by C. M. Palov
Admittedly, he was surprised that Lovett had taken anyone into his confidence. It didn’t fit the pattern. In the week since he’d been following Lovett, the archaeologist had not spoken to a single person.
Uncertain how to iron out the unforeseen wrinkle, he surreptitiously observed the trio.
Feeling the muscles in his legs tighten, he slowed his breath. A trick he’d learned long years ago. Placing his hand under his jacket, he slid his fingers over the scabbard attached to his belt. His very first weapon had been a fillet knife that he’d stolen from a fisherman’s tackle box. Only thirteen years of age, he’d slept with it gripped in his hand as he’d huddled in an abandoned shack near the piers, afraid of being sodomized in his sleep. In time he’d become skilled in its use, spending hours tossing the knife at a crudely painted target. Once, during a particularly nasty street brawl, he’d plunged the knife into another boy’s belly. Not deep enough to kill. That came later.
In the years since, he’d owned any number of knives. But none as exquisite as the antique dagger he’d selected for this special occasion.
Slowly, not wanting to attract unwanted attention, Saviour removed the dagger from the leather case, careful to keep the blade hidden from view. In his mind’s eye, he could see the centuries-old weapon, forged of steel, the hilt gold-plated, inlaid with twenty-four small rubies set in an eight-pointed star pattern. The Creator’s star. With his thumb pad, he fingered the tiny stones. A bloodred cluster. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”
The ornately fashioned blade had been a present from his benefactor, a man known to him simply as Mercurius. The Latin name for the Greek god Hermes. The divine messenger. In truth, his divine salvation.
When Mercurius became his patron, he’d not only seen to his education but also provided Saviour with a penthouse apartment in Thessaloniki’s upscale Kalamaria neighborhood. In return, Mercurius asked only that Saviour be his eyes and his ears. A secretive man, Mercurius kept to the shadows. Saviour was the polar opposite, naturally drawn to the light. Together, he and Mercurius formed a perfect whole. Like the bronze medallion he’d seen in the atrium depicting the sun and the moon. Or the two squares that formed the Creator’s star. Pairs of opposites.
He stared at the trio still huddled at the front of the room, well aware that he had but one knife.
He’d not planned for three enemies. Only the one. A mistake.
Which of the three posed the biggest threat?
The curly-haired woman he quickly dismissed. Which left the archaeologist and the tall red-haired man.
Saviour sized up the two men, deciding who to take out.
CHAPTER 6
As he had several times already, Jason Lovett nervously glanced over his shoulder. “Actually, a hundred billion is a conservative estimate. But we need to, um, keep the dollar amount on the down low. If you know what I mean.”
“Loose lips sink Templar ships,” Edie deadpanned. Or something equally asinine.
A hundred billion dollars.
Was this guy for real? Talk about selling something off the back of the truck. She glanced at Caedmon, wondering if he was buying Lovett’s egregiously tall tale.
Outwardly calm, her companion opened his water and took a measured sip before placing the plastic bottle on the nearby table.
Edie’s gaze shifted between the two men, struck by the startling difference between them. With his plaid shirttails, baggy cargo pants, and wispy soul patch, Jason Lovett looked like he had arrived on a skateboard. Add to that a barely contained frenetic energy and it made her wonder if the youthful doctor got trapped in a caffeine-laced grunge time warp. Caedmon, on the other hand, attired in a tailored wool blazer paired with a zippered turtleneck and black denim jeans, exuded an air both casual and sophisticated, a feat only a European could pull off. Nearly six feet four inches in height with a thatch of red hair, he stood out in a crowd. She always thought that if you fused some of history’s famous redheads—Erik the Red, William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson—you’d end up with Caedmon Aisquith.
“How did the Templars amass such a large fortune?” It seemed the obvious question to ask.
“How indeed?” Caedmon seconded. “Granted, all new recruits were forced to sign over their property to the Order, and the European aristocracy was generous with their donations. But even that would not account for so massive a sum.” Cocking his head to one side, he shot Lovett a penetrating stare. “Pray don’t tell me that you’re one of those misguided chaps who erroneously believe that while in the Holy Land, the Templars discovered a treasure hoard buried beneath the ruins of Solomon’s Temple.”
