The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  The waffle originally intended for Edie.

  CHAPTER 81

  “Quick! Someone! Call 911!”

  With that hoarse yell, a frantic melee erupted inside the Chow Hounds eatery. Waiters dashed willy-nilly. Several patrons rushed to the table offering assistance to the rotund diner. Several more, small children in tow, headed for the door. One impolite lout aimed his mobile camera at the frenzied scene.

  Edie turned to Caedmon, a stricken expression on her face. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Poisoned, I believe.” Given the fat man’s lifeless gaze, Caedmon didn’t hold out much hope for resuscitation.

  “But . . . that . . . that was my waffle,” she croaked. A split second later, realization dawning, she violently shivered. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  Caedmon assumed that she referred to Rubin Woolf’s murderer.

  “In Washington? Most definitely. On the premises? Not entirely certain.” Caedmon quickly surveyed the colorful eatery searching for a six-foot-tall, trim, stylishly dressed man. No one fit the bill. If the bastard was on the premises, he’d taken cover. Which meant they had two options: Escape via the front entrance or exit through the kitchen located in the rear of the building.

  He glanced at the Belgian S’more smeared all over the dead patron’s face. He suspected the waffle had been poisoned in the kitchen before the waiter set the plate on the table. If so, the murderous bastard might still be lurking there. Waiting for them to sneak out the back exit.

  Caedmon grabbed the netbook and handed it to Edie. Mind made up, he put a hand on her back and bustled her toward the front door. A gamble, to be sure. For all he knew, the bastard was standing outside on the pavement. He slung an arm around Edie’s shoulder. Meager protection, at best. Particularly if their enemy carried a weapon.

  Outside, he scrutinized the environs. A rambunctious quartet milled nearby, having just exited a departing cab. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was on its way. A wasted effort. But not his concern. He had to get Edie to safety.

  Edie tugged at his arm, urging him to veer to the left. “The car’s parked down the street.”

  “Too risky,” he informed her, worried that the murderous bastard may have spotted the cherry-red Mini. Parked on a lightly trafficked side street, it was the perfect place to waylay them.

  Hoping to confound their assailant, Caedmon grabbed Edie’s hand and ran across the street, heading for an establishment fronted with blue opaque glass. Emblazoned on the plate-glass door was the silhouette of a woman holding a ridiculously long cigarette holder to her lips. Below that, in a fancy script, was the name of the watering hole—C’est Bleu.

  Yanking the door open, he ushered Edie across the threshold. And into a dimly lit lounge.

  Caedmon waited for his pupils to dilate so he could better see in the murky, smoke-filled depths. It took a few seconds for his middle-aged eyes to make the adjustment. To their immediate right was a sleek bar that glowed with an otherworldly blue light. To their left, a bank of mirrors reflected that eerie blue light. Despite the woefully inadequate lighting, he could see that the habitués of C’est Bleu were a smartly dressed lot, approximately sixty of them scattered about the lounge.

  The biggest surprise was that the back wall did double duty as a movie screen; an old black-and-white subtitled film was currently being projected onto the wall. The movie looked familiar. Perhaps Ascenseur pour l’énchafaud. He wasn’t sure.

  “I think this place is about to give birth to the cool,” Edie observed in a lowered voice.

  The observation was spot on, the quintessentially “cool” jazz strains of Miles Davis pulsing through the sound system. Moreover, the place reeked with a blasé pretentiousness that was off-putting to everyone save the clientele.

  They headed toward the other end of the glowing blue bar, as far away from the front door as possible.

  Edie grabbed his hand. “Now what?”

  Not exactly sure, love.

  Hit with an uneasy premonition, Caedmon glanced back at the front entrance just in time to see a lone man enter the lounge. Six feet in height. Trim physique. Several females seated in the near vicinity slyly turned their heads in the newcomer’s direction.

  “It’s Rico Suave,” Edie murmured—just before she loudly hacked, her lungs violently reacting to all of the cigarette smoke.

  The man at the door instantly turned in their direction. Even in the dim blue light, he and Edie cast an easily identifiable silhouette—a six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch male and a woman with corkscrew curls.

