The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  “Indeed.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Your Benjamin Franklin is proving a difficult circle to square.”

  “Might have been nice if he had left a clue as to where he intended to take the Emerald Tablet once he left London.”

  “I believe that he did.” With his index finger, Caedmon drew Edie’s attention to several lines of text. “Franklin writes, ‘I propose to take Thoth’s stone to the City nearest the Centre to that place where men strive to improve the common stock of Knowledge so that all may prosper in mind as well as spirit.’ Without question, it’s a clue as to where Dr. Franklin intended to take the Emerald Tablet.”

  Edie rolled her eyes. “Good luck finding that location on a Rand McNally map.”

  He studied the last page of Franklin’s missive. Selection made, he said, “These two phrases look promising: ‘the City nearest the Centre’ and ‘the common stock of Knowledge.’ ” He quickly typed both phrases into an Internet search engine.

  “In one way or another, it always comes back to ‘knowledge,’ doesn’t it?”

  “The glue that binds one century to the next. Well, well. We have a hit,” he announced. At seeing the two phrases pop up in the same online document, he experienced a surge of optimism. “It seems that the wise sage used those same phrases in a written proposal dating to 1743.” He quickly skimmed the text that had come up on the screen. “In this document Franklin states his intention to found an organization in Philadelphia, that ‘being the City nearest the Centre of the Continent-Colonies, ’ to be known as the American Philosophical Society.”

  Edie picked up where he left off. “The aim of which was to ‘cultivate the finer Arts, and improve the common stock of Knowledge.’ ” She glanced at him. “Sounds like the American Philosophical Society was supposed to be the colonial counterpart of the Royal Society.”

  He quickly typed “American Philosophical Society” into the search engine. “And still is,” he informed her, grinning. One step closer.

  Scooting her metal folding chair closer to the table, Edie excitedly pointed to the Web page he’d just pulled up. “Ohmygosh! You’re right. The American Philosophical Society, founded by Benjamin Franklin in 1743, is still a going concern with a library, archives, and a very extensive Franklin Collection. Oh, and get this: It’s located in the old historic district of Philadelphia right next to Independence Hall.” When he raised a quizzical brow, she elaborated. “That’s where the Second Continental Congress convened in May 1775 and where, fourteen months later, Ben Franklin and the rest of the Founding Fathers signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.”

  “Mmmm . . . interesting.” For several seconds he pondered the significance of the Emerald Tablet being hidden in the same colonial city where the American rebels so famously put pen to paper, formalizing their break with Great Britain. “According to The Book of Moses, Franklin intended to establish a protectorate, ‘the Triad’ as he called it, to ensure that the Emerald Tablet never fell into the hands of those who would exploit it for personal gain.”

  “So, when do we leave for Philly?”

  He smiled. How well she knows me.

  “I’ll check the online travel agency to see when the next flight—” He stopped in midsentence, suddenly hearing the refrain from the 1980s song “Karma Chameleon.” The offending sound emanating from his anorak pocket.

  “I never took you for being a Boy George fan.”

  “I’m not.” Rummaging in his pocket, he removed an unfamiliar mobile phone, belatedly realizing that what they were hearing was the ring tone. Wondering how the bright red mobile found its way into his pocket, he took the call. Except it wasn’t a call. It was an incoming video.

  “Hey, that looks exactly like Rubin’s boudoir,” Edie said, leaning over his shoulder. “In fact, there’s Rubin’s big four-poster bed with—Oh, my God!”

  “What the bloody—” His heart slammed against his chest as he saw Rubin, stark naked, standing on a Tudor stool beside an ornately carved wood post. A long black cord was looped around his neck, the other end wrapped around the top of the four-poster bed.

  Tears streaming down his face, Rubin stared directly at the camera. “Vater, ich liebe dich.”

  A split second later, a second person, seen only from behind, walked over and kicked the stool out from under Rubin’s feet. He dropped nearly a foot. Body convulsing. Feet dangling.

  Edie screamed.

  Caedmon forcefully shoved the mobile into her hand. “Dial 999. Tell the police to go to Woolf’s Antiquarian Books in Cecil Court. And for God’s sake, don’t leave the café!” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran toward the door.

