The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  “I take it that you are an occultist.”

  Raising his hand, Panos lightly caressed Caedmon’s cheek. “Can you take it? Do you want to take it?”

  Caedmon instantly recoiled, banging his head on the concrete wall behind him. The conversation had suddenly veered in an unexpected direction.

  “I’m curious about your woman. . . . Does she give you pleasure?” The picture of nonchalance, Panos draped his upper arm over the back of the chair.

  Caedmon refused to answer.

  “I will take your silence as a yes. She’s very beautiful. Usually women don’t arouse me, but if I had the right woman—”

  “Don’t even think about it, you bastard!” Caedmon exclaimed, the other man’s verbal blade cutting deep.

  “You are in no position to stop me. From doing anything.”

  To prove the point, Panos rammed his elbow into Caedmon’s chin, slamming the left side of his face into the metal pipe attached to the wall.

  Jaw clenched, he swallowed a deep-throated bellow as a burst of excruciating pain instantly radiated across his cheekbone. Like a bear caught in a trap, he futilely pulled against the handcuff that restrained his right wrist. When that got him nowhere, he went for his captor’s throat with his uncuffed left hand.

  The other man chuckled, six inches out of reach. “Just desserts, my English friend.”

  Also chuckling, Caedmon spat out a mouthful of blood and spittle. His aim true, the disgusting gob hit Panos directly in the face.

  The smirk instantly vanished. “For your sake, I hope the curly-haired bitch loves you. If not . . .” He let the threat dangle.

  I loved the fact that you were a brainiac. An iconoclast. A Renaissance man. Prior to the brake failure, Edie had used the word love in the past tense. Not exactly the sentiments of an enamored woman.

  Despite the throbbing pain, he summoned a cocky grin. “She’s mad about me.”

  Snarling, his face twisted with rage, Panos grabbed the hammer.

  Caedmon braced himself.

  Bring on the lions.

  CHAPTER 86

  “Ohmygod!”

  Edie stood at the hotel window. Cell phone clasped in her right hand, she began to shake. Afraid she might collapse, she grabbed hold of the window frame. A photograph of Caedmon, unconscious and blood-splattered, was displayed on the small LCD screen. Beaten to a pulp. A little welcome-to-your-room present from Rico Suave.

  Horrified, she stared at the photo, the need to scream so strong, she didn’t know if she could control it. Instead, she threw the cell phone across the room, the device harmlessly landing on the plush wall-to-wall. Then, like a deflated balloon, she slowly slid down the wall onto the carpet. Knees drawn to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked to and fro. Paralyzed with fear. Sobbing, praying . . . begging.

  Please keep him alive.

  Trapped in a bell jar, a prisoner, she could only peer through the glass.

  When she was eleven years old, she’d walked into the trailer and discovered her dead mother on the floor, an empty needle in her arm. Grief-stricken, she’d lain down beside her mother on that stained, threadbare avocado-green carpet. Until a neighbor found her the next morning.

  She was now on the verge of that same stupefied kind of shock.

  Determined not to slip over the edge, Edie lifted her head from her knees. The driving rain cast distorted shadows across her huddled body, the night animated with shadows. Dark, murderous shadows.

  Earlier in the day, she’d pleaded with Caedmon to turn and walk away from the Emerald Tablet. Just like Benjamin Franklin had done more than two hundred years ago. It couldn’t have been easy for the inquisitive genius, but Franklin knew the staggering fallout that would ensue if the Emerald Tablet fell into the wrong hands. Men would lie, steal, and kill to learn the secret of creation. As Rico Suave had so pitilessly demonstrated. But Caedmon had been hell-bent. And now they had to contend with a fiend from hell.

  To escape the monster, she’d sought refuge in a small hotel in D.C.’s Chinatown district. Mentally and physically exhausted, she’d picked up a take-out order of kimchi and bulgogi from the late-night Korean restaurant on the corner. She hadn’t eaten since early afternoon and needed to recharge.

  She glanced at the unopened food cartons that she’d put on the desk, suddenly nauseated by the smell of cabbage and beef.

