The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  He glanced at the nearby statue of an armored woman astride a bronze horse, charging into battle. Arm raised, leg muscles clenched. Exuberantly riding into the face of danger.

  The Brit liked to court danger. To charge into battle. That’s why Mercurius wanted Aisquith to take all the risk in this hunt. Let the Brit do all the tedious legwork and backbreaking exertion. Saviour was simply to follow in the Brit’s shadow and collect the prize. Then, when the Brit and his woman no longer served a purpose, they would find themselves faced with a danger they could not escape.

  As Saviour moved his body to the rhythmic percussion, he felt the sexual energy move up his spine, the pulsating beat animating his entire body. His entire being. The fierce pounding created a jubilant, primal sound that had but one purpose—to incite a man’s bloodlust.

  Exhilarated, he smiled at the dark-skinned man in front of him.

  Returning the smile, the swaying Jamaican grasped him by the wrist. “See di blood, mon?” He raised Saviour’s hand a few inches to show him the crimson smear on the base of his thumb. Ranger Walker’s blood. “Me think yah a hot stepper.”

  Excited by the contact, Saviour glanced at the red smudge. “A hot stepper? What is that?”

  “Yah is a bad boy, I think.”

  Hearing that, he envisioned Ranger Walker propped against the Jefferson Pier, stabbed straight through the heart. A similar fate awaited the Brit and his woman. Soon enough he would have their blood on his hands.

  Saviour stepped closer to the Jamaican. “Yes . . . I’m very bad.”

  CHAPTER 76

  “Okay, here’s the plan.” Exhausted, Edie slumped against the balustrade before continuing. “We come back in the morning, when we’re rested, and search the park with fresh eyes, full bellies, and maybe even a metal detector. There’s a place in town that rents them by the day.” Having read every inscription on every statue, examined the fountains at close wet range, and walked the entire circumference of the park three times, they hadn’t found anything even remotely promising.

  Caedmon, who showed no sign of calling retreat, grasped the concrete balustrade and moodily stared at the terrace below. Last man standing. Twilight fast approaching, the drummers and their colorful entourage had already left the premises and the park was now nearly deserted.

  Feet aching from all the walking, Edie closed her eyes and concentrated on the serene tweeter of birdsong rather than the sonorous rumble of city buses.

  “Serene and urban don’t usually go together in the same sentence, but I’ve always thought that Meridian Hill Park managed to strike the perfect balance.”

  The chatty remark met with silence.

  Edie glanced at the notebook she’d earlier set on top of the balustrade. The open page had a hand-drawn park design, the schematic inundated with checkmarks and dashes and circled Xs. “Look, Caedmon, I know that you’re frustrated, but hey, we fought the good fight. And in the words of my favorite Southern belle, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ ”

  “Spare me.”

  “Fine,” she retorted, shrugging away his ill humor.

  Trying to revive herself with a bit of forced blood flow, Edie vigorously shook her hands. When that didn’t work, she took a half dozen slow, deep breaths.

  “Two hundred years ago, the view from the escarpment must have been spectacular.” Glancing at her tall, redheaded companion, she could easily envision the tall, redheaded Thomas Jefferson standing in the same spot as he cast his gaze along the seventy-seventh meridian, all the way to the Potomac River. “Wonder if Jefferson felt it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The vibe. We’ve been here for hours. Surely, you’ve sensed the vibratory energy of the place.”

  “Otherwise engaged, I did not sense the, er, vibe.”

  “Before the incursion of white settlers, this was a sacred spot for Native Americans,” she remarked, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “They used to gather here and—”

  “Bang the drum all day?”

  “Funny. But there is a reason why people are drawn to this place. And, quite frankly, I’m surprised you can’t feel it.”

  “The ‘vibe,’ as you call it, is the energy generated by the ley line that runs beneath the seventy-seventh meridian,” Caedmon informed her sans sarcasm. “While it’s true that such energy can incite a positive response, as we saw earlier today with the drum circle, Dr. Franklin witnessed firsthand how that same occult energy could be perverted in a most demoralizing fashion. That’s why the wily bastard and his cunning minions hid the Emerald Tablet.” He angrily slapped the palm of his right hand against the top of the balustrade. “Damn them!”

