by C. M. Palov
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
EPILOGUE
Berkley titles by C. M. Palov
ARK OF FIRE
THE TEMPLAR’S CODE
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THE TEMPLAR’S CODE
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley premium edition / November 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Chloe Palov.
Interior artwork by Ria Palov.
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I lived in this world of darkness for myriads of years and no one ever knew that I was there.
—GNOSTIC HYMN
PROLOGUE
THE NEW WORLD
ARCADIA COLONY
1524
Isabelle d’Anjou threw herself at the foot of the black-robed priest. “Mercy! I beg you!”
“Haereticus!” the Jesuit screamed, his thin ascetic frame shaking with fury’s passion. “By this cross you will know him!”
An armed soldier, red surcoat emblazoned with a white cross, roughly grabbed Isabelle by the waist and hauled her away from the priest. Shrieking, a wild animal caught in a snare, the terrified girl grabbed at the beads dangling from the Jesuit’s hand. A desperate plea that went unanswered, the soldier plunging a falchion into Isabelle’s left breast. Blood arced through the air, splattering the priest’s cassock.
Raising his gaze heavenward, the Black Robe made a ritualized motion. Above to below. Left to right. “In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” With upturned hands, the Black Robe continued his Latin chant . . . as the mounted knights slashed and swung their broadswords . . . as the soldiers ravished the village women . . . as the orange flames consumed the thatched huts in a fiery blaze . . . as the pitiless and unrelenting devastation raged all around.
Horrified, Yann peered beneath the upturned cart. He watched as a bearded man, the Stone Keeper, fell to his knees, hands clasped to his chest. Blood dripped from a hideous gash on the side of his face. For one brief instant, their eyes met.
“Yann! You must—” The cry went unfinished. An armored horseman, brandishing a broadsword in his gloved hand, took aim at the bearded supplicant, severing both hands with one pendulous swing as the blade sliced through the Stone Keeper’s torso. The morning sun glinted off a silver ring still attached to a detached hand.
Suddenly, a village farmer, sharp scythe gripped in his hands, charged through the melee. “Beauséant!” he yelled. That hoarse cry was the last word the intrepid farmer uttered, a soldier embedding a double-edged ax into the top of Didier’s skull.
And on it went as though the gates of hell had opened up and swallowed the village of Arcadia whole. A killing field. Sickles and scythes no match for broadsword and war hammer.
Fear rooting him in place, twelve-year-old Yann remained crouched beneath the wooden cart. Blackness threatened to overtake him. Dark spots swirled befor
e his eyes. The entire village was drenched in blood. Everywhere he looked: headless torsos, sprawled legs. A trampled hump, all that was left of César the blacksmith. A shout indistinguishable from a shriek.
And standing near the front gate, presiding over the bloody mass, the duplicitous Black Robe.
Yann shuddered, blinked, commanded his body to move.
I must escape!
Crawling from under the cart, Yann dashed toward the blacksmith’s shop, orange flames shooting from the roof. From there he charged across the Bertrand croft with its newly planted Lenten crops. Barley and beans. Glancing up, he saw the mended battle standard that undulated in the breeze above the village longhouse. Splayed red cross on a black-and-white background. A different cross from the one sewn onto the surcoats of the marauding soldiers.
Yann charged toward the stone wall that bordered the back of the village and hoisted himself up and over. He gracelessly landed in a bramble bush. Sharp thorns pierced his hose. Dizzy, he leaned over and retched.
On the other side of the stone wall, he heard a knight angrily bellow, “Kill them! Kill them all!”
Flagging energy renewed, Yann lurched out of the bush and kept on running. Toward the forest with its dense greenery and long shadows. The perfect place for a boy to vanish from sight. To escape the carnage.
Since the time of the great sea journey, two hundred years ago, the people of Arcadia had lived in harmony with their neighbors. Each year, the Arcadians paid tribute to the local sachem, bushels of dried fish ensuring peaceful coexistence. A small price to pay.