  Worried that the outcome of Caedmon’s abduction was a fait accompli, she felt a deepening sense of dread. They were dealing with a preternatural killer who, from the onset, had been one step ahead of them.

  How the hell did Rico Suave find us? Rhode Island, London, Philly, D.C.—somehow he’d always managed to put in an unwelcome appearance.

  Okay, he probably trailed us from D.C. to Arcadia in the Audi, she thought, the fog slightly clearing. When the arrows started to fly, she and Caedmon had been forced to abandon the netbook computer. A casualty of war. It could be that Rico retrieved the netbook and discovered the online booking that had been made for London.

  But how in God’s name did the fiend track us to the Christ Church Burial Ground? And then a day later track them to the Willard? Because, obviously, that’s what he’d done. And then he went the extra mile, locating the Mini in the valet parking lot and sabotaging the brakes. For all she knew, he’d been shadowing them the entire day.

  Hit with a niggling suspicion, Edie crawled across the carpeted floor and snatched her leather satchel off the bed. Unzipping it, she rummaged around and removed a hardbound notebook. She flipped it open. That’s when she felt it—a small nearly invisible strip. She reached over and turned on the nightstand lamp. Holding the notebook near the bulb, she saw what appeared to be a clear Band-Aid stuck on the inside cover.

  A magnetic tracking strip!

  As she sat there mired in fear, the bastard, transmitting device in hand, was simply waiting for her to retrieve the Emerald Tablet from the Willard Hotel. The device would indicate exactly when she stepped foot in the hotel lobby. He could then follow her, forcibly take custody of the relic—and pull the trigger.

  Fear now trumped by rage, Edie shoved herself upright, strode across the room and snatched the container of kimchi off the desk. Opening it, she smashed the magnetic strip into the fiery cabbage concoction, her nostrils twitching from the sudden burst of cayenne pepper. She then headed over to the window; a benefit of being on the third floor, the window actually opened.

  For nearly five minutes, she stood at the ready, container in hand. A white pickup truck stopped for a red light directly beneath the window. The rap music blaring from the truck’s sound system meant—

  Taking aim, Edie tossed the food carton.

  The driver didn’t hear the thump in the truck bed when the kimchi plopped all over ribbed cargo space.

  Mission accomplished, she walked over and grabbed the discarded cell phone off the floor. She set it on the nightstand. Rage a clarifying antidote for fear, she began to devise a plan of action.

  Not having a weapon was most definitely a handicap.

  No! That wasn’t true. Granted her weapon didn’t come with round-nosed bullets, but it was deadly.

  Edie mirthlessly smiled.

  The devil may have demanded a dance, but she would pick the tune.

  CHAPTER 87

  The hammer came down on Caedmon’s left hand with such violent force, he screamed in agony. The pain unbearable, he retched all over the table. One did not have to be a trained physician to know that more than a few carpal bones had been broken.

  Trapped between the conscious and unconscious worlds, he sagged against his chair, his chin dropping onto his vomit-splattered chest. An instant later, he slipped into the latter world.

  How many minutes passed, he had no idea, blissfully unaware of the passage of time.

  Consciousness returned piecemeal, bogged down with an excruciating pain centered in his mutilated left hand.

  Focus on something other than the pain, he silently ordered.
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  An impossible command, the very act of pulling air into his lungs an agonizing labor.

  Not entirely certain of his whereabouts, Caedmon glanced around the windowless room. As if on cue, the steel door on the far side of the room swung on a rusty hinge.

  A stylishly attired man with a battered face entered the room. “My stoic Englishman has finally opened his beautiful blue eyes. I trust that you’re enjoying yourself.” Smiling, he fixed his gaze on Caedmon’s bloodied and mangled hand.

  As though a bucket of ice water had just been tossed on his head, Caedmon instantly revived.

  “A jolly good time was had by all,” he snarled, glaring at the sadistic bastard. Hatred the only weapon in his arsenal.

  “And to think the night is still young.”

  Caedmon inwardly groaned. Mystics, the chronically obsessed, and serial killers all shared a common trait—insomnia, the ability to function on little more than a cat nap.

  Saviour Panos seated himself at the table. “We have much in common, you and I.”

