The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  “Do you think the Moses reference has anything to do with Franklin’s espionage activity in London?” Edie asked, her attention also drawn to the biblical scene. “After all, Moses was his code name.”

  “Rather tongue-in-cheek, don’t you think? I suspect the biblical scene has more to do with the ragtag American colonies severing their ties with the English monarch. This design was, after all, conceived shortly after the Declaration had been signed. Shackles shucked, the Americans will now venture forth to find the Promised Land.”

  “I don’t know about you, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the 1776 Great Seal is one of Franklin’s ‘signposts.’ ”

  “Mmmm . . . an intriguing notion.” Transfixed, he stared at the photocopied seal as he wrapped his mind around the various pieces of the puzzle.

  “What I don’t get is this business about the All-Seeing Eye. As Deists, Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams spurned the superstition and ritual of the ancient religions. So why include a symbol on the Great Seal that so brazenly harkens to Thoth, the Radiant Light of Aten, and the hidden stream of knowledge?”

  “It does add ‘a precious seeing to the eye.’ Perhaps the All-Seeing Eye is a red herring,” he suggested.

  Edie nodded. “For nearly fifty years, Franklin had the Bacon frontispiece in his possession. Not to mention, he was the grand master of the Philadelphia Lodge. Knowing the All-Seeing Eye was highly symbolic within esoteric circles, he could have used the symbol as a smokescreen. He knew the Freemasons would be searching high and low for the stolen relic, so he cloaked himself in the magi’s mantle. ‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t steal it. I’m a Freemason in good standing.’ ” She chuckled. “You’re right. Benjamin Franklin was a brilliant boffin.”

  “And, as I recall, something of an amateur cryptologist.”

  Edie grabbed a sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, where do we start?”

  “Given that Dr. Franklin purposely hid The Book of Moses, we must assume that is the first signpost. What connects the secret missive to the proposal for the 1776 Great Seal is—”

  “ ‘Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God,’ ” she interjected, transcribing the motto onto the sheet of paper. “Making it the second signpost.”

  “Perhaps.” Unlike Edie—who tended to hurl herself at a conclusion—he preferred a more circumspect approach. “There’s a possibility that the phrase is an anagram.”

  “Oh, I get it. You think the letters of the motto can be rearranged to make another phrase.”

  He grabbed a pencil and began scribbling several word combinations. “We’ll need to shake the tree and see if any fruit falls from the limb.”

  “I like God and stone,” Edie said, leaning over his shoulder to examine the list.

  “As do I.” He stared at the remaining twenty-six letters, wondering if they’d undertaken an impossible task. “This may take some time.”

  It did. Three hours and fourteen minutes, to be precise. As well as four sharpened pencils and ten sheets of paper.

  Physically exhausted and mentally drained, Caedmon turned to Edie. “Well, what do you think? I know, it’s not perfect.”

  REBELLION TO TYRANTS

  IS OBEDIENCE TO GOD

  =

  BIBLICIL ATEN STONE TO

  GODS EYE DO NOT ERR

  Caedmon underscored the first word with his finger. “This may be an archaic or variant spelling of the word biblical.”

  Edie chuckled. “Personally? I think it’s a colonial typo.”

  “Whether it’s a typo or a variant spelling, I think we found our second ‘signpost.’ ”

  “I agree,” his partner enthused. “The ‘biblicil aten stone’ obviously refers to the Emerald Tablet, which used to be kept in the Ark of the Covenant. And ‘Gods eye’ is clearly a reference to the All-Seeing Eye. Together, they form a flashing neon signpost that leads to . . .” Edie frowned, her voice trailing into silence.

  “As you have just surmised, we’ve reached an impasse.”

  Because without a bloody map, the newly discovered signpost was meaningless.

  CHAPTER 67

  “ ‘The pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre,’ ” Caedmon murmured, glancing about the Christ Church burial grounds.