Lovett raised his hands. A show of surrender. “Hey, you got me mixed up with some other dude. By the time the Templars came along in the twelfth century, the Jerusalem treasury had already been pilfered. Being a history wonk, you know that in A.D. 70 the Romans razed the Jerusalem Temple to the ground. But not before they looted the joint. It stands to reason that the Ark of the Covenant was included in the booty, since the sacred relic was housed inside the temple. Along with a very vast fortune in gold, silver, and glittery gemstones.”
“So, in other words, all roads lead to Rome,” Edie said, unconvinced. Then, deciding to play hardball, she went a step further. “Okay, suppose, for argument’s sake, the Romans did ransack the Jerusalem treasure. How did the Templars get a hold of it eleven centuries later?”
Clearly up to the challenge, Lovett smirked. “This is where the story gets interesting. In the early fifth century, the Visigoth hordes sacked Rome. Their chieftain Alaric made off like a barbarian bandit, stealing the treasury that the Romans had stockpiled in the previous centuries. Now, we’re not just talking about the Jerusalem treasury, we’re talking about loot plundered from all over the then known world. A big honking treasure by anyone’s definition. Bigger than anything Mel Fisher and his crew found in the wreckage of the Atocha. That’s for damned sure.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Edie said, refusing to be sidetracked.
“I believe that he has,” Caedmon said, coming to the younger man’s defense. “After sacking Rome, Alaric returned to the Visigoth stronghold in the south of France and promptly buried his pilfered treasure trove. In the year 1150, the Knights Templar took up residence in the same hills and dales once inhabited by the Visigoths.”
“Where”—mimicking a gunslinger, Lovett pointed both index fingers at Caedmon’s chest in a quick draw—“you guessed it. The Templars found the friggin’ Visigoth treasure. That’s about the time the Knights Templar started to live large, building their navy and buying up thousands of manors all over Europe. Suddenly, overnight, they had more venture capital than anyone else on the continent. No one could touch these guys. They were a financial force to be reckoned with.” Lovett’s hazel-blue eyes gleamed, Edie certain she could see dollar signs superimposed over his pupils.
“You are, if anything, well versed in Templar history,” Caedmon remarked.
“Hey, I’ve been boning up.” Lovett cackled softly. “Get it? Archaeologist.” He patted his chest in a “Me, Tarzan” kind of way. “Boning up.”
“It’s an intriguing theory,” Caedmon continued, ignoring the shtick. “But without more proof, it’s thin gruel.”
“Personally, I think the whole story is ludicrous,” Edie said, adding her two cents. Figuring that was the real dollar value of the Templar treasure.
“Hey, this isn’t some pie-in-the-sky crackpot theory. I’ve got the proof. Maps, artifacts, archival records. I’ve devoted the last year of my life to following the Templars’ trail.”
“Mmmm.” Pursing his lips, Caedmon cocked his head to one side. Edie could see that he was mulling it all over, giving serious consideration to the story just told.
And that had her worried. Couldn’t Caedmon see that Jason Lovett was a Templar wannabe? He probably liked to dress up in chain mail and pretend he was a medieval knight.
“Where exactly in t
he New World did the Templars hide their treasure trove?” Edie made no attempt to hide her skepticism.
“I’m pretty certain the Templars made landfall at Newport, Rhode Island. From there, they moved inland, setting up a colony about twenty miles west of Newport. I partially excavated the site. Looks like some sort of massacre took place. That said, I’m not exactly certain where they hid the treasure.” Not nearly as cocky as he had been, Lovett turned toward Caedmon, a beseeching look on his face. “This is where your expertise would come in handy. I found some Templar symbols carved onto a boulder. I think it’s a signpost or maybe a secret code. Since you’re a Templar expert—” The archaeologist stopped in midsentence. Bug-eyed, he teetered unsteadily on his feet.
“Are you all right?” Caedmon solicitously inquired.
