C. Palov - Templar's Code

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

Excellent question.

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!”

CHAPTER 63

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.