“After visiting numerous monasteries and chapels, examining scores of illuminated manuscripts, and interviewing the chief priest at St. Mary’s, I can now punch a very big hole in the Menelik theory.” He took no pleasure in the announcement, certain at one time that he’d find the Ark in Axum. “While a
He put the last image onto the screen, a line drawing of the Ark of the Covenant based on the description in the book of Exodus.
“Our field research in Africa was conclusive: Menelik did not take the Ark of the Covenant to Ethiopia.” Scanning the group, he squinted, barely able to see in the dimly lit library, the window shutters closed tight. “All right, who’d like to take the next stab at me? Yes, the gentleman in the blue pullover.”
A stout middle-aged man rose to his feet. “Well, if Menelik didn’t steal the Ark, who did?”
“There are a number of suspects in the rogues’ gallery. What we do know is that the Ark of the Covenant disappeared from the pages of the Bible soon after the construction of Solomon’s Temple. Whether captured or hidden, its current whereabouts are unknown. But rest assured, the Ark
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edie pointedly tap an index finger against her watch crystal.
Warning bell sounded, Caedmon cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that concludes our discussion of the Egyptian origins of the Ark of the Covenant. I would like to thank the chief librarian at the House of the Temple, Mr. Franklin Davis, for hosting today’s lecture.” He motioned to a gray-bearded man in the front row. He’d met the librarian at a Washington book signing some months back. When an invitation had been extended to speak at the national headquarters for the Scottish Rite of Freemasonry, he’d gladly accepted. “And, of course, I would like to extend a warm note of thanks to a most inquisitive audience.”
As the overhead lights came on, Caedmon acknowledged the polite applause with a self-conscious smile. Uncomfortable in the role of public author, he knew such venues not only sold books but also attracted individuals with a keen interest in Egyptian history. And mystery. The latter near and dear to him. While he’d been trained as a historian, he preferred to think of himself as a “rehistorian,” legend, lore, and mysticism at the heart of his research endeavors. An unholy trinity that compelled several book reviewers to wrongly accuse him of being a conspiracy theorist.
Glancing around the room, he could see a few nattering clusters milling about, most of the attendees en route to the refreshment table set up in the adjacent banquet hall. In dire need of a thirst quencher, the obligatory lecturer’s glass having already been drained, he bent over the wooden table and proceeded to shut down the laptop computer.
As he pecked away, Caedmon noticed a rail-thin man approach, a copy of
“I’ve got some information about the Knights Templar that might interest you,” the towheaded man announced without preamble.
Removing his fingers from the keyboard, Caedmon straightened, giving the other man his full attention.
Long years ago, when he’d been a doctoral student at Oxford University, he’d written his dissertation on the Knights Templar, his research leading him to conclude that during their tenure in the Holy Land, the Templars had been secretly initiated into the Egyptian mysteries. To his chagrin, the dissertation he’d meticulously researched was publicly ridiculed by the head of the history department at Queen’s College. Realizing his advance degree would not be conferred, he left Oxford, tail tucked between his legs.
Whereupon he’d promptly been recruited by MI5, Great Britain’s Security Service.
MI5 actively sought men like him, defrocked academics keen to prove their worth. Such men made good spies. He’d spent eleven years in Her Majesty’s Service before returning to his first love, history. No longer concerned with how his controversial theories might be received, he’d written
Although he suspected the opening gambit would lead nowhere, Caedmon inclined his head toward the shabbily dressed younger man. “Pray continue.”
Visibly anxious, the blond man used the ball of his shoulder to wipe several translucent beads from his upper lip. Then, a determined look in his hazel blue eyes, he thrust the copy of
“Open it.”
Thinking the impolite command odd, Caedmon took the proffered volume.
A half second later his jaw slackened as he read the handwritten message scrawled on the inscription page.
CHAPTER 3
Saviour Panos opened an oversized bronze door and stepped inside the House of the Temple. In no hurry, well aware that the blond-haired archaeologist was now trapped within the confines of the stone colossus, he stopped at the guard station located just inside the vestibule.
A green-eyed mulatto, his drab uniform hugging a trim figure, looked up from the book he’d been reading. “Welcome to the House of the Temple.”
“I am pleased to be here,” Saviour replied in a cultivated accent that had taken years to perfect. He glanced at the battered copy of
“English literature major at Howard,” the other man offered, noticing the direction of his gaze. Warmly smiling, he gestured to the nearby coatroom. “Would you like to check your jacket?”
“No, thank you.” Saviour returned the other man’s smile. He frequently used his physical beauty to advantage, well aware that one could conquer the world with a smoldering glance.
Pleased that he’d so easily found his quarry, he stepped into the atrium. No sooner did he