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The God Machine, by J.G. Sandom
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A secret so explosive, the church always insisted it was just a legend. Now it'll stop at nothing to prevent its discovery...
The coded journal of Benjamin Franklin. A hidden map. A legendary gospel. These are the first pieces to an ancient puzzle so powerful, it could destroy the very foundation of Christianity.
Once before, Joseph Koster unearthed one of the church’s most deeply buried secrets . . . and it almost cost him his life. But some treasures are too hard to resist. And as Koster puts the pieces of the puzzle together, he discovers something even more startling … and infinitely more deadly.
Now, along with a beautiful engineer, Savita Sajan, Koster must race to decode Franklin’s journal before it falls into the hands of those who would do anything, kill anyone, to suppress it. But in a world of secret societies, ancient conspiracies, and Masonic puzzles, locating the prize is one thing … staying alive, another.
For as Koster and Sajan are about to learn, the same key that unlocks the doorway to Heaven … could open the portals of Hell.
- Sales Rank: #1783091 in Books
- Published on: 2009-04-28
- Released on: 2009-04-28
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.00" h x 1.00" w x 4.15" l,
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 480 pages
Review
"History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story, reminding one of a multilayered Russian matryoshka doll. The reader will also learn a great deal about da Vinci, Ben Franklin, Thomas Edison, Nikola Tesla, and many more historical geniuses…Those who love numbers, physics, and a truly unpredictable, suspenseful mystery will relish the facts and ponderings replete in this well-written, mysterious spin-off of The Da Vinci Code.The God Machine is a very impressive historical thriller!" —Historical Novels Reviews
About the Author
J.G. Sandom is the author of six thrillers and mysteries, including THE GOD MACHINE, GOSPEL TRUTHS and THE WALL STREET MURDER CLUB, plus the eco-thriller THE WAVE.
Booklist called GOSPEL TRUTHS "a splendid, tautly woven thriller . . . (and) an intelligent mystery of tremendous spiritual and literary depth." And Library Journal termed it, "A masterful first novel, based on a true incident, which spins a complicated web of corruption, greed and deception."
Kirkus Reviews called THE WALL STREET MURDER CLUB "A Big Apple Deliverance, endowing New York culture with all the corrosively dehumanizing power of Dickey's wild nature." And Booklist said, "(Sandom) writes with stunning elegance . . . A sure hit with any suspense reader."
Caroline Thompson (author of Edward Scissorhands) said, "Move over, Dan Brown . . . All hail J.G. Sandom . . . (THE GOD MACHINE) is a thrilling and breathless, rapturously-written and mind-blowing read. It'll keep you up all night, turning pages as fast as your little fingers can manage." And Historical Novels Review said, "History galore, violence, and intrigue fill the pages of this tightly plotted, twisting and turning adventure story . . . THE GOD MACHINE is a very impressive historical thriller!"
Kirkus said, "Sandom's strength lies in the verve of his story, with writing that has both muscle . . . (and) brains . . . (THE WAVE) races from improbable to crazywild, all in good fun, with Sandom always one step ahead . . . A story with enough manic energy to be worthy of a nuclear explosion."
While known mostly as a writer of thrillers and mysteries, Sandom is also the author of several Young Adult (YA) novels, including the award-winning KISS ME, I'M DEAD and CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE BODY SNATCHER. The Washington Post said, "(Sandom) writes with a precision and delicacy unusual for YA fiction," and called KISS ME, I'M DEAD "a subtle gem."
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Present Day
Philadelphia
Tom Moody was working at the far end of the basement, kneeling on a plastic tarpaulin, when he first spied a corner of the box in the wall. It was nestled in a small depression, immediately beside the joist. It was made out of wood. Moody worked his trowel around the edges, and the dense compacted dirt, trapped for two hundred years, came undone, tumbled down. He wiggled the box from the hole.
