C. Palov - Templar's Code

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 .

CHAPTER 56

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.