  “The Triad had no choice in the matter,” Edie argued, quick to come to her countrymen’s defense. “Nine Freemasons signed the Declaration of Independence. Who knows how many more signed the Constitution. And the namesake of this occult Wonderland was, yes, that’s right, a Freemason.” As if that weren’t enough, from where they stood, they could see the stepped pyramid that adorned the top of the House of the Temple and the Washington Monument beyond. One Egyptian-styled structure juxtaposed in front of the other. “You read The Book of Moses. Benjamin Franklin’s dark premonition had merit.”

  “Still does, I’m afraid. The Emerald Tablet contains a secret worth killing for.”

  A thought she preferred not thinking about. At least not at the moment. “The irony is that the fellas at the House of the Temple have no idea the Emerald Tablet is hidden in their own backyard.”

  “Yes, bloody brilliant of the Triad,” Caedmon muttered, back to being crotchety.

  A strained silence ensued.

  Deciding the time had come to acknowledge the elephant in the park, Edie said, “You’re not going to like hearing this, but it’s entirely possible that the Triad decided not to leave the last signpost. Or if there was one, it was intentionally removed. Someone went to a lot of trouble to chisel out the inscription on the Jefferson Pier. It could be that at some point in time the Freemasons got too close for—Caedmon, are you all right?”

  Cheeks flushed red, knuckles drained white, Caedmon stood trembling. Then, to her utter surprise, he grinned from ear to ear.

  “I just found the bloody signpost.”

  CHAPTER 77

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Wide-eyed, Edie gaped as though he’d just gone bonkers.

  Of sound mind, Caedmon stared at the Italianate garden clearly visible from their elevated position at the edge of the escarpment. Raising his right hand, he quoted from the Jefferson letter: “ ‘For I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in mine hand.’ ” Then, raising his left hand, he turned to her and said triumphantly, “And an ankh in mine other.”

  “An ankh?” Edie peered down the hill, her head swiveling from side to side. “Where?”

  “It’s embedded in the landscape architecture, part of the original park design. Clever bastards,” he grudgingly muttered under his breath, impressed with the masterful subterfuge. Assuming a later generation of the Triad was responsible for the optical illusion, he went on to say, “They put the ankh in plain sight. Yet one can stand in this spot and stare upon that scene”—he gestured to the cascading fountain, the reflecting pool, and the adjacent exedra—“and never see the blasted signpost.”

  He snatched the open notebook from the top of the balustrade. Pencil in hand, he quickly drew the hidden ankh.

  “Ohmygosh! I see it!” Ecstatic, Edie threw herself at his chest. “ ‘One small step for mankind.’ ”

  “God willing, we can channel this knowledge to brilliant effect.”

  Assuming a more sedate demeanor, his companion stepped back. “Any ideas where on this gigantic ankh we should look for the Emerald Tablet?”

  “Haven’t a clue, love.” In a jovial mood, he examined the hastily drawn image. “In ancient Egypt, the ankh symbolized life.”

  “And we know that it was one of Thoth’s two attributes.”

  “Intere
stingly enough, during the Middle Ages, astrologists used the ankh to symbolize the planet Venus. And their esoteric compatriots, the alchemists, used the ankh as a shorthand symbol for the element copper.”

  “Yeah, damned shame about that copper sphere being stolen. Got a light?”

  Caedmon spun on his heel, taken aback to find an older dreadlocked gentleman with a Brazilian atabaque drum slung over his shoulder standing directly behind them. Tucked behind his ear was an unlit cigarette.

  “Sorry, neither of us smoke,” Edie said with an apologetic shrug.

  The stranger turned to leave.

  “Sir, a moment of your time, if you would be so kind. You mentioned a copper sphere.”

  The drummer jutted his chin at the Italianate garden. “Used to be a big copper sphere mounted at the bottom of the hill.” He pointed to the concrete exedra adjacent to the reflecting pool. “An armillary, I think they call it. Disappeared during the ’sixty-eight riots.” He mirthlessly snorted. “ ’Course a lot of things disappeared that week, folks were riled over them murdering Martin down in Memphis. Long since broken up and sold for scrap. But I expect that was before either of you were born.”