Still swaying, the archaeologist frantically reached behind him. Like a man trying to scratch his back, but not quite able to reach the right spot. “The pret-ty boy b-bastard . . .”
Without warning, he lurched, toppling the projection screen as he fell, face forward, onto the parquet floor.
An instant later, Edie screamed, horrified to see a jeweled knife hilt protruding from Jason Lovett’s back.
CHAPTER 7
“Good God!” Caedmon bellowed, shocked beyond belief.
Jason Lovett had just been felled by an assassin’s dagger.
Craning his neck, he glimpsed a dark-haired man sprinting toward the exit at the back of the reading room. A lone assassin.
Caedmon turned to Edie. “Call the police! And whatever you do, don’t leave this room until they arrive.” Orders issued, he dashed toward the rear exit.
“Where are you going?” Edie yelled at his backside.
He made no reply, the portcullis about to come crashing down. The assassin had at least a five-second lead, the man having already vanished from the reading room.
Charging through the back doorway, Caedmon burst into an interior hallway, immediately brought up short. Paneled in dark wood punctuated with elaborately framed portraits of Thirty-third Degree Freemasons, the picture gallery had about it a claustrophobic eeriness. Particularly since, other than the immortalized Masons, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
“The bastard only had two choices, right or left,” he muttered, silently cursing the fact that the killer was so fleet of foot.
Instinct told him the assassin would steer clear of the banquet hall to the right, where the nattering lecture-goers were still availing themselves of free refreshments. Why risk being tackled to the ground by an overzealous onlooker?
Hoping his instincts proved correct, he tucked into a runner’s pose, taking the road less traveled to the left.
At the end of the hall, he veered in the direction of the polished marble stairs that led to the atrium. Unless he hurried, the bastard would soon be clear of the building.
Taking the steps two at a time, he grabbed hold of the brass banister to keep from falling on his face, leather soles slipping on the smooth surface, his shoes not designed for a foot race.
At the top of the staircase, he swung to the right. Peering through the granite-columned corridor that framed either side of the spacious atrium, he sighted the front exit and the lone security guard manning his station at the door, unaware of the tragedy that had just occurred below deck.
About to summon the guard, the shout snagged in his throat, stifled as he caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye.
He pivoted just in time to see one side of a double door silently swing shut.
Is the wind in that door?
Caedmon stared at the closed door panel, wondering if a trap had just been set. Wondering if Lovett’s assassin was the wind that blew shut the swinging door.
“Only one way to find out,” he murmured, stepping forward.
CHAPTER 8
“Somebody! Quick! I need a doctor!” Edie Miller hollered, dropping to her knees and scrambling across the downed projection screen to reach Jason Lovett’s side.
Oh God. Is Caedmon really chasing a cold-blooded murderer? What if the killer has a gun? Or another knife? Or is a martial arts—
Caedmon is okay, she silently affirmed. He’d been trained as a spy. Which meant he knew how to handle himself in a dangerous situation.
A paunchy middle-aged man rushed into the reading room.
Edie didn’t know if it was the blood, the sprawled body, or the jeweled knife hilt, but the first responder skidded to an abrupt halt, his cell phone limply plastered against his cheek. “What the—!”
“Stop gawking and start dialing! Tell the emergency operator that a man’s been stabbed at the House of the Temple on Sixteenth Street,” she instructed, having made the assumption that, like most people caught up in an emergency, his brain just turned to mush. Then, hoping to avert yet another catastrophe, she said, “After you make the call, I need you to corral everyone into the banquet hall until the police arrive. The killer is still on the loose.”
The man’s shock instantly morphed into visible fear. “But I . . . I’ve got a w-wife and two k-kids. Why do I have to be hall monitor?”
“Just do it!” Edie screeched, on the verge of lurching to her feet and delivering a heavy-handed slap to his face. “If this man dies, it’ll be on your head!”
The guilt trip worked; the man was jabbing away at his cell phone as he spun on his heel and ran out the door.
Just then, Jason Lovett, amazingly still conscious, rolled from his stomach to his side. The movement cost him, the archaeologist gasping for breath.
