The Templar's Code (46 page)

The Yoshino cherry trees around the Tidal Basin were in graceful full bloom, which meant the Mall was jam-packed with the spillover crowds. A grand expanse of manicured grass framed with impressive shade trees, the Mall was arguably one of the most famous pedestrian thoroughfares in the world.

Despite Caedmon’s assurance, Edie couldn’t belay the niggling fear that something malevolent lurked in the shadows. Watching their every move.

“Need I remind you that we spent last night at the Willard Hotel because you didn’t think it was safe to sleep at the house?”

“It’s not safe.” Pronouncement made, Caedmon gestured to the gleaming spire at the end of the Mall. “You mentioned that Thomas Jefferson was instrumental in selecting the site for the new capital city and overseeing the early construction. Did he have a hand in erecting the Washington Monument?”

Given the overly phallic monument, the question begged a bawdy retort. Instead, Edie played it straight and said, “While Jefferson selected the location for the monument, the actual construction didn’t begin until 1848. I’m guessing that Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams figured out
where
they wanted to leave their signposts but left the installation to later generations. That would explain how two of the signposts, the Washington Monument and the Adams Annex, were constructed
after
the original Triad members had died.”

“While there’s a direct link between Thoth and the obelisk, we still don’t know if the Washington Monument is actually a signpost,” Caedmon said, taking a more measured approach. “What about John Adams? Other than the fact that the Library of Congress annex building is named after him, he seems rather peripheral to the tale.”

“Hardly.” Coming to a momentary stop, Edie removed her new cotton peacoat and slung it over her shoulder, the late-morning sun surprisingly warm. “John Adams was the first president to take up residence in the new capital city of Washington. In fact, he served the first half of his term in the
old
capital at Philadelphia and the second half in Washington.”

“Mmmm . . .” Hands clasped behind his back, Caedmon struck a professorial pose. “It’s conceivable that John Adams transported the Emerald Tablet from one city to the other.”

“That alone makes him a player in all of this. Although Jefferson gets top billing by virtue of the fact that he participated in almost every phase of the project. From planning the Mall to the precise placement of the Capitol and White House.” And though Jefferson never envisioned that the Mall would be lined with world-class museums, Edie suspected he’d be pleased. As she recalled, the redheaded Virginian proudly displayed mastodon bones in the entry hall at Monticello.

Caedmon jutted his chin at the Washington Monument, still several blocks away. “I’ve decided the bloody thing resembles a lone stalk of marble asparagus.”

Edie chuckled, the description humorously apt. “Once they broke ground, it took decades to complete the monument. When the Civil War erupted in 1861, it was still an unfinished stump. And you’ll find this next factoid
real
interesting. . . .” She paused, ensuring she had his undivided attention. “After the war, the Freemasons donated a huge chunk of cash to the construction project.”

“How ironic that a trio of Deists conceive of the idea for the monument, yet it’s the very group they wish to circumvent who finance the project.”

“Moral of the story? If you’re trying to hide a tree, put it in a forest overgrown with esoteric symbols, obelisks, and images of Thoth. That way, the Masons will
never
find it.”

“Indeed, they have eyes, but they cannot see,” Caedmon mused.

“Strange to think that two hundred years after Francis Bacon put an All-Seeing Eye on his unpublished frontispiece, the symbols of ancient Egypt would be placed in plain sight for all to see.”

At the Fourteenth Street traffic light, they came to a standstill. Straight ahead, one block away, Edie sighted the fifty undulating American flags that encircled the base of the Washington Monument. As they stepped off the curb, the enormity of their task suddenly hit her with gale-force intensity.

“It’s gigantic,” she muttered, seeing the Washington Monument as though for the very first time.

From her tour guide stint, she knew a good many of the facts: There were 897 steps to the top; the exterior blocks were quarried marble, the interior commemorative stones a varied mix, including a few jade stones from the Orient; nearly thirty-seven thousand blocks had been used in the construction; and the tip of the monument was aluminum, making it an excellent lightning rod.

And she knew one other thing: If the Emerald Tablet was hidden among all those thousands of stones, they were screwed. Plain and simple.

Given the stupefied expression on Caedmon’s face, he’d just come to the same conclusion.

“I’m awestruck,” he murmured, his head tilted as he gazed upward. “It’s quite the tour de force.”

“In order to tour the tour de force, we need to get some tickets. This way.” Grabbing his hand, Edie pulled Caedmon toward the national park kiosk.

A few minutes later, supplied with tickets and a map, they set off. As they neared the entrance, Edie groaned, the line to get inside the monument snaking halfway around the base.

Unfolding the map, Caedmon held it in front of him. “I see a marker for something called the Jefferson Pier. Any idea what that is?”

“I’ve lived in D.C. eighteen years, labored an entire summer for the Tourmobile company, and I have
never
heard of the Jefferson Pier.” Coming to a full stop, Edie examined the map.

“Right there.” Leaning over her shoulder, Caedmon pointed to a small speck on the northwest quadrant of the monument grounds, approximately three hundred yards from their current position.

Glancing at the line of waiting tourists, Edie made a suggestion. “Let’s temporarily bypass the monument and head over to the Jefferson Pier. I suspect the line will shrink the closer we get to the lunch hour.”

