The Lion and the Covenant

by B. Victor Preston

Note:
This title may appeal to many groups of people including those who:
a) enjoy mystery thrillers and following clues; or romance.
b) are interested in religion, philosophy, freemasonry, history or archaeology, or the great unknowns in any of those.
c) people from Australia, England, Ethiopia, India, Japan, Portugal, Scotland, Uzbekistan, Egypt, the USA, or Wales, countries or regions that all play a role in this book.

Two free sample chapters are available below:

Note: This book includes prescient descriptions of covert Mossad operations!

Chapter Fifty-Five

"Anything?" Shimon questioned. It was early, but his main operations room was already busy.

"The Sheik has put out a new edict," Daniel Gutmann reported. He was one of five extra members of the Colonel's Mossad team now stationed in Addis Ababa.

"About?" Colonel Levi's speech when in pursuit of an update was as succinct as usual.

"An exhortation and a direct reference," Gutmann replied. "I have the translation. Shall I read it?"

"Please."

"OK. The Sheik says, I have been asked, what of the accursed manuscript? Know this. There must be no truth known that does not support our religion. And so, a scholar who poses difficulties for faith should be regarded as an infidel and his information must not be presented. Because if the people find out that any teaching we insist upon is not true, then they may doubt their faith altogether. Therefore, those things that may cause doubts among the people must be removed or destroyed, even if truth suffers. For Allah is greater than mere facts. All these so-called Islamic scholars may disagree, but if so we find them evil. If necessary we should kill them, so that they do not spread information to confuse the faithful and so that their fellows will then be silent out of fear. And if the information that they say is evidence be in physical form, this so-called evidence too must perish. After that we will put our own scholars forward who will teach all that is needed."

"Is that it?"

"It goes on, In the matter of the Tablets, know this. There must be no Tablets in the hands of the Jews or the Crusaders. We must all do whatever is needed to forestall the Deceiver; for those days are not yet to come. Your task is clear."

"This is one confused and demented puppy," declared the Colonel, allowing himself some commentary. "He would have been right at home in the Third Reich, or as a henchman of Stalin. What, did Ibn Rushd and Ibn Sina never live, that such shameless unreason is paraded today? Enough, do we have anything else new?"

"Nathan is working on something more as we speak; it just came in." Gutmann replied.

"That may be more important then. These guys like to roll around a bunch of words to begin with, then come the specifics. Keep me posted. Without delay!"

Nathan Cohen was worried. He replayed the tape a second time, pausing often at key phrases. At each pause he listened again carefully for exact context, and then pressed a "search" button pulling in matching electronic entries from his Somali audio-bank. The full range of cross-referenced comparisons with accompanying translations helped tease out every emotional nuance he sensed in the Somali conversation, enabling him to compare the phrases with the written Hebrew translation he was studying in front of him. It was a skillful technique he was very proud of, the ability to verify key phrases in translations without much knowledge of the actual language concerned. After under-scoring two doubtful portions in red he counter-signed his Falasha colleague's original translation as complete.

"Chief," Nathan called out to Colonel Levi, who was prowling the floor restlessly in the adjoining room, "this is bad. You'd better read it right away, The Gran people here are going to try it on tomorrow for sure. If we don't do something we'll have one very dead bunch of Mouseketeers out there. But it doesn't tell us exactly where or when the Gran boys plan to strike. There's a worrying lack of detail - perhaps they fear they are under surveillance."

"Very well." Shimon's expression was grim. He strode over and speed-read the text, then reprised it carefully. "All right, we will prepare. I will notify our top contact at police headquarters immediately. I'll tell him that an attempt will be made on the lives of a group of western tourists tomorrow, and that we will transmit an update and location as soon as we have it. Such an attack is a red flag item for them, they'll keep a special unit standing by. Plus they'll alert all patrols to pay special attention around any groups of Westerners. Meanwhile, we'll switch from discreet surveillance and follow the Mouseketeers, as you call them, directly as soon as they leave their hotel. So we will identify the hit squad as soon as they appear and call in the Ethiopians, and if needed hit them ourselves as well. Don't worry Cohen, we can turn all this to our advantage."

