The 13th Pillar

Minnesota

Copyright © 2012 William F. Mann

ISBN 978-0-87839-602-3

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: December 2012

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

www.northstarpress.com

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Dedication

To Marie, William, and Thomas,

for their inner strength and love

Acknowledgements

This novel is another one of those carved stones in a multi-storied building that may never be completed. Indeed, it could very well be the keystone to it all. Building upon a richly layered composition created through the real application of signs, seals and tokens by such true initiates as the renaissance masters, Nicolas Poussin and David Teniers the Younger, The 13th Pillar presents a fabric of intrigue first woven by the Sovereign Order of the Knights Templar and the Norse and Davidic families who first came together in Normandy in the eleventh century a.d.

Following in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark across the vast American wilderness, the modern-day explorers entered another world, where Native North American traditions and ceremonies most certainly mixed with earlier European Masonic rituals and customs amongst the shadows and dancing light of the fire.

It is also most appropriate that this novel is first published during the 200th anniversary of the War of 1812, when the American indigenous people and their British allies so desperately sought to take back what they believed was rightfully theirs.

As such, when creating a novel of this nature, an author is required to immerse himself into the pages so deeply that at times he forgets to acknowledge those most dear to him. I, therefore, wish to first and foremost acknowledge the inner light and warmth of Marie, my wife, without whose support and critique, this novel would never have taken shape. I also wish to thank my two sons, William and Thomas, for allowing their father to escape at times into what they refer to as his other world.

Many friends and close family members also deserve a fair amount of credit in providing much-needed outside feedback to the many earlier editions. Included in this group are Niven Sinclair and Steve St. Clair, John and Cheryl Fitzgibbon, Vicki Derouville and Rob Mann, Scott and Janet Wolter, Joe and Marla Clark, George and Carina Karski, Mark and Wendy Phillips, and Michael Thrasher. Without good friends and family, this novel, and life in general, would never be complete.

Thanks must also go to the Louvre Museum in Paris, the Trustees of the Chatsworth Settlement, the Trustees of the Dulwich Picture Gallery, the National Gallery, London, the National Museum of Scotland, the Ashmoleum Museum, the Cluny Museum, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Cloisters Museum, the University of Toronto Press, the Staatliche Museum in Berlin, and the U.S. Library of Congress for their kind and generous research assistance and various use of copyrighted materials.

Along these lines, it must be noted that the hand-drawn illustration on the back cover of The 13th Pillar has been produced by the author himself and is the copyrighted intellectual property of the author. As to how it developed in the author’s mind, readers will have to delve into that other world for themselves.

It must also be noted that all latitudinal and longitudinal positions stated in this book have been verified through Microsoft’s TerraServer USA, which is sponsored by the USGS.

Finally, I wish to thank the staff at North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc, specifically Corinne, Seal, Anne, and Brandon. Their editing and publishing skills have created a wonderful, fast-paced adventure novel, which will surely cause many to pause and think. Some readers will most definitely ask the question: How much truth is contained within the novel? That is truly for the reader to decide.

The clue is to always look beyond!

One

8:30 a.m. • 10 days ago

The White House • Washington, D.C.

President Helen Jefferson-Rose, the first female president of the United States, stood in the Oval Office gazing out the bay window, her hands entwined behind her back.

Sitting opposite her desk, wearing identical expressions, were the only two men she completely and absolutely trusted—her husband, William Rose, and the director of the Secret Service, George Artowski.

The two men waited for the president to make the first comment.

The Antient Meridians! President Jefferson-Rose murmured. Now there’s a term I’ve never heard before. I never thought in my wildest dreams, I’d ever see that as the subject of a top-secret presidential file.

Artowski cleared his throat. When the president didn’t comment, he said, To be fair, Madam President, the file was first compiled by George Washington himself and was considerably added to by your own great-great-great grandfather, Thomas Jefferson. It seems to me to be more than mere coincidence it’s been handed down to you.

The president turned to face the two men, looking from one to the other. Tell me something: Why is the file labeled ‘Antient’ instead of ‘Ancient’? What’s the reason for the spelling difference?

