landing. Her body was on the edge of collapse, but her drive to see Natasha stopped and violence in Jerusalem avoided would keep her going just a bit longer.
London, England. 3.23pm
Commuters hurried through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, their hurried footsteps beating the pulse of London as they rushed between the offices of Holborn and Aldwych. Father Ben Costanza was past the age of swift movement so Morgan held his arm and they strolled along the street behind the park. He had insisted that they alight from the taxi on Kingsway so that they could walk a little, but she was shocked to find him so slow. The last few months had taken a toll on them both.
Ben breathed heavily as he shuffled along but his eyes were bright and alert as he looked around at the old buildings. The large public square had once been part of fashionable London in the eighteenth century, when great men lived in the townhouses. Now the barristers’ chambers, the London School of Economics and the Royal College of Surgeons made the square an academic oasis in a city of hedonism and wealth.
“It’s not far now,” Ben pointed down the street. “Number 12 and 13, the Sir John Soane Museum.”
At the pace they were walking, they had some time yet and Morgan wanted to know more about the connection Ben had uncovered.
“Tell me more about John Soane,” she asked. “Who was he?”
“Born in 1753, he was the son of a humble bricklayer and yet rose to become one of England's greatest architects. He was Architect to the Bank of England and the Office of Works, so he was responsible for the government and royal buildings in Whitehall and Westminster. Soane was also a great collector and spent his wife’s fortune on acquiring sculpture, paintings and objects of beauty from around the world, storing them here in a house he converted to his particular needs.”
“And what is the connection to Sebastian Northbrook?”
“Sir Sebastian, my dear. He’s quite particular about that.”
Morgan nodded, with a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll watch my manners.”
“Sir Sebastian is the current Curator of the Museum, but it’s a little known fact that he’s also the heir to the fortune, or at least he would be if it hadn’t been given to the nation in an Act of Parliament in 1833. Soane gave directions that the house must be kept as he left it so Sebastian can’t touch the wealth. However, the Act was a great thing, as Soane’s collection has been left intact and you’ll find the place a treasure trove. I’ll have to drag you back out when it’s time to leave.”
Ben laughed, his levity making Morgan smile. They were still under a tight deadline but this was a moment to savor their friendship and enjoy a little adventure together. Ben continued.
“There are secrets at the Soane house and Sebastian knows of many that are kept from the official records. I first came here almost 30 years ago to research some ancient texts and we spent a good many hours drinking Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac under the watchful eyes of the Lares, the gods of the house.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “All in the name of research, I presume?”
“God loves to watch old friends enjoying the fruits of the vine together,” Ben said, smiling. “We solved many mysteries of the Universe during that time. Although we haven’t seen each other much recently, there are things we spoke about under the blessing of that golden liquid that suggest Sebastian knows something about the Ark so it’s time to call in a few favors. Here we are.”
The house was only distinguishable from the others in the row by the plaque on the gate announcing the entrance to the Museum. It was a terraced house with high, arched windows, its white facade enhanced by partial columns in the Grecian style, while statues on the third level balcony stared down with disdain at the mortals beneath. Ben raised the brass knocker on the heavy door. As he let it fall, the door opened inward.
“Benjamin, Benjamin, it’s been so long, my friend. Come in, come in.”
Sir Sebastian Northbrook was thin and angular, exquisitely turned out, his white hair combed back with a side parting he had probably worn since his days at Eton and Oxford. He was exactly what Morgan would have expected from a British aristocrat. “And you must be Dr Morgan Sierra.” He waved them in.
“Sir Sebastian.” Morgan held out her hand, but he pulled her into a brief embrace.
“No need to stand on ceremony, my dear,” he said. “Benjamin tells me you’re practically family, so welcome to my home, or at least it is my home until the public come back tomorrow.” He sighed and Morgan caught a glimmer of the frustration born of years living with this strange arrangement. “Come and see the place.”
They entered through the study, the walls a rich Pompeiian red, ringed by bookcases stacked with leather bound first editions. Morgan noticed the antique chairs that bordered the room, each with a thistle on the seat as a way to discourage tourists from resting on the precious pieces.
“Come through. I know you have some classical education Morgan, so you’ll love it here.”
Sebastian pulled open a pair of narrow doors at the back of the salon to reveal a tiny corridor lined with pictures, engravings and paintings. It was lit with skylights cut into the walls and ceiling. Outside the window, a rectangular courtyard with classical sculpture and a water garden was reminiscent of a Roman villa.
