The God Machine Read Online Free PDF Page A

Robinson.
    There was a knock and the door to his office swung open. Tall and gangly, with a shock of black hair and startlingly blue eyes, Robert Macalister entered the room. He carried a box of PUMA running shoes in his hands.
Cobalt Blue Karmaloops
, it said on the label.
    Macalister brought the box over and laid it gently on Robinson's desk. “From Philadelphia. A Knight Commander of Temple named Wilson,” he said as he lifted the lid.
    Robinson peered over the lip of the box. Inside, on a bed of clear bubble wrap, lay a book, hand-stitched with a tan cowhide binding. Eighteenth-century, guessed Robinson. He reached into a desk drawer and removed a pair of white latex gloves. Then he slipped them on, snapping them noisily about the wrists, and removed the small leather volume. He opened the cover with care.
    There had been moments like this before, Robinson thought, when everything had suddenly and unequivocally changed. Graduation from high school and college. His one hundredth million. The night he'd proposed toTheresa. Sean's birth. But nothing in his life had prepared Robinson for his first view of that signature. It seemed so strange and familiar at once. He was convinced he was seeing things until he drew the book closer. That double-helix flourish. The curve of the lettering. The weight and the texture of the paper. The feel of the frontpiece and spine. All of these details rushed together within him, and he felt his heart seethe in his chest. “You found it,” he said at last.
    “It appears so, Mr. Robinson. But, I'm afraid—as we feared, sir—it's written in code. I've done my best…” said Macalister, his voice trailing off.
    Robinson began to flip through the pages. The text was in English but the words were nonsensical, and they were clustered in long sets of three. “But can we be sure?” added Robinson. “It could be his gambling debts, or his sexual adventures, or his…”
    Macalister reached out across Robinson's desk and began to turn the pages one by one. After a moment, he paused and pointed at the journal.
    Robinson scanned the text. Once again, the letters made no sense until he reached the final sequence of the twelfth line: The Gospel of Judas. And then, right below, the same words in both Hebrew and Greek. But not just any Hebrew, Robinson knew. Mishnaic Hebrew. Before the Coptic rendering. So old! He felt a shiver snake down his spine. The Gospel of Judas. The God machine!
    Robinson closed the book. He caressed the front cover one final time, and then placed the journal back in the shoe box. “Bring it to Karl, in Restoration,” he said. “Call Savita and tell her to expect company. How are the plans for the party?”
    “Mrs. Robinson just telephoned. She said nearly everyone's coming.”
    “Good, good. Add another name to the list.” Robinson turned and looked out the window.
    People were milling about on the square. Playing Frisbee. Eating lunch. Making out. Completely oblivious, he thought.
    “Who's that, sir?”
    “Joseph Koster,” said Robinson.
The fuse has been lit. It's already aglow in that box of blue Karmaloop sneakers. It's burning already, and they are oblivious
.
    Robinson turned back to his desk. He pulled off the white latex gloves and dropped them unceremoniously into the garbage can at his feet. “Thank you, Robert.”
    As soon as Macalister had left the room, Robinson reached into the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, and removed a small canvas gym bag. He unzipped the zipper. The holster and pistol were curled in the bottom, shiny and black as an adder. Robinson removed his Glock 19 and loaded a bullet into the chamber.
    Poor bastard
, he thought. But if anyone could break Franklin's code, it was Koster.

Chapter 4

1736
Pennsbury Estate
Bucks County, Pennsylvania

T HOMAS P ENN STROLLED THROUGH THE HERB GARDEN OF the Pennsbury Mansion, at his father's country estate in Bucks County. A large man, with an egg-shaped head, small mouse-brown eyes and