"How so?"

"At this stage we're interested in doing two things, Nathan. First, allowing the little party to proceed with their quest. Second, dealing a heavy blow to the enemy's local operatives. A blow that will be noted with much concern at Terrorist HQ. Frustrating this attack can achieve both."

"Why not go pre-emptive then?" Cohen suggested. "We now know where the local Grans are based, why not strike immediately before they leave their compound? Or we could give the Ethiopians their location and let them clean them out."

"No," said his leader firmly. "A little danger will be good for our idealistic friends. Stimulate their creative juices to get on with their search and make some progress. They must do that Nathan; it is imperative. And just as importantly, we don't want the Grans in Somalia to think the odds for them here are hopeless. Difficult yes, desperate by all means, but hopeless, no. We have to continually focus on the implications for both parties. The search for the manuscript is the key to everything. You know what it concerns. Never forget that, Cohen."

Chapter Thirty-Seven

That's it, my cue and I'm off, Nathan Cohen told himself. He'd just heard the 'let's get back to Sydney' words after catching up with the pair seconds before, having been delayed through being accosted by a rare, violent drunk in the usually very respectable St David's Park. Overtaking Tom and Kate without a glance, he hurried on before either remembered him from the night before. Of course he had a story ready in case they did, that he was just a rambling tourist like themselves. As for the Thirds, one of whom he could see loitering across the road, let them hang about as long as they could be bothered. Their expense accounts ran to it, and in any case he'd be eavesdropping on their report before too long. Fortunately the van was parked fairly close to the previous night's spot, ready for a quick drive across the Tasman Bridge to the airport.

Tom and Kate meanwhile headed back onto the waterfront to get their bearings, in order to return to their accommodation to collect their bags and the rental car. They paused on a public bench. As long as they returned via Melbourne, Tom assured Kate, obtaining a flight quickly at Hobart airport would not be a problem. He remembered his new GPS and began working out the quickest streets to walk back on.

Kate meantime took a last glance out to Sullivan's Cove. She was surprised when a little dark-haired girl of about nine or so came around the corner and walked straight up to her. "Hello," said the girl shyly. She was dressed in a blue and gold pinafore, with her hair in a ponytail.

"Hello yourself," Kate replied. She wasn't sure what was coming next.

"My Dad said to give you a letter. For the man and you." The girl held out an envelope, which Kate cautiously accepted. "Bye, bye," said the little girl, and turned to go.

"What's a minute," Kate called. "Who's your dad?"

"I'm not allowed to tell," the girl giggled, and skipped away back around the corner out of sight.

"Open it," Tom urged, intrigued. Kate complied and found two pieces of paper inside the envelope, one in plain handwriting and the other in fine copperplate. She handed them to Tom. "Try your baritone on these, buster."

Tom grinned and glanced down at the missives. The first note was in plain lettering with an equally simple message. He read it aloud. Congratulations. Why not try for a hat-trick? If you seek the final Melbourne clue, it awaits you.

The other note was more elaborate. Written as a poem, Tom noted, on a much higher grade of paper in the beautiful script that so few people could pen nowadays. He cleared his throat to do it justice.

A Hint towards Illuminating that which is not Lost

From wine that is water
seek water that is wine.
At Van Diemen'd station
set your back to the brine.
To starboard now
find that which you leave,
Proceed vers the cross
but do not grieve.
For you journey along a thrice-palmed, broad way,
contracted to three, as quotidian to day.

Now seek a familiar Prince,
next to the power.
There, Templar'd,
not a clock that chimes the hour,
but that which could bear it.

Nearby, a sainted name
and number will confirm the same.
Above, those holy numbers flourish.
The naked Greek will bear the fame.

"Weird, but intriguing," Kate breathed. "It appears to be based on paradox. Plus a few arcane references."