Her husband spoke up quickly. You’re aware that Francis Bacon was one of the leading scientists and Utopian freethinkers of his time?

Yes, Helen said firmly and with an element of we’ve been here before in her voice, not wanting to encourage him to go into a long history lesson just so she could get an answer.

Well, he was a practicing alchemist, mystic, hermetic philosopher, and chancellor of England during King James I—the Scottish Stewart King. There’s evidence Bacon was part of a secret society—

Yes, yes, the Knights Templar. Please make this short, Bill.

Well, it was known as the Order of the Rose Croix, or Rosicrucian, for short. Bill paused, his eyes locked on Helen’s. She sighed, and he continued. "In The New Atlantis, published in 1627, Bacon writes of an ‘Island Solomon House … in a New Jerusalem … whereby concealed treasures now utterly lost to mankind shall be confined to so universal a piety.’"

Bill … President Helen said, her patient wearing thin.

Bill nodded rapidly and finished quickly. He theorized that the original treasure of the Temple—the original wisdom—came from the ‘Antients,’ the race that existed before the Great Flood, and that this wisdom was preserved on brick and marble pillars that survived the flood.

That answered the president’s question. She nodded.

Then Bill said, We also need to tell you about something that happened just yesterday. It adds to the overall mystery.

The president cocked her head and almost purred, What, pray tell, would that be?

Yesterday, at exactly noon, Paris time, America’s longtime ambassador to France, Michael St. Jean-LeNeuf, suffered a massive brain aneurism and died. We’re waiting for the autopsy, but we’re suspicious. We think he died of something more than natural causes.

Murdered? the president said. That’s a shame. He was such a gentle man.

What you may not know, my dear, Bill Rose said, is that George and Michael did three tours of Vietnam together as Navy Seals on special ops. Apparently, Michael was as much a warrior and hero as our George.

The president looked to her Secret Sevice director.

He always said he had big shoes to fill, George said quietly. His great-great-great grandfather, one Michel LeNeuf, fought for the Colonies during the Revolution and for Napoleon after that. Then he returned to America and was involved in a number of things, including the War of 1812.

The president said, There’s a brief mention of a Michel LeNeuf in the Antient Meridians file you handed me.

Bill Rose said, Well, that’s the thing. It’s one short line. Thomas Jefferson received a report from him noting the sad news that Captain Meriwether Lewis had taken his own life.

The Lewis and Clark Lewis? The president’s eyes switched from Bill to George and then back to Bill.

Bill and George both nodded solemnly.

"George, let’s cut to the chase. I can see you both are working up some grand thesis on this, but I just don’t have the time. Give me the Reader’s Digest version," Helen said.

Well, George began, in 1784, Jefferson was appointed ambassador to France. Nothing’s ever been proven, but it appears he became a member of at least one secret society there because, when he returned to the States, it appears he came into possession of some sort of secret knowledge. We at least know that Jefferson became obsessed with everything from astronomy to native Indian legends.

Yes, yes. History has documented that Jefferson was definitely an esoteric scholar, Helen said. She sighed. It always took so long to get to the meat of a subject with these two.

George continued unabashed, It seems Jefferson somehow learned of the series of ‘antient longitudinal meridians’ established around the world well before Christ’s time. This knowledge would have been closely guarded because it allowed control of world trade. Rumors say these same meridians allowed King Solomon to gain immense quantities of gold, not from Africa, but from the New World.

President Helen quirked her mouth and rolled her eyes. Really, guys?

This knowledge was either lost or suppressed in early Christian times by the Romans and the early church, Bill said, jumping in. Some say it was lost when the Library of Alexandria burned or when Jerusalem was sacked in 70 ad by the Romans. We can skip forward a thousand years to when the knights of the Temple of Solomon excavated below the Holy Temple. These Knights Templar, as they came to be known, rediscovered this sacred knowledge, along with material treasure. For the next three hundred years, the Templars controlled the seas and formed the most advanced maritime fleet in the world at that time.

Hold on a minute. The president said, raising her hand. "Come on, guys. I’ve heard all this before. This is National Treasure fluff and coming straight out of Hollywood? Is this where you want to go? Really?"

