The Templar's Code (35 page)

“And did you make good on the promise?”

“If I had, we wouldn’t be standing here, would we?”

“Can the attitude,” Edie snarled, having assumed the role of bad cop to his good. “And do me another favor, just stick to the facts.”

Caedmon wasn’t altogether certain, but he thought Edie’s last remark had been lifted from the script of a vintage police drama.

“Curious bitch that I am,” the costumed docent defiantly glared at Edie, “I wedged my house keys behind the railing and pried off a small section of woodwork. Imagine my surprise at discovering a cavity with a bunch of old papers hidden behind the wainscoting.”

Papers!
But he thought there was just the one engraved frontispiece.

“Ohmygosh!” Edie exclaimed, also surprised by the revelation. “Do you mean to say there were other Bacon documents hidden behind the panel?”

Caedmon cast Edie a stern glance, the sudden outburst not in keeping with her FBI cover.

Miss Stanley’s eyes suspiciously narrowed. “I assume that you already knew about the hidden recess. And the papers weren’t written by Francis Bacon. They were composed by the great man himself, Dr. Benjamin Franklin.”

“We were unaware of the concealed niche,” Caedmon informed her, thinking the onion might better be peeled with the truth.

Pacified, the costumed docent gestured to the nearby corner. “The recess is behind that section of woodwork between the window and the fireplace.”

The three of them trooped over to the corner to inspect the woodwork. The drawing room, with its taupe-colored walls, was not only drab but sparse, too, the only furnishing in the entire room a lone tea table.

Standing in front of the railing, Caedmon slowly ran his hand over the milled dado, able to feel a slight crevice between the rail and the wall.
What prompted Franklin to go to such lengths?

Hoping the truculent docent wouldn’t object to what he was about to do, he removed a stainless steel door key from his trouser pocket. To ensure the young woman’s cooperation, Edie assumed a confrontational stance. No doubt, she’d seen that tactic on television, as well.

The eighteen-inch section of dado rail was easily pried from the wall.

That, in turn, caused a piece of wood wainscoting to angle forward, secured to the wall with an old metal hinge. Inside the shallow wall cavity was a leather pouch that measured approximately twelve inches by ten inches, the front flap secured with two leather thongs. He removed the pouch and handed it to his “partner.”

“You can’t take that!” the docent practically screeched.

“Did I just hear you say that two
authorized
agents can’t seize valuable evidence to aid in a Scotland Yard investigation?” Edie’s scowl deepened.

The young woman quickly backpedaled. “I never said anything of the sort. I’m just worried that . . . that I’m going to be arrested and charged with—”

“As I informed you at the onset, Miss Stanley, we will turn a blind eye to the original theft provided you cooperate with our investigation,” Caedmon reassured the skittish docent.

“I knew I couldn’t trust that fancy-pants bugger who bought the engraving. And just so we’re clear, I’m not returning the money. It’s already spent.”

“We have no intention of demanding recompense.” Afraid of an inopportune intrusion, Caedmon quickly replaced all of the woodwork, hammering the dado into place with his balled fist.

“Speaking of money, I’m curious: Why did you only sell the frontispiece? Why not sell the whole kit and kaboodle?” This from Edie, his partner seemingly unaware that a trained investigator would have phrased the question differently.

“Thought it best to put some distance between the sales. And the market for Franklin letters is kind of soft right now.” The docent’s blasé attitude indicated a remarkable lack of guilt.

“Special Agent Ross and I have everything that we need for our investigation. Thank you for your assistance.” Hoping the farthingaled thief didn’t capitulate to latent regret—and sound the alarm—he motioned Edie toward the door.

As they hurriedly made their way down the staircase, he surreptitiously slid the pouch inside his anorak.

A few moments later, a smiling museum worker, this one in street clothes, opened the door, bidding them “Good day.”

“Indeed, it is,” he replied, pleased by the outcome. While the contents of the pouch might prove to be of no value, the fact that they finagled the prize with such ease was nothing less than astonishing. A pair of glib-tongued thespians, the both of them.

They stepped through the paneled eighteenth-century door, returning to the twenty-first-century world of speeding cars and the ubiquitous mobile phone. The rain was coming down in sheets. With the push of a plastic button, Edie extended and opened her umbrella, the waterproof fabric emblazoned with a bold leopard pattern. Caedmon instantly wished that she’d made a more decorous choice. He took the umbrella from her, holding it aloft.

Grabbing hold of his arm, Edie leaned in close. “Don’t know about you, but I’m glad that Rubin stood us up. A three-piece tweed suit doesn’t exactly say ‘badass copper.’”

“And a leopard-print umbrella does?” A last-minute appointment had kept the third musketeer at the bookshop. A potential client who’d just inherited a rare collection wanted an appraisal. “Once Rubin catches the scent of a rare book cache, there’s no pulling him off the hunt. Indeed, he has always maintained that it’s more advantageous—”

“By that you mean profitable.”

“—to meet with the heirs while they’re still in a grieved state.”

“Just a simple man earning his thirty pieces of silver,” Edie breezily remarked.

“Rubin is a businessman. The heirs, on the other hand . . .” Having been in the same business, he knowingly shook his head. “I suspect the dirt is still fresh on the dearly beloved’s grave.”

