The Templar's Code (40 page)

Brown eyes fearfully opened wide, she nodded. “All things considered.” She attempted a brave smile. One that fell woefully shy of the mark.

A few feet from where they stood, tangerine flames darted through the open window.

Taking Edie gently by the wrist, he wordlessly coaxed her to sidestep as far away from the window as possible. They got no more than four feet before they were stopped by a chunky bit of architectural ornamentation: a coved bulwark that protruded from the exterior façade. There was no way to straddle the bloody thing without falling off the ledge.

Edie turned to him with a stricken expression. “Now what?”

He scanned Cecil Court. Pure pandemonium reigned in both directions. Several frantic book dealers ran toward Charing Cross. Presumably to direct the fire brigade that had just pulled up at the end of the block. To ensure they didn’t lose their precious inventories. A cluster of gawking pedestrians had gathered near Rubin’s shop, several of them holding up their mobiles, capturing the fire on video. Beneath them, the plate-glass window on the ground floor violently shattered. Inciting several of the gawkers to scream.

“Wouldn’t you know . . . not a ladder in sight,” Edie muttered.

“Although I see something that will do in a pinch.” About fifteen feet from the entrance to Rubin’s bookshop, Caedmon sighted a sturdy trash receptacle.

“You there! Drag that receptacle under the ledge!” he shouted to a burly fellow who stood in the crowd. He gestured, first to the receptacle, then to a spot directly beneath the ledge. “And be quick about it!”
Before our bloody arses catch fire.

Beside him, Edie tensed, evidently sensing what he had in mind. “The trash can only shaves off three feet. A fire truck just pulled up at the end of the block. Let’s wait.”

“Waiting isn’t an option.” Already he could see that the flames shooting through the window had ignited the elaborate woodwork around the opening. A goodly amount of the exterior trim was made of wood and covered in oilbased paint. He feared that all too soon, it would erupt in a fiery blaze. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll go first.”

Normally, ladies would go first, but he knew that Edie didn’t have the requisite upper-body strength to maintain her grip while she lowered herself off the ledge. He had the strength and was nine inches taller. With those advantages in his favor, he would be able to lower himself to the trash receptacle, then reach up and pluck Edie off the ledge.
Piece of cake
, as the Americans were fond of saying.

It ended up taking two men to roll the heavy receptacle in place.

Caedmon carefully pivoted so that he faced the painted brick wall behind him. Then, squatting, he grasped the edge of the ledge as he swung, first one leg, then the other, over the edge. For several seconds, he dangled, suspended in midair. An intense bolt of pain radiated out from the puncture wound on his left bicep.
Bloody hell.
Glancing down, he could see that the trash receptacle was directly beneath him. No more than a two-foot drop. The lid was made of metal with a round ten-inch opening in the middle. His plan was to land on the solid metal rim.

“Caedmon, be careful!” Edie called out. There was no mistaking the panic in her voice.

Hoping his aim was true, he let go of the ledge.

The two obliging chaps reached out just as he landed on top of the receptacle. Their steadying hands prevented him from toppling over the side.

There being no time to congratulate himself on a safe landing, he planted his feet squarely on either side of the sturdy bin. “Edie, you need to lower yourself over the edge,” he instructed in a calm, measured tone. Hoping that would quell her fear.

Edie peered down at him, a determined gleam in her eyes.

That’s my girl
.

His heart in his throat, Caedmon watched as Edie removed the oversized leather bag that was draped bandolier-style across her chest and let it drop to the ground. She then turned toward the brick wall directly behind her, keeping the flat of both hands in contact with the brick. As though that ephemeral connection would somehow hold her in place should she lose her balance.

The two stalwart bystanders who’d just spotted his plunge stood at the ready.

Suddenly a blast shook the bookshop; the glass in the upper panes of the window shattered.

“Jump! Now!” Caedmon hollered.

“Oh God!”

With that panic-stricken yell, Edie was airborne.

Three pairs of hands reached out for her.

Caedmon won the prize, snatching her at mid-waist. Relieved, he awkwardly held her tight, one hand splayed on her hip, the other wrapped around her backside. Behind him he heard hoarse cheers and exuberant clapping.

Glancing up, he saw that the ledge above was now consumed in fire.

He handed Edie to the hefty bloke standing to the left of him. As he leaped off the receptacle, he winced, the pain in his arm unbearable.

Shuffling over to Edie, he plastered a cocky grin on his face. If for no other reason than to mask the pain. “A trial by fire, eh?”

The muscles in Edie’s jaw clenched. Then, eyes narrowing, she raised her right hand. Catching him completely off guard, she slapped him across the face.
Hard.

“You bastard!”

Manna from heaven,
Mercurius thought as he watched from his study window a delicate swarm of cherry blossoms haphazardly tossed in the morning breeze.

But, as he knew all too well, such splendors were suspect, both blossom and breeze animated with a dark fire.

His heart heavy, Mercurius turned away from the window. Because of Caedmon Aisquith’s expansive breadth of knowledge, he’d had to make a painful decision.
For the greater good.
Although,
mercifully
, the Englishman had been unaware that there was a fourth stream of hidden knowledge—a disclosure contained within the pages of the
Luminarium.

As he left the study and walked down the hall, he glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer: 7:07 A.M. The deed had been done. The secret was still safe.

When he’d been unceremoniously given the
Luminarium
seven years ago by the Greek crone, he quickly realized that Moshe Benaroya’s manuscript was more than a fascinating text; it was a revelation into the secrets of the universe. Secrets that had been safeguarded by the Sephardic Kabbalists, and before them, the Levite priesthood. Those secrets had never been transcribed for fear they would fall into the wrong hands. Not until Moshe Benaroya put pen to paper in 1943.