You gotta admit it’s a great story, Bill said grinning. But within all the conjecture and speculation, I believe there’s a grain of truth to it.

Here’s something you may not have heard. George said. Shortly after Friday the 13th, 1307, the night that King Philippe of France conspired with Pope Clement X to eradicate the Knights Templar, groups of Templars popped up in all sorts of places—Denmark, England, Portugal, and Scotland.

Okay. What has that got to do with—?

A group of Templars sailed to Scotland, Bill said. Legend has it that major portions of the Templar treasure went with them. Legend also has it these same Knights Templar helped Robert the Bruce defeat the English in 1314 at the Battle of Bannockburn. In return, the knights were able to secure a sanctuary for the Temple in Scotland for at least the next one hundred years.

So, what’s the point? the president snapped impatiently. I have a Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting in ten minutes. If you two modern-day Masonic Knights Templar tell me you’re in possession of this ‘antient knowledge,’ then I swear I’ll shoot you both with George’s gun.

But, but, here’s something I know you don’t know, Bill said slowly in order for the full weight of the subject to be understood. In 1398 a.d., the hereditary grand master of the Scottish Knights Templar, a Prince Henry Sinclair, sailed to what is now Nova Scotia with five hundred of his trusted knights, some of their families, and a number of Cistercian monks, in order to extend their sanctuary into the New World.

The president stared at her husband. In 1398? A century before Columbus?

Bill nodded rapidly and continued merrily. "Supposedly, Sinclair, with his band of knights and support staff, including the Cistercian monks, who acted as clerks, and even women and children, moved inland after wintering in Nova Scotia. Over the years they established sanctuaries and permanent relationships within the Algonquin Nation, which once stretched from the eastern seaboard to the foothills of the Rockies. The final refuge of these Templars was their New Jerusalem. This is what Francis Bacon was alluding to in The New Atlantis."

Bill … President Jefferson-Rose said warningly. She looked again at her watch and shook her head. Five minutes more.

Out of these strategic relationships and liaisons were intermarriages and offspring, of course. And those people could claim they were descendents of the original Sinclair family.

Which is important … why? the president asked.

Bill grinned. The Sinclair family’s tied to the legend of the Holy Grail.

Helen rolled her eyes. "And now we’re up to The Da Vinci Code." The president shook her head.

Helen, you have to look beyond the far-out notion that direct descendents of Jesus Christ are running around today, Bill implored. "Think of the ‘antient knowledge’ Sinclair supposedly had in his possession. Native North American lore speaks of a wise old man who came from the east, dressed in garb similar to that of a Templar, who around 1400 ad traveled across North America teaching and learning about, among other things, the earth’s forces and a higher level of spirituality anyone could attain if they practiced the liberal arts and sciences. This wise old man supposedly rests in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, with the sacred knowledge. This is the point. This is what Thomas Jefferson really sent Lewis and Clark to find on their epic trek across America. And, not only were they to find Prince Henry Sinclair’s crypt, but the relics and hidden sacred knowledge of the earliest prophets who lay with him. "

Helen opened her mouth.

Masonic scholars have always speculated, George hurredly said, taking up the ball, that thirteen of the earliest prophets rest with Prince Henry Sinclair, and the Thirteenth Pillar is the one who provides the greatest knowledge because it relates to the thirteenth degree of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite. The thirteenth degree presents a moral allegory of when workmen discover a crypt some nine levels below the ruins of the First Temple in which a great secret is hidden.

Okay, okay, Helen said, holding up her hands. I can see you two have your teeth sunk deep into this stuff. Why are you so interested in this fairy tale all of a sudden?

