The Templar's Code (51 page)

Standing in the shadows of the
sacro bosso,
Saviour gasped. In a state of near ecstasy, he clutched his left breast, palm to heart, and swayed slightly. On the verge of swooning.

The Brit just uncovered the sacred relic!

His beloved mentor would be overjoyed. And for that reason, he wanted to cry aloud. To leap with joy. To twirl and dance and even hug the stern-faced Dante. Instead, he surreptitiously peered around the marble pedestal that supported the full-length bronze statue, verifying that no one else lurked in the vicinity. The discovery was too important for—

A Park Service police officer was walking down the path that meandered through the
sacro bosso
and heading straight for the reflecting pool and the adjacent exedra. Where he would
happen
upon the Brit, the stolen backhoe, and the Emerald Tablet. Aisquith and the woman would be arrested on the spot for wanton destruction of public property. Not that he cared about the pair’s fate. But he knew that, if arrested, the authorities would confiscate the sacred relic.

He had to prevent the unthinkable from happening!

Stepping away from his hiding place behind the marble pedestal, Saviour strode to the middle of the pathway. He staggered a bit. A split second later, he jerked, then collapsed to the ground, writhing. Moaning insensibly. Spittle flying from his lips. Doing a spot-on impersonation of a childhood friend who’d suffered from epilepsy, prone to sudden uncontrollable seizures. As though possessed by a demon.

Just as Saviour hoped, the police officer charged toward him and knelt at his side.

“Hey, buddy! It’s okay! Whatever you do, don’t swallow your tongue! I’m gonna call an ambulance, all right?”

Still twitching, Saviour saw the cop turn his head toward the communication device strapped onto his shoulder. About to place a call for medical assistance.

Knowing all would be lost should that happen, Saviour shoved himself upright. Using his elbow like a battering ram, he smashed it into the other man’s jaw.

“Motherfucker!” the cop snarled, reaching for the holstered gun at his waist.

Saviour immediately lashed his left hand around the cop’s wrist, forcefully wrenching it away from the leather holster. He then grasped his adversary’s thumb and forcefully yanked it back, the bone loudly popping. The cop bleated like a cow. Seizing the momentum, Saviour toppled him to the ground.

In the next instant, he was on the cop, jabbing a knee into his testicles. Swift as a shadow, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of a sleek Italian switchblade. He pushed the raised nubbin on the handle. The blade dully gleamed in the dim light. Excited by the struggle, Saviour plunged the blade into the side of the cop’s neck. A spurt of warm blood hit him on the cheek.

At that moment, their eyes met.
Such beautiful green eyes.

Saviour smiled. Shoved the blade deeper. Then, in one quick, vicious motion, yanked as hard as he could to the right, the honed steel slicing through pale white skin, severing the carotid artery.

Owl-eyed, the other man gurgled, shuddered, pushed one last breath between his lips before he went limp. Rudely and unexpectedly sent to the eternal black void.

Saviour scurried to his feet. Grabbing the dead cop under the arms, he dragged him behind the statue of Dante.
Out of sight.
He bit back a grunt, the uniformed cop no lightweight.

This is my eighth kill,
it suddenly occurred to him. Eight. The number of creation. Like the eight points on the Creator’s star. For some inexplicable reason, that thought made him feel whole.

Quickly, he removed the pair of handcuffs clipped onto the waistband of the cop’s blue-striped pants. Then he slipped the cop’s gun out of the holster. Mimicking the Brit, he raised the gun to his lips and reverentially kissed it. Glancing up, he noticed that the stern-faced Dante held a copy of
La Divina Commedia
between his hands.

Having disarmed the cop and stowed him out of sight, Saviour moved to the edge of the small clearing and peered down at the exedra. Only able to see a humongous pile of dirt and the abandoned backhoe.

The Brit and his woman were gone!

Enraged, he ran toward the exedra, the cop’s gun clutched in his hand. A few moments later, standing at the earthen pile, he turned full circle, hoping to catch a glimpse. A blurred bit of motion.

He could see nothing but lengthening shadows. In every direction.

He removed the PDA smartphone from his pocket and checked the GPS map.
Relieved
. They could not escape him. He had a gun. He had a knife. And he had the vial that Mercurius had given to him in Philadelphia.

There were any number of ways that he could send the Brit and his woman to the eternal black void.

“One hazelnut, one Swiss almond, right?”

Not waiting for a confirmation, the gangly waiter placed two chipped mugs on the Formica tabletop, hot coffee sloshing over the rims. Given the soiled apron tied around the young man’s waist, Caedmon assumed that spilled coffee was a regular occurrence.

“And heavy on the whipped cream,” Edie implored with a winsome smile as she snatched the sugar dispenser from the end of the table.

“No problem. I’ll have your waffle out in a jiff,” the amiable, if maladroit, waiter assured her before departing for the kitchen.