Like many academics, Mercurius had been a card-carrying secular humanist, firmly believing that morality was rooted in reason and justice, not supernatural mumbo-jumbo. But all that changed when he read the
Luminarium,
composed of three separate parts. The first, titled “The Great Work,” was a lengthy commentary on the four streams of hidden knowledge.

According to Moshe Benaroya, the first stream was alchemy, a word derived from the phrase
al-khem
meaning “from the land of Egypt.” The goal was to find the
Prima Materia
and to affect its physical alteration by transforming it into a different material substance. In the next stream, Kabbalah, the adherent calculated the numeric equivalences of the individual words and phrases of the Torah. And in the third stream, magic, the novice mastered the art of crafting protective amulets and seals based on the Mogen David hexagram.

In actuality, it was a misnomer to refer to these three streams of knowledge as “hidden,” since seers, soothsayers, and students of the arcane had been practicing the proscribed rituals for centuries. But as Moshe Benaroya tellingly revealed, these three streams were merely a smokescreen. A carefully contrived decoy. Indeed, a man could devote a lifetime to studying alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic—and many did—blissfully unaware that there was a fourth stream. Well hidden from the uninitiated, and with good cause, the fourth stream contained the secret of Creation.

Moshe Benaroya named this fourth stream of sacred knowledge the Divine Harmonic.

The sacred sounds intrinsic to the letters of the Hebrew alphabet are at the heart of the mystery, each of the twenty-two letters of the
Otiyot Yesod
animated with its own unique vibration. This was the reason why the Hebrew word for “letter,”
ot,
also meant pulse or vibration. When the letters were sounded out in a prescribed sequence, these sacred utterances initiate a flow of vibrational energy. Not only is sound a fundamental element of the universe, but everything in the universe vibrates. And it was vibrating clusters of energy bound together that created mass.

This vibrational energy was the basis for Creation.

According to the
Luminarium
, our world came into existence through the Divine Harmonic, the entire Creation dependent upon a sequence of nonverbal utterances, or
kol
. Before God ever recited the phrase “Let there be light,” he made a series of inarticulate sounds that created the vibrational energy that
created
“the light.” This was why “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” transpired
before
the Almighty uttered a single coherent word. Furthermore, the Hebrew word for that phrase “In the beginning,”
Bereshit,
can also be translated as “He created six.” Sound moves outward in a spherical wave. And the wave
always
travels simultaneously in
six
different directions.

Adept at using the fourth stream, the patriarch Moses knew that by changing the energy vibration through sound, mass is either altered or destroyed. Moses used the Divine Harmonic to perform every single one of his so-called miracles.

Exodus 14 recounts the famous story of the parting of the Red Sea. Students of the Bible (and fans of old Charlton Heston movies) know that six hundred thousand Hebrew slaves stood stranded on the banks of the mighty sea, the pharaoh’s army in pursuit. Suddenly, a pillar of cloud appeared near the Hebrews’ flank, casting a dark shadow that the Egyptians could not penetrate. In that instant, Moses extended his hand over the waters, causing a gale-force wind to drive back the sea, enabling the Hebrews to cross the exposed seabed.

What the story fails to mention is that it wasn’t God who parted the sea; it was Moses.

And Moses, who authored the book of Exodus, arrogantly gave the secret away in the biblical text. The tale is told in three verses, nineteen through twenty-one, each verse containing
exactly
seventy-two letters—the actual code! Albeit cleverly scrambled. The story also failed to mention that while Moses stood on the banks of the Red Sea, he chanted the sequenced code of seventy-two letters. The change in the vibrational energy current was what parted the Red Sea.
The Divine Harmonic.
An ancient technology whose roots extended back to Atlantis.

As the Hebrew tribes began their conquest of the Sinai, Moses used this ancient technology repeatedly, enabling the so-called Chosen People to crush every army that came between them and the Promised Land. Nine thousand years before that, Thoth used the same technology to destroy the continent of Atlantis.

All of which proved that the process of Creation, or an act of cataclysmic Destruction, could be put into motion by a mere mortal. No omnipotent god required. A man had only to utter the correct sound sequence to alter the vibrational energy that permeated the entire universe. Any man could do it provided he had the encryption key to unlock the sequenced code contained on the Emerald Tablet, the relic encoded with a complex pictograph composed of symbols, letters, and glyphs.

Not only did Moses possess the encryption key, but he taught it to the Levis, the hereditary Hebrew priesthood. Committing the key to memory, for generations the Levis passed the secret from father to son. Because of the inherent power contained within the sound vibration, they were expressly forbidden from transcribing the key. The Levite priests and, later, the Sephardic Kabbalists, didn’t dare cross the line that the patriarch had drawn in the Sinai sands more than three thousand years ago.

Until Moshe Benaroya valiantly defied the patriarch and transcribed the key in the
Luminarium
.

Part 2 of his courageous manuscript, titled “The Key,” contained a detailed formulary for the Emerald Tablet. A sequential equation, which if correctly applied, would alter the vibrational energy of the universe. But the undertaking wasn’t for the fainthearted. It had taken Mercurius years to master the correct tone for each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. Years of laborious practice before he could move effortlessly through the
Otiyot Yesod.

Opening a door at the end of the hallway, Mercurius entered a windowless room. Ten cubits by ten cubits. A faithful re-creation of the Holy of Holies, the
Kodesh Kodashim.
Painted gold, the letters of the Hebrew alphabet were stenciled on the wall. Here, each morning, he practiced the sacred chant. Over and over.