The God Machine (30 page)

“Priapic decadence?”

“Fertility rites. Orgies. More important, the club's members were plucked from the ruling elite. Dashwood was very rich. But unlike many of his peers—as the son
of a middle-class businessman, who had married into nobility—he supported the values of an upwardly mobile bourgeois.”

“No wonder he and Franklin became friends,” mused Sajan. “They were cut from the same cloth.”

“And Dashwood, as postmaster general, was Franklin's boss in Great Britain.”

Sajan looked out the window at the tall walls of the abbey. “Are you sure you don't want to go in?”

Koster shook his head. “There are conflicting reports,” he replied. “Some say that the Hell-Fire Club was originally based at Dashwood's home in West Wycombe, in a special room decorated as a Masonic temple, and then later in the caves that he dug in his gardens. According to some accounts, it was not until either 1751 or 1752 that he purchased Medmenham Abbey and converted the monastery into the club's base of operations. Others say it was the other way around—that the club started at the abbey and was then moved, following a fire, to the caves. It's unclear. But wherever they started, according to legend, the club held Black Masses and hired prostitutes dressed up as nuns.”

“Another reason Franklin was interested. Didn't he cavort with ‘low’ women?”

“Some think that William was the son of a prostitute. But no one knows for sure. Apparently, members of the club at one point included the Prince of Wales, the son of the Archbishop of Canterbury, the prime minister, the earls of Bute and of Sandwich, John Wilkes and Franklin himself. Wilkes was a radical MP, Mayor of London and a British representative of the Sons of Liberty, a group actively involved in key events surrounding the American Revolution, although their precise role remains a mystery to this day. As I said, the club kept no written records. What papers they did keep,
secretary-treasurer Whitehead burned just before he died.”

Koster looked over his shoulder. The road was finally clear. “Let's head on to West Wycombe,” he said. “If it still exists, what we're looking for should be there—in the caves. At least, that's how I interpret Whitehead's poem. Besides, it's where I told Lyman to meet us.”

I
T WAS JUST A SHORT DRIVE FROM
H
ENLEY TO
M
ARLOW, AND
then on to High Wycombe. As the Jaguar ate up the road, Koster filled in a few more details. The actual activities of the Hell-Fire Friars, he told Sajan, were unknown, though a mockery of Christianity in general and of the Pope in particular, combined with a good deal of sexual innuendo, seem to have set the tone for most of their ceremonies. Wilkes claimed they were Eleusinian mysteries, but who knows? Despite popular legends, said Koster, actual devil worship was not mentioned in any of the more trustworthy sources. Certainly, the local people at the time noticed nothing sinister—other than the periodic importation of women and liquor.

“It sounds like Hugh Hefner's grotto meets Skull and Bones,” Sajan said lightly.

They passed from village to village, and were soon tearing out of High Wycombe toward West Wycombe proper. Each time they hit a clear patch in the road, Sajan effortlessly accelerated to reckless speeds. She zoomed past a truck, swung back into her lane, and then
finally slowed down. “What's that?” she said, leaning forward, pointing up at a building on a hill just ahead.

“The Dashwood Mausoleum, I guess,” Koster answered. It was a giant flint structure, like a small coliseum, tangled in ivy. With its classical arches and porticos, it looked more like a fortress than a tomb. Each corner of the structure was crowned with a series of massive stone urns.

They continued down the road for a short distance when something else caught his eye. It glinted in the bright morning light. The Church of St. Lawrence. Koster glanced at the map to be sure. Located directly inside the banked enclosure of West Wycombe Camp, an Iron Age fortification, Dashwood had built it on the ruins of an old Norman tower. Interestingly, the church was exactly three hundred feet above the so-called Inner Temple, the deepest cave in the network. There, according to legend, the ‘mad monks’ had performed their mysterious rites.

As they rounded a bend in the road, at the foot of a hill, Koster noticed a sign for the caves. Sajan slowed the car to a crawl.

A neo-Gothic structure loomed up ahead, an arch really, backing up to a hill, with a ten-foot black wrought-iron fence in front. The walls of the buildings seemed to be crumbling, as if they had burned down in some terrible conflagration long ago. Then Koster realized that in all probability, the whole structure had been designed to look like a ruin. The buildings were lined up in a V, with a large gate at the base where the caves opened up. Several cars were parked to one side. On one arm of the V was a tea shop, and on the other what looked like a store. Sajan and Koster got out of the Jaguar and crossed the courtyard toward the store. They peered through the window. The shelves were jam-packed with knick-knacks and plastic curiosities—swords and flashlights
and bats. Mostly cheap Halloween crap. A few tourists lingered within. Sajan and Koster moved on toward the little café.

As soon as Koster opened the door, he could smell the sweet welcoming scent of brewed tea and buttered toast. Tables with plastic tablecloths were scattered about. There was a kind of a bar by the kitchen area. Nigel Lyman was sitting beside it, a mug in his hand. He was talking to a young girl with brown hair and a short tartan skirt. As soon as they entered, Lyman spied Koster and Sajan in the doorway. He climbed to his feet.

Koster watched as Lyman approached, as he smiled and threw out a wave. The former detective inspector looked good, Koster thought. The policeman had put on a few pounds, perhaps, but he still looked nimble and quick. He still walked in that grim, determined way that he had, as if pushing himself toward the future. His hair had grown grayer at the temples, and somewhat thinner on top, but otherwise he looked unchanged from the man he'd been more than fifteen years earlier. Suddenly, Koster felt old and decrepit. He stuck out his hand.

