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Peter Solomon flew to Turkey on a private jet and returned with their son’s casket, which they buried in the Solomon family cemetery. The prison administrator was never found. Nor would he be, Inmate 37 knew. The Turk’s rotund body was now resting at the bottom of the Sea of Marmara, feeding the blue ma
The Greek Islands were like heaven. The light. The water. The women.
There was nothing money couldn’t buy — new identities, new passports, new hope. He chose a Greek name — Andros Dareios — Andros meaning «warrior,» and Dareios meaning «wealthy.» The dark nights in prison had frightened him, and Andros vowed never to go back. He shaved off his shaggy hair and shu
I am reborn.
Andros bought a sprawling villa on the island of Syros and settled in among the bella gente in the exclusive town of Possidonia. This new world was a community not only of wealth, but of culture and physical perfection. His neighbors took great pride in their bodies and minds, and it was contagious. The newcomer suddenly found himself jogging on the beach, ta
Everyone was looking now.
As Andros had been warned, the heavy steroids and hormones changed not only his body, but also his voice box, giving him an eerie, breathy whisper, which made him feel more mysterious. The soft, enigmatic voice, combined with his new body, his wealth, and his refusal to speak about his mysterious past, served as catnip for the women who met him. They gave themselves willingly, and he satisfied them all — from fashion models visiting his island on photo shoots, to nubile American college girls on vacation, to the lonely wives of his neighbors, to the occasional young man. They could not get enough.
I am a masterpiece.
As the years passed, however, Andros’s sexual adventures began to lose their thrill. As did everything. The island’s sumptuous cuisine lost its taste, books no longer held his interest, and even the dazzling sunsets from his villa looked dull. How could this be? He was only in his midtwenties, and yet he felt old. What more is there to life? He had sculpted his body into a masterpiece; he had educated himself and nourished his mind with culture; he had made his home in paradise; and he had the love of anyone he desired.
And yet, incredibly, he felt as empty as he had in that Turkish prison.
What is it I am missing?
The answer had come to him several months later. Andros was sitting alone in his villa, absently surfing cha
Freemasons and the New World Order. .
The Great Masonic Seal of the United States. .
The P2 Masonic Lodge. .
The Lost Secret of Freemasonry. .
The Masonic Pyramid. .
Andros sat up, startled. Pyramid. The narrator began recounting the story of a mysterious stone pyramid whose encrypted engraving promised to lead to lost wisdom and unfathomable power. The story, though seemingly implausible, sparked in him a distant memory. . a faint recollection from a much darker time. Andros remembered what Zachary Solomon had heard from his father about a mysterious pyramid.
Could it be? Andros strained to recall the details.
When the show ended, he stepped out onto the balcony, letting the cool air clear his mind. He remembered more now, and as it all came back, he began to sense there might be some truth to this legend after all. And if so, then Zachary Solomon — although long dead — still had something to offer.
What do I have to lose?
Three weeks later, his timing carefully pla
Before he pulled the ski mask over his face, Andros took a hit of cocaine, his first in ages. He felt the familiar rush of fearlessness. He pulled out a handgun, used an old key to unlock the door, and stepped inside. «Hello, Solomons.»
Unfortunately, the night had not gone as Andros had pla
My God!
Only feet in front of him, the path ended, plunging straight down into an icy river far below. The large boulder at the side of the path had been carved by the unskilled hand of a child:
On the far side of the ravine, the path continued on. So where’s the bridge?! The cocaine was no longer working. I’m trapped! Panicking now, Andros turned to flee back up the path, but he found himself facing Peter Solomon, who stood breathless before him, pistol in hand.
Andros looked at the gun and took a step backward. The drop behind him was at least fifty feet to an ice-covered river. The mist from the waterfall upstream billowed around them, chilling him to the bone.
«Zach’s bridge rotted out long ago,» Solomon said, panting. «He was the only one who ever came down this far.» Solomon held the gun remarkably steady. «Why did you kill my son?»
«He was nothing,» Andros replied. «A drug addict. I did him a favor.»
Solomon moved closer, gun aimed directly at Andros’s chest. «Perhaps I should do you the same favor.» His tone was surprisingly fierce. «You bludgeoned my son to death. How does a man do such a thing?»
«Men do the unthinkable when pushed to the brink.»
«You killed my son!»
«No,» Andros replied, hotly now. «You killed your son. What kind of man leaves his son in a prison when he has the option to get him out! You killed your son! Not me.»