The corridors reminded Morgan of a school, with function rooms off to the sides and great racks of coat stands for the thousands of members who would attend the Grand Temple on certain occasions. The toilets were unisex, reminding her that mainstream Masonic lodges didn’t allow women, although there were women working in the Library and Museum, as well as within charities administered by the Masons.
Freemasonry was rooted in the architectural symbolism of the stonemason, and Morgan recognized many of the motifs in the regalia displayed in the museum, the square and compasses most commonly seen. Judaeo-Christian images were dominant in the articles of ceremony on show in the museum, and Morgan knew that one of the fundamental requirements of the Masons was a belief in a Supreme Being.
The Museum was carefully organized with swords and ritual objects in glass cases, as well as paintings and wax figures of the previous Grand Masters. Banners and standards hung from the balconies above.
“All those on the 5pm tour, come closer please.”
The guide speaking was an older man with a Yorkshire accent. As he gathered the large group together, he spoke with pride but no arrogance, explaining how the Grand Lodge had come into being when the disparate Lodges in England had joined together. He described the architecture of the building, built with a steel frame and deep foundations so that it would continue to stand even in disaster as a fitting memorial to the soldiers who perished in war.
The guide pointed out of the window so they could look down on the triangular garden, before leading them through some preparation rooms to a high-ceilinged lobby. Morgan noted that there was just one guide for the large group of around forty people, so clearly they didn’t expect any security issues.
“This is the entrance to the Grand Temple.”
The guide paused and Morgan looked up to a ceiling of gold leaf and blue diametric patterns, lit by a chandelier with arms shaped like the scrolls of the Torah. Glancing down, she could see that the floor was patterned with turquoise lapis lazuli, the blue of ancient Egypt and her thoughts flickered to Khal, now so far away.
“These doors each weigh 1700 kilograms,” the guide continued. “They are made of solid bronze, the panels representing the story of the building of the Temple of Solomon.”
Morgan gazed over the shoulders of others in the group and had to suppress a gasp, for the top left hand panel showed the Ark of the Covenant being carried into the Temple, as a priest lay prostate before it.
The other seven panels showed aspects of the building of Solomon’s Temple. Oxen and camels bore the materials needed for the structure as blocks and pillars were shifted into place by muscle-bound workers. Metal was poured into molds and women wove rich tapestries to hang over the divine sanctuary of the Holy of Holies. Priests carried the sacred menorah into the Temple, while children and worshippers sang and played instruments behind them.
Sheaves of corn flanked the door in pillars that rose to the ceiling, symbolizing new life and resurrection. Above the door the Hebrew character Yod, representing Jehovah, exuded rays of light that stretched to touch the twin globes of the celestial and terrestrial earth. It was a sensory overload of symbolism and Morgan’s mind raced as she realized how much was contained in just these panels.
“Welcome to the Grand Temple,” the guide said, as he swung open the heavy doors, revealing a huge open hall with a ceiling that stretched up at least sixty feet to a canopy of painted stars. The group walked in and sat in plush blue chairs facing the centre of the room. At first glance, it felt like a church or possibly a government chamber, but then Morgan started to notice symbols hidden in plain sight.
A carpet of black and white squares approached a dais on which sat the Grand Master’s throne. Around the ceiling was a mosaic frieze and above the Masonic throne was another depiction of the Ark of the Covenant. Two Ionic pillars were flanked by the figures of King Solomon and Hiram, the architect of the Temple. Between the pillars shone the golden Ark, with the wings of the Mercy seat and the carrying poles clearly defined. From the Ark, Jacob’s Ladder stretched to heaven towards the Hebrew letter Yod contained in a sunburst of bright gold. On the ladder were the symbols of the Volume of Sacred Law as well as the cross for faith, the anchor for hope and the burning heart for charity. Morgan was amazed at the detail of the mosaic and tuned back in to listen to the guide’s commentary.
“The Ark of the Covenant reveals God’s promise to David,” he said, “and it is through that promise that we receive God’s continued mercy for our many sins. It is the reason that Solomon’s Temple was built.”
As she glanced around the room, Morgan saw more evidence of the influence of Judaism as well as of paganism and other faiths. On the frieze above, Helios the sun god rode across the sky while the All Seeing Eye of the Almighty looked down upon the crowd. The alchemical ouroboros was displayed, the snake eating its own tail in a never-ending, perfect circle of infinity and rebirth. Above her, the six pointed Star of David, the seal of Solomon, dominated the frieze.
Morgan noted that behind the throne to the left was a door behind which Sebastian had said the Ark was now kept. Hidden in plain sight indeed. She looked away, not wanting her interest to be noted. It was a fascinating place and Morgan wanted to stay and soak up the atmosphere, but the tour would soon be over, so she had to make her move. She began to cough, gently at first and then with a wracking wheeze that almost became a retch. She stood up and waved apologetically to the guide as she made her way to the door, still coughing.
“Don’t worry,” the guide said, waving her out, “we’re almost done. Just go back to the library and they’ll get you some water.”
Slipping out the door, Morgan saw another couple of guides standing further down the corridor. Turning away, she continued to cough and made her way to the nearest bathroom.
Once inside, she pulled out her smartphone, navigating the plans as Martin had discovered that the modern bathrooms had been constructed with space above and behind for air to circulate and some of the ceiling tiles could be lifted. Morgan climbed up onto one of the toilets and pushed upwards on the tile. It didn’t move, so she tried the next one. That didn’t move either. Moving to the last stall, Morgan tried again and this time the tile shifted.
She breathed a sigh of relief for there were only a few minutes before the tour would be over. Martin would hack into the system and make sure her pass was tagged so it looked like she had left with the other visitors at the end of the day, but she couldn’t be caught in here.