“Lead the way.”

She did, veering away from the pavement. Several minutes into the hike, shading her eyes with her hand, Edie scanned the monument grounds. When she caught sight of a familiar Smoky the Bear hat, she exuberantly waved her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Flagging a Park Service ranger. We have no idea what we’re looking for. These guys know
everything
about the Mall.”

Returning her wave, the uniformed ranger adjusted course and headed in their direction.

Edie read the gold-plated name badge affixed to the right side of the ranger’s shirt.
Jermaine Walker.

“Hi, Ranger Walker! We’re lost,” she blurted, cutting right to the chase. “Could you please tell us where the Jefferson Pier is located?”

The ranger, a mustachioed black man who wore his drab green-and-gray uniform with surprising panache, good-naturedly smiled. “Had you’d gotten any closer, you might have stumbled over top of it. The Jefferson Pier is right over there.” He pointed to a stubby granite block situated some thirty feet from where they stood.

“That?”
Edie didn’t even try to mask her keen disappointment. She glanced at Caedmon, who, in turn, shrugged his shoulders.

“So sorry to have bothered you,” Caedmon apologized to the ranger. “We thought the Jefferson Pier might be something of more, er, historic significance.”

“I know. It bewilders a lot of folks who see it on the map and mistakenly head this way searching for the Jefferson Memorial.” Ranger Walker started to walk toward the granite lump; Caedmon and Edie had no choice but to tag along. “What they don’t know is that the pier
is
highly significant.”

Standing in front of the two-foot-high post capped with a pyramidal top, Edie had her doubts. It looked like someone inadvertently plunked a parking barrier in the middle of the expansive monument grounds.

“If you’re interested in Washington lore, there’s an inscription on the other side.”

“Indeed?” Caedmon had to bend at the waist in order to read the chiseled lettering. “ ‘Position of Jefferson Pier erected December 18, 1804.’ Fascinating,” he deadpanned, straightening to his full height.

“Actually, it is,” the ranger was quick to inform them. “In 1793, President Washington appointed Thomas Jefferson, then secretary of state, as point man for the capital construction project. Very much a micromanager, Jefferson surveyed a north-south meridian through the new city, personally driving a wooden stake on this very spot to mark the newly surveyed meridian.” Ranger Walker spoke in the kind of singsongy voice reserved for rote recitation. “In 1804,
President
Jefferson replaced the wood post with a stone pier.”

“The inscription on the pier has obviously been defaced.” Caedmon pointed to a gouged-out trench beneath the date. “As though someone purposefully chiseled away part of the inscription.”

The ranger shrugged. “Vandals and graffiti artists, what can I say?”

Edie squinted her eyes to tighten her long-distance vision. “If you head due north from this pier, the meridian passes right through the middle of the White House.”

“That’s correct,” Ranger Walker verified with a nod. “The meridian runs parallel to Sixteenth Street from one end of the city to the other. “And”—he leaned close, as though imparting a great secret—“I hear tell the Freemasons call it ‘the Corridor of Light.’ Not exactly sure why. Might have something to do with the House of the Temple that they built up there on Sixteenth Street.”

Neither Caedmon nor Edie responded to Ranger Walker’s last remark, both of them well aware that six days ago a brutal murder had taken place at that very location.

“As you no doubt recall, Edie, a meridian is a line of longitude.”

“And it just so happens that Jefferson’s meridian is
exactly
at seventy-seven degrees longitude,” Ranger Walker chimed in.

Hearing that, Edie and Caedmon simultaneously swung their heads toward the innocuous granite pier.

God’s line of longitude.

They were doing nothing but
walking
. Endless blocks of walking, trudging, trekking. Moving from one location to another with nothing to show for the effort.

Standing at the souvenir kiosk on the edge of the monument grounds, Saviour watched as the Brit and his woman began walking toward Constitution Avenue.
Here we go again.
Mercurius said that Aisquith had embarked on a sacred quest.
A sacred quest, my ass.

In no hurry to set off—with the tracking device, he could follow at his leisure—Saviour examined the array of souvenirs being sold at outrageously inflated prices. His gaze alighted on a ten-inch-high metal replica of the Washington Monument. Welded onto the front of the miniature obelisk was an outdoor thermostat.

“How much for these two?” he brusquely asked the vendor, picking up a blue baseball cap in his other hand.

“Twenty-four ninety-five.”

He wordlessly handed over a twenty and a five. Furious that the
malaka
had just swindled him, he barely refrained from throwing the nickel change at the other man’s chest.

Slapping the baseball cap on his head, Saviour tucked his souvenir under his arm and strode across the neatly trimmed expanse of lawn toward the stubby stone ballast. The granite monolith had garnered Aisquith and the woman’s attention. In fact, they’d been so interested, they consulted with a third party. A third party who presently stood a few feet away from the squat stone.

Saviour affixed a guileless expression on his face and approached. His gaze immediately alighted on the gleaming gold badge pinned above the black man’s left shirt pocket.
U.S. Park Ranger.
Then he glanced at the gold name tag pinned above the right pocket.
Jermaine Walker
. Although he wore a uniform, the ranger carried no weapon.