In the bright glow of the work light, he could just make out a series of engravings on the top, scarred and covered in dirt: a Mason’s square and a pyramid; some kind of seal. There was a latch on one side. Moody pulled the box into his lap. He opened the latch, lifted the lid. Inside was a book of some sort, a kind of notebook or journal. He put the box on the floor. Then he removed his work gloves. He turned the cover of the notebook over and his heart skipped a beat as he picked out the signature: B. Franklin.
The fact of the matter is, Tom Moody shouldn’t have gone to work that day at all. He’d been up late the night before at that Thai joint on Bainbridge, in Center City, on a blind date with a girl he’d met on the Net. After his most recent string of failures, Moody hadn’t been expecting much. But the date had gone great. The girl’s name was Miranda. She had long brown curly hair and a big rack, and when he spotted her in the restaurant wearing that leotard—the way she was leaning with her hip out and her hand on the bar, the way she smiled at him when he called out her name—he knew that his luck had just turned. She was Catholic, too. They had stayed for Pad Thai and green tea, then gone dancing, and everything had somehow just clicked, in that weird freaky way that it does. At least sometimes. He had awakened beside her at dawn, still excited. His cell phone was ringing. It was Tony, his buddy from the union. There was a freelance gig, it turned out, at Franklin Court. If he was interested.
A tall bundle of muscle, with teal-colored eyes, a shiny shaved head and a nose ring, Tom Moody found a ten-dollar bill at the bus stop on his way to the hall. It was just lying there. He bent down, half expecting it to fly away or be pulled back by some invisible thread, but it just sat there, and he picked it up and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather jacket.
By the time he got to Franklin Court, he’d already bought two tickets for that night’s drawing of the Powerball Jackpot.
The job was pretty straightforward. The Independence National Historic Park had authorized some structural engineering work under Franklin Court, at the former home and print shop of Benjamin Franklin, off Market Street. Over the centuries, the buildings surrounding Franklin Court had shifted. Recent excavations had shown less-than-optimal support structures beside the new museum. They had to go in through the basement of the old house, excavate and shore up the supports.
Moody flipped through the pages of the journal in his hand. It was all nonsense, he decided. The sentences were blocked together in distinctive rows of three, but the letters didn’t link to form words. They seemed random, a jumble. Then he noticed a few words he recognized: The Gospel of Judas. And besides the familiar English alphabet, two foreign languages. Greek, Moody speculated. He’d seen it before at Greek diners. Plus some alien script.
“I found something,” said Moody, as he settled the box on Ian Wilson’s desk.
Short and round, with thinning hair combed adroitly across his bald spot, Wilson was the general contractor on the Park job, and the guy responsible for interfacing with the Independence Park Service officials. He generally worked over by Rittenhouse Square, but had set up a temporary office on Third Street and Chestnut. The space was Spartan: a desk and a chair; a PC; a secondhand file cabinet and a coffee machine.
Wilson wore a light brown windbreaker, with the name of the Little League baseball team he sponsored—The Thunders—stenciled on the front, and a blue button-down shirt. He glanced up from his paperwork. “What is it?” He glared at the dirt-covered box on his desk.
“In the north wall,” Moody said. “Just under the basement joist. Some kind of hiding spot, I guess. Go ahead. Open it.”
Wilson frowned. He reached over, unlatched the top and opened the box. “A book?” He looked up at Moody.
“A journal,” said Moody. “Or diary. And look at the front cover, on the inside.”
Wilson did so. He gasped as he saw the signature. There was no mistaking that florid horizontal double helix underneath the stolid script. B. Franklin. He turned a few more pages with care.
“It’s in some kind of foreign language,” Moody said. “But I don’t recognize it.”
“No,” Wilson said. “Not a language. A code, I’d guess.”
“I found a phrase,” countered Moody, feeling suddenly disheartened. It was as though, through Wilson’s single observation, the title to his remarkable discovery had been unceremoniously transferred. “Look, here,” Moody said. He stepped around the desk. He leaned across the surface and began to flip through the pages.
Wilson pushed him away. “Your hands are still dirty. Just show me.”
“Keep going. More,” said Moody. “More. There. Right there. See? On the bottom right.”
