The Templar's Code

by C. M. Palov

  “Hardly.” Coming to a momentary stop, Edie removed her new cotton peacoat and slung it over her shoulder, the late-morning sun surprisingly warm. “John Adams was the first president to take up residence in the new capital city of Washington. In fact, he served the first half of his term in the old capital at Philadelphia and the second half in Washington.”

  “Mmmm . . .” Hands clasped behind his back, Caedmon struck a professorial pose. “It’s conceivable that John Adams transported the Emerald Tablet from one city to the other.”

  “That alone makes him a player in all of this. Although Jefferson gets top billing by virtue of the fact that he participated in almost every phase of the project. From planning the Mall to the precise placement of the Capitol and White House.” And though Jefferson never envisioned that the Mall would be lined with world-class museums, Edie suspected he’d be pleased. As she recalled, the redheaded Virginian proudly displayed mastodon bones in the entry hall at Monticello.

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  “Strange to think that two hundred years after Francis Bacon put an All-Seeing Eye on his unpublished frontispiece, the symbols of ancient Egypt would be placed in plain sight for all to see.”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

  CHAPTER 72

  Christos!

  They were doing nothing but walking. Endless blocks of walking, trudging, trekking. Moving from one location to another with nothing to show for the effort.

  Standing at the souvenir kiosk on the edge of the monument grounds, Saviour watched as the Brit and his woman began walking toward Constitution Avenue. Here we go again. Mercurius said that Aisquith had embarked on a sacred quest. A sacred quest, my ass.

  In no hurry to set off—with the tracking device, he could follow at his leisure—Saviour examined the array of souvenirs being sold at outrageously inflated prices. His gaze alighted on a ten-inch-high metal replica of the Washington Monument. Welded onto the front of the miniature obelisk was an outdoor thermostat.

  “How much for these two?” he brusquely asked the vendor, picking up a blue baseball cap in his other hand.

  “Twenty-four ninety-five.”

  Christos! For a baseball cap and a shitty souvenir!

  He wordlessly handed over a twenty and a five. Furious that the malaka had just swindled him, he barely refrained from throwing the nickel change at the other man’s chest.

  Slapping the baseball cap on his head, Saviour tucked his souvenir under his arm and strode across the neatly trimmed expanse of lawn toward the stubby stone ballast. The granite monolith had garnered Aisquith and the woman’s attention. In fact, they’d been so interested, they consulted with a third party. A third party who presently stood a few feet away from the squat stone.

  Saviour affixed a guileless expression on his face and approached. His gaze immediately alighted on the gleaming gold badge pinned above the black man’s left shirt pocket. U.S. Park Ranger. Then he glanced at the gold name tag pinned above the right pocket. Jermaine Walker. Although he wore a uniform, the ranger carried no weapon.

  “Please could you help me?” Saviour entreated with a smile.

  The ranger, in the process of wiping the back of his neck with a handkerchief, turned to him. “Be happy to help, if I can.”

  “I was supposed to meet my friends at the monument, but”—still smiling, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug—“apparently we missed each other in the crowd. Perhaps you saw them: a tall redheaded Brit and a curly—”

  “Just missed ’em. Not too many folks ask about the Jefferson Pier.”

  Saviour presumed he meant the hunk of granite a few feet away. “The Jefferson Pier? Why would they be interested in this? The Washington Monument is what everyone comes to see, no?”

  “By the busloads. But for whatever reason, your friends seemed more interested in the pier. Like I told ’em, this marker was set in place by Thomas Jefferson when he surveyed the seventy-seventh meridian.”

  Head tipped to one side, Saviour feigned interest. Why is the Brit interested in a rock? It made no sense.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Stepping several feet away, Saviour turned his back on Ranger Walker as he tapped the Bluetooth device clipped to his ear. Without preamble, he relayed the conversation to Mercurius, hoping his mentor could provide some context to the strange episode.

  “And you’re quite certain that he said the seventy-seventh meridian?”

  Saviour glanced over his shoulder at the ranger who had resumed mopping the sweat on the back of his neck. “Yes, positive.”

  “I am deeply troubled that this man, the ranger, has spoken with Aisquith about the sacred meridian. He may even suspect the reason for the Englishman’s interest. That alone makes him a dangerous impediment.”

  “I understand.” Saviour tapped the device, disconnecting the phone call.

  He walked back to where the ranger stood waiting. “The information about the Jefferson Pier has been most helpful.”

  Amiably grinning, the ranger jutted his chin at the tacky souvenir nestled under Saviour’s arm. “So, what’s the temperature?”

  For several seconds, Saviour stared at the black man’s face, noticing the perspiration that dotted his brow. The neatly trimmed mustache. The dark nubbins of ingrown facial hair. Then, very slowly, and very deliberately, his gaze dropped to the slim hips garbed in a pair of dark-green trousers. “It’s extremely hot.”

  The ranger held his hands up, palms facing out. “Hey, I don’t swing that way.”