  “In nappies, actually. And you’re absolutely certain there was once an armillary mounted on the exedra?”

  “Shit, yeah, I’m sure. I grew up just east of here. Used to play in this park when I was a kid. Back then, D.C. was a segregated city and Meridian Hill was the only place where whites and blacks could peaceably share space. Black kids from Cardoza, white kids from Adams Morgan.” His laugh was a rich sound that came from deep in his chest. “Always been hallowed ground. Damned shame that the powers that be can’t see fit to replace it.”

  Knowing that their informant referred to the pilfered armillary, Caedmon commiserated with a nod. “Yes, a shame, that. By the by, do you recall the approximate size of the sphere?”

  Cocking his head to one side, the older man gave the question a moment’s thought before saying, “It was a big sucker, I remember that. Circumference of maybe fifteen or sixteen feet.”

  A copper armillary! He could barely contain his excitement.

  Caedmon extended his right hand. “Thank you so much for the fascinating bit of local lore.” You, sir, are a godsend, he thought as he shook the other man’s hand.

  The moment the dreadlocked drummer was out of earshot, Edie excitedly turned to him. “Didn’t Rubin tell us that during the Middle Ages Thoth was often depicted with an armillary?”

  “He did indeed.” Unbloodybelievable. Thoth the Thrice Great, with a copper armillary held aloft. “A familiar image in the medieval iconography, the armillary was a skeletal sphere comprising concentric bands representing the equator, the ecliptic, parallels, and meridians.”

  “And you mentioned that during the Middle Ages, the ankh symbolized copper. So no coincidence that the armillary was fashioned from that same metal.”

  Caedmon glanced at the truncated pyramid and white obelisk visible on the horizon. He next gazed at the well-concealed ankh. “They purposefully marked the site with a scientific apparatus. The voice of reason amid an esoteric cacophony.”

  “In essence saying, science rules, not the Radiant Light of Aten. From where we’re standing, it looks like the looted armillary was replaced with a large decorative shrub.”

  “We must assume that a latter-day Triad oversaw the planting of the gargantuan plant.” A wise move, there being little incentive for anyone to steal a shrub.

  “Of course, we’re just speculating about the armillary. It could be that the Emerald Tablet is hidden under the cascading fountain or maybe even in the reflecting pool.”

  Hit with inspired thought, Caedmon slapped his hand against the balustrade. “ ‘Biblicil aten stone to gods eye do not err.’ I think I know what it means. The oversized shrub that replaced the armillary is situated in the center of the exedra.” He tapped the schematic drawing of the ankh. “The exedra being the eye of the ankh.”

  Edie merrily clapped her hands. “By George, I think he’s got it!”

  “We need to go down there and investigate. It’s difficult to ascertain the plant species from this distance. Hemlock or perhaps arborvitae. Can’t be certain.”

  Her smile instantly faded. “I know exactly what it is—off-limits. That is a huge shrub or hedge or whatever it is. In case you haven’t noticed, the circumference on that sucker is as large as the armillary it replaced. Probably weighs a ton. What are you planning to do, call a landscaping company to remove it?”

  He made no reply, his attention focused on the exedra at the bottom of the hill. The eye of the ankh. A scheme concocted in 1776 and executed in 1926. A plan 150 years in the making. How appropriate that the ancient Egyptian symbol for life would lead them to the sacred relic that reputedly contained the secret of creation.

  “If the Emerald Tablet is buried in the middle of the exedra, under that big, bushy shrub, there’s no way we can get to it,” Edie said, reiterating the objection.

  He tuned her out.

  Visually scanning the area, he saw a cordoned-off area of the lower park that he’d noticed during their prior search. There were several small earth-moving vehicles parked behind a flimsy barricade. He assumed they were being used for a landscaping project. Like steel to a magnet, he zeroed in on the yellow JCB. What the Yanks called a backhoe.

  What price the secret of creation?