  “We breathe the same air—that’s all that we have in common.”

  “A cunning man, even now, face bashed, hand broken, you are trying to figure out a way to disarm—” He broke off in midstream and glanced at the mobile clipped to his waist, the device emitting a muffled whhrrr. “Ah! Your lady love has finally returned my earlier call. I took the liberty of photographing you while you slept. A little memento to ensure her cooperation.”

  Smirking, Panos took the call. “Perfect timing! My sleeping beauty has just aroused.”

  Caedmon felt the sting of tears. Edie was no match for a monster like Saviour Panos. Why in God’s name didn’t you go to the airport? Although he hadn’t done the tossing, he knew that Edie had been thrown to the wolves. His fault.

  Forgive me, love.

  A few seconds into the call, Panos’s mocking expression morphed into one of thunderous rage.

  Jabbing his finger against the mobile, he disconnected the call. “That bitch!”

  Hearing the rage in the other man’s voice, Caedmon suffered a bum-clenching burst of panic.

  Damn it, love. What in God’s name have you done?

  CHAPTER 88

  The dark night of the soul.

  What was that from? She couldn’t remember, literary quotations Caedmon’s specialty. Didn’t matter. Probably popped into her head because the exchange with Saviour Panos would soon take place, Edie waiting in a Cimmerian chamber. A woe-is-me kind of place to be sure.

  She’d devised a simple plan for the exchange—use the Emerald Tablet like a Trojan horse to entice the enemy into dropping his guard. Why overpower when you can outwit? Better to slay the dragon without breaking a sweat or raising a battleax. Kill or be killed. What else could she do? You can’t negotiate with a monster. Besides, the alternative was unthinkable. Caedmon, his head awkwardly slumped, face swollen, hand mangled. She’d make penance once her beloved was safe.

  Then there was the bigger picture: If Rico Suave got a hold of the Emerald Tablet, she feared he would sell it to the highest bidder. A ruthless despot. A maniacal madman. And if Rico actually had the encryption key to unlock the Genesis code, the despot or madman could create a catastrophic burst of energy.

  “ ‘Abandon all hope ye who enter here,’ ” she muttered. In Atlantis, they didn’t even live to tell the tale.

  Benjamin Franklin had been right: Leave creation to the Almighty. Mortal man was ill equipped to handle such heady power.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and visualized yet again how the exchange would unfold. To prevent a deadly mishap, her mind had to be free. Clear. Totally focused. Be deceptive. Be decisive. Be all you can be. I am woman, hear me roar.

  Edie derisively snorted. Who the hell was she kidding? She was petrified. Her heart was pounding in her throat, the sound echoing in her ears. Non sequiturs and anatomically impossible. But oh so true. One misstep and her well-laid plan would go the way of the mouse. The enemy had beauty, brains, and, lest she forget, bullets. But—and she had to keep reminding herself of this—she had the element of surprise. And a secret weapon. A cannon to his revolver.

  Her cheap Timex emitted a tinny beep-beep. Edie pushed the metal nubbin to turn off the alarm. The show was scheduled to start in ten minutes. We’ll make the exchange at three. Do not be late. And if you lay another hand on Caedmon, I will tie a cinder block to the Emerald Tablet and toss it in the Potomac.

  Unable to see in the inky darkness, she gingerly moved her right hand. Butting up against the camping lantern, she switched it on. The fluorescent bulb cast a surreal white light on the Templars’ subterranean sanctuary. Yawgoog’s Cave. The eight stern-faced knights carved onto the chamber walls had creeped her out, the reason why the lantern had been turned off.

  Scrambling to her feet, Edie took one last look at the Emerald Tablet she’d earlier placed in the niche behind the stone altar.

  The jewel finally returned to its proper setting.

  She took another deep breath. “Time to gird my loins.”

  Whatever that meant.

  CHAPTER 89

  Conniving bitch!

  She’d carefully planned every detail. The yellow flags leading the way through the forest. The rope ladder extending from the stone slab to the cave entrance. The strategically placed lanterns to illuminate the subterranean cavern. Such a cunning spider.

  Saviour would take great joy in plunging a stiletto in the black widow’s belly. And he would make the Englishman watch as he did it.