"It could be a trap. Someone using a child to lure us to Melbourne," Tom objected. "How do we know the third clue is really in Melbourne? Ted said the numerology was wrong for Melbourne."

"He did," Kate conceded. She thought for a moment. "You have his note, read me that particular bit again to refresh me."

Tom extracted the paper he had hidden in a recess in his wallet. "Basically, Ted said that Sydney equals ninety two and Hobart is sixty-four. I calculated Melbourne on a whim and it's one hundred and five. If you add those three up, 92 + 64 + 105, you get two hundred and sixty one." He grinned. "No, I'm not super fast in arithmetic - I did all this once and have it written on another note here. Now, the digits of 261 add to nine. If you add them a different way, adding them within, as in 11 + 10 + 6 you get 27, which also sums to nine. Looks good enough to me, but Ted still says its wrong, and he knew this holy number stuff a lot better than we do."

"Curious," Kate murmured. She forsook her usual twirling gesture and clasped her mouth tightly between her fingers, an expression that looked so odd that Tom pulled a clown face to make fun of her. "Stop it Tom, you're distracting me!" she commanded. "Hmm. Wait a minute. Of course! Ted was old, but perhaps not old enough. Or rather, his knowledge of Australian history may have been too conditioned by the modern era."

"What do you mean?" Tom wondered.

"This," Kate explained. "The original name of Hobart, the correct name at the time of all these events we're dealing with was not just Hobart but Hobart Town. So here's a hunch, Tom. Assign numerical values to the letters of the word Town and see where that gets us."

"Half a mo. I've still got my original grid with me, fortunately. OK, town equals… 20 + 15 + 23 +14…equals seventy-two. Hobart Town is therefore 64 + 72, equals one hundred and thirty six. So the sum of Sydney plus Hobart Town plus Melbourne is 92 + 136 + 105, equals" - Tom's voice became hoarse - "my God Kate, it's three hundred and thirty-three!"

Kate's face flushed a triumphal pink. "Jackpot! 333 is too perfect to be a coincidence - it's the final number in their numerology set. Therefore these three cities represent a Masonic trilogy. 333 halves the Devil as Teddy said, Satan's number being 666. It also equally expresses the Trinity and it sums to nine. So Melbourne must be the site of the third clue, in which case our mysterious message here is genuine."

Tom shrugged in bemusement. "If the people behind this want us to go somewhere in Melbourne why not just give us the address?" he asked, pragmatically.

"I suppose, because if we can't figure out the hints we're not worthy of finding whatever they want us to discover," Kate guessed.

"Who, hopeless old us?" Tom grinned. "OK. But if this poem is for real I think I would know where to start, though."

"Where?" Kate was piqued that Tom might have somehow jumped ahead of her again.

"You forget I've been to Tasmania before. By the ferry. The Spirit of Tasmania leaves from Station Pier, Port Melbourne. Remember, Van Diemen's Land is the old name for Tasmania, I know that bit of history at least. So there's your Van Diemen'ed Station. Any good?"

"Tom! Perfect," Kate enthused. "Hey, wine that is water, that could be a port. Did you know that the name port as a wine derives from Oporto in Portugal? Anyhow, Port Melbourne, wine that is water, excellent. Aced it in one. We're a great team on this stuff." She realised she was still surprised that it could be so. "I like the idea of a final clue," she continued. "To what exactly I'm not sure, but I agree it looks relevant. Well, since we're going through Melbourne anyway, shall we?"

"Why not?" Tom's face was shining now, it was wonderful to see him so engaged and cheerful, Kate thought.

"I was planning to book us the first flight I could from Melbourne on to Sydney," Tom added. "So let's extend the transit gap for a few hours and see what we can dig up. All right! Let's go grab our bags and hotfoot it out to the airport. Sayonara, Tasmania, you little beauty!"

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The Lion and the Covenant 2009

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The Lion and the Covenant 2009

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