The God Machine (17 page)

“One day, in order to keep himself awake in the Assembly, Franklin drew up a box just like this. He filled it with a random collection of numbers.” Koster did so as well.

“Franklin noticed,” said Koster, “that when he added the numbers in the first row, they equaled fifteen. And when he added the numbers in the first column, they also equaled fifteen. So, he wondered if he could fashion a square where the numbers in any given column or row would add up to fifteen, even diagonally.
‘On any path,’
as Franklin says in his letter to Mme. Helvétius.”

Koster erased the numbers in the box he had drawn. Then he replaced them with new ones. “After a while, he figured out how to do it—the pattern. He called it his ‘magic square.’ See.”

Koster looked up excitedly. “The journal Nick gave to me. The lines in it were clustered in long sets of three.”

Sajan came around the desk and looked over his shoulder. He could smell the scent she was wearing. It was earthy yet delicate, like a whisper of jasmine at midnight. Then it was gone.

“But Franklin's letter,” she said, “the one that he sent to Madame Helvétius—didn't it say,
‘Sums of twelve,’
not fifteen?”

“I know,” answered Koster. “But if you use twelve as the total, it's still the same pattern. The transposition of numbers is identical. You simply start with a zero. ‘To eight from naught.’ Look.” And he drew a new square.

“By corresponding each block of numbers to the letters in Ben Franklin's journal, and by leveraging the same transposition, the lines should start to make sense. Did Nick send you a copy?”

“He said he was afraid to make copies.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“Who knows? The competition, perhaps. Other publishers.”

“Well, I have the original,” said Koster. “Let me get it.”

He went back to the guest room and retrieved Franklin's journal from his computer bag under his bed. Once again, the music and lighting and temperature toggled as he moved through the house. Even the length of the shag in the carpeting shifted, each nylon strand slithering just under his feet, like synthetic worms. As he left the room, he hesitated for a moment in the doorway. Then, with a sigh, he plucked the small metal pin from his jacket and tossed it back on the bed.

S
AJAN WAS ASKING
F
LORA TO PREPARE A LIGHT LUNCH WHEN
Koster returned to the living room. The housekeeper bustled off and Sajan sat down at the desk, waiting for Koster to join her. As he approached, as he saw her silhouetted against the view of the valley, as he looked into her almond-shaped eyes, he felt a stirring inside him. But that, of course, was absurd. It was just his excitement, he told himself, over unraveling the letter to Mme. Helvétius. It was the Masonic code that compelled him. Nothing more.

He put the journal on the desk and Sajan leaned over to read it. He watched as her eyes scanned the lines, as she flipped through the pages, one by one. He studied the tips of her slender brown fingers. And there was that perfume again.

“In long sets of three,” she exclaimed. “As you said.”

“Except for this reference to the Gospel of Judas.” He showed her the page.

“No, wait. Start at the front. Use the magic square transposition.”

Koster flipped to the front of the volume. He studied the first page. He blocked out the first nine letters in his mind and began flipping them. The one at the top in the center, where the sequence began, he moved down to the lower right box. He worked in this way for a minute or so, following the defined transposition, jotting his transcription on a pad.
I… H… A
. As he translated each letter, he grew more and more excited. It was starting to form into words. And the words into sentences. He sat back and read what he had.

“‘I have been forced to rend my Map into three, and to hide the three pieces away…’”
Koster looked up at Sajan. She was beaming.

“It works,” she said, reaching out suddenly and kissing his cheek.

Koster blushed, pulled away. “I… Thanks to you, I guess. You're the one who made me think of Franklin's magic squares.”

Flora suddenly reappeared with some sandwiches. “Shall I set up the table?” she asked them.

“No, we'll eat here,” they both answered in unison. Then they looked at each other and laughed. Flora set down their sandwiches on the desk.

Koster took one bite of his BLT—one of his predefined preferences—and then got back to work. He took the next block of nine letters. He ran through the same transposition. Slowly but surely, the words tumbled out. He worked in this manner for hours, until the late afternoon. It was nigh onto five when he got up and stretched.