  Focusing on that calming image, he tried not to think about the fact that he was standing at the entrance to a most forbidding place.

  “You might find this interesting; caves are symbolic of birth and burial,” Aisquith conversationally mentioned. “No doubt, that’s why so many of mythology’s sacrificial saviors are born in caves. Only the good die young, eh?”

  Saviour glared at the battered Brit. “As to thialo!”

  “Fila mou to kolo,” his captive calmly replied.

  The piss-ant spoke Greek!

  “Kiss your own ass,” he muttered under his breath. “And don’t forget who has the gun.” To make sure he remembered, Saviour waved the revolver in front of the other man’s face. Although not so close that Aisquith might foolishly make a grab for it. Because of the rope ladder, he’d had no choice but to cuff the Englishman’s hands in front of him rather than behind.

  They’d gone no more than twenty feet when Saviour pulled up short. His heart was slamming against his chest.

  “Christos!” he exclaimed, recoiling.

  It was a daimon come to life!

  Aisquith chortled. “Steady, old boy. You might inadvertently fire your weapon. With all this stone and rock, the discharged bullet could easily ricochet and hit the wrong target.”

  “Do not mock me!”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sneering, the Brit gestured to the stone grotesque. “Allow me to introduce you to Asmodeus. The demon of lust and king of the Nine Hells.”

  Saviour tightened his grip on the gun handle. “Take your pick, Englishman.”

  “How amusing. Come. We mustn’t tarry. I believe the lady said three o’clock. A most portentous hour of the day.”

  Uncertain what that meant, Saviour jutted his chin at the dimly lit passageway.

  As they made their way through the narrow chasm, he silently conceded that “the lady” wasn’t like any other woman he’d ever met. She intended to launch an attack. Why else would she have gone to so much trouble? Dictating the time and place for the exchange. Choosing a dark place of “birth and burial.”

  And soon he would be reborn. He’d lived twenty-five years with nothing to show for it. No accomplishments. Not one single thing that he could point to and say “I did this” or “I made that.” Fucking. That’s all he’d ever done—until he met his beloved mentor.

  Mercurius had assured him that everything would be all right. That he had nothing to fear. That he had a plan to c
reate the world anew. A better world. No, a perfect world. A world in which there was no disease to steal our cherished friends. And where a mother loves her only son.

  Birth and burial.

  Her funeral, not his.

  CHAPTER 90

  The two men entered the Templar sanctuary. One carried a sturdy revolver in his right hand. The other had both wrists cuffed together.

  Edie stifled a horrified gasp.

  “Hello, love.”

  Drained of animating color, Caedmon’s face appeared specter pale. The right side of his face, that is. The left side was a bruised and swollen mess. As though he’d gone five rounds in the Octagon with an Ultimate Fighter. That, or survived the bar fight from hell.

  Her gaze moved from his battered face to his manacled wrists. A soiled makeshift bandage had been wrapped around his left hand. She winced, well aware that dirt, germs, and open wounds did not mix.

  “I can see from your aghast expression that the photograph didn’t do me justice,” Caedmon sardonically remarked. “You have my companion to thank for that.” He jutted his chin at the armed man standing beside him. “Allow me to introduce Saviour Panos.”

  Having taken a position in front of the stone altar, Edie folded her arms across her chest. If her plan was to succeed, she had to stick to the script. “You’re fifteen minutes late, Saviour.” The fact that Panos’s left visage was, like Caedmon’s, a grotesque parody of the right aroused no sympathy in her.

  “We ran into traffic.” Wearing a smug smile, Panos placed his free hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “And would you deprive me of an additional fifteen minutes with my new English friend?”

  His jaw set tight, his mouth little more than a taut slash, Caedmon stared straight ahead.

  Hang in there, Caedmon. The train is about to leave the station.

  “Gee, you certainly know how to make a girl feel unwanted. And speaking of girls, there she be . . . the Emerald Tablet.” Edie gestured toward the niche. “Yours for the taking.” She’d set the lantern on the stone altar, aiming it directly at the coveted relic, the inlaid gold script of the Eight Precepts gleaming in the fluorescent beam.