Authors: Mike Handcock
Truthseekers (4 page)
Stacey had definitely gone all out on this one, thought David. He was reading her research report as her sipped an early morning fresh juice. Smiling he thought: “If she only knew I read most of her reports naked.”
Stacey had turned up a lot on the Minoans.
It was thought that the race had migrated out of western Asia and what eventually became Persia settling initially on the island of Crete. Approximately 4500 years ago the Minoans had seemed to burst ahead of almost anyone else on Earth, with the exception of the Egyptians, in their technology. This was the start of the Bronze Age and the initial bronze was crudely crafted from mines around the Mediterranean. The product albeit as cutting edge as graphite is today was flawed by the use of arsenic in the process, doing as much damage to the miners and smelters and conceiving a lower grade of bronze, the main material used by the growing armies of the ancient world.
The Minoans had discovered that tin was a much better option in the smelting process yet mines were few and far between. This is where the Minoans used great technology, particularly their ability to build and sail ships. David had known this from the frescoes he saw in the ancient town of Akrotiri on Santorini that depicted ships with 44 oarsmen from
pre-1500 BC. This would have been the equivalent of sailing the latest super yacht next to Columbus’s
Santa Maria
.
From Stacey’s research it became obvious that the Minoans had also conquered or knew how to calculate longitude; the so-called missing component to navigation until the 18
th
Century was known to them, giving them free range of the seas, providing they had the ships (which they did) and the courage to venture to the unknown.
In fact David was reading how a device called the Antikythera was dragged up from the ruins of a Minoan ship in the Greek islands about 15 years before, and this was believed to be the device captains of the day used to calculate longitude. In fact it was the first computer.
Stacey had sent him evidence of mining at Lake Superior like the professor had told him and there were Minoan graves, etchings and tools all over that part of the USA and Mississippi delta. The local Indians even carried the same DNA strands as modern Cretans. These ancient people had done something the Egyptians had not: conquered the seas, and it was uncertain for how long they had been doing so. It could have been thousands of years.
David knew that the fate of the Minoan civilization was very linked to one of his loves: the island of Santorini. David had set up a winter residence on the most stunning of Greek islands. It was his second home and he had spent much time there. It was a place where he could reflect and be with his thoughts.
On one fateful day over 3500 years ago the volcano on the island of Santorini erupted. The middle of the island fell into the sea forming what is today known as the Caldera. Its stunning cliffs look into the azure blue ocean in a crescent that used to be above the water and is now over 1,000 feet below the surface. The eruption was more than 50,000 times the force of the bomb that levelled Hiroshima and the resulting tidal wave moved south east at over 80 kilometres an hour, rising to a height of 150 feet. This wave took out the Minoan civilisation on Crete and other surrounding islands on one terrible day, the sky black with ash and the
sun blocked for days plunging the world into unknown terror and all the food of the basically vegetarian Minoans rendered useless. Anyone who survived was looking at starvation and having no drinking water. Everything that they had died that day.
David wondered where all this was going. He knew people had often said Santorini was Atlantis as it disappeared in a very close situation to the myth, yet David knew as he had now recalled his past life in Atlantis that whilst Santorini was part of it, Atlantis was a way of life, not an island or even a continent. It was the shift to consciousness and so in some ways a new Atlantis that had become his mission over eight years ago, and finding genuine individuals who as conscious entrepreneurs would be a good critical mass to begin with. All of his and Rocko’s business interests were geared toward this goal.
As he was pondering the biggest question, scrambled or fried eggs, his Skype rang. Rocko must have slept late as was his way. It was nearly 12pm in Malaysia. David clicked on ‘answer’ looking forward to another lewd tale of ‘a night out with Rocko’ and how he managed to do the most unbelievable things. He once took three girlfriends to a concert and had them in three different seats, running from seat to seat pretending he was there just with that one. Only Rocko could get away with that.
Today all he heard from Rocko was how he’d been the subject of a photo on a throwaway phone that went nowhere and how his ex bank buddy Leon had been told he would become chief executive of the bank and about a concern Leon had for a couple of the board members and what they expected him to do as chief executive. David was glad he was no longer in corporate although he was surprised by Leon’s fear that someone was after him, even though he was first in line for one of the biggest banking jobs on the planet. Rocko had put it down to nerves and the photographer simply checking out whom their prize boy was hanging out with at dinner.
The student waited nervously behind a group of shops in Bangsar Village. It felt safe enough. Bangsar was a nightlife haven, bustling full of restaurants, pubs and foreigners. While he was deep in the alley, people were passing. A striking blonde Caucasian man in his late thirties entered the alley. He was muscular in a tight t-shirt and walked with a purpose in his step.
“You texted us the photo and you did a poor job. We cannot identify that man. Tell me about him.” The man spoke with an Eastern European accent.
“Can we maybe get a coffee, Sir? I feel a little strange in this alley. I know I didn’t do my best, but I was nervous.”
“Never mind – it will all be over in a few seconds. Now tell me about him.”
“Um…” the student stuttered. The man smiled and relaxed.
“He was solidly built, part Mexican or Arab, mid-thirties and spoke with an American accent. That’s all I could find out.”
“You spoke to him?” The stare of the blond man intensified.
“I… I….” the student stuttered and started shaking.