“Well, ol’ Ben has been a’moldering in his grave for more than two hundred years. That said, I don’t want to wait until we get back to Scotland Yard. Let’s look inside the pouch.”

“Wasn’t it Chaucer who coined the phrase ‘patience is a high virtue’?”

“To which I say, virtue ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. Just ask any fallen woman.” Edie tilted her head and seductively smiled at him. A curly-haired temptress. “Come on. Just one teensy little peek.”

“Given that I’m so enamored—”

He broke off, impolitely jostled by a harried passerby carrying an oversized black umbrella.

“Out of the way, old man,” the ill-mannered passerby muttered as he scurried past in the opposite direction.

Sorely tempted to bark out his own rude refrain, Caedmon craned his head, glaring. “Cheeky bastard,” he muttered under his breath, the chap already out of barking range.

“Lucky for you, I happen to like older men.” As she spoke, Edie pulled him toward a narrow passageway that bisected Craven Street. Little more than a paved alley between two buildings.

Their backs turned to street traffic, they huddled close together, giving every appearance of being two lovers sharing an intimate moment.

Reaching inside his anorak, he removed the pouch. Edie, barely able to contain her excitement, tugged on the leather thong that fastened it, releasing the loose knot. Holding his breath, his companion’s excitement contagious, Caedmon lifted the flap and scanned the contents. It contained what appeared to be a dozen sheets of yellowing paper. Well aware that they were irresponsibly handling rare ephemera—viewing the document in the rain, no less!—he slid the pages several inches out of the pouch. Just far enough to read the elegantly penned title at the top of the first page.

Edie was the first to break the silence. “Coincidence? I think not.”

“Nor I,” he murmured.

Like Edie, he was taken aback that Franklin had titled his work
The Book of Moses
.

Softly humming, Saviour Panos turned onto St. Martin’s Lane, the pouring rain coating everything in a wet patina. Amused at how easy it had been to jostle the Brit, he twirled his big black umbrella. All was going according to plan.

As he strolled past a shoe shop, a sales clerk arranging leather footwear in the window silently appraised him. Saviour lifted his chin to acknowledge the admiring glance.

After listening to the surveillance tapes from last night’s conversation, Mercurius had initially expressed delight upon learning the Emerald Tablet had been brought to England. But delight soon turned to alarm. And though Saviour didn’t have the intellect to fully grasp the connection, he knew that the Creator’s star was the symbolic embodiment of the Emerald Tablet. Mercurius feared what would happen if the threesome actually
found
the sacred relic; claiming it would be an unthinkable sacrilege.

Rest assured, that won’t happen,
he fervently promised his mentor.

About to turn onto Cecil Court, he glanced in a plate-glass window—and smiled. Feeling very much like the conquering hero.

An instant later, recalling the infuriated expression on Aisquith’s face, he chuckled.

“Soon, Englishman, your goose will be thoroughly cooked.”

Alone in the flat, Rubin Woolf sang the silly ditty in a booming voice. Old Hollywood musicals were a secret obsession,
Singin’ in the Rain
one of his favorites.

Still annoyed that he couldn’t accompany Peter Willoughby-Jones to Craven Street, he trudged upstairs. He preferred to await the eleven o’clock appointment in the comfort of his boudoir. Opening the door at the top of the landing, he entered the foyer.

Almost immediately, his gaze went to one of the photographs displayed on top of the court cabinet. Hit with an inexplicable burst of nostalgia, he walked over and picked up the framed picture. Long moments passed as he stared at the scowling, bare-chested punk rocker who had glared at the camera that memorable night.
1977. The Pegasus.
As he recalled, one had to scowl just to get past the bouncer.

He carefully replaced the photograph. Then, lost in thought, he idly watched the slow-moving minute hand on the German-made cuckoo clock, counting the seconds until the little shutters on the clock flew open, the nesting chick shrilly announcing the hour.

He should have chucked the gaudy old-fashioned clock years ago. Should have. But could never summon the courage to toss it on the rubbish heap. A glutton for punishment, he kept the annoying cuckoo clock because it was the only memento he had of his long-dead father.

And, as fate would have it, the clock was the only memento that Chaim Woolf had of that violent night in 1938 when the Jewish community in Berlin was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of smashing glass and raucous jeers, the SS banging at their doors.

Kristallnacht.

The spark that ignited the Holocaust.

Chaim had been a lad of eight, forced to witness an unspeakable atrocity—his father, Menachem Woolf, a veteran of the Great War, foolishly standing his ground with a rusty firearm as the windows of Menachem’s antiquarian shop had been smashed with a sledgehammer, as the books and volumes that lined his antiquarian shop were tossed onto a fiery bonfire. The SS officer in charge acted with the detached efficiency for which the German people pride themselves: He put a single bullet in Menachem Woolf’s head, killing him on the spot. Then, to show he was not the monster that the screaming Chaim accused him of being, he removed the handcrafted Bavarian cuckoo clock from the wall. The only item in the room that had not yet been smashed. Handing it to the tearful child, he patted Chaim’s head and said, “Never resist—and never forget.”

Indeed, that night stayed with Chaim Woolf for the rest of his life. Even after his mother, two small children in tow, paid a small fortune for the three British visas that secured them safe passage out of Berlin. They arrived in England just in time for the blitzkrieg of German bombs that nightly rained down on the scurrying, frightened denizens of London.