The corridor emerged into a gallery, packed from floor to coffered ceiling with classical statues, casts of busts, original sculptures and objects from every historical era. Morgan gaped at the scene. Here was the goddess Sekhmet, a lion-headed stone figure that looked out over the riot of antiquities. There were slave manacles, rusty and worn, as if hacked from the body of the non-person inside them. Chinese dragon dogs played alongside basalt obelisks and a black marble head of Jupiter, six times life-size, gazed out with unfathomable eyes. A huge statue of Apollo looked down into the basement below, while relief friezes of conquest lined the walls about the god.
It was a labyrinth of early civilization, laid out in some kind of chaotic order, but her sense was of being overwhelmed. The brain was unable to process the sheer number of antiquities, the eye given no obvious place to linger in the face of so much choice. Morgan felt an urge to forget the Ark quest and immerse herself in this well of culture instead. To any lover of the classics, this was a kind of heaven.
“Is this all real?” she asked, well aware that the British of the Empire had done much salvaging of artifacts from throughout the world, some of it gathered through official means, kept safe and of benefit to future generations, but much of it ill-gotten and looted.
“Soane was a man who always got what he wanted,” said Sebastian. “But sometimes all he wanted was a cast, so many of the moldings you see are casts from the original. He was a poet of architecture, enamored of the Egyptian, Greek and Roman empires in particular. The juxtaposition of the objects here was calculated to produce a particular impression. Architecture was, for him, the queen of the fine arts, with painting and sculpture as her handmaids. Together they combine, and this place showcases his vision of the mighty powers of music, poetry and allegory. But come downstairs to the basement and see the real jewel.”
Sebastian slipped down some stairs, hidden behind yet more classical sculpture.
“I’ll remain here, it’s too steep for me” Ben said. “I can hear you from the balcony. Go on.” He indicated that Morgan should follow.
She descended into semi-darkness, but as her eyes adjusted she saw that the basement was crowded with yet more precious objects. Pale natural light streamed in through the skillful use of light wells cut into the walls, both vertical and horizontal, reflected in a series of mirrors. On sunny days, Morgan could see that the light would permeate into the nooks and crannies of this basement, alighting on the faces of long dead gods frozen in stone for centuries. Today, clouds muted the light, giving a ghostly pall to the figures within. Morgan startled a little as she passed a skeleton hanging in a closet, its bones a fused androgyny of male and female in a sculpted abomination.
“Where are you, my dear?” Sebastian’s voice called as Morgan rounded the corner. In front of her was a giant sarcophagus, carved from creamy alabaster. “Behold the sarcophagus of Seti I, purchased by Soane when the British Museum declined it because of lack of funding.”
“Gorgeous, isn’t it.” Ben’s voice came from above and Morgan looked up to see him gazing down into the sarcophagus from the classical balcony above. “Inside is a carving of the goddess Nut, who ruled the sky and the night. She protected the dead as they entered the afterlife and was the barrier separating chaos from order in the world.”
Morgan ran her fingers over the hieroglyphics carved on the inside of the sarcophagus. She wished for a moment that Khal was here with her, for he would know what these words meant. Sebastian pointed inside.
“It’s the story of the soul’s passage to the underworld. I wanted to show you the place so that you would understand what the past meant to Soane.”
Morgan nodded.
“He was clearly obsessed with the classical world and ancient civilizations, so did that carry through to an interest in the Ark?”
“Soane was a Freemason,” Ben’s voice again came from above.
“And not just any Freemason,” Sebastian continued. “He was the Grand Superintendent of Works for the Freemasons during the height of his architectural powers in London. The United Grand Lodge of England is just around the corner, and he was instrumental in remodeling the hall and kitchens, but he also designed an Ark of the Covenant to be used in ceremonies. It’s nothing like the biblical Ark in design but it was constructed for a secret purpose and officially it was destroyed during the great fire of 1883.” Sebastian paused. “But I know it is still kept hidden in the heart of the Lodge and I can tell you where.”
United Grand Lodge of England, London. 4.48pm
Morgan stared up at the imposing facade of the Grand Lodge of England, whose Grand Masters were always from the Royal Family. Art Deco tiers rose towards the London sky in memory of those Freemasons who had fallen in World War Two. It was an ivory mausoleum housing not a secret society, but a society with secrets. Surprisingly, the building was open to the public, with tours that ran several times daily, assuaging the need to see inside a place that had engendered so many myths.
Morgan entered and registered for the 5pm tour, walking up the wide staircase to the first floor where the library and museum were waiting to be explored. She felt strange without her gun, but the security measures meant she needed to enter clean.
She distracted herself by looking around for hints of what lay within this place. She saw door handles featuring the six pointed star of David, the seal of Solomon, and stained glass windows displaying the Latin motto, ‘avdi vide tace’, meaning ‘Hear, See, Be Silent’. Morgan knew that conspiracy theories were rife about the Freemasons, but the top echelons of the organization were silent indeed, so was it possible that she could find one of their greatest secrets tonight?