C. Palov - Templar's Code

Faced with a thorny dilemma, the waiter nervously glanced from table to table.

Edie stopped typing long enough to turn her head and peer across the aisle. At seeing a florid-faced man built like a sumo wrestler straddling not one, but two, rickety cane chairs, she picked up the plate and passed the whipped-cream-topped confection to the next table. “Bon appétit.”

“Thanks!” the young waiter gushed, clearly relieved that he didn’t have to battle the hefty dragon. “I’ll put a rush on your waffle.”

“No hurry.” Edie turned her attention to the computer screen. “According to the university site, Dr. Lyon is professor emeritus in the Department of Semitic and Egyptian Languages. Here’s a picture of him.” Edie cocked her head to one side. “For an older man, he’s quite handsome. One of those frail, aristocratic Ian McKellen types.”

Caedmon contemplatively stared at the online bio. “How fascinating. Dr. Lyon is an expert in the ancient languages of the Near East. Is there an e-mail address?”

Edie scanned the page. “Yep. M Lyon at cua dot edu.”

“May I?” He gestured to the netbook; Edie obliged the request, sliding the computer to his side of the table.

The direct approach usually being the one that bore fruit, he typed a pithy message.

Dr. Lyon,

I am an associate of Dr. Jason Lovett’s. During the course of our recent excavation in Rhode Island, we uncovered an unusual artifact with an incised script that we believe to be of Near Eastern derivation. Would you be interested in examining a digital photo of the artifact and rendering a translation?

Thank you, sir, for your kind consideration. I look forward to your response.

Caedmon Aisquith

“Yes, I know, I bent the truth somewhat.”

“How about an out-and-out lie?” Edie indignantly huffed. “You barely knew Jason Lovett. And we did not discover the artifact in Rhode Island. Which, by the way, makes it sound like you found nothing more interesting than an old potsherd.”

“If I reveal the truth, I doubt very much that I will be able to secure Dr. Lyon’s cooperation.”

“What exactly do you expect this professor emeritus to do, translate the Emerald Tablet? If so, then . . . then you deceived me.”

“I did no such thing!” he exclaimed in his defense, the accusation baseless.

“All right, we found the Emerald Tablet. The treasure hunt is over.” Reaching across the table, she grabbed hold of his wrist.” But we cannot under any circumstances tell anyone that we found it. Death follows in that thing’s wake.”

“Do you not trust me to be careful?”

Releasing his wrist, she caustically laughed. “I know what this is all about. Since you’ve secured the Emerald Tablet, you can rest easy, assured that Rico Suave won’t be selling the relic to some terrorist group. Which means that you can now turn your attention to vindicating your academic credibility. God, Caedmon! You are really a piece of work. Two men have been murdered and all you can think about is your next book. Testis sum agnitio. Am I right?” She pointedly glanced at the silver ring on his right hand.

Recognizing a trap, Caedmon considered how best to reply. For the last six days, his focus had been on the hunt. Now that he had the Emerald Tablet, he was unsure how to proceed, suddenly aware that the relic might actually contain a secret of historic magnitude.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said at last, a noncommittal cliché the best he could manage.

Edie’s gaze narrowed. “Given that it’s early spring, I imagine the Rubicon is very cold and very deep.”

Caedmon hit the Send button. “No doubt it is.”

About to hand Edie the netbook, he stopped in mid-motion, noticing that the corpulent diner at the next table had turned an unhealthy shade of madder red. Suddenly, without warning, their neighbor banged a beefy fist on the table, flatware and water glass crashing to the floor. In the next instant, he began to spasmodically flail, white froth bubbling between his lips. Gasping for air, the rotund gastronome clutched the area over his heart, then slumped forward, his face landing in the half-eaten Belgian S’more.

The waffle originally intended for Edie.

CHAPTER 81

“Quick! Someone! Call 911!”

With that hoarse yell, a frantic melee erupted inside the Chow Hounds eatery. Waiters dashed willy-nilly. Several patrons rushed to the table offering assistance to the rotund diner. Several more, small children in tow, headed for the door. One impolite lout aimed his mobile camera at the frenzied scene.

Edie turned to Caedmon, a stricken expression on her face. “Is he . . . ?”

“Poisoned, I believe.” Given the fat man’s lifeless gaze, Caedmon didn’t hold out much hope for resuscitation.

“But . . . that . . . that was my waffle,” she croaked. A split second later, realization dawning, she violently shivered. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Caedmon assumed that she referred to Rubin Woolf’s murderer.

“In Washington? Most definitely. On the premises? Not entirely certain.” Caedmon quickly surveyed the colorful eatery searching for a six-foot-tall, trim, stylishly dressed man. No one fit the bill . If the bastard was on the premises, he’d taken cover. Which meant they had two options: Escape via the front entrance or exit through the kitchen located in the rear of the building.

He glanced at the Belgian S’more smeared all over the dead patron’s face. He suspected the waffle had been poisoned in the kitchen before the waiter set the plate on the table. If so, the murderous bastard might still be lurking there. Waiting for them to sneak out the back exit.

Caedmon grabbed the netbook and handed it to Edie. Mind made up, he put a hand on her back and bustled her toward the front door. A gamble, to be sure. For all he knew, the bastard was standing outside on the pavement. He slung an arm around Edie’s shoulder. Meager protection, at best. Particularly if their enemy carried a weapon.

Outside, he scrutinized the environs. A rambunctious quartet milled nearby, having just exited a departing cab. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was on its way. A wasted effort . But not his concern. He had to get Edie to safety.

Edie tugged at his arm, urging him to veer to the left. “The car’s parked down the street.”

“Too risky,” he informed her, worried that the murderous bastard may have spotted the cherry-red Mini. Parked on a lightly trafficked side street, it was the perfect place to waylay them.

Hoping to confound their assailant, Caedmon grabbed Edie’s hand and ran across the street, heading for an establishment fronted with blue opaque glass. Emblazoned on the plate-glass door was the silhouette of a woman holding a ridiculously long cigarette holder to her lips. Below that, in a fancy script, was the name of the watering hole—C’est Bleu.

Yanking the door open, he ushered Edie across the threshold. And into a dimly lit lounge.

Caedmon waited for his pupils to dilate so he could better see in the murky, smoke-filled depths. It took a few seconds for his middle-aged eyes to make the adjustment. To their immediate right was a sleek bar that glowed with an otherworldly blue light. To their left, a bank of mirrors reflected that eerie blue light. Despite the woefully inadequate lighting, he could see that the habitués of C’est Bleu were a smartly dressed lot, approximately sixty of them scattered about the lounge.

The biggest surprise was that the back wall did double duty as a movie screen; an old black-and-white subtitled film was currently being projected onto the wall. The movie looked familiar. Perhaps Ascenseur pour l’énchafaud . He wasn’t sure.