“The Gospel of Judas,” said Wilson. “In Greek and in Hebrew. The Gospel of Judas!” He whistled. “That’s a Gnostic text. The Gnostics were an early Christian sect, considered heretical by the organized Church.”
“Is that what that writing is? Looks different from the Jewish I’ve seen.”
“Hebrew.”
“Right,” said Moody with a nod. “That’s what I meant.” This was not going as visualized, as manifested, he thought. That’s what Miranda had called it the previous evening at that Thai place. She had leaned in to him at the bar, all of a sudden, before they’d been seated, leaned in with her long brown curly hair. And she had told him that things only happened when you visualized them first, and when you were in harmony, in tune with the laws of attraction. Something like that. “Hey, Mr. Wilson. Do you think there might be some sort of finder’s fee . . . you know, for digging up the box?” Moody asked. “Not that I’m trying to take no advantage. Just wonderin’.”
“I doubt it,” said Wilson. “It’s a National Park. It belongs to the Feds. To the people, Moody,” he added and laughed. “You and me.”
“What are you going to do, give it to Thompson?” Larry Thompson was the curator of Independence Park. Moody had met him before, on another project three years earlier.
Wilson closed the journal, slipped the lid into place. He pulled the box toward his chest. “On the other hand, there might just be a reward,” he continued. “I could find out for you. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Play your cards right and this freelance gig might turn into something permanent. You never know, Moody. And you’re right, of course—Larry Thompson should see it. Right away.”
Wilson stood up. He reached into his pants and took out his wallet. It was stuffed full of papers, on a chain attached to his khakis. “Do me a favor, will ya?” He flipped open the wallet and pulled out a ticket. “Swing over to the garage by Christ Church and pick up my car. It’s a black Continental. Level three. I have to make a call before I leave. Then you can break early for lunch.” He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “On me.” There was a charm on the chain by his wallet, shaped like a small Mason’s square. “Meantime, until I hear what Thompson has to say, might as well forget about this box here. Probably not real, anyway. And you don’t want to go spoiling your chances of earning some reward now, do you?”
Moody took the ticket from Wilson. Then he took the hundred-dollar bill. The wheel of life had just turned. He was in harmony, in tune. What should he manifest next?
Chapter Two
1731
Philadelphia
Benjamin Franklin sat at the table by the entrance to Tun Tavern, watching the late afternoon crowd amble by, waiting upon Henry Price. Located on the waterfront at the corner of Water Street and Tun Alley, the three-story beer tavern had been built in 1685 by Samuel Carpenter, whose apparent lack of imagination had resulted in his failure to come up with anything more interesting than Tun, the old English word for cask or barrel. Franklin took another sip of his pale ale and belched. Carpenter should have called it the Dun Tavern, he thought, based on the color of the patrons’ clothes, or simply Dung Tavern. After all, the tavern’s proximity to the river cast a malodorous pall across the establishment during these hot days of summer. That’s when he first spotted Price down the street. He was walking with two other gentlemen. Franklin stood up, downed his beer and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. This was it, he thought. The great day had finally arrived.
Henry Price was a thin man with a ferretlike face, bright chestnut brown eyes flecked with green and long straight black hair. He wore a simple dark frock coat and tricorne hat with a low crown, without trimming, that did little to reveal his profession. Born in London in 1697, Price had been admitted to the Freedom of the Company of Merchant Tailors by Patrimony on the first of July, 1719, but had emigrated soon thereafter, in 1723, to the port city of Boston. Only the year before, Franklin had learned, Price had opened his own shop between Water and State streets...
Most helpful customer reviews
22 of 26 people found the following review helpful.
Gripping Action Mystery
By David L. Ross
J Sandom is a born story-teller. In THE GOD MACHINE, from page one, the reader is eager to further rev up and accelerate into a time-traveling thriller whose chapters criss-cross many centuries, each one conjuring up medieval and early modern European history, arcana of freemasonry, religious fanaticism and a bit of engineering magic -- all animated by great contemporary characters from a laconic, double-dealing Scotland Yard detective to grand historical figures such as Ben Franklin.