  CHAPTER 62

  Caedmon burst onto the pavement outside the Internet café, brusquely shoving several patrons aside in his haste to exit the building.

  Shocked by the video he’d just seen—and well aware that he had no time to lose—he sprinted in the direction of Cecil Court. The café was only two blocks from the bookshop. There might still be time to rescue Rubin.

  Storefronts and eateries passed in a blur of plate glass and shuttered entryways. His heart pounding against his breastbone, he darted across the intersection. Horns blared. The driver of a black hackney cab hollered a rude insult. He kept on running.

  He had two minutes. Three if he was lucky. Probably closer to two, since Rubin had a roly-poly build that would put more pressure on his trachea.

  Don’t struggle, Rubin! For God’s sake, don’t fight it. You’ll only hasten the end. Death by hanging. In reality, death by strangulation, with the victim’s own body weight causing the noose to tighten. Which induced asphyxiation.

  He refrained from glancing at his watch. Instead, he pumped his legs that much harder, grateful the earlier rain had stopped. Although the pavement was slick with moisture. As he found out a few moments later when he skidded into a lamppost.

  His energy flagging, he turned the corner onto Cecil Court, immediately assaulted with the pungent scent of garam masala. The Curry House on the corner was open for business. Breathless, he surveyed the pedestrian-only thoroughfare. Searching for a dark-haired man with the face of an angel. The heart of a demon.

  The beautiful bastard was nowhere in sight. In fact, Cecil Court seemed surreally calm. A peaceful tableau.

  At a glance he saw the usual smattering of tourists and Sunday shoppers leisurely strolling the walkway and huddled in front of book carousels. Time always seemed to move at a slower pace on Booksellers’ Row. Which is why heads turned as he sprinted toward the bookshop in the middle of the court. He paid the curious no mind. A man had just been brutally accosted in their midst and they were serenely oblivious. He didn’t have that luxury.

  Reaching the front door of the bookshop, he turned the knob. Locked. Damn! Rubin’s assailant had a key to the shop! And had actually gone to the trouble of locking up when he departed the premises. Caedmon shoved his hand into his trouser pocket and removed the silver key that Rubin had earlier given him, his fingers trembling slightly as he jammed it in the lock. He cursed under his breath.

  The instant the lock clicked, he turned the knob and flung the door wide open, the entry bell wildly ringing. He didn’t bother to close the door, in far more of a hurry than Rubin’s assailant had been. As he dashed across the shop, he bumped his shoulder against a bookcase, his vision impaired by the dim light. Again, he cursed, this time louder.

  Reaching the back staircase that led upstairs to Rubin’s boudoir, he grabbed the newel post and lunged upward, only to gracelessly stumble. Stopped in his tracks by a small barricade of cardboard boxes. He stepped on top of one of the boxes, his shoe promptly plunging through the crack in the cardboard top.

  “Damn!” Holding on to the banister, he yanked his foot out of the box. He scrambled awkwardly over the obstacle, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Rubin!” he shouted as he neared the top step. Although he didn’t expect an answer, the eerie silence filled him with dread.


  A moment later, he charged through the foyer with its massive court cabinet and hideous cuckoo clock and on into the flamboyantly paneled room. He came to a shuddering halt.

  He was too late.

  Rubin Woolf lifelessly hung from the ornate four-poster bed. Snow-white hair. Pale spindly limbs and rotund belly. Bulging tongue. A blue-tinged icicle suspended a foot above the floor. A gallows bird dangling from an oak perch.

  He fought the instinctive urge to recoil from the macabre sight. Instead, he closed his eyes, giving his mind a much-needed respite to take it all in. To process the horror of it all.

  This was not the Rubin he knew. This was not the animated man who, less than twelve hours ago, had merrily quaffed a martini while banging out “London Calling” on the piano.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced around the room. There was no blood. Not a single drop. Only a puddle of piss on the floor. He swallowed a mouthful of bile, nauseated. Unable to recall the last time he’d felt so powerless.

