C. Palov - Templar's Code

Caedmon jutted his chin at the Washington Monument, still several blocks away. “I’ve decided the bloody thing resembles a lone stalk of marble asparagus.”

Edie chuckled, the description humorously apt. “Once they broke ground, it took decades to complete the monument. When the Civil War erupted in 1861, it was still an unfinished stump. And you’ll find this next factoid real interesting. . . .” She paused, ensuring she had his undivided attention. “After the war, the Freemasons donated a huge chunk of cash to the construction project.”

“How ironic that a trio of Deists conceive of the idea for the monument, yet it’s the very group they wish to circumvent who finance the project.”

“Moral of the story? If you’re trying to hide a tree, put it in a forest overgrown with esoteric symbols, obelisks, and images of Thoth. That way, the Masons will never find it.”

“Indeed, they have eyes, but they cannot see,” Caedmon mused.

“Strange to think that two hundred years after Francis Bacon put an All-Seeing Eye on his unpublished frontispiece, the symbols of ancient Egypt would be placed in plain sight for all to see.”

At the Fourteenth Street traffic light, they came to a standstill. Straight ahead, one block away, Edie sighted the fifty undulating American flags that encircled the base of the Washington Monument. As they stepped off the curb, the enormity of their task suddenly hit her with gale-force intensity.

We don’t even know what we’re looking for!

“It’s gigantic,” she muttered, seeing the Washington Monument as though for the very first time.

From her tour guide stint, she knew a good many of the facts: There were 897 steps to the top; the exterior blocks were quarried marble, the interior commemorative stones a varied mix, including a few jade stones from the Orient; nearly thirty-seven thousand blocks had been used in the construction; and the tip of the monument was aluminum, making it an excellent lightning rod.

And she knew one other thing: If the Emerald Tablet was hidden among all those thousands of stones, they were screwed. Plain and simple.

Given the stupefied expression on Caedmon’s face, he’d just come to the same conclusion.

“I’m awestruck,” he murmured, his head tilted as he gazed upward. “It’s quite the tour de force.”

“In order to tour the tour de force, we need to get some tickets. This way.” Grabbing his hand, Edie pulled Caedmon toward the national park kiosk.

A few minutes later, supplied with tickets and a map, they set off. As they neared the entrance, Edie groaned, the line to get inside the monument snaking halfway around the base.

Unfolding the map, Caedmon held it in front of him. “I see a marker for something called the Jefferson Pier. Any idea what that is?”

“I’ve lived in D.C. eighteen years, labored an entire summer for the Tourmobile company, and I have never heard of the Jefferson Pier.” Coming to a full stop, Edie examined the map.

“Right there.” Leaning over her shoulder, Caedmon pointed to a small speck on the northwest quadrant of the monument grounds, approximately three hundred yards from their current position.

Glancing at the line of waiting tourists, Edie made a suggestion. “Let’s temporarily bypass the monument and head over to the Jefferson Pier. I suspect the line will shrink the closer we get to the lunch hour.”

“Lead the way.”

She did, veering away from the pavement. Several minutes into the hike, shading her eyes with her hand, Edie scanned the monument grounds. When she caught sight of a familiar Smoky the Bear hat, she exuberantly waved her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Flagging a Park Service ranger. We have no idea what we’re looking for. These guys know everything about the Mall.”

Returning her wave, the uniformed ranger adjusted course and headed in their direction.

Edie read the gold-plated name badge affixed to the right side of the ranger’s shirt. Jermaine Walker.

“Hi, Ranger Walker! We’re lost,” she blurted, cutting right to the chase. “Could you please tell us where the Jefferson Pier is located?”

The ranger, a mustachioed black man who wore his drab green-and-gray uniform with surprising panache, good-naturedly smiled. “Had you’d gotten any closer, you might have stumbled over top of it. The Jefferson Pier is right over there.” He pointed to a stubby granite block situated some thirty feet from where they stood.

“That?” Edie didn’t even try to mask her keen disappointment. She glanced at Caedmon, who, in turn, shrugged his shoulders.

“So sorry to have bothered you,” Caedmon apologized to the ranger. “We thought the Jefferson Pier might be something of more, er, historic significance.”

“I know. It bewilders a lot of folks who see it on the map and mistakenly head this way searching for the Jefferson Memorial.” Ranger Walker started to walk toward the granite lump; Caedmon and Edie had no choice but to tag along. “What they don’t know is that the pier is highly significant.”

Standing in front of the two-foot-high post capped with a pyramidal top, Edie had her doubts. It looked like someone inadvertently plunked a parking barrier in the middle of the expansive monument grounds.

“If you’re interested in Washington lore, there’s an inscription on the other side.”

“Indeed?” Caedmon had to bend at the waist in order to read the chiseled lettering. “ ‘Position of Jefferson Pier erected December 18, 1804.’ Fascinating,” he deadpanned, straightening to his full height.

“Actually, it is,” the ranger was quick to inform them. “In 1793, President Washington appointed Thomas Jefferson, then secretary of state, as point man for the capital construction project. Very much a micromanager, Jefferson surveyed a north-south meridian through the new city, personally driving a wooden stake on this very spot to mark the newly surveyed meridian.” Ranger Walker spoke in the kind of singsongy voice reserved for rote recitation. “In 1804, President Jefferson replaced the wood post with a stone pier.”

“The inscription on the pier has obviously been defaced.” Caedmon pointed to a gouged-out trench beneath the date. “As though someone purposefully chiseled away part of the inscription.”

The ranger shrugged. “Vandals and graffiti artists, what can I say?”

Edie squinted her eyes to tighten her long-distance vision. “If you head due north from this pier, the meridian passes right through the middle of the White House.”

“That’s correct,” Ranger Walker verified with a nod. “The meridian runs parallel to Sixteenth Street from one end of the city to the other. “And”—he leaned close, as though imparting a great secret—“I hear tell the Freemasons call it ‘the Corridor of Light.’ Not exactly sure why. Might have something to do with the House of the Temple that they built up there on Sixteenth Street.”

Neither Caedmon nor Edie responded to Ranger Walker’s last remark, both of them well aware that six days ago a brutal murder had taken place at that very location.

“As you no doubt recall, Edie, a meridian is a line of longitude.”

“And it just so happens that Jefferson’s meridian is exactly at seventy-seven degrees longitude,” Ranger Walker chimed in.

Hearing that, Edie and Caedmon simultaneously swung their heads toward the innocuous granite pier.

The seventy-seventh meridian!

God’s line of longitude.