  Standing beside him at the grave site, Edie shuddered. “The joint definitely feels haunted. As in ‘Who ya gonna call?’ ”

  Having left Library Hall, they’d been en route to their hotel when he espied a placard publicizing the great one’s grave site. Of like mind, they’d nipped inside the cemetery, hoping to find a signpost inscribed on Dr. Franklin’s last resting place. Perhaps a cleverly worded epitaph. Or an ingeniously designed emblem.

  Instead they discovered the humble inscription: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN and DEBORAH. 1790. Husband and wife buried side by side, each grave marked with a simple stone slab, no mention of Franklin’s brilliant achievements. Ashes to ashes.

  Digital cameral in hand, Edie snapped several photos of the conjoined slabs. “A teensy clue would have been nice.”

  “I, too, had hoped for a snippet,” he admitted, well aware that while they’d deciphered the Great Seal anagram, they had no idea how to parlay the secret message into something concrete.

  Moses. The Knights Templar. Sir Francis Bacon. Benjamin Franklin. The magus. The warrior monks. The alchemist. The Deist. Separated by the centuries, they were bound, one to the other, through a complex web of symbols and secrets.

  Biblicil aten stone to Gods eye Do not err—what the bloody hell did it mean?

  Glancing at the burial slab, he plaintively sighed.

  Pivoting in his direction, Edie took his photo. “I’m going to label that pic ‘Caedmon in pensive mode.’ Since there’s no All-Seeing Eye on the tombstone, we can assume that ol’ Ben didn’t take the Emerald Tablet to the grave.”

  “Damn. I shall have to scratch that possibility off the list,” he good-naturedly grumbled.

  As Edie continued to take photos, Caedmon took a moment to survey the grounds. Serene in the way that old cemeteries often are, the two-acre brick-walled enclave was also curiously surreal. On the near horizon, looming office buildings cast dark shadows onto the marble yard; and in the near distance, the erratic rumble of car engines lulled the dead to sleep. The pungent odor from a hot dog vendor’s cart combined with muffler exhaust, the fused scents wafting over the brick enclosure.

  “This is going to sound strange, but I have no idea where my mother is buried. Somewhere in Orlando, I suppose.” Edie lowered the camera from her face, enabling him to see that she had a deep pucker between her brows. “Is there still such a thing as a pauper’s grave?”

  Startled by the candid remarks followed by the unexpected query, he fumbled a bit. “Er, yes. No doubt cemeteries still maintain a pauper’s section.” For the poor always ye have with you, he thought, but didn’t say, not wanting to unintentionally cause offense. Then, inspired, he said, “I could help you locate the grave site.”

  The pucker deepened. “Why? She’s not there. She was never there. You know, high on arrival.”

  Caedmon presumed the odd remark referred to her mother’s heroin overdose.

  “The here and now, that’s all we have,” Edie continued as she stowed the digital cameral in her shoulder satchel. “Take your pleasures where you can because tomorrow the sheriff’s deputy might slap an eviction notice on the trailer door. Although, don’t get me wrong, there were times when my mother and I were very tight. Just two little hamsters on the wheel of life.” Smiling wistfully, she made a twirling motion with her fingers.

  He placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her fuchsia-clad torso. His Edie. So beautiful. So intrepid. And at times so incredibly fragile.

  “I didn’t say that to elicit your sympathy.”

  “I know.” He rested his chin on top of her head.

  “Change of subject: Is it just me, or is there something weirdly seductive about being in a graveyar
d?” Tilting her head, Edie peered up at him as she slid her hands under his wool blazer. “No need to answer. Your heartbeat just accelerated a notch.”

  “Close contact has that effect.”

  She affected a disappointed moué. “Here I thought we had something special, but it seems that a close encounter with any woman can—”

  “Not true,” he interjected, pulling her even closer. “And you’re the only woman of my acquaintance who can do this to me.” He purposefully pressed himself against her midsection.

  “Oh my. Now my pulse just quickened.”

  Throwing back his head, he laughed.

  “Hel-lo! That remark was supposed to turn you on not make you laugh uproariously.”

  “My apologies.” He softly nuzzled the corner of her mouth before moving to a flushed cheek, then a shell-colored lobe, all the while breathing in her scent, a heady vanilla. Raising a hand, he smoothed a flyaway curl from her face.