“It matters not.” The blond man smiled and in a flash of his right hand he struck a fatal blow, a razor sharp blade slashed across the student’s jugular and the expert moved swiftly to avoid the spurt of bright red blood that came from the aghast student. His eyes told a story that his mouth could not verbalise. The assassin smoothly and gracefully pulled his prey into the shadows and held him until he passed out. He dropped the blade and with not the slightest fleck of blood on his taut t-shirt he moved from the alley into the light, stopping immediately at a Starbucks and purchasing a frappe, ensuring he flirted immensely with the little Muslim girl serving him, and strode off purposefully into the night.
Bertrand St Clar had by default and one of the most horrific days in history become the grandmaster of the Knights Templar. Founded by Hughes De Payan 187 years previously the order had become the most powerful group of individuals in the world, yet with all of that it had always been plagued with a darkness, and infiltrated by the most bleak of souls. Those from a particular group of families who wished to control the known world sometimes hid within the order like a Trojan horse and gave allegiance to the Knights Templar for twenty or more years before taking their shot. It was tiresome, yet it was part of being who they were.
St Clar found himself ankle deep in water, standing on a huge stone that was visible at low tide only at the
entrance to what is Pojac Point, modern-day Rhode Island, New York State. A lot had changed in the world of the Templars over the past two months. In fact St Clar had found himself better prepared than most. It had always been the way.
Since the founding of the Knights Templar in 1119 AD by De Payan, a great task had always befallen them. Whilst they had been blessed with the discoveries of De Payan beneath the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the Temple of David and below that the original Solomon’s Temple, they had also been plagued with a great burden that had been with them since that time.
St Clar knew it all. He was one of the inner circle. His father and grandfather had been part of the order. He was trusted. He knew of the discoveries of the secrets of Egypt, of the building of the pyramids and how to move enormous stones using sound, leverage and electromagnetics. He had touched the Ark of the Covenant before it started its journey to their hideaway deep in Abyssinia. He had been given the secrets of geometry, music, mathematics, rhetoric, grammar and the powers of alchemy that De Payan had found in that ancient place and he had been given the secret code, which provided the hidden protection of the lineage of the man known as Jesus Christ.
St Clar knew of the real reason of De Payan’s death… by poison. De Payan’s most trusted aide, with him for seven years since being recruited from Syria as a teenager, had committed the deed. He had the antidote with him, yet De Payan refused to give up the whereabouts of Alphonse of Toulouse, the chosen one of the bloodline of Christ, and he would not give up the code. He died in agony, a slow death whilst his aide chided him for the information. In the end De Payan’s screams drew his long-time friend and knight Robert De Craon who upon realising what had happened killed the aide and tried to administer the antidote. However he was too late. The council decided to make De Craon the new Grand Master and build a fabrication that De Payan died in Jerusalem naturally and that they had found a traitor in their ranks in Syria where the crime had taken place. From that day forth, they knew there was only to be the
trusted ones, yet no order could be built without recruitment and this had its consequences.
St Clar watched a crab crawl across the rock and an idea spread to him. Just six weeks ago he had met with the Grand Master Jacques De Molay. At 63 De Molay had been their leader for over ten years. He had taken Bertrand St Clar and his brother William into his confidence.
De Molay told them that the King, Phillip the Fair, had coaxed Pope Clementine V to agreeing to have the Templars arrested for heresy, put to the inquisition and disposed of. De Molay had said that at all costs the bloodline and its current incumbent, Baron Dion Chancery, must be taken away and hidden. De Molay sent the two brothers on two very different voyages; William to Scotland to seek refuge and the ear of Robert the Bruce, a trusted friend and the rightful ruler of that Celtic nation who did not agree or abide by the Catholic Church, and himself Bertrand St Clar to follow the ancient writings found by De Payan all those years ago and take the chosen one across the seas on the 33
rd
parallel in search of the mystical land of Merica. The Templars had never been there, yet they knew from their history and archives that a people, known in ancient times as the Minoans from Crete, had visited there many times, setting up huge mining operations on a big lake some thousand miles from the coast. De Molay had told St Clar to not follow the historical route of the Minoans in case the dark ones knew of it as well, which he could only assume they would because of their infiltration of the knights’ archives, but to head due west on the 33
rd
as only the initiated few knew. The 33
rd
was always to be the heightened state, and the degrees of initiations in the Templars would reach 33 only when a knight had given service for 33 years and was at least second generation. Only then did they feel safe in giving the most sacred information. St Clar knew he was one of just a few. His brother was by now in Scotland, carrying much of the real wisdom of the Templars, the scrolls and books from Egypt, whilst he was to hide the bloodline Christ himself.
De Molay was a shrewd operator and his suspicions were right on the money. On 13 October 1307, just six weeks earlier, King Phillip the Fair
and Pope Clementine V had sent their armies to arrest the Templars. De Molay and his second in command Geoffroi De Charney had stayed and would in time pay the ultimate price. After seven years of torture, King Phillip would eventually have them slow roasted at the spit, on the island in front of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris. De Molay’s ploy would have King Phillip thinking he had the greatest prize, whilst in fact the real prize, all of the knowledge and the one they swore to protect would be hushed away onto ships and dispersed amongst the world, leaving ridiculous clues and false ends for generations to come, sparking the greatest conspiracy theories the world would see. Yet all that was to come. St Clar had made ground on the 33
rd
parallel. A quick trip aided by great winds and seas. He had already fought off one mutiny on board one of the ships from the dark ones and that ship and its brave men had sacrificed themselves, scuttling the ship with all aboard. Yet here he was, in a new foreign land, the ultimate prize in any game with him and obstacles that he knew not how to face.