C. Palov - Templar's Code

Hearing that, Saviour’s brown eyes opened wide. “This relic, it’s made of gold and silver, ne ?”

“Something far more valuable than gold and silver. Although when the Inquisition arrested the knights in the fourteenth century, the sacred relic had mysteriously disappeared.” As he spoke, Mercurius realized that the sun had nearly vanished in the western sky, leaving a pink blush in its wake. They’d been conversing for hours.

“So you are the only person in the world who knows the secret.”

“No, Saviour. Now there are two of us.”

That was seven years ago.

Mercurius feared that someone else might now be privy to the secret.

As he lifted the telephone from its cradle, Mercurius ponderously sighed. London, that great cesspool.

Or so claimed Dr. Watson.

CHAPTER 42

“. . . and I happen to think our hotel is ultra-hip,” Edie remarked as she passed in front of Caedmon and scooted into a glass turnstile. Mischievously grinning, well aware that he despised modern design, particularly when fused to other styles, she pushed the revolving glass door, exiting the lobby.

“It’s hotel as grand theater,” she continued a few seconds later when he joined her on the pavement in front of the St. Martin’s Lane Hotel. “Very energetic. Kinda like this fuchsia-colored trench coat, huh?” Holding her straightened arms in front of her, Edie glanced from one brightly colored sleeve to the other. As he’d earlier mentioned, there was no risk of losing her in the crowd.

“You’re a vision,” he gallantly complimented. “The hotel, on the other hand, is . . .” He glanced behind him at the stark glass façade.

Given the plain, almost drab exterior, one would never suspect that the interior housed an eye-popping space filled with gold stools shaped like back molars, African art, and upholstered baroque armchairs. Catching sight of the two traditional red call boxes at the edge of the pavement, he thought it all a bit surreal. Surreal but incredibly secure. The real reason that he booked the reservation at the “energetic” hotel. Catering to celebrities and well-heeled tourists, the hotel management provided a safe sanctuary for its guests.

And security was an issue whenever he visited his homeland. Five years ago, he killed the Real Irish Republican Army ringleader responsible for a deadly terrorist act. Soon thereafter, the RIRA put a bounty on his head. His superiors at MI5, concerned for his safety, spirited him out of the United Kingdom. To this day, he maintained a residence in Paris rather than London.

He shook off the bad memory. It was an unsavory chapter that he preferred not to think about. God knows how Edie would react if she ever discovered his dark secret.

“Shall we nip across the street for a coffee? Our appointment with Rubin Woolf isn’t until three.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “There’s still twenty minutes before the clock strikes the hour.”

“How far is it to Rubin’s bookstore?”

Caedmon jutted his chin at the pedestrian passageway on the other side of the street. “His shop is located at the far end of Cecil Court. No more than a block away.” Yet another reason he’d booked the room at the St. Martin’s. The less time he spent gadding about in public, the better.

“Since I’m about to succumb to a bad case of jet lag, I think a cup of coffee is definitely in order.” As she spoke, Edie took hold of his upper arm and companion-ably leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Right. Starbucks it is.” He ushered her across the street to the coffee bar opposite, the American franchise nearly as ubiquitous in London as red double-decker buses and black hackney cabs.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to plop on the bench while you go inside and contend with the bean and the blend and the nonsensical cup sizes.” Edie gestured to a wood garden bench beneath the familiar green and white signage.

“Probably best if you join me inside.” Caedmon held open the front door. “Since we’re clearly dealing with a man one step ahead of the game, we should be on our guard,” he said in a lowered voice, not wanting to give false comfort.

“Don’t know about you, but I can’t get a handle on this Rico Suave guy.” Edie took her place in the queue. “Go-it-alone whack jobs like our Unibomber or your Jack the Ripper are pull-out-the-garlic, lock-the-car-doors creepy. But we’re dealing with someone who’s drop-dead GQ gorgeous. Emphasis on the drop dead.”

“A comely face does not connote a virtuous heart. That said, in a post-9/11 world, it’s impossible to smuggle a nail file let alone a stiletto into an international airport.”

“But everyone boards the plane with their bare hands,” Edie countered. “Weapon enough for some men.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. A cappuccino?”

“Better make it a grande. And it’s kinda hard not to get ahead of myself. I mean, we don’t even know the kil—” Realizing that she was in a public place, she quickly backpedaled. “This guy’s name.”

“Or his modus operandi.” Leaning over Edie’s shoulder, he placed their order with a glum-faced, lip-studded barista.

Order placed, they obediently shuffled to the end of the counter to wait for their beverages.

“Of course, we know his motive: Rico Suave wants the Templar treasure, i.e., Yawgoog’s Stone.”

“Undoubtedly, but there may be more to the stew than that.”

“You’re thinking about the fact that our pretty boy likes to brand his handiwork with an eight-pointed star.”

Caedmon wordlessly nodded, still unable to fit the bizarre puzzle piece.

“How’s your arm doing?”

He smiled. “Still attached to my shoulder.”

Yesterday Tonto Sinclair had grudgingly taken him to an emergency care facility near the Providence airport where the wound had been cleaned and bandaged. The harried physician put him on a twice-daily regimen of antibiotics to ward off infection and gave him a prescription for a pain killer, which he declined to take. The dull ache kept his mind sharp. And given all that had transpired in the last four days, he needed to keep his wits about him.

A different barista, this one tattooed rather than studded, placed two covered paper cups on the counter in front of them. Caedmon passed the larger of the two cups to Edie. They then stepped over to a different counter. Without asking, he handed his companion a stirrer and two packets of sugar.

Cups in hand, they headed for the door.

A few moments later, catching his first glimpse of Cecil Court, known locally as Booksellers’ Row, Caedmon came to a standstill. To his surprise, his heartbeat accelerated. He took a deep breath. He’d once managed an antiquarian bookshop in Cecil Court. Part of a carefully constructed MI5 legend. For nearly a year he’d assumed the identity of an unassuming bibliophile. Until that balmy summer night when the whole operation, quite literally, blew up.

“You okay? You seem, I don’t know, agitated.”

“I’m fine,” he glibly lied as he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other.

Edie strolled over to an outdoor cart full of secondhand books. “Wow, what a great place to shop. This place is like its own little world, isn’t it?”

As he could attest, Cecil Court was its “own little world,” seemingly immune from London’s hustle-bustle.

Joining her at the cart, Caedmon glanced at the charming Victorian storefronts, taking in the familiar row of antiquarian and secondhand bookshops interspersed with the odd philately and antiques dealers. Although each shop sold uniquely different merchandise, they all boasted a subdued green exterior and a tastefully lettered hanging sign. Long years ago one of those signs had read PETER WILLOUGHBY-JONES. RARE BOOKS AND PRINTS.