His voice trailed off as Nicodemus leaned forward. “Doesn’t that depend on who is telling that truth, and who is listening?” Nicodemus allowed them to ponder that. “I have long ago accepted that history of any kind may be only a version told to suit the listener and serve the teller. Like the story of Abraham and Isaac. While we can understand and fully appreciate the effect of this story upon all of the generations that followed, we liberated thinkers are now called to look at the actual events. We can wonder what Abraham’s true feelings were for Isaac. He could as easily have despised the boy. Or found him bland and uninteresting. Or, if—as some church scholars insist—Isaac was a grown man in his thirties at the time of the sacrifice, then the whole event might have been concocted by father and son. Certainly the result was that their line became the bloodline of the Jews. To tell you the truth, I rather like the idea that it was an agreement between them. It shows high intelligence and careful planning and demonstrates, to us in particular, the power that can be harvested from such courses.”

“But you say that it might all be a lie,” insisted the youngest man at the table, a priest who was the brother of a powerful knight.

“Yes,” agreed Nicodemus, “a lie, but a lie with a purpose. A lie that guided the course of a nation, shaped the future of a people. A lie that, through the blood and history of the Jews, allowed for Christianity and Islam to be born into this world.”

Sir Guy tapped the table with his forefinger. “Yes!” he said emphatically. “And there are two things that are most important about that lie. First, is that it was a lie. That is crucial to know. And the second thing is that no one else knows that it’s a lie. Even you, Father Nicodemus, cannot and do not know that it was a lie. If proof ever existed it was either hidden away or erased, which is a very good thing to do with such dangerous truths.”

The men agreed and a few beat their fists.

Nicodemus smiled his approval.

“And what dangerous and important truths rest with us,” he said softly. “Tell me, my brothers … how will we write them into the pages of history?”

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty

The Hangar

Floyd Bennett Field, Brooklyn

June 15, 2:55 a.m. EST

“Nicodemus?” repeated Church. “That’s very interesting. Is that a first or last name?”

“It’s all we have,” said Lilith. The speakers on Church’s phone were of the best quality, and it sounded like Lilith was in the room with them.

“There have been priests named Nicodemus associated with the Red Order for eight hundred years?”

“Yes.”

“And as far as you can determine they all look similar?”

“Disturbingly so.”

Church glanced at Aunt Sallie, who nodded.