“People come from miles away to eat at Chow Hounds. Waffles are the specialty of the house.” She measured out two teaspoons of sugar, stirring the granules into her Swiss almond coffee. “Trust me, you
will
regret not ordering one.”

In the process of reviewing the digital photos that Edie took of the Emerald Tablet, Caedmon stopped what he was doing and glanced across the table. “I doubt it.”

Particularly since she’d ordered something called a Belgian S’more. Billed as a “variation on a campfire favorite”—whatever
that
meant—the outrageous concoction included chocolate ice cream, gooey marshmallow, graham cracker crumbs, and whipped cream.
Sure to please the hungry camper
.

Edie deeply inhaled the coffee’s aroma before taking a sip of the sweetened brew. “After what we just went through, I’m in dire need of a fix and Chow Hounds is my favorite sugar shack. I love eating here. Plus, it’s only a mile or so from the house.”

His gaze moved across the crowded space, astonished that anyone could enjoy dining in a restaurant with tangerine-and-turquoise-colored walls. The boisterous atmosphere was not to his liking either; patrons had to raise their voices to be heard over the rockabilly music blaring from the sound system. Although a conversation held in a crowded eatery was always the safest. A lesson learned at the hands of his old MI5 taskmasters.

“While you’re understandably anxious to return home, I think we should spend one more night at the Willard.” When Edie opened her mouth to protest, he raised a hand, forestalling the objection. “Since we can’t put the Emerald Tablet in your safe deposit box until the bank opens in the morning, I will secure it in the hotel safe.”

At the mention of the relic, Edie’s gaze went to the leather satchel that he wore bandolier-style around his chest for safekeeping. “That’s gotta be uncomfortable.”

Caedmon assumed she referred to the fact that the metal case containing the Emerald Tablet was stuffed inside the satchel. “I’ll manage.” He shifted slightly on the cane-bottomed chair, allowing more room on his lap before returning his attention to the digital camera.

“Here. It’ll be easier to view the photos on the netbook,” Edie said, sliding the portable laptop across the table.

Anxious to examine the photos, he popped the memory chip out of one slot and into another, hoping the photographs would do the relic justice.

They did,
magnificent
the word that instantly came to mind. Without a doubt, the Emerald Tablet was a beautifully crafted, stunning relic with a jaw-dropping provenance.
Although . . .

“You’re frowning.”

“Am I? My apologies. I’m bewildered by the inlaid lettering on the tablet. Quite honestly, I had expected to see more Egyptian hieroglyphs. There’s only the one ibis glyph on the backside underneath the entwined circle.”

“Well, the ibis is the symbol for Thoth, and since the ibis-headed Thoth supposedly authored the Emerald Tablet, maybe it’s some sort of signature.”

He stared at the inlaid glyph positioned at the bottom of the tablet. “As a shore-dwelling bird, the ibis lives in that nebulous realm between land and water. More important, it’s symbolic of Thoth’s ability to straddle the unconscious and the conscious mind, that being the gateway to enlightenment.”

“Okay, but you’re still frowning.”

He rearranged his facial muscles into what he hoped was a more congenial expression. “I’m irked by the fact that while the script is clearly of ancient origin, I’ve never seen this alphabet before.”

“I have.”

His head jerked, surprised by the revelation.

“You’ve seen it, too.” Shoving her coffee mug aside, Edie slid the netbook to her side of the table.

Craning his neck, Caedmon watched as Edie deftly accessed the computer file that contained her archived photos.

“When we were at Jason Lovett’s cottage in Arcadia, we found a sheet of paper in the fax machine with some funky writing on it. Remember?”

He thought back to that day: the ransacked rooms, the octogram star brazenly scrawled on the wall, the hidden artifacts, and yes, an overlooked sheet of paper still in the fax machine. “As I recall, Dr. Lovett sent a fax to a professor at Catholic University. At the time, I didn’t think it significant, since Lovett mentioned on his digital voice recorder that he’d discovered an inscription on a foundation stone.”

“Look familiar?” Edie turned the computer in his direction.

“My God . . . you’re absolutely correct. It
is
the same alphabet that’s inscribed on the Emerald Tablet.” He shook his head, staggered by the discovery. The Knights Templar had used the same ancient alphabet to inscribe the foundation stone at the Arcadia settlement.

“
This
is the person on the receiving end of Jason Lovett’s fax.” Edie tapped on the keyboard, bringing up the next photo in the archive: a facsimile cover sheet addressed to Dr. Lyon at Catholic University. “Do you want me to go to the Catholic—”

“Yes, by all means go to the university site,” he interjected.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gangly waiter approach with a laden tray.

“A Belgian S’more, right?” As with the coffee, the young man didn’t wait for a reply before setting the plate on the table.

“Waiter!” a portly man at the next table loudly bellowed. “That’s
my
Belgian S’more! I’ve been waiting twenty minutes!”