This is a well-oiled and humming mystery, whose pages fly by in a flurry of action and suspense.
David Lincoln Ross
Highly recommended.
David L. Ross
12 of 14 people found the following review helpful.
MUCH BETTER THAN GOSPEL TRUTHS!!!
By Haze Blackmon
I, personally, didn't care much for Sandom's first religious thriller novel, Gospel Truths, so I wasn't sure what to expect from this one since it was written 15+ years after Gospel Truths. I kind of figured it would be better based solely on the belief that after 15 years and having written several more novels* Sandom's writing ability would have improved and his ideas for a story would be much fresher than then! Indeed, on both counts!
****UPDATE OF CLARIFICATION FOR THOSE WHO DON'T KNOW: J.G. Sandom has written a couple of other novels under the pseudonym T.K. Welsh. One of them, The Resurrection Men, I've read, and it was quite good. He's also written 2 others, besides Gospel Truths, under the Sandom name. According to his website he has written 9 works of fiction total.****
This is not to say Gospel Truths was a bad book, it wasn't. It was really only average, though. But I read it only in the last year or so and had I read it when it was first published back in 1992 I would have thought it was the penultimate thriller. Fastforward to 2009 and we have The God Machine.
I had actually read The God Machine about a month ago as I purchased an Advanced Reader's Copy of it on eBay. The main difference I noticed between this book and Gospel Truths, other than different storylines, is that there seems to be much more intrigue and mystery and mayhem, which in turn makes it much more interesting. This book reminded somewhat of the movie National Treasure, not in storyline, but in the adventuresome spirit of it . Very thrilling! I read this in 2 sittings, which is rare for me with a book that weighs in at 466 pages.
There is an improvement in writing with The God Machine, but not so much it would be noticed like the difference between night and day. What makes it stand out is the presentation and storyline. This novel can definitely stand on it's own two feet amongst the crowded religious thriller genre and not ownly does it stand, it shines among some of the best in the field. This one's got wheels, not feet!
In The God Machine we have mathematician Joseph Koster returning from Gospel Truths for another outing. This time he's paired up with hottie Savita Sajan to find the coded journal of Ben Franklin that may reveal an earth-shattering secret and must race against the clock to decode it before it falls into the hands of religious zealots. This may sound like another ho hum storyline, but not the way Sandom presents. It is incredibly fast paced with many twists and turns. Again, I keep thinking of National Treasure when thinking of this novel. I won't tell you any more about the storyline because I don't want to let something slip and spoil this great read for you.
If you like religious thrillers with secret discoveries, religious nuts and secret societies, conspiracies, mystery and intrigue, well developed characters and a great storyline all presented to you in vivid form then you need to BUY THIS BOOK! Definitely the best religious thriller I've read in a while(years). As with most thrillers of this ilk it will be compared to Brown's Da Vinci Code, which I think is a disservice not just to DVC, but to TGM as well.
I do like this one better than The Da Vinci Code, but still think it's an excellent novel as well. Don't forget The Da Vinci Code, while still in the same genre, is an entirely different storyline than The God Machine. Thus comparisons really shouldn't be made unless they are specific(i.e. writing ability, development of characters, presentation etc.)
If you like or are a fan of the books of Sam Bourne, Scott Mariani, James Twining, James Rollins, Dan Brown, Douglas Weber, Chris Kuzneski, Gregg Loomis, David Gibbins, Raymond Khoury or David Wood you should definitely enjoy this book throughly and quickly devour it up.
I can't really think of a complaint I have with this book and whole heartedly give it my highest recommendation. I give it 5 stars out of 5 or a 10 out of 10! It's rarity among the word of fiction, especially those of this ilk. Buy it now and prepare to be up for an allnighter!!!
8 of 9 people found the following review helpful.
THE GOD MACHINE a great read!
By abdoggett
I just finished reading THE GOD MACHINE and I really enjoyed it! It should be made into a movie. I will definitely be reading GOSPEL TRUTHS.
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