  “Rather steep, I daresay.”

  Edie eyed him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”

  Mmmm . . . should be easy enough. No different from hot-wiring an automobile. Detach the ignition switch connector. Red wire. White wire. If all goes well, the engine should turn.

  Earlier in the day, en route to the park, they’d stopped by Edie’s house and retrieved her Mini Cooper, the automobile parked on Sixteenth Street. Hopefully, the trunk was well stocked.

  “By any chance do you have a tool kit in the Mini?”

  “No, I don’t have a tool kit, but I do have a pair of pliers, a lug wrench, and some jumper cables.”

  He smiled beseechingly.

  “Might I borrow your pliers?”

  CHAPTER 78

  While she’d dearly love to find the Emerald Tablet, Edie drew the line at grand larceny.

  Which is why she stood at the edge of the concrete exedra, arms folded over her chest. Fuming. So angry, she could scream. The only reason she didn’t holler at Caedmon was that it might alert the police to the fact that he just hot-wired a backhoe and was in the process of digging up a gigantic, beautifully manicured shrub. A federal offense given the fact that Meridian Hill was under the jurisdiction of the National Park Service.

  Caedmon, exhibiting a dismaying lack of scruples, was working the backhoe controls like a pro. A neat little trick he undoubtedly learned during his tenure at MI5. Never know when you might have to move several tons of dirt.

  In the distance, Edie heard the familiar wail of a police siren. A reminder that the big, bad city, and the police who patrolled it, were just outside the garden walls.

  “Hopefully, the local constabulary won’t catch us beavering around. Be rather difficult to explain the backhoe.”

  “You think? If you hot-wire that backhoe, Caedmon, you will be in violation of God knows how many laws.”

  “Needs must.”

  “And you need to seriously consider the ramifications of stealing U.S. government property.”

  “Quite frankly, Edie, I’m surprised by your reticence. You exercised no remorse at pinching The Book of Moses from Craven House.”

  “We didn’t steal it!”

  “Didn’t we?”

  Spooked, Edie nervously glanced around the Italianate garden. To her consternation, the park was eerily deserted. The perfect place for the denizens of the night to lurk in the shadows. Pulling up the sleeve on her peacoat, she checked the time. They had fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes of daylight left. Like any city park, things could get dicey once the sun set.

&nbs
p; From her vantage point, it appeared that Caedmon had dug a hole at least six feet deep. The depth of a burial plot. “Doesn’t the man know the meaning of the word fear?” she muttered. Or was he so fixated on the object of his desire that the obsession eclipsed his fear? “Yes, indeed, Caedmon, you really know how to push the boundaries of a relationship.”

  Not for the first time, she wondered if Caedmon was aware of the hold that the Templars had over him. The outlawed order of warrior monks caused his ouster from Oxford. Which, in turn, led to his MI5 recruitment. The chaps at Thames House purposefully seek out disgraced academics. Such men are malleable. But as Caedmon brazenly demonstrated when he hot-wired the backhoe, he was anything but malleable.

  The shadows lengthening with each passing minute, Edie made a big to-do of pointing to her watch. Caedmon vehemently shook his head. Refusing to back down, she held up her right hand, fingers splayed wide: Five more minutes! Ultimatum issued. She straightened her shoulders, prepared to put the kibosh on the excavation if Caedmon refused to—

  Ohmygod!

  Seeing something other than dirt drop from the backhoe claw, Edie charged forward.

  “I just saw something,” she breathlessly uttered, gesturing to the large earthen pile.

  Blue eyes glittering, Caedmon leaped off the backhoe. “Where?”

  “In that big pile of dirt.”

  Using his hands, Caedmon brushed away the top layer of dirt, exposing a metal case that was about the size of a hefty dictionary. On the front of the case was an old-fashioned lock. One that presumably required an old-fashioned skeleton key to open. Caked with dirt and grime, the case appeared to have been buried in its grave for a very long time.

  “There’s a rag on the floor of the JCB.”

  Edie rushed over to the backhoe and grabbed the rag, as well as the pliers and lug wrench that Caedmon had commandeered from the Mini Cooper.