But the Black Robe could not be bribed. He did not want their gold. Or their silver. Or a basket of dried pike. He wanted their sacred stone. And he was willing to kill every man, woman, and child in Arcadia to get it.
But the Black Robe would come away empty-handed. The ancient relic was not kept in Arcadia. It was safeguarded in a specially built sanctuary, a league away. A fact known only to the Stone Keeper and the seven members of his inner circle. All dead. Put to the sword.
Which meant that Yann was the only Arcadian still alive who knew the secret. The reason why he now ran through the forest. Heart pounding. Shins aching. Breathless.
Gasping for air, Yann came to a shuddering halt and leaned against a sturdy oak tree. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the interlaced branches, dappling moss and rock.
Hearing something other than his own labored breath, Yann jerked his head away from the trunk. Craning his neck, he fearfully peered behind him . . . just in time to see two Narragansett warriors, faces painted, black hair roached, emerge from the shadows. One man held a war club, the other a tomahawk.
Uncertain whether they were friend or foe, Yann placed his right hand over his racing heart and bowed his head. “I am Yann Gugues . . . the Stone Keeper’s son.”
CHAPTER 1
PRESENT DAY
WASHINGTON, D. C .
Afraid that he’d been followed, Jason Lovett scanned the crowded subway platform as he pushed his way through the slow-moving throng.
Not seeing the pretty boy bastard who’d been tailing him, he noisily exhaled.
So far, so good.
The exit turnstile was at the other end of the Dupont Circle station and he was in a big-ass hurry. The lecture was scheduled to end at one o’clock. It was his only chance to speak with Caedmon Aisquith. And, hopefully, to make a proposition the English historian turned author couldn’t refuse. He had fifteen minutes to get to the lecture hall.
Shit. Could these people move any slower?
“It’s like bovines being loaded off a cattle car,” he muttered, now sandwiched between a pudgy soccer mom and her equally plump teenage daughter. Afraid he would get stuck on the escalator behind a couple of lard asses, he squeezed past.
No sooner did he clear the obstacle than a dude in an even bigger hurry bumped into him, prying loose the book Lovett had tucked under his arm. He made an awkward save, catching the hardcover volume before it hit the deck. The subway had seemed a good idea at the time; now he wasn’t so sure. Earlier, he’d gone to Union Station where he bought a train ticket for Richmond. He’d even boarded the train, bailing out just before it left the station. Moments after that, he caught the westbound subway. An elaborate hoax to make the pretty boy bastard think he was leaving town.
God, he hoped the ruse worked.
Feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the side of his face, he wiped his shirt sleeve across his brow, the humid air inside the cavernous station jungle-like.
Finally reaching the turnstile, he snatched his subway ticket out of the metal slot and rushed toward the escalator. Head bent, he sprinted up the left side. Glancing upward, he groaned, the escalator at least a city block long. Ten years had come and gone since he rowed crew at Brown University, his lung capacity not what it used to be.
A few moments later, wheezing like an old fart with emphysema, he stepped off the escalator. He glanced around the urban neighborhood, disoriented. Dupont Circle was a hip hodgepodge of cafés, bookstores, and high-end art galleries. The nearby traffic circle, with at least six streets radiating out in all directions, didn’t help.
He stopped a middle-aged suit rushing past. “Excuse me,” he huffed, still working on catching his breath. “I’m looking for the House of the Temple.”
The suit pointed to one of the radiating streets. “Two blocks up New Hampshire. Turn right on S Street,” he brusquely replied, clearly annoyed that the last five seconds of his life had been stolen from him.
Lovett nodded his thanks. Ignoring the traffic signal, he darted in front of a yellow cab. His jaywalking incited several motorists to lay on the horn.
Up yours! I’m in a hurry.