Three reasons! George held up his fingers and counted. "First, a solar eclipse travels across the continent in ten days, and the sun is seen as the key to finding the crypt in some way. Second, during our stint in Vietnam, in a rather dark and hopeless moment, Michael St. Jean-LeNeuf confessed to me that he inherited some of Meriwether Lewis’s secret messages to Jefferson passed down through his family. He told me his family always maintained that Meriwether Lewis’s Masonic apron possessed documents—The Lewis Parchments, which alluded to what Captain Lewis secretly discovered. And, third and most important, we’ve just received information from our Masonic brothers in Canada that a Scottish and York Rite Mason with longstanding Templar family connections to the Order, going by the rather interesting name of Thomas Randolph, has unlocked the mystery. Coincidentally, in the early nineteenth century, a Thomas Mann Randolph was the son-in-law of Thomas Jefferson, having married his oldest daughter, Martha. We don’t know yet if there’s a direct family connection to this Randolph from Canada."

The expected knock on the door from the president’s executive assistant finally came, signalling the end to the discussion.

President Rose started walking around her desk but paused. She gave each man a measuring look. Okay, dig into it. I must go deal with the Palestinians, the Israelis, and the Syrians … and you two nuts want me to also disturb our Canadian neighbours. Great. But when you give me the follow-up to this nonsense, please, please, make it brief.

She smoothed her skirt and brushed the hair away from her face as she walked toward the door. And, my two precious knights, keep your quest quiet or I’ll deny I know either of you!

Two

8:00 a.m. • Nine days ago

Fairmont Royal York Hotel • Toronto, Canada

By good fortune, Thomas Randolph found himself right on time for his breakfast meeting and took the first available elevator up to the eleventh floor of the Fairmont Royal York Hotel. Curiously, no one else got on the elevator with him, even though the main lobby was packed.

At the ding and the number eleven glowed, and the doors to the elevator opened with a soft ping. A very large, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit and crew-cut hair stood in the hallway, half blocking his way. Thomas noticed the earpiece with the extending wire leading into the back of his suit jacket.

Thomas was certainly taken aback. What the heck’s going on? What’s this big monkey doing blocking my way?

Mr. Randolph? The gorilla-man said. This way please. Standard security sweep. Please empty your pockets. The man didn’t even extend his hand. Instead, he just stood there, stone-faced, like a gargoyle as Thomas hurredly complied. Your breakfast meeting is down the hall and to your right, suite eleven eleven. Someone will greet you and show you to the door.

That’s fine, stammered Thomas, as he made his way past the man, who made no effort whatsoever to give him any more room to maneuver than necessary.

The hallway was echoingly quiet, strange for such a large and well-attended hotel. Has the whole floor been cleared? Thomas wondered.

Rounding the corner of the hallway, Thomas saw almost a twin to the man at the elevator—the same stocky build, ill-fitting black suit, and cropped hair with matching earpiece. Who the heck am I meeting for breakfast?

Thomas came to an halt in front of the second giant, who said, Mr. Randolph? If you would follow me, sir. Your party is waiting.

Thomas followed, assuming if he diverted in any manner that he might be shot or thrown out the nearest window.

As they came to the double doors of suite 1111, the guard lightly knocked three times, then opened the right door to usher Thomas in.

Thomas found himself standing before two men slightly older than himself and smartly dressed in well-tailored dark suits. They were sitting on settees arrangement before a huge fireplace with a gilded mirror above it. Both poured over a file spread on the oversized coffee table between them.

As the first man looked up, Thomas thought he looked somewhat familiar. Thomas immediately warmed to his smile as the red-headed man stood to cross the floor to greet him, warmly taking his hand. The second gentleman, in his early sixties, judging from his gray hair and lines around the ice-blue eyes, possessed the build and raw energy of a starting linebacker. His handshake came close to crushing Thomas’s hand.

Brother Thomas? The one with the red hair said. I’m Bill Rose. Maybe you recognized me already because of my famous wife, the president of the United States. Thomas stared at him, awestruck. And this fellow is the director of the Secret Service, George Artowski. He’s also currently the grand master for the state of Minnesota, but we don’t let this go to his already rather large head.

George Artowski said, We’re all Scottish and York Rite Masons and Masonic Knights Templar here, and we’re delighted you could find the time to meet with us to discuss some common interests. You come highly recommended.

In other words, George thoroughly checked you out. Bill Rose laughed. On a more solemn note, we’re sorry to learn that your wife passed away recently.

Thank you, answered Thomas.