“Can I get you anything?” Belatedly realizing it was a stupid question, Edie brushed a hank of blond hair away from his face.
His hair was so soft. Baby fine. Maybe because he was just that, a baby. Somebody’s baby. A mother’s beloved son.
Her eyes welling with tears, Edie placed her hand against Lovett’s flushed cheek, willing him to stay alive.
Staring at her with a pain-racked expression, he found the strength to weakly whisper, “Aqua sanctus . . . aqua sanctus.”
“I . . . I don’t speak Latin,” she sputtered, not even sure that was the right language. “You need to—Of course! Aqua means water. You want a drink of water.”
Relieved that she’d correctly interpreted the request, she leaned forward, snatching Caedmon’s water bottle from the table. Hands trembling, she uncapped the bottle. Then, gently lifting Jason Lovett’s head, she placed the bottle to his lips.
Tersely shaking his head, he slapped the bottle out of her hand, splashing water down the front of his chest. “Aqua sanctus!” he hissed, this time more urgently.
“Which means nothing to me. Caedmon’s the one who speaks Latin.”
“You have to—” Grimacing, Lovett fumbled with a Velcro flap on his cargo pants.
“Don’t move,” she ordered, afraid he might cause greater harm. If such a thing was possible.
Lovett ignored the order, grunting as he ripped open the flap and shoved his hand into his pants pocket. A prescription bottle plunked loose, rolling a few inches on the parquet floor. Edie glanced at the label. Xanax. An antidepressant. Jason Lovett liked to pop pharm candy.
“The ambulance is on the way,” she told him, wondering how much longer Lovett could hold out. “We’ll have you at GW Hospital in a jiffy. It’s a straight shot down New Hampshire Avenue. Won’t take but a few minutes to get there.”
Again, Lovett fumbled with the flap on his cargo pants. Wincing, he raised himself up slightly, struggling to remove something from his pocket.
Edie reached over to help him—only to jerk backward when she saw the glint of a gun.
CHAPTER 9
Caedmon pushed open the swinging door.
Aware that he might be walking into a trap, he cautiously advanced into a small reading room. Glass display cases lined one wall; a wooden table laden with stacked volumes dominated the center of the space.
He scanned the cozy jumble. Marble busts of famed Greek philosophers. A stuffed bald
eagle. A glass case displaying Abraham Lincoln’s death mask. As near as he could tell, the room contained nothing but old books and morbid curiosities. Lovett’s assassin was nowhere in sight.
About to take his leave, his nostrils suddenly twitched, his olfactory senses detecting a scent other than old leather and aged paper.
Cologne.
Yes, he was certain of it, a faint scent of sandalwood clinging ever so gently to the molecules in the air.
He followed the scent.
Entering a two-story library, he approached an oversized desk nestled between two freestanding cabinets. A narrow staircase on his right led to a cantilevered catwalk suspended overhead.
The scent of sandalwood grew stronger.
The assassin is near.
No sooner did that thought take root than Caedmon heard a quick intake of breath—the only warning he had before the assassin lunged at him. Grabbing hold of the metal post that secured one side of the staircase to the floor, the other man catapulted his body into the air.
Before Caedmon could register what was happening, two leather shoe soles forcefully slammed against his chest. Hurled backward, his head violently swung to the right, his skull smashing into one of the cabinets, causing the imposing piece to totter precariously.
Christ!
A nauseating bolt of pain instantly surged from his right temple all the way down his arm. He spat out a mouthful of blood, red spittle flying through the air, spattering the inlaid glass on the cabinet door. He staggered several feet. Proverbial stars erratically flickered. Disoriented, he heard a low cackle.
The bastard is laughing at me.
He shook off the pain.
Jaw clenched, Caedmon charged his attacker.
Quick on his feet, the other man grabbed a heavy bookend from the desk, hurling the gold-leafed monstrosity at Caedmon’s chest. He dodged to one side. Unarmed, he snatched the nearest item at hand—a brass lamp on a nearby end table. He roughly yanked the cord from the wall as he ripped off the lamp shade. Makeshift club in hand, he went on the offensive.