  “Pity.” Saviour removed the souvenir from under his arm and held it in his hand like a stake. A makeshift weapon.

  Sensing his intention, the other man recoiled.

  Too late.

  Saviour plunged the pointed tip of the metal obelisk into Jermaine Walker’s left breast. Straight to the heart. The ranger’s eyes immediately widened. Lips quivered. In that infinitesimal second between life and death, he yanked violently. A terrified animal in its death throes.

  In the next second, Ranger Walker went limp.

  Throwing his left arm around the ranger’s shoulders, Saviour grabbed him before he collapsed in an ungainly heap. Gently, he eased the uniformed man to the ground, propping him against the stone pier. Anyone seeing him from a distance would simply think he was sitting on the grassy lawn.

  “You gave up the ghost too quickly, my friend.”

  He readjusted the baseball cap on his head as he examined the expanding blood stain that encircled the metal obelisk protruding from Ranger Walker’s chest. When he bought the souvenir, he had intended it for a different victim.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. . . . It’s seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit.” Saviour softly cackled, the joke lost on his dead companion.

  CHAPTER 73

  “. . . and as we just recently learned, the Washington Monument was supposed to have been erected at the Jefferson Pier.” Caedmon gave the grove of holly and elm a cursory glance. “Lovely site for a brainstorming session.”

  “According to Ranger Walker, the Army Corps of Engineers didn’t think the soil around the Jefferson Pier would support so massive a weight. That’s why the Washington Monument ended up not on the seventy-seventh meridian as originally planned but four hundred feet away.” Edie sighed. “And you’re right. I can’t think of a better place to contemplate God’s line of longitude than on Uncle Albert’s lap.”

  Caedmon stared at the twelve-foot-tall bronze figure that dominated the grove. At Edie’s suggestion, they’d decided to break for lunch and dine al fresco at the Albert Einstein Memorial, the outdoor monument located on Constitution Avenue at the National Academy of Science. To his surprise, the memorial consisted of a charming, almost child-like statue of Einstein seated on a marble step. A secluded and peaceful oasis.

  “Did you know that Albert Einstein was a member of the American Philosophical Society? Which is not the reason why I suggested the spot for our picnic.” Edie distractedly waved in the direction of the Jefferson Pier, some eight blocks away. “I just wanted to get off the beaten path. The Mall is an esoteric free-for-all.”

  “Which Jefferson and Adams used to advantage, taking great care in hiding their emerald tree in Washington’s esoteric forest. Even going so far as to survey the seventy-seventh meridian.” Placing a hand on Edie’s elbow, he guided her toward the marble steps.

  “Check out a D.C. map and you’ll see that the city was designed as a perfect ten-mile square.” Edie sat down next to “Uncle Albert.” “Sixteenth Street, aka the seventy-seventh meridian, runs right through the middle of the north-south axis of that square, completely dividing the city in half. The next signpost could be anywhere along the seventy-seventh meridian.” Opening a plain brown bag, she removed a hot dog wrapped in foil and a can of cola, handing both to him. “Lunch is served.”

  Caedmon sat next to her. Not particularly enthusiastic, he
gingerly peeled back the foil on the hot dog. Catching a whiff of onions and relish, he wrinkled his nose. “Bit of an acquired taste, eh?”

  In the process of ripping open a small packet of mustard with her teeth, Edie raised a quizzical brow. “And blood sausage isn’t?”

  “Point taken.” Following suit, he opened a packet of mustard. When in Rome. “I’m certain that the Jefferson Pier is a signpost. As you’ll recall, an entire line of inscription had been chiseled from the granite block.”

  “And you think the missing inscription may have been important?”

  “The pier was erected by one of the original Triad members. No coincidence in that, I’ll warrant.”

  “If that’s the case, we’ve come to the end of our journey. There’s no way we can recover something that’s been chiseled out of existence, erased for all eternity.”

  At hearing Edie’s blunt appraisal, his stomach painfully tightened. What initially started as a crusade for academic vindication—to find the missing link between the Knights Templar and ancient Egypt—had become a deadly quest to find an ancient relic of unimaginable power. The secret of Creation. Or the secret of obliteration in the case of the ill-fated Atlantis.

  After centuries of being surreptitiously bandied about, the Emerald Tablet had been brought to the new capital city and promptly hidden by a trio of men to prevent it from falling into the hands of a despot. Now, more than two hundred years later, that dire scenario was very much front burner. He had to find it. Only then could he be certain that a rogue nation or terrorist organization didn’t use the relic to engineer a catastrophic event.

  The sense of urgency real, Caedmon reached into his jacket pocket and removed the D.C. map that he’d earlier purchased along with an ink pen. Unfolding the map, he drew solid dots on two locations: the Adams Annex and the Jefferson Pier, connecting the points with a straight line. But where does the line go from there?

  “It’s here, somewhere in this blasted ten-mile square,” he muttered, angered that they’d lost the scent.