Lyman ignored it. Instead, he grabbed Koster by the shoulders and shook him. “Joseph,” he said with a broad smile. “By God, it's good to see you again. When you rang me…” He shook him again. He ran an arm around Koster's shoulders and squeezed.

“You look great,” Koster managed. “You haven't changed a bit. I hate you.”

Lyman laughed. It was good to see him laugh. In France, fifteen years earlier, he had not done a lot of laughing. And now, strangely enough, Koster laughed, too. It seemed to rise up out of nowhere. He hadn't expected it. He had feared that looking up his old friend would bring back dark memories. The last time they had seen each other, they had been standing outside Chartres
Cathedral, watching Mariane's body being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

“And this must be Savita Sajan,” Lyman added, finally pulling away.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said Koster. He introduced them and they shook hands.

For a moment, none of them said anything. Then, Lyman turned and motioned toward the tables. “How about a nice cup of tea?” he continued.

The girl came over and they all ordered tea and sandwiches. Lyman was starving, he declared. As soon as the waitress was gone, the detective inspector swiveled toward Koster. The smile fell from his face. “So, tell me, Joseph, what's wrong? What's going on?”

“A
ND YOU SAY IT WAS
R
OBINSON WHO GOT YOU STARTED ON
this quest?” Lyman asked Koster. The British detective had listened patiently as Koster brought him up to speed.

“Yes, I told you. Someone sent him Ben Franklin's journal. The one that was written in code.”

“And you don't find that suspicious?”

“What do you mean?”

“Robinson's the one who sent you to France all those years ago, isn't he? To work on that book on the Chartres cathedrals.”

“So what?”

“You must admit, it seems a bit odd. Do you trust him?”

“Of course I trust him. We've been friends for thirty-five years.”

“Where is this journal now?” Lyman asked.

“In a safe. In our hotel in London.”

Sajan lifted her hand. Seconds later, the girl with the tartan miniskirt returned with their sandwiches. They
waited until she had set up the table and gone back to the kitchen before continuing their discussion. “Why did you say that?” Sajan asked Lyman. “About Nick.”

“I was a policeman for almost forty years,” Lyman replied, looking down at the sandwiches. He took one, examined it closely and brought it up to his mouth. “I don't believe in coincidence.” He took a large bite. “I don't think he was honest with you—your publisher. I think he was involved from the start.”

Koster had suddenly lost his appetite. “Why didn't you say something before, if you thought this? Why now, after all these years?”

“It's not something you add as a postscript,” Lyman said, “on the flip side of a Happy Christmas card. We haven't exactly been the closest of friends, Joseph. You sent me those waders—which I still use, by the way. But, as you said, you and Nick… childhood friends. Who was I to call that into question? I'm just a policeman you met once on holiday. A retired policeman now, I might add.”

“Yeah, congratulations on that,” Koster said. His fingertips began drumming the tabletop.

Lyman smiled. “I wouldn't have said anything now, except that he seems to have dragged you into another one of his capers. The Gospel of Thomas. The Gospel of Judas. Honestly.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “I can't keep up. I'm retired now. I run a fishing-tackle shop outside Winchester.” He looked up at Sajan. “And what's your stake in all this, if you don't mind my asking?”

“I don't think you mind one iota. In fact, you probably miss it.” Sajan smiled her most luminous smile. “This art of the interrogation of yours. I'm Nick's friend,” she answered.

“That's what I thought.”

“All right, let me ask you something,” Sajan said.

Lyman kept chewing his sandwich. His gaze didn't waver.

“Do you think he ever got the Gospel of Thomas?”

Lyman smiled. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who, Robinson? Yes, I do. We never found it under Chartres, but the cement we were digging up seemed suspiciously fresh. I think someone got there before us. And if they did, you can bet that they sent whatever they found on to Robinson.”

Sajan didn't reply. She sat there, stirring her tea with a spoon.

“But you don't know for certain,” prodded Koster.

Lyman shook his head. “No, I don't. It's just a suspicion.”

“I thought so.” Koster leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Anyway, it's all moot now. Ancient history. I asked you here to help me find the second piece of Franklin's map.”

“If there is one,” said Lyman. “These caves have been here for a very long time. Thousands of people have toured them. What makes you think that you'll find something that someone else hasn't already discovered?”

Koster smiled. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a piece of paper and dropped it on the table before them. It was a copy of the first piece of the map, a printout from his digital camera. “Because I know where to look,” Koster said. “The line of poetry we decoded from the first piece of the map was written by the Club's secretary-treasurer, Whitehead. The full verse is,
‘Take twenty steps and rest awhile/Then take a pick and find the style/Where once I did my love beguile/′Twas twenty-two in Dashwood's time/Perhaps to hid this cell divine/Where lay my love in peace sublime.’”

“What does it mean?” Lyman asked, frowning.

“Did you notice the Church of St. Lawrence, built
over the cave system? The ceiling is a copy of the ruined Temple of the Sun at Palmyra. Dashwood wasn't just influenced by the ancient mysteries, but by the ancient sun cults as well. That got me thinking. Dashwood's library featured several books on the Kabala. In that tradition, the number twenty-two is linked to the number of paths between the various spheres of divine emanation in the Tree of Life. The poem talks about a secret passage rumored to be present near the number twenty-two. Such a cell in which a loved one sleeps is like the tomb of Venus, just like in the Rosicrucian literature. I'm sure that Dashwood was familiar with the story.”