C. Palov - Templar's Code

Caedmon, who showed no sign of calling retreat, grasped the concrete balustrade and moodily stared at the terrace below. Last man standing . Twilight fast approaching, the drummers and their colorful entourage had already left the premises and the park was now nearly deserted.

Feet aching from all the walking, Edie closed her eyes and concentrated on the serene tweeter of birdsong rather than the sonorous rumble of city buses.

“Serene and urban don’t usually go together in the same sentence, but I’ve always thought that Meridian Hill Park managed to strike the perfect balance.”

The chatty remark met with silence.

Edie glanced at the notebook she’d earlier set on top of the balustrade. The open page had a hand-drawn park design, the schematic inundated with checkmarks and dashes and circled Xs. “Look, Caedmon, I know that you’re frustrated, but hey, we fought the good fight. And in the words of my favorite Southern belle, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ ”

“Spare me.”

“Fine,” she retorted, shrugging away his ill humor.

Trying to revive herself with a bit of forced blood flow, Edie vigorously shook her hands. When that didn’t work, she took a half dozen slow, deep breaths.

“Two hundred years ago, the view from the escarpment must have been spectacular.” Glancing at her tall, redheaded companion, she could easily envision the tall, redheaded Thomas Jefferson standing in the same spot as he cast his gaze along the seventy-seventh meridian, all the way to the Potomac River. “Wonder if Jefferson felt it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The vibe. We’ve been here for hours. Surely, you’ve sensed the vibratory energy of the place.”

“Otherwise engaged, I did not sense the, er, vibe.”

“Before the incursion of white settlers, this was a sacred spot for Native Americans,” she remarked, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “They used to gather here and—”

“Bang the drum all day?”

“Funny. But there is a reason why people are drawn to this place. And, quite frankly, I’m surprised you can’t feel it.”

“The ‘vibe,’ as you call it, is the energy generated by the ley line that runs beneath the seventy-seventh meridian,” Caedmon informed her sans sarcasm. “While it’s true that such energy can incite a positive response, as we saw earlier today with the drum circle, Dr. Franklin witnessed firsthand how that same occult energy could be perverted in a most demoralizing fashion. That’s why the wily bastard and his cunning minions hid the Emerald Tablet.” He angrily slapped the palm of his right hand against the top of the balustrade. “Damn them!”

“The Triad had no choice in the matter,” Edie argued, quick to come to her countrymen’s defense. “Nine Freemasons signed the Declaration of Independence. Who knows how many more signed the Constitution. And the namesake of this occult Wonderland was, yes, that’s right, a Freemason.” As if that weren’t enough, from where they stood, they could see the stepped pyramid that adorned the top of the House of the Temple and the Washington Monument beyond. One Egyptian-styled structure juxtaposed in front of the other. “You read The Book of Moses . Benjamin Franklin’s dark premonition had merit.”

“Still does, I’m afraid. The Emerald Tablet contains a secret worth killing for.”

A thought she preferred not thinking about. At least not at the moment. “The irony is that the fellas at the House of the Temple have no idea the Emerald Tablet is hidden in their own backyard.”

“Yes, bloody brilliant of the Triad,” Caedmon muttered, back to being crotchety.

A strained silence ensued.

Deciding the time had come to acknowledge the elephant in the park, Edie said, “You’re not going to like hearing this, but it’s entirely possible that the Triad decided not to leave the last signpost. Or if there was one, it was intentionally removed. Someone went to a lot of trouble to chisel out the inscription on the Jefferson Pier. It could be that at some point in time the Freemasons got too close for—Caedmon, are you all right?”

Cheeks flushed red, knuckles drained white, Caedmon stood trembling. Then, to her utter surprise, he grinned from ear to ear.

“I just found the bloody signpost.”

CHAPTER 77

“You’re kidding, right?”

Wide-eyed, Edie gaped as though he’d just gone bonkers.

Of sound mind, Caedmon stared at the Italianate garden clearly visible from their elevated position at the edge of the escarpment. Raising his right hand, he quoted from the Jefferson letter: “ ‘For I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in mine hand.’ ” Then, raising his left hand, he turned to her and said triumphantly, “And an ankh in mine other.”

“An ankh?” Edie peered down the hill, her head swiveling from side to side. “Where?”

“It’s embedded in the landscape architecture, part of the original park design. Clever bastards,” he grudgingly muttered under his breath, impressed with the masterful subterfuge. Assuming a later generation of the Triad was responsible for the optical illusion, he went on to say, “They put the ankh in plain sight. Yet one can stand in this spot and stare upon that scene”—he gestured to the cascading fountain, the reflecting pool, and the adjacent exedra—“and never see the blasted signpost.”

He snatched the open notebook from the top of the balustrade. Pencil in hand, he quickly drew the hidden ankh.

“Ohmygosh! I see it!” Ecstatic, Edie threw herself at his chest. “ ‘One small step for mankind.’ ”

“God willing, we can channel this knowledge to brilliant effect.”

Assuming a more sedate demeanor, his companion stepped back. “Any ideas where on this gigantic ankh we should look for the Emerald Tablet?”

“Haven’t a clue, love.” In a jovial mood, he examined the hastily drawn image. “In ancient Egypt, the ankh symbolized life.”

“And we know that it was one of Thoth’s two attributes.”

“Interestingly enough, during the Middle Ages, astrologists used the ankh to symbolize the planet Venus. And their esoteric compatriots, the alchemists, used the ankh as a shorthand symbol for the element copper.”

“Yeah, damned shame about that copper sphere being stolen. Got a light?”

Caedmon spun on his heel, taken aback to find an older dreadlocked gentleman with a Brazilian atabaque drum slung over his shoulder standing directly behind them. Tucked behind his ear was an unlit cigarette.

“Sorry, neither of us smoke,” Edie said with an apologetic shrug.

The stranger turned to leave.

“Sir, a moment of your time, if you would be so kind. You mentioned a copper sphere.”

The drummer jutted his chin at the Italianate garden. “Used to be a big copper sphere mounted at the bottom of the hill.” He pointed to the concrete exedra adjacent to the reflecting pool. “An armillary, I think they call it. Disappeared during the ’sixty-eight riots.” He mirthlessly snorted. “ ’Course a lot of things disappeared that week, folks were riled over them murdering Martin down in Memphis. Long since broken up and sold for scrap. But I expect that was before either of you were born.”

“In nappies, actually. And you’re absolutely certain there was once an armillary mounted on the exedra?”

“Shit, yeah, I’m sure. I grew up just east of here. Used to play in this park when I was a kid. Back then, D.C. was a segregated city and Meridian Hill was the only place where whites and blacks could peaceably share space. Black kids from Cardoza, white kids from Adams Morgan.” His laugh was a rich sound that came from deep in his chest. “Always been hallowed ground. Damned shame that the powers that be can’t see fit to replace it.”