Please, sit, said George. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering breakfast, which should be here any second.

Bill Rose pointed rather to the nearest couch.

Just then, the same three knocks came. It softly opened without delay and a nondescript, uniformed waiter entered, pushing a large silver cart laden with the usual breakfast fare—juice, coffee, tea, and a huge platter of assorted muffins, fruit, bagels, and croissants and various toppings for them. George jumped up to marshal the cart, and the waiter departed as quietly as he had arrived, without once looking up.

Thomas was having trouble focusing. All he thought about at the moment was that two of the most powerful men in the world ate the same things for breakfast that he did.

George pushed the breakfast cart towards where the three men would be sitting. Suddenly he stopped, his attention seemingly fixed on the tea pot. All Thomas saw was that its lid was rather firmly in place. George said in a low voice, Bill, take Thomas and lock yourselves in the bathroom.

A gun suddenly appeared in George’s right hand as he flung open the door to the suite.

Bill had started to move immediately, though Thomas didn’t. Bill grabbed his elbow and hustled him across the room into the bathroom. Thomas, looking back, caught a glimpse of one of the huge guards propped up against the far wall, sitting with legs crossed, staring blankly across the hallway. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle, just a slightly odd, confused look on the obviously dead man’s face. If Bill hadn’t been pulling at him hard, Thomas probably wouldn’t have gotten into the bathroom at all.

Bill then shut and locked the bathroom door, blocking out the macabre scene. Bill quickly pulled Thomas to the back of the bathroom, as far from the door as possible. And, as this was a large suite, that meant going through a wash-up area with sinks, through a door to a tub and shower, and into the shower stall.

It was the various inner doors of that bathroom that saved them when, a few seconds later, the breakfast cart disintegrated in a blinding flash as the fragmentation device concealed under the linen detonated. The cart itself—thousands of tiny shards of hot metal—hurtled in all directions, embedding themselves into anything and everything, including going through some of the bathroom doors and walls.

Three

8:33 a.m. • Nine Days Ago

Fairmont Royal York Hotel • Toronto, Canada

It took exactly sixty-four seconds for the two back-up Secret Service teams to arrive. With their automatic pistols drawn, the two four-man teams secured the entire floor and were communicating with central command—a black van parked in the service alley behind the hotel—within another fifty-six seconds.

Two minutes—that’s all it took to restore order out of the chaos. Thomas shuddered, as he was tended to by a rather efficient-looking paramedic for a slight bump on his forehead he received while being half-dragged by Bill Rose into the bathroom. The paramedic assigned to the first team carried out his business with military precision, as Bill Rose stood over what was left of the suite’s doors lying on top of the unconscious body of George Artowski.

The man in charge of the back-up teams, Robert Ross, barked orders alternatively at the paramedics and to nobody in particular. At least that’s what it seemed to Thomas.

Bob Ross—mid-forties and slightly more slender than the standard Secret Service body-type—was, without mistake, in charge of the scene. By his order, the doors were lifted off George Artowski by two paramedics.

Unbecomingly, George was spread eagle with his head firmly buried in the lap of the dead agent sitting against the wall. Yet it took only a few seconds for the hulk to awake with a shudder and rise to his knees under his own power.

Thank God you’re alive, exclaimed Rose. You had me worried for a moment, you big ox! Are you okay?

Artowski sucked in a huge gulp of air. Just had the wind knocked out of me. The doors exploded outward. What was it? A fragmentation bomb?

Yes, sir, Robert Ross responded immediately. By the looks of it, the bomb was professional—small enough to conceal, and designed to use the cart to inflict maximum damage. I’d say the three of you are more than lucky to be alive.

Artowski had righted himself and was taking off his jacket with the help of the two paramedics. Thank you, Mr. Ross, for your candid and efficient observations. I take it the scene is secured and that the local authorities are on their way?

Ross immediately put his hand to his ear and responded in a clipped, military tone, Yes, sir, we estimate their arrival time at four and one-half minutes. What is your command?

