The Templar's Code (50 page)

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.

“Rather steep, I daresay.”

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

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?”

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.

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

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.

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—

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.

Snatching the rag, Caedmon furiously rubbed at the clotted dirt. Fear giving way to excitement, Edie retrieved the digital camera from her shoulder bag. She sidled close.

“Do you see what was hidden beneath the grime?” Caedmon turned the case in her direction, allowing Edie to see that there was a circle of thirteen stars etched on the lid. Beneath the circle, in a fancy, curlicue script, was a single line of engraved text:
Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.

Her heart thudded against her breastbone.
Certain
.

“Open it!” she whispered, handing him the lug wrench.

“Right.”

Placing a steadying hand on the back of the case, he jammed the wedged end under the lid and forcefully shoved down on the wrench. The lock popped with a dull
pong!
Caedmon immediately flung the lug wrench aside.

Anxious, Edie raised the camera to her face and peered through the viewfinder. The interior of the metal case was lined with several layers of folded sheepskin.

She snapped off a photo.

His hand visibly shaking, Caedmon grabbed a corner of the dun-colored hide and pulled it aside. An instant later, Edie heard an audible gasp, uncertain who it came from. Operating on autopilot, she depressed the shutter button on top of the camera.

Nestled in the folded animal skin was a relic unlike anything she’d ever seen. And she’d stood in line to see both the King Tut and the “Hidden Treasures of Kabul” exhibits. True to its name, it was a tablet that measured some eight by ten inches and was nearly a half inch thick. Made of a milky green crystalline substance, it was inlaid with gold.
Lots of gold
. Beautiful, gleaming, glittering gold, the workmanship exquisite. On the front were lines of golden text inscribed in a primitive-looking script.

Quickly, she tallied the number of lines. “There’s eight of them,” she murmured.
The Eight Precepts.

“Perfect symmetry, the Emerald Tablet the esoteric embodiment of creation.”

“Yin and yang,” she murmured. Male and female. Mind and blowing.

Caedmon lightly grazed his fingers over the incised text. “ ‘More valuable than rubies.’ ”

“Or big emeralds.” Although she didn’t think it was an emerald despite the tablet being an unusual shade of green.

Hand still shaking, Caedmon lifted the tablet out of the folded sheepskin and turned it over.

The back was even more spectacular than the front with an inlaid circle of gold comprising intertwined symbols that completely encircled an eight-pointed star. Each point of the star contained what looked to be a glyph. Within the center of the star was an elaborate maze. Beneath the design was a character that she instantly recognized—a small Egyptian ibis. Not exactly sure what she was gazing at, Edie thought the pictograph might be some sort of mandala.

“It kinda looks like ancient runes that have been interlaced to create an elaborate ring around an octogram star.”

“It beggars description.” Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Caedmon slowly, reverentially, raised the tablet to his lips. “This is ‘ocular proof’ that the sacred relic that precipitated the Templars’ doom
does
exist.”

Edie made no reply. What was there to say?

The Emerald Tablet.
The secret of creation.
Over the course of centuries, men have looted, lied, and died for it.

Now Caedmon Aisquith was one of those men.