She threw her small backpack into the space above and pulled herself up. She had just carefully replaced the tile over the hole as the bathroom door opened and she could hear the voices of other people. The door banged again soon after and she breathed more easily, for now all she had to do was wait.
DAY 7
Grand Lodge of England, 2.34am
Morgan had learned the skill of silent waiting without sleeping in the military. Nevertheless, lying in the dark regulating her breathing for hours had brought her to the brink of exhaustion. Sebastian had told her that the night shift consisted of low-level security guards, but Morgan had still wanted to wait until after 2am when the guards in the atrium would be sleepy and relaxed.
Stretching her muscles, Morgan eased the tile away and dropped down into the bathroom stall, pulling it back over to cover where she had been hiding. She switched on her pen torch, then pulled out a tiny microphone and put it in her ear. She tapped it twice.
“Morning, Morgan.” Martin’s voice yawned in her ear.
She tapped it twice again for she would only speak if really necessary. Martin was tracking her on the GPS through the building and he also had heat sensors of the guards, so he could warn her of anyone approaching. He had hacked into the security systems, looping them so that she could move undetected through the building.
They had decided to keep the incursion a secret from Director Marietti, mainly because they weren’t sure the Ark was really here, and given the time pressures, it was easier to seek forgiveness later than to ask for permission. Morgan had told Martin that the visit was for reconnaissance, and if she found the Ark, he would call Marietti to alert the official channels.
Morgan pulled open the bathroom door and listened. Nothing. She knew that the great bronze door to the Temple was held on special hinges so that it swung easily despite its massive weight, but first she had to locate the key. Sebastian had been a keeper of the key at one point in his Masonic career and he had told her that it was kept in the Museum. It was an antique, precious in its own right.
Morgan slipped into the atrium outside the Grand Temple, her tiny light picking out the gold leaf in the interlocking stars on the mosaic floor, and then the glint of bronze reflected from the gigantic door. She swiftly padded back through the corridors towards the Museum.
Entering quietly through the double doors, Morgan was struck by how crowded the space was. She shone her light around the gallery where the seats of the past Grand Masters sat regally, and paintings of men long dead stared back at her.
“It’s in a case under the standard with the parrots.” Martin’s voice seemed loud in the silence but Morgan knew it was only in her ear. “It’s officially Argent a Fesse Gules between three Parrots Vert, if you want the heraldry explanation. Belongs to the Earl of Scarborough, Grand Master in the 1950s, whose son …”
Morgan tapped her ear again, and Martin went quiet. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m excited to be out in the field with you.”
Morgan smiled and shone her torch at the banners hanging from the balcony, richly embroidered with the coats of arms of previous Grand Masters. Her torch illuminated three bright green parrots, strangely out of place against the dark wood that dominated the room. Underneath was a glass case.
“The case is locked from the top but should have a side panel that slides open,” Martin said softly.
Morgan shone her torch into the case, lighting a long, ornate key decorated in Art Deco style with lilies on flowing water. She felt along the side of the case and it slid open, the mechanism so smooth it was clearly used every day. She reached in and took the key. It was heavy and cold, awkward in her hand. Closing the case, she tapped her mic gently and headed back towards the Grand Temple. So far, so good, Morgan thought, daring to hope that the next steps would go as smoothly.
She walked back to the Temple through corridors pooled with moonlight colored by the stained glass windows. Morgan turned off her torch and paused a moment, listening to the silence. She felt a touch of the sacred there, a sense of faith and belief that permeated the building. One of the windows showed a woman portrayed in glass mosaic, the embodiment of charity. Despite the fact that mainstream Lodges didn’t accept women, they certainly had a place here.
“Are you okay?” Martin’s voice came in her ear, interrupting her thoughts. Morgan tapped her mic gently and moved towards the great doors of the Temple, suddenly feeling as if she was trespassing, an outsider breaching a sacred place. Forgive us our sins, she thought and fitted the key into a keyhole totally out of scale with the gigantic bronze doors. She looked up at the top left panel, the Ark of the Covenant resplendent as it entered Solomon’s Temple surrounded by priests. How much of this was allegory, she wondered, and how much was truth altered by time? Morgan turned the key and pushed.
The door swung open silently, a portal to the inner Temple. She stepped inside, edging the door shut behind her, feeling tiny in the giant space. Her torchlight didn’t reach the ceiling, but moonlight flooded through one side of the hall through tall stained glass depicting rays streaming from heaven to the blue earth. Morgan took a deep breath and approached the throne of the Grand Master, resplendent in the centre of a dais at the front of the room. It was an ornate gold monstrosity, the type of archetypal throne a child would draw for a King in a fairy story. Above it was a canopy of gold, and on either side two lower chairs of yellow and blue brocade.
She moved to the throne as Sebastian had said there was a key to the inner sanctum in the Master’s chest which sat in front of the throne. It was shaped like an altar, with the Egyptian uraeus, stylized cobra heads, on each side. Morgan gripped the heads and lifted.
The chest swung open to reveal the tools of the Grand Master lying inside, embedded in a blue velvet tray designed to fit snugly within. Each tool was highly decorated and embossed with gold filigree. The square and compasses, which Morgan knew to represent virtue and wisdom of conduct, the trowel for spreading the cement of kindness between brothers, and the gavel as emblem of authority. Morgan picked up the gavel and hefted its weight. It was surprisingly heavy for something symbolic. She gazed down at the other tools, wondering what they were used for, but nothing seemed sinister despite the reputation of the Masons.
“Have you found the key?” Martin’s voice was insistent in her ear.
Morgan replaced the gavel and lifted the tray out of the chest completely, revealing another layer beneath with tools of ancient wood laid on a piece of chestnut colored leather. In the middle was a key, in itself quite normal looking, but the way it was placed, surrounded by sacred objects, demonstrated its importance.