Figuring he’d catch his breath at the other end of the line, he jogged down New Hampshire Avenue, the tree-lined street relatively free of pedestrian traffic. The embassies of Zimbabwe, Namibia, and Nicaragua passed in a blur.
He peered over his shoulder.
Damn. There was a dark-haired man about a block back. He didn’t think it was the pretty boy bastard. But then again, it might be.
Catching sight of an English basement on a nearby town house, he veered off course, ducking into the brick stairwell. He scrunched out of sight, wedging himself between a metal garbage can and a blue recycling bin. Worried he might puke, or even pass out, he ripped open the Velcro flap on his cargo pants and removed a prescription bottle. The doctor at the walk-in clinic prescribed the Xanax to help manage his anxiety. He’d taken one an hour ago and so far it hadn’t done jack.
Fumbling with the childproof lid, he popped another tablet into his mouth.
A second later, his courage in freefall, he peered over the brick retaining wall. The dark-haired man was now a half block away. Still too far to make out his features.
Lovett shoved his hand back into his pocket, this time removing a small digital voice recorder. He’d been keeping a verbal diary. Just in case.
Fearing the worst, he switched it on. Then, in a lowered voice, he continued. “If someone is listening to this, shit, it means the fucker finally caught up to me. Just so we’re clear, I’m not paranoid. I am being stalked. But there’s too much at stake to tuck tail and run. No way in hell I’m going to let that pretty boy bastard take what’s mine. If he wants the treasure, he’s going to have to—”
The dark-haired man strolled past.
Lovett sagged against the brick wall, relieved.
Hoping the Xanax kicked in sooner rather than later, he shoved the recorder back in his pocket and climbed out of the stairwell.
At S Street, he turned right. About a hundred yards down, he caught sight of the House of the Temple, a colossus of stone that took up an entire city block.
Christ.
What kind of drugs were the Freemasons taking when they constructed the ungodly structure?
The House of the Temple looked like an ancient Greek sanctuary with a truncated pyramid plunked on the top of it. The pyramid bore an uncanny rese
mblance to the one on the back of the dollar bill. Which no doubt gave conspiracy theorists a hard-on. Add to that the giant pair of sphinxes that flanked the imposing granite steps and the whole thing put him in mind of the Temple of Mausolus at Halicarnassus. Which was kind of ironic, since he spent a summer at Bodrum working on an archaeology dig. Slaving away, actually, grad students forced to do all the grunt work. But then he dug up a gold earring. Talk about an adrenaline rush. It sure beat the hell out of sifting through potsherds.
Deciding there and then that the real glory was in treasure hunting, he spent the next summer at Key West, volunteering with the Fisher expedition. Man alive. It was an adrenaline rush on steroids, gold and silver bars strewn across the ocean floor, there for the picking. But not the taking, the Fisher folks being a real proprietary lot. Possessed of a first-class education and a burning desire to make his mark on the world, he figured he could find his own treasure trove.
And he was damned closed to doing just that.
But he needed help.
That’s why he was standing in front of the butt-ugly building.
Knowing he only had a few minutes before the clock struck one, Lovett took the steps two at a time, counting thirty-three of them. At the top, he opened a massive pair of bronze doors. About to step inside, he glanced over his shoulder.
The pretty boy bastard was nowhere in sight.
Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER 2
“. . . leaving no question in my mind that the Ark of the Covenant was a form of ancient technology inherited from the Egyptians,” Caedmon Aisquith told his audience, more than a few of whom had a copy of his book Isis Revealed in plain sight.
“Next question?” He pointed to a woman sitting in the front row of the library reading room. At least four dozen jurists’ chairs had been placed in the middle of the room, turning the book-lined chamber into a makeshift lecture hall.
The bespectacled attendee glanced from side to side, verifying that she was indeed the chosen questioner. “Yes, I’m, um, curious about your recent trip to Ethiopia, which you briefly mentioned in the lecture. How do you know the Ark of the Covenant isn’t hidden there?”