  “Blast,” Caedmon muttered under his breath.

  Brainstorming on the run, he ushered Edie in the direction of a dimly lit hall. Within moments, they found themselves in a vestibule of some sort, the walls covered in a metallic paper that cast a lunar hue on the narrow hall. Caedmon opened the first door he came upon—the ladies’ lavatory—and pushed Edie across the threshold. Out of sight.

  “Stay put!”

  “But I—”

  “Under no circumstances are you to leave the loo!” he interjected, shortchanging her objection.

  Order issued, he strode back to the lounge. The beautiful bastard was nowhere in sight.

  Unnerved rather than relieved, he purposefully marched in front of the makeshift movie screen, briefly sharing the screen with Jeanne Moreau. For those few moments, the projector cast a harsh light onto a tall redheaded bugger with a satchel clutched to his chest. The gauche move incited a good bit of notice, the conversational drone punctuated with audible curses. Perfect. He wanted to make it easy for the bastard to find him. To lure him away from the vestibule on the other side of the lounge. To let the bastard see that he was the one carrying the bulky case that contained the coveted prize.

  No sooner was Caedmon out of the projector’s glare than he came upon a swinging door ornamented with silver studs. A small sign affixed to the middle of the door read PRIVATE. No time to squabble over semantics, he shoved his shoulder against the door and stepped inside. As he did, a beam of garish yellow light momentarily invaded the lounge, provoking yet another round of muttered curses.

  Finding himself in a small store room illuminated with a bare bulb, he searched for something, anything, that could be used as a weapon. He suspected that he only had a few seconds to arm himself.

  “Damn,” he muttered, the room stocked with oversized items, not a one of which weighed less than four stone. Industrial vacuums, floor buffers, and stacked cocktail tables. Not a single liquor bottle or fire extinguisher to be had.

  Quickly opting for Plan B, he wedged himself into a narrow alcove on the far side of the room. In desperate need of a weapon, he opened the leather satchel strapped around his chest and removed the metal case that contained the Emerald Tablet. Grasping the sturdy case with both hands, he stood at the ready. Waiting . . .

  The swinging door turned on its hinge. The loud creak sent a bone-jangling shiver down his spine. Caedmon slowed his breathing, listening as his nemesis cautiously prowled around the storeroom. No doubt wondering where the hell he was hiding.

  Caedmon suddenly caught a whiff of sandalwood. His cue.

  Lurching from the alcove, metal case hoisted in the air, he swung it toward the bastard’s head, making contact with the other man’s jaw. A sickening, yet satisfying, crunch coincided with a wounded grunt of pain. A dazed look in his eyes, the younger man swayed unsteadily before collapsing on the floor in an ungainly heap. Blood gushed from his nostrils, staining his fashionable suede jacket. A battered Apollo.

  Still clutching the case, Caedmon stood over the unconscious bastard, conflicted. All it would take was a firm grasp of the head and one vigorous twist. Problem solved. Jason Lovett and Rubin Woolf could rest in peace. So, too, the overweight glutton at the eatery. Strong-armed justice at its most violent.

  Realizing that he’d just contemplated killing the defenseless man sprawled at his feet, Caedmon’s breath caught in his throat. The fact that his nemesis w
as unconscious left a foul taste in his mouth. Although God knows the beautiful bastard deserved a fate worse than a blackened eye and a bashed jaw.

  “Shag it!” he muttered, shoving the metal case back in the satchel. He needed to collect Edie and get out of C’est Bleu before the bloodied beast revived, a wounded animal always more ferocious.

  Grateful for the reprieve, he hurriedly strode across the lounge, ignoring the disdainful glances and indignant whispers that followed in his wake.

  Reaching the vestibule, he came to an abrupt halt, his heart slamming against his rib cage.

  The door to the ladies’ loo was ajar.

  With no thought to propriety, he charged through the doorway. And promptly started to cough, gagging on the cloying perfume that permeated the diminutive space. A femme fatale had recently doused herself.