  Horrified, he turned his head. Then he saw it: an eight-pointed star neatly incised into the oak panel directly opposite. The same octogram star that had adorned the dagger hilt used to kill Jason Lovett.

  Think, man! The bastard was obviously sending a message.

  His shoulders slumped, grief, horror, and bewilderment assaulting him in equal measure. Why kill Rubin Woolf? Since the Mylar-encased Bacon frontispiece was on the bed, in plain sight, he must assume that the killer knew about the Knights of the Helmet. And, quite possibly, the Emerald Tablet. The bastard was probably in the dark about Benjamin Franklin, meaning they were one step ahead. Still in the game.

  He rubbed a hand over his cheek. Good God, did I really just think that? With Rubin’s lifeless body dangling from the—

  Caedmon tensed.

  He felt rather than heard the vibration of a repeated footfall. Someone was coming up the stairs. The bastard had returned to claim another victim.

  He turned his head from side to side, searching for a weapon. His gaze alighted on the upturned stool. The same stool that Rubin had stood upon in the moments before his death. Determined to smash the bastard’s skull, Caedmon grabbed the stool by one of its spindle legs.

  A split second later, seeing a pink blur and a mass of curly dark hair, he immediately flung the stool aside, catching Edie in his arms as she burst into the room and trying as best as he could to shield her from the ghoulish scene.

  “Don’t look, love.”

  The admonition came too late.

  “No!” Edie gasped, violently shuddering in his arms.

  Uncertain what to say, he said nothing. There was no flowery platitude that could erase so violent an image.

  Long moments later, Edie pulled away from him, a shell-shocked expression on her face. “There was no reason to kill—” She swung her head toward the foyer. “Do you hear that?”

  He listened. Then he heard it. A faint, but unmistakable crackling sound. Accompanied by an unmistakable smell. Smoke.

  He dashed to the foyer and out to the stairwell just beyond.

  “I can see flames!” Edie screeched.

  Indeed, a sprightly fire crackled and danced at the bottom of the steps, flames darting upward. A fire-breathing dragon come to life!

  “We’re trapped, aren’t we?” Edie wildly gestured to the stairwell, pointing out the obvious—that the flames were quickly advancing up the wooden steps, which supplied the perfect kindling.

  “Get back in the room!” he ordered, grabbing Edie by the arm and forcibly pulling her away from the stairwell.

  “We’ll never get out of here alive! This is a bookshop. It’s a tinderbox ready to blow!”

  Well aware that a raging inferno would soon engulf them unless they could put out the fire, he scanned the wood-paneled room. He needed something with which to smother the flames. Charging toward the window, he reached up and yanked the heavy velvet drapes off the wall. Rod and all.

  Ignoring Edie’s wild-eyed stare, he dashed back to the stairwell. In the short time since he’d been gone, the flames had traveled nearly to the top of the stairs. Quickly he pulled the metal rod through the fabric. He then unfurled the fabric and laid the heavy swath on top of the roaring flames.

  Like humans, fire required oxygen to breathe. Cut the oxygen flow, kill the fire.

  “Damn it,” he swore as the flames consumed the velvet drapery in a fiery burst. The soft crackle they’d heard a few moments ago now a deadly roar.

  His lungs filling with smoke, he noisily hacked. Reflexively crooking his elbow, he placed his bent arm over his mouth and nose as he backed away from the stairwell. There were more flames in the stairwell than London during the Blitz. The funeral pyre had been carefully planned to the last detail. The jumble of boxes at the foot of the steps had been set on fire. Probably soon after Edie ran up the stairs. For all he knew, the bastard had been in the bookshop the entire time. Waiting. Watching.

  “Caedmon!”

  “Window!” he hollered back at her. “Quickly!”

  Knowing it was their last line of retreat, he rushed toward the window, relieved to see a narrow ledge on the other side of the glass.

  “We’re a full story aboveground. We’ll break our necks if we try to jump.”

  “And we’ll meet a fiery end if we don’t,” he told Edie as he hurriedly unlatched the window. Legs straddled wide, he put a hand on either side of the wood rail and shoved upward.

  “Bloody hell! It’s painted shut!”

  Edie began to cough. “Fire . . . in the . . . foyer!” she gasped.