  Quite brazenly, Edie pressed her breasts against his chest, bringing the two of them into even closer contact. “Now you may kiss me.”

  “Thy will be done.”

  However, not as she may have intended. For what began as a sweetly romantic kiss quickly snowballed into something decidedly carnal. A passionate kaleidoscope of twisting mouths, grasping hands, and muffled whimpers.

  Aware of their surroundings, he reluctantly brought it to a breathless close.

  An impassioned silence vibrated between them. Accentuated by the strains of Spanish flamenco, a street musician giving an impromptu concert on the other side of the brick wall.

  Edie heaved a lusty sigh. “Wow . . . almost like a mariachi band playing under my balcony window.”

  His mood greatly improved, he took Edie by the elbow and steered her away from the great man’s grave site. “Fancy a stroll?”

  “Think we should risk it?” She glanced heavenward, the skies inundated with swollen clouds saturated with unshed rain. “Maybe we should scurry back to the hotel.”

  “Live dangerously, I say. One can’t always have a brolly at the ready.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Pulling away from him, she stepped over to a raised funerary slab, the surface pitted by acid rain. Without a care for the dearly departed, she unceremoniously parked her backside. “Let’s do some cyber sleuthing.”

  “Here? In the middle of the Christ Church burial grounds?”

  “Don’t look so aghast.” Opening the leather satchel, she removed the netbook. “Just think of this as an open-air office. Makes me wonder how folks managed before the information age. A laptop computer with 3G wireless service sure beats a quill pen and messenger pigeon, huh?”

  Curiosity trumping decorum, he sat down on the weathered stone. Like Edie, he very much wanted to cobble together the disparate pieces of the puzzle. “I suggest that we begin with the deciphered anagram ‘biblicil aten stone to gods eye do not err.’ ”

  Although she raised a dubious brow, Edie obliged the request. “Aha! Just as I thought,” she exclaimed a split second later. “Not a single result.”

  “An inauspicious start.”

  “Okay, we know that the motto ‘Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God’ was significant to Benjamin Franklin, but what about the other two members of the Triad?” As she spoke, Edie typed out the phrase plus the name Thomas Jefferson.

  “The first entry, I think.” Caedmon quickly scanned the selected page. “Fascinating . . . Not only did Thomas Jefferson adopt the phrase as his personal motto, but he had it cast onto a signet to seal his correspondence.”

  “Let’s see if we get any hits with John Adams. . . . Hmm, looks like Adams mentioned the phrase in passing to his wife, Abigail, but that’s about the extent of it.”

  “Fuel for an historian perhaps, but unless I’m greatly mistaken, we’ve just run out of petrol.”

  “You are such a naysayer. New search.” Undaunted, Edie flexed her fingers above the keyboard. “Earlier today you hypothesized that the All-Seeing Eye is a red herring. With that in mind, let’s key in ‘All-Seeing Eye’ plus the names of the three Triad members.” An instant later, she shielded her face with her arm. As though protecting herself from flying debris. “Whoa! Talk about a conspiracy theory bomb blast. I think I just got nicked by a hurtling wingnut. Or was that a flying whack-a-doo?”

  Caedmon scanned the list of results. “Good God! Given the surfeit of entries that contain the word satanic, it may take hours to find an intelligible kernel in all that dross.”

  “Online hysteria over secret cabals has become all the rage. Evidently, we wandered into the eye of the storm.”

  He smiled, amused by the pun. “We need to refine our search.”

  Edie tapped a finger against her chin. “When we were in London, Rubin spoke at length about the Eye of Thoth, the Radiant Light of Aten, and the All-Seeing Eye. As I recall, he was convinced that they were variant expressions derived from the same stream of hidden knowledge.”

  “That’s because Thoth, the author of the Emerald Tablet, was at the root of each of those symbols. Ergo, those three iconic images each conveyed the essence of creation made manifest in the material world.”