“What do we have so far?” Sajan asked, reappearing beside him. She must have stepped away for a moment without his realizing it.

“It's a little bit convoluted, but the best I can make out is Franklin's talking about the Gospel of Judas. He says it will help
‘open a doorway’
to some higher truth. Sometimes he refers to it as the
‘heart of the God machine.’
I'm not sure. It's confusing. One thing I'm certain, though—there was a robbery in his house in Philadelphia by an agent of a group called the Knights of Malta.”

“The Knights of Malta! You're sure?”

“That's what it says. They're a Catholic order, dating back to the time of the Crusades. The twelfth century. They're some sort of charity now, I believe. You know—running hospitals and homes for the blind. That kind of thing.”

“I know who they are,” Sajan said. “They used to serve as shock troops for the Catholic Church. They did so for hundreds of years. They were soldiers.”

“Well, that was then.”

Sajan didn't reply. Then she added, “What else does it say?”

“It reveals that Franklin apparently created something that he called his ‘Map,’ but that—due to his fear of its discovery by the Knights of Malta, set upon him by the religious right of the time, and the Penn family—Franklin tore the map into three pieces, and hid the three pieces away.”

“Where?”

“According to what I've translated so far, the locations of the three pieces are ‘My three homes’—somewhere in the United States, in France and in England, places where Franklin lived during his career. The journal doesn't identify them specifically, but it does say how to locate the first piece of the map.”

“How?”

“There's a reference to Pierre-Charles L'Enfant, who was a Freemason, and who laid out the governmental center of Washington, D.C., back in 1791. According to Franklin's journal, certain Masonic symbols embedded in the plan of Washington, D.C., reveal the location of the first piece of the map.”

“And the map? What does it lead to?”

“To the hiding place of the Gospel of Judas, I assume. It's not clear. But what else could it be? It says that the Knights were after Franklin's copy of the Gospel of Judas. After
him
. He must have hidden it someplace, then drawn up his map. And this is where it gets really weird. Since he already knew the location of the gospel, why did he require a map? It says,
‘For those who would follow and extend what Abraham of El Minya, what Leonardo da Vinci and I have begun.’
As if he were afraid that something might happen to him.”

“Who is Abraham of El Minya?” asked Sajan. “And what does Leonardo da Vinci have to do with this?”

“I have no idea. According to Nick, Franklin's version of the Gospel of Judas featured a curious illustration, which Nick called schematic number one. He also said Masonic historians have documented the presence of two similar schematics, one allegedly created by Leonardo da Vinci, schematic number two, and another by Franklin himself, number three. And they're all connected somehow.”

“What are these schematics?”

“Nick didn't know. He called them ‘Masonic curiosities.’”

Sajan reached across her desk and picked up the telephone. She pressed a three-digit code and said, “Ravindra, it's Savita. We need the Hawker immediately. We're going to Washington, D.C.—”

“Tonight?” Koster said, interrupting her.

“We can sleep on the plane. It's quite comfortable. Don't worry, I don't snore. Really, Mr. Koster, I can't just sit here now, not when we know what to look for. Can you?” Then she turned back to the phone. “What's that? Now? Very well.”

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know. Ravindra's on his way over.”

Minutes later, the small Indian pilot appeared in the
doorway. He seemed sheepish as he entered the room. “I just don't understand it,” he said. “Mr. Koster,” he added, with a nod.

“Captain,” said Koster.

“She just had her inspection two weeks ago,” the pilot continued as he came up to Sajan. “The avionics were fine.”

“And you're sure it was something intentional,” Sajan said.

“The way it's been rigged, I don't see how it could have been accidental. It's possible, I suppose. Just highly unlikely.”

“What's wrong?” Koster asked.

Sajan turned toward him with a shrug. “We'll have to drive to the airport tomorrow, and fly commercial into Washington, D.C.”

“What happened to your plane?”

“Nothing serious. An avionics malfunction. Nothing that would have caused a major disaster. Just a delay.” Then she smiled, adding, “It would seem, Mr. Koster, that you'll be spending the night after all. I guess I should start calling you Joseph.”