  Christ! Where is Edie? At a glance, he could see that the lavatory was empty.

  Spinning on his heel, he charged across the hall to the gents.

  It, too, was vacant.

  Standing in the middle of the vestibule, he turned full circle. Which is when he saw a phosphorescent red glow out of the corner of his eye. A sign at the far end of the hallway marking an emergency exit. He ran down the hall and forcefully shoved both hands against the panic bar.

  On the other side of the exit was a deserted alley that reeked of urine, stale perspiration, and a dead animal carcass. No time to take stock, he ran toward the nearest street, that being Edie’s most likely avenue of escape.

  Assuming, of course, that she even exited the building. The bastard could have had an accomplice who—

  Don’t think it!

  An opportunity to escape had presented itself and she seized it. Edie Miller was, if anything, resourceful.

  Emerging from the alley, breathless, he came to a full stop, caught in the bright beam of an automobile’s headlight. The auto careened to a screeching halt, the back end wildly fishtailing. The next instant, the passenger door flew open.

  Edie leaned across the gear shift. “Get in!”

  CHAPTER 82

  “All is lost!”

  “Do not give up hope,” Mercurius beseeched, trying to calm his distraught amoretto. “We have come far together. Be strong, Saviour. Much is at stake.”

  “But the archimalakas has the relic!”

  “I know. . . . Let me think.”

  You must always remember, little one, that you were named for the Bringer of the Light.

  Do not fear the Light, Merkür. For it will lead you to your life’s purpose.

  Though he did not know it at the time, being only five years of age, Osman and Moshe had entrusted him with a momentous responsibility—to bring the great work that they began to fruition. To fulfill their vision and liberate the anguished masses from this hideously flawed creation. This godless earth where we are daily force-fed the hypocrisy that misery is a blessing in disguise and suffering an ordeal that must be endured in order to enter the kingdom of God. Not even Moses dared to pass that canard off as “truth.”

  The Light did work in mysterious ways, man unable to fathom cause and effect until after the fact. More than forty years ago, in Amman, Jordan, he’d uncovered a single word embedded in the text of the Copper Scroll. Akhenaton. That single, startling word implied a connection, however tenuous, between the Hebrews of the Old Testament and ancient Egypt. Frightened by an anonymous act of vandalism, he’d never published his findings. Instead, he cowered in silence.

  But when the Greek crone unceremoniously thrust a loose-leaf manuscript at him seven years ago, Mercurius had been given an unbelievable gift. One bequeathed to him in 1943. The true history of the Hebrew tribes and their connection to the pharaoh Akhenaton.

  Within days of that miraculous encounter at his childhood home, he’d been given yet another gift—the beautiful young man, Saviour Panos. Firmly grounded in the material world, his amoretto was the dark to his light. Together, they made a perfect whole. Old and young. Cerebral and visceral. Eromenos and erastes.

  Cause and effect.

  The two of them would give a great gift to a world at war with itself. A gift that had the power to engender a spiritual awakening of mankind’s collective soul. A gift that would bind up all the wounds. A way to usher the victimized inhabitants of this planet to the Lost Heaven. The only true utopia. Paradise regained.

  He was the Bringer of the Light. It was his sacred duty to see that it happened.

  But he had to acquire the Emerald Tablet. Without it, the Luminarium was just empty words. In the same way that the Emerald Tablet was worthless without the encryption key contained in the pages of the Luminarium.

  Cause and effect.

  Now was not the time to cower in silence. For evil is birthed in silence. How many stood silent while Osman and Moshe were led to the waiting train? A scene repeated thousands of times across the whole of Europe.

  Now was the time for action.

  He’d vowed that no man would ever profit from the Emerald Tablet. Clearly, the Brit intended to do just that. To sell it to the highest bidder. Why else would Caedmon Aisquith have gone to such lengths to find the sacred relic? And now that he’d unearthed the sacred relic, what lengths would he—

  Yes! Of course! The path was so clear . . . so brilliantly illuminated.

  Excited, Mercurius tightly clutched the phone. He would atone for his sins after the Emerald Tablet had been retrieved.