My suggestion, Mr. Ross, Bill Rose said, is that the three of us along with your teams, who aren’t supposed to be here in the first place, leave immediately via the service elevator, and your paramedics stay and make the scene as plausible as possible. I think we’re going to have to stage the two dead agents in order to make it look like a construction accident. Do we know how they were killed?

It appears, sir, one of the paramedics said, that both of them were killed by a technique I’ve seen before, in Iraq. The killer stands at close quarters, usually conversing with his victim. He carries a concealed stiletto in one hand and quickly brings it up to the chin and thrusts the blade upward, so that it penetrates the soft underbelly of the chin, then the nasal cavity and into the brain—instant death—almost no blood, no sound.

Thomas was absolutely stunned at this rather casual explanation, but there was no time to absorb everything around him. Ross once again put his hand to his ear. The service elevator is secured, sir. It’s time to go!

Artowski, aided by one of the Secret Service agents, moved quickly down the hall. Thomas could tell that Artowski was trying to flex his shoulder blades, as if trying to work something out of his back. Thomas also noticed that Artowski’s gun had returned to its holster.

Two agents awaited the party’s arrival at the service elevator, expressionless but with their collapsible sub-machine guns still at the ready. As the elevator doors closed, the tension and nausea hit the pit of Thomas’s stomach.

Thomas could feel the eyes of the entire Secret Service team staring right through him, almost willing him to vomit or to try to run away.

The elevator jarred abruptly and the doors opened to a flurry of activity. Van side-doors with tinted windows flung open, and Thomas found himself half-flung into the third row seat along with Ross. The door shut as soon as Bill Rose and George Artowski deposited themselves in the middle row, and the convoy of three black vans pulled away, first to the end of the alley and then merging into normal traffic heading south.

Bill Rose let out a sigh and then spoke, once again with the calm, midwest accent that had greeted Thomas just moments before, "Mr. Ross, please inform the president there was a slight incident at the hotel, but that both George and I are fine and we’re returning immediately to the White House."

Thomas thought, What about me?

Bill Rose rather innocently responded to the silent question, Mr. Randolph, under the circumstances, not knowing yet who the real target was meant to be, may I suggest you fly back to Washington with us, since it might be the safest place for all three of us for the moment.

Thomas thought again a moment … So, it’s Mr. Randolph now. Am I suspected in some way? Once in the bowels of the White House, I won’t be able to escape even if I try. Of course, sir, he said, but I’m going to have to explain my absence at work. Thomas shifted his weight back and forth next to Bob Ross.

Bill Rose responded immediately with a casual wave of his hand, Don’t worry about that. It’ll all be taken care of … maybe a sudden death in the family or something of that nature. I seemed to have read from your file that you haven’t taken a holiday since your wife passed away. Your office’ll suspect you’ve finally met someone and flown off for a few days of romance.

What else is in that file he has on me? What’s going on here?

Just then a cell phone rang at the front of the van, and the agent riding shotgun examined the display and then passed it to Rose without comment.

Bill Rose eyed the display, gave a big sigh and flipped open the phone, pressed receive and then spoke. Yes, dear … now calm down … everything’s fine. We’re heading straight back to the airport. We’ll be home in less than two hours … yes … unfortunately, Tommy Webster and Brent Madison are both dead.

Two men dead. Thomas wanted to exit the van right then and there, even though it was picking up speed.

Yes, it was a fragmentation bomb, continued Rose. Apparently, according to Ross, quite sophisticated. Yes, everything will be kept under wraps.

Rose made a face with the next question posed to him. Unfortunately, yes. Well, it might just have had something to do with the file. George and I were meeting with this Randolph fellow we told you about when it took place. And, yes … once again, George saved my life.

Rose listened to the phone, the words not quite audible to Thomas.

Yes, dear, your precious George is fine. Perfectly. Okay, okay, he’ll have a bruise in the middle of his back for a day or two. Well, a door hit him. No, really, he’s fine.

George rolled his eyes at that comment.

It’s a long story, dearest. We’ll brief you when we arrive at the White House … yes, I love you too. Goodbye.

Rose hit disconnect and handed the phone back to the silent agent in the front seat who stared straight ahead. Then Rose lay back against the seat and closed his eyes. Thomas noticed