  “Yada, yada, yada. Let’s see if we can find a connection between Thoth and any of our Triad members.” Edie Googled “Benjamin Franklin + Thoth.” “Nada on the yada,” she muttered when “No results found” popped up on the computer. “Ditto for Jefferson. Who, by the way, happens to be my second favorite redhead.” She punctuated the playful addendum with a wink. “And lastly, the portly man from Quincy.” A moment later, slack-jawed, brown eyes opened wide, she turned to him. “Ohmygod . . . we got a hit.”

  Squinting, he leaned closer to the computer. “Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yeah. Look, it’s a bronze bas-relief sculpture of Thoth on an exterior door. The door in question is hinged onto the John Adams Building in Washington, D.C. Which, in case you don’t know, is an annex building for the Library of Congress.”

  He stared, dumbfounded. Thoth, the ibis-headed Egyptian god, depicted not in a temple on the Nile but in the American capital on the Potomac.

  Washington, the city of secrets. Past and present.

  “And did you happen to notice what the bird-man is holding aloft in his right hand?”

  “I do believe that our Egyptian friend is clutching the Emerald Tablet.” Amazed by the startling image, he could do little more than shake his head and gawk.

  “Ruh-roh.” Edie pointed to a section of text that accompanied the online image. “According to this, the Adams Annex was constructed in 1938. One hundred and twelve years after John Adams died.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Unconcerned by the incongruous date, he elaborated. “Dr. Franklin indicated in The Book of Moses that he intended for the Triad to germinate itself, each member responsible for selecting his own successor. In that way, the Triad would continue in perpetuity. Blooming anew each generation.”

  “If that’s true, then at some point the Emerald Tablet was transported from Philadelphia to Washington.”

  “A bas-relief sculpture is hardly proof positive.”

  “ ‘Biblicil aten stone to Gods eye do not err,’ ” she iterated, an exasperated edge to her voice. “Not only do we have an image of Thoth holding the Emerald Tablet, but I think I know who was responsible for moving the relic to the capital city.”

  “Indeed?” He wondered how, sans a crystal ball, she could know such a thing.

  “Guess who first broached the idea of turning a swampy parcel on the Potomac into the nation’s capital?”

  “Admittedly, my grasp of American history is sketchy, but I thought that George Washington was the culprit, aided by the French-born city planner Pierre Charles L’Enfant. Both of whom were Freemasons.”

  “That’s the story the Freemasons would like you to believe,” Edie informed him. “The truth of the matter is that Thomas Jefferson strenuously lobbied Congress to purchase land along the Potomac River to serve as the site for
the new capital. And he did this before the Revolution ended in 1781. An amateur architect, he even drew up a plan for the city layout.”

  “Did Franklin have anything to do with the design of Washington?” he asked, admittedly intrigued.

  “Not according to the history books. Benjamin Franklin died the same year that Washington was founded in 1790. But given that it was Jefferson who chose the site, Jefferson who oversaw the city survey, and Jefferson who managed the entire construction project when he was secretary of state, I’m wondering if the three members of the Triad—Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson—didn’t hatch the plan to build the new capital on the Potomac long before it became a reality. Because, yes, you guessed it, that’s where they all along intended to hide the Emerald Tablet.”

  Her supposition certainly had merit. Curious—Edie’s wealth of knowledge impressive—he inquired, “How is it that you’re so well informed on these matters?”

  Grabbing the netbook, she set it on her lap. “The summer between junior and senior year in college, I worked as a guide for the Washington Tourmobile company. Making me a walking encyclopedia when it comes to D.C. history and lore.”

  “And have you seen this bronze bas-relief sculpture of Thoth in situ?”

  “I’ve seen the building, but not the bronze doors. Do you think the Emerald Tablet could possibly be hidden in the Adams Annex?” she inquired as she shut down the computer.

  “It’s possible. We won’t know until we examine the bas-relief sculpture on the Adams Annex.”

  “Then it’s homeward bound. Kind of ironic that we’re going full circle, huh?” Closing the lid on the computer, Edie shoved it into her satchel. “Ever give any thought to what you want on your epitaph?”