  “Amoretto, you must listen very carefully. There is a way to retrieve the sacred relic.”

  A deadly way, to be certain. But with so much at stake, he refused to stand silent.

  CHAPTER 83

  Exhausted, Edie gracelessly plopped into one of the upholstered Louis VI chairs scattered about the hotel lobby. The events of the last hour had unraveled at breakneck speed.

  Which was about how fast she drove down Fourteenth Street, flooring it through two red lights to get to the Willard Hotel. The marble-columned, overly plush lobby had “safety” written all over it. How could any harm come to a person in this magnificent old-world edifice? The stalwart doorman would keep the bogeyman at bay.

  She glanced over her shoulder; Caedmon was still at the concierge desk on the other side of the lobby. No sooner had they pushed through the revolving door than he’d trotted off, keen to check the metal case into the hotel vault.

  Self-conscious of the fact that she was underdressed for the upscale lobby—decked out in a wrinkled peacoat and stained jeans—Edie smoothed a hand over her tangled curls. I probably look like one of those big-haired women in a Gustav Klimt painting. Caedmon was equally disheveled, but speaking the Queen’s English meant that he could get away with it, Americans enamored with well-spoken Brits.

  At the moment, she was far from enamored.

  Hearing the melodic strains of a Chopin sonata, she peered behind the columned promenade adjacent to the lobby. A tuxedoed pianist was finessing the ivory. An image flashed across her mind’s eye. Rubin Woolf, decked out in his smoking jacket, seated at a white baby grand playing—

  “Would you care for something to drink?”

  Startled, Edie jerked her head. A pleasant-faced cocktail waiter, holding an empty tray, stood beside her.

  “Sorry, I, um, didn’t see you,” she sputtered. “A drink? Yes. Perfect. Although I’m drawing a big blank.” She self-consciously laughed. Not only did she look like a bag lady, she was starting to sound like one.

  “May I suggest a Silver Bullet? It’s a martini with—”

  “No martinis!”

  The waiter contemplatively tapped a finger against his chin. “You strike me as the champagne Kir Royale type.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Make it two, please. Someone will be joining me.”

  A few moments later, Caedmon approached. “I say, posh accommodations,” he wryly remarked, seating himself in the Louis VI chair opposite her. He ran a hand over his jaw. “Although that shave at C’est Bleu was so close, I damned near nicked myself.”

&n
bsp; “It could have been worse—you could have had a dagger thrown at your back,” she snapped, annoyed by his facetious remark.

  Caedmon lowered his hand. Head cocked to the side, he frowned. “Considering that we escaped unscathed, you’re uncharacteristically taciturn.”

  Taciturn? Try terrified.

  The waiter returned, setting two champagne flutes on the table. Flipping his empty tray, he unobtrusively took his leave. Caedmon raised a questioning brow.

  “Champagne Kir Royale.” She shrugged. “I needed a pick-me-up.”

  “The French monks who created crème de cassis thought it a curative for wretchedness.”

  Edie raised her flute in mock salute. “Bring on the crème de cassis. I’ve had all the wretchedness I can handle for one day. And speaking of which, we absolutely cannot go public with the Emerald Tablet,” she blurted, deciding to lay all her cards on the table. “If the secret of creation is contained within the ancient pictograph that’s inlaid on the tablet, the ramifications are mind-boggling.”

  “No need to worry. I wasn’t planning on running off half-cocked.” One side of his mouth twitched. “At least not until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Is that why you asked Professor Lyon to translate the tablet? So you’ll know what you’re dealing with. Or are you planning to perform a little alchemical mojo, see if you can replicate the Big Bang theory of creation?”

  An annoyed expression flashed across his face. “I am convinced that the Emerald Tablet was the reason behind the Templars’ demise.”

  “Okay, fine,” she muttered, readily conceding the point. “Isn’t it enough to know that the Emerald Tablet is real, that it does actually exist? Earlier today, we made a horrible mistake. We should never have dug it up. But it’s not too late. We can return it to—”