C. Palov - Templar's Code

A slow Cheshire-like smile worked its way onto Rubin’s face. “Ah, time to delve into the murky realm of alchymia, kabbalah, and magia. ”

“Otherwise known as the magical mystery tour,” Edie quipped. Seeing the instant glower on Rubin’s face, she chuckled. “Okay. Sorry. I forgot that as a former punk-rock roadie, you despise the Beatles.”

Turning away from her with a noticeable huff, Rubin tugged his vest over his midsection. As though rearranging his personal dignity. “The occult practices of alchemy, Kabbalah, and magic constituted the three branches of the hidden stream of knowledge.”

“Are you saying that Bacon and the other members of the Knights of the Helmet were occult practitioners?” When Rubin nodded, Caedmon said, “That being the case, they were heretics of the first order.”

“And in the early seventeenth century, accusations of heresy were treated with the solemnity and intrusiveness of a proctology exam. King James had a dread fear of the so-called dark arts and had more than one heretic condemned to death.”

Shuddering, Edie murmured that most horrific of chants. “Burn, witch.”

“And they very nearly did. Dee, an antiquarian, maintained a magnificent library at Mortlake, his country estate. Unfortunately, the passion of a lifetime was not only ransacked by a vigilante mob, but very nearly went up in flames.” Shaking his head, Rubin intoned, “God save us from the ignorant in our midst. Their hatred knows no bounds.”

“Unfortunately, every century has its Kristallnacht,” Caedmon said quietly, the mood in the room having turned decidedly maudlin.

Suddenly, like a spiky-haired jack-in-the-box, Rubin shot to his feet. “I think refreshments are in order.” He took several steps toward the door, only to abruptly stop in his tracks. He turned toward Caedmon. “I know this is a few years late, Peter, but I never had an opportunity to express my condolences for your loss. It was a grievous day when Juliana left us.”

“Quite. Thank you. Very kind,” Caedmon mumbled.

“Yes, well, won’t be but a moment.” With that, Rubin headed for the door.

Not exactly sure what had just transpired between “Peter” and Rubin, Edie stared at the man sitting next to her. The man she thought she knew.

Who the hell was Juliana?

Caedmon, his cheeks stained a vivid shade of choke-berry red, cleared his throat. “Given the awkward silence, I’d say that went over like a lead balloon.”

“Try plutonium. It weighs more.”

CHAPTER 44

“Was Juliana your wife?”

“Good God! No!”

Caught off his stride, well aware that he’d overreacted to Edie’s question, Caedmon cleared his throat.

He began again, calmer this time. “No, Juliana was not my wife.”

“Okay, we’ve cleared that hurdle. So, who was she?”

Hit with a barrage of painful memories, Caedmon got up from his chair and walked over to the bed. His memories were more violent, more brutal, than most. He tried to block the horrific images of charred, mutilated flesh. Tried and failed miserably. He wrapped his hand around the elaborately carved post. Holding on for dear life.

In a carefully measured voice, he replied, “Juliana Howe was the woman that I loved.”

“I see,” Edie replied in an equally measured tone.

“No, you don’t. Because the truth of the matter is that Juliana died a horrible death that I could have prevented had I only—” He stopped abruptly. Although no longer in MI5’s employ, he was duty-bound to keep silent.

Lies and deception. It was happening all over again. The silence between them lengthened. Edie wordlessly stared at him with her sad, beautiful brown eyes.

To hell with my duty. Edie had a right to know—although there was a very good chance that once she found out about his sordid past, she’d want nothing more to do with him.

Uncertain how to begin, he picked up a leather-bound volume from the bed. An eighteenth-century edition of Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language. He absently thumbed through it. Belatedly realizing that he was stalling, he put it back on the bed.

“As you already know, when I left Oxford I was recruited by MI5. Juliana Howe was a rising star at the BBC. Five learned that she had extensive contacts in the North African community here in London and decided to insert an officer. I went undercover as Peter Willoughby-Jones specifically so I could meet Jules, establish a rapport, and, once I gained her trust, find out everything I could about an Algerian arms-smuggling ring.”

“ ‘Establish a rapport’—is that spy lingo for sleeping with the enemy?”

“She wasn’t the enemy,” he replied, quick to come to Jules’s defense. “She was a brilliant investigative reporter who had a very low opinion of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. That said, yes, I did sleep with her. I then made the grievous mistake of falling in love with her. Grievous because I was forced to keep Five’s dirty little secret. The charade must be maintained. National Security depended upon it.” He caustically laughed.

Getting up from her stool, Edie walked toward him. “If it caused you so much distress, why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”

“I couldn’t. . . . She wasn’t vetted by Five. And, even if she had been, I would have lost her had I ever confessed that the absentminded man who kept the antiquarian bookshop in Cecil Court was a spook in Her Majesty’s Security Service. Although in the end, that’s exactly what happened. . . . I lost her. And all because of my damned spook job.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“I had a last-minute briefing at Thames House, which caused me to be an hour late picking up Juliana.” As he spoke, the muscles in his belly began to painfully tighten. “In those sixty minutes, Juliana Howe became the random victim of a well-planned bomb attack. Had I put Jules before my bloody job—” He stopped in midstream, the memory no easier to bear now than it had been five years ago.

“It wasn’t your fault, Caedmon.” Then, no doubt thinking him a dense bloke, she again said, this time more forcefully, “The bomb blast wasn’t your fault.”

“Intellectually, I know that. But here”—he put his hand over his heart—“in this visceral place that obeys no law of reason, I am very much to blame. And knowing that I was to blame, I used the resources of British Intelligence to track down the ringleader who ordered the bomb blast. And then I killed the Irish bastard. In cold blood. Old Testament vengeance.”

“Wh-what happened next?”

Caedmon heard the hitch in her voice. Saw the tears in her eyes. He feared it was the beginning of the end.

“Inundated with New Testament guilt, I sought solace in a gin bottle. Dove right in. Stayed in a pickled state until the boys at Five dried me out. I was then sent packing, seconded to MI6. It was quite a demotion. I spent the next few years operating a safe house in Paris before Five finally decommissioned me. Booted me right out the door.” Free to grapple with my demons .

“How’s your scar tissue?”

It was a strange question, but he knew what Edie meant.

“It took a while, but I managed to exorcise the grief. Even the blind rage. Although I have yet to rid myself of the memories. Even now, after all these years, they cling to me like a guilty conscience.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped him. “Yes, I know, it’s a boringly tragic tale.”

“No, it’s not. Although it explains why you never have more than two drinks. Why you’re so secretive. Why you take such care with your emotions.”