years ago, in recognition of his loyal service, his freemasonic brothers had bestowed the ultimate honour on him, appointing him Grand Master of Ethiopia, just like his grandfather. It was the achievement of a lifetime.
Although at the time he thought he had seen it all, a few months later he had been invited into the ultra-exclusive Strict Rite Knights Templar of the Holy City. To his rising excitement, as he worked his way ever deeper into the order, he had gradually become aware of an inner circle at its centre—an order within the order. At first he sensed it only hazily, in glimpses, but it seemed to be somehow connected with the whole organization of freemasonry, from the top to the bottom. No one ever spoke to him about the inner order, yet he knew with increasing certainty it was there and it was real.
Then one day he had been tapped lightly on the shoulder at a select gathering of the Strict Rite, and a discrete request was made. He was passed a telephone number, and asked to call it if ever a certain event occurred.
He never thought it would, and he had thought less and less about it as the years went by. No one ever mentioned it to him again, and over time he had come to wonder if maybe someone in the order had been playing a practical joke on him.
But he was not laughing as he heard the news on the radio about the blaze in the chapel of the
Tabot,
at the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum. There were no further details. But it was enough.
He knew what he had to do.
He gazed up at the solemn portraits of the Grand Masters who had gone before him. They were wearing their full ceremonial regalia, bristling with medals—or jewels, as they were called. He wondered if any of them had known when they joined the ‘Craft’ just how deep the waters of freemasonry ran. He certainly had not. But he was not complaining. Far from it. To belong to one of the most powerful organizations in the world was a privilege and an honour. Still more to be called upon as one of its trusted sentinels.
He turned the radio off and walked quickly over to the safe in the far wall. Spinning the tumblers, he removed an envelope and opened it, taking out a small card before sitting back at his desk again.
He placed the stiff white card on the shiny mahogany surface in front of him and stared at it for a moment before picking up the smoky black telephone receiver and dialling a +968 number in Oman.
“
As-salaamu aleikum
, how can I help you?” The voice spoke perfect English.
Even though years of making freemasonic speeches had cured Kelile of almost all nerves, he found himself needing to steady his voice. “I bring news from the East.” He knew that Addis Ababa was about one-and-a-half thousand miles south-west of Oman—but this was not a statement of geography.
“What day is it?” the voice asked.
“The 13th of October 1307,” Kelile answered without hesitation.
“And who are you?” The voice spoke crisply.
“A knight of vengeance.” Kelile knew the sequence of questions and answers by heart.
“Do you bring anything?” There was a hint of urgency in the voice.
“Fidelity and honour.” Kelile answered quickly.
There was a pause. Kelile heard the phone clicking through to a different extension.
Another voice—older this time. The English was again perfect. “Speak, Brother Kelile. Tell us your news from the East.”
——————— ◆ ———————
6
Yesil District
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Peter DeVere of MI6 was not waiting for Ava when she arrived in Astana. He was tied up on official business all day, but had left instructions to be picked up outside the
Zaraysk
restaurant after dinner.
As Ava’s car pulled up, she instantly recognized the figure standing just inside the restaurant, which was decorated as a kitsch Russian village house. She could even see a hay-cart near the door.
DeVere was as slim as ever, despite being in his early sixties. He still
Although at the time he thought he had seen it all, a few months later he had been invited into the ultra-exclusive Strict Rite Knights Templar of the Holy City. To his rising excitement, as he worked his way ever deeper into the order, he had gradually become aware of an inner circle at its centre—an order within the order. At first he sensed it only hazily, in glimpses, but it seemed to be somehow connected with the whole organization of freemasonry, from the top to the bottom. No one ever spoke to him about the inner order, yet he knew with increasing certainty it was there and it was real.
Then one day he had been tapped lightly on the shoulder at a select gathering of the Strict Rite, and a discrete request was made. He was passed a telephone number, and asked to call it if ever a certain event occurred.
He never thought it would, and he had thought less and less about it as the years went by. No one ever mentioned it to him again, and over time he had come to wonder if maybe someone in the order had been playing a practical joke on him.
But he was not laughing as he heard the news on the radio about the blaze in the chapel of the
Tabot,
at the monastery of Our Lady Mary of Zion in Aksum. There were no further details. But it was enough.
He knew what he had to do.
He gazed up at the solemn portraits of the Grand Masters who had gone before him. They were wearing their full ceremonial regalia, bristling with medals—or jewels, as they were called. He wondered if any of them had known when they joined the ‘Craft’ just how deep the waters of freemasonry ran. He certainly had not. But he was not complaining. Far from it. To belong to one of the most powerful organizations in the world was a privilege and an honour. Still more to be called upon as one of its trusted sentinels.
He turned the radio off and walked quickly over to the safe in the far wall. Spinning the tumblers, he removed an envelope and opened it, taking out a small card before sitting back at his desk again.
He placed the stiff white card on the shiny mahogany surface in front of him and stared at it for a moment before picking up the smoky black telephone receiver and dialling a +968 number in Oman.
“
As-salaamu aleikum
, how can I help you?” The voice spoke perfect English.
Even though years of making freemasonic speeches had cured Kelile of almost all nerves, he found himself needing to steady his voice. “I bring news from the East.” He knew that Addis Ababa was about one-and-a-half thousand miles south-west of Oman—but this was not a statement of geography.
“What day is it?” the voice asked.
“The 13th of October 1307,” Kelile answered without hesitation.
“And who are you?” The voice spoke crisply.
“A knight of vengeance.” Kelile knew the sequence of questions and answers by heart.
“Do you bring anything?” There was a hint of urgency in the voice.
“Fidelity and honour.” Kelile answered quickly.
There was a pause. Kelile heard the phone clicking through to a different extension.
Another voice—older this time. The English was again perfect. “Speak, Brother Kelile. Tell us your news from the East.”
——————— ◆ ———————
6
Yesil District
Astana
The Republic of Kazakhstan
Peter DeVere of MI6 was not waiting for Ava when she arrived in Astana. He was tied up on official business all day, but had left instructions to be picked up outside the
Zaraysk
restaurant after dinner.
As Ava’s car pulled up, she instantly recognized the figure standing just inside the restaurant, which was decorated as a kitsch Russian village house. She could even see a hay-cart near the door.
DeVere was as slim as ever, despite being in his early sixties. He still
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