  “Right.” Knowing they only had a few seconds before the menacing flames devoured the wood-paneled room—an incinerator in the making—he hurriedly shrugged out of his anorak. He then wrapped it around his right forearm and hand. “Stand back!”

  Order issued, he smashed through the glass with his heavily padded arm. It took a few seconds of determined bashing before he’d cleared all the jagged pieces out of the frame. As he unraveled the coat from his arm, he glanced over his shoulder. The fire was now lapping at Rubin’s bare legs.

  Grabbing Edie by the hand, he pulled her toward the opening. “Out you go!”

  A stricken expression on her face, Edie ducked her head through the window. Carefully holding on to the frame, she bent at the waist and swung a jean-clad leg through the opening. Seconds later, she was on the ledge.

  In the near distance, Caedmon heard the blare of sirens.

  “Probably best if you don’t look down,” he warned as he made his way through the window, hoping she didn’t suffer from acrophobia. A few seconds later, hugging the painted brick exterior wall, he carefully sidled next to Edie. “You all right, love?”

  Brown eyes fearfully opened wide, she nodded. “All things considered.” She attempted a brave smile. One that fell woefully shy of the mark.

  A few feet from where they stood, tangerine flames darted through the open window.

  Taking Edie gently by the wrist, he wordlessly coaxed her to sidestep as far away from the window as possible. They got no more than four feet before they were stopped by a chunky bit of architectural ornamentation: a coved bulwark that protruded from the exterior façade. There was no way to straddle the bloody thing without falling off the ledge.

  Edie turned to him with a stricken expression. “Now what?”

  Excellent question.

  He scanned Cecil Court. Pure pandemonium reigned in both directions. Several frantic book dealers ran toward Charing Cross. Presumably to direct the fire brigade that had just pulled up at the end of the block. To ensure they didn’t lose their precious inventories. A cluster of gawking pedestrians had gathered near Rubin’s shop, several of them holding up their mobiles, capturing the fire on video. Beneath them, the plate-glass window on the ground floor violently shattered. Inciting several of the gawkers to scream.

  “Wouldn’t you know . . . not a ladder in sight,” Edie muttered.

  “Although I see something that will do in a pinch.�
� About fifteen feet from the entrance to Rubin’s bookshop, Caedmon sighted a sturdy trash receptacle.

  “You there! Drag that receptacle under the ledge!” he shouted to a burly fellow who stood in the crowd. He gestured, first to the receptacle, then to a spot directly beneath the ledge. “And be quick about it!” Before our bloody arses catch fire.

  Beside him, Edie tensed, evidently sensing what he had in mind. “The trash can only shaves off three feet. A fire truck just pulled up at the end of the block. Let’s wait.”

  “Waiting isn’t an option.” Already he could see that the flames shooting through the window had ignited the elaborate woodwork around the opening. A goodly amount of the exterior trim was made of wood and covered in oilbased paint. He feared that all too soon, it would erupt in a fiery blaze. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll go first.”

  Normally, ladies would go first, but he knew that Edie didn’t have the requisite upper-body strength to maintain her grip while she lowered herself off the ledge. He had the strength and was nine inches taller. With those advantages in his favor, he would be able to lower himself to the trash receptacle, then reach up and pluck Edie off the ledge. Piece of cake, as the Americans were fond of saying.

  It ended up taking two men to roll the heavy receptacle in place.

  Caedmon carefully pivoted so that he faced the painted brick wall behind him. Then, squatting, he grasped the edge of the ledge as he swung, first one leg, then the other, over the edge. For several seconds, he dangled, suspended in midair. An intense bolt of pain radiated out from the puncture wound on his left bicep. Bloody hell. Glancing down, he could see that the trash receptacle was directly beneath him. No more than a two-foot drop. The lid was made of metal with a round ten-inch opening in the middle. His plan was to land on the solid metal rim.

  “Caedmon, be careful!” Edie called out. There was no mistaking the panic in her voice.

  Hoping his aim was true, he let go of the ledge.

  The two obliging chaps reached out just as he landed on top of the receptacle. Their steadying hands prevented him from toppling over the side.