C. Palov - Templar's Code

Seeing something other than dirt drop from the backhoe claw, Edie charged forward.

“I just saw something,” she breathlessly uttered, gesturing to the large earthen pile.

Blue eyes glittering, Caedmon leaped off the backhoe. “Where?”

“In that big pile of dirt.”

Using his hands, Caedmon brushed away the top layer of dirt, exposing a metal case that was about the size of a hefty dictionary. On the front of the case was an old-fashioned lock. One that presumably required an old-fashioned skeleton key to open. Caked with dirt and grime, the case appeared to have been buried in its grave for a very long time.

“There’s a rag on the floor of the JCB.”

Edie rushed over to the backhoe and grabbed the rag, as well as the pliers and lug wrench that Caedmon had commandeered from the Mini Cooper.

Snatching the rag, Caedmon furiously rubbed at the clotted dirt. Fear giving way to excitement, Edie retrieved the digital camera from her shoulder bag. She sidled close.

“Do you see what was hidden beneath the grime?” Caedmon turned the case in her direction, allowing Edie to see that there was a circle of thirteen stars etched on the lid. Beneath the circle, in a fancy, curlicue script, was a single line of engraved text: Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.

Her heart thudded against her breastbone. Certain .

“Open it!” she whispered, handing him the lug wrench.

“Right.”

Placing a steadying hand on the back of the case, he jammed the wedged end under the lid and forcefully shoved down on the wrench. The lock popped with a dull pong! Caedmon immediately flung the lug wrench aside.

Anxious, Edie raised the camera to her face and peered through the viewfinder. The interior of the metal case was lined with several layers of folded sheepskin.

She snapped off a photo.

His hand visibly shaking, Caedmon grabbed a corner of the dun-colored hide and pulled it aside. An instant later, Edie heard an audible gasp, uncertain who it came from. Operating on autopilot, she depressed the shutter button on top of the camera.

It’s stunning. Absolutely, breathtakingly stunning.

Nestled in the folded animal skin was a relic unlike anything she’d ever seen. And she’d stood in line to see both the King Tut and the “Hidden Treasures of Kabul” exhibits. True to its name, it was a tablet that measured some eight by ten inches and was nearly a half inch thick. Made of a milky green crystalline substance, it was inlaid with gold. Lots of gold . Beautiful, gleaming, glittering gold, the workmanship exquisite. On the front were lines of golden text inscribed in a primitive-looking script.

Quickly, she tallied the number of lines. “There’s eight of them,” she murmured. The Eight Precepts.

“Perfect symmetry, the Emerald Tablet the esoteric embodiment of creation.”

“Yin and yang,” she murmured. Male and female. Mind and blowing.

Caedmon lightly grazed his fingers over the incised text. “ ‘More valuable than rubies.’ ”

“Or big emeralds.” Although she didn’t think it was an emerald despite the tablet being an unusual shade of green.

Hand still shaking, Caedmon lifted the tablet out of the folded sheepskin and turned it over.

The back was even more spectacular than the front with an inlaid circle of gold comprising intertwined symbols that completely encircled an eight-pointed star. Each point of the star contained what looked to be a glyph. Within the center of the star was an elaborate maze. Beneath the design was a character that she instantly recognized—a small Egyptian ibis. Not exactly sure what she was gazing at, Edie thought the pictograph might be some sort of mandala.

“It kinda looks like ancient runes that have been interlaced to create an elaborate ring around an octogram star.”

“It beggars description.” Eyes glistening with unshed tears, Caedmon slowly, reverentially, raised the tablet to his lips. “This is ‘ocular proof’ that the sacred relic that precipitated the Templars’ doom does exist.”

Edie made no reply. What was there to say?

The Emerald Tablet. The secret of creation. Over the course of centuries, men have looted, lied, and died for it.

Now Caedmon Aisquith was one of those men.

CHAPTER 79

Standing in the shadows of the sacro bosso, Saviour gasped. In a state of near ecstasy, he clutched his left breast, palm to heart, and swayed slightly. On the verge of swooning.

The Brit just uncovered the sacred relic!

His beloved mentor would be overjoyed. And for that reason, he wanted to cry aloud. To leap with joy. To twirl and dance and even hug the stern-faced Dante. Instead, he surreptitiously peered around the marble pedestal that supported the full-length bronze statue, verifying that no one else lurked in the vicinity. The discovery was too important for—

Christos!

A Park Service police officer was walking down the path that meandered through the sacro bosso and heading straight for the reflecting pool and the adjacent exedra. Where he would happen upon the Brit, the stolen backhoe, and the Emerald Tablet. Aisquith and the woman would be arrested on the spot for wanton destruction of public property. Not that he cared about the pair’s fate. But he knew that, if arrested, the authorities would confiscate the sacred relic.

He had to prevent the unthinkable from happening!

Stepping away from his hiding place behind the marble pedestal, Saviour strode to the middle of the pathway. He staggered a bit. A split second later, he jerked, then collapsed to the ground, writhing. Moaning insensibly. Spittle flying from his lips. Doing a spot-on impersonation of a childhood friend who’d suffered from epilepsy, prone to sudden uncontrollable seizures. As though possessed by a demon.

Just as Saviour hoped, the police officer charged toward him and knelt at his side.

“Hey, buddy! It’s okay! Whatever you do, don’t swallow your tongue! I’m gonna call an ambulance, all right?”

Still twitching, Saviour saw the cop turn his head toward the communication device strapped onto his shoulder. About to place a call for medical assistance.

Knowing all would be lost should that happen, Saviour shoved himself upright. Using his elbow like a battering ram, he smashed it into the other man’s jaw.

“Motherfucker!” the cop snarled, reaching for the holstered gun at his waist.

Saviour immediately lashed his left hand around the cop’s wrist, forcefully wrenching it away from the leather holster. He then grasped his adversary’s thumb and forcefully yanked it back, the bone loudly popping. The cop bleated like a cow. Seizing the momentum, Saviour toppled him to the ground.

In the next instant, he was on the cop, jabbing a knee into his testicles. Swift as a shadow, he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of a sleek Italian switchblade. He pushed the raised nubbin on the handle. The blade dully gleamed in the dim light. Excited by the struggle, Saviour plunged the blade into the side of the cop’s neck. A spurt of warm blood hit him on the cheek.

At that moment, their eyes met. Such beautiful green eyes.

Saviour smiled. Shoved the blade deeper. Then, in one quick, vicious motion, yanked as hard as he could to the right, the honed steel slicing through pale white skin, severing the carotid artery.

Owl-eyed, the other man gurgled, shuddered, pushed one last breath between his lips before he went limp. Rudely and unexpectedly sent to the eternal black void.

Saviour scurried to his feet. Grabbing the dead cop under the arms, he dragged him behind the statue of Dante. Out of sight. He bit back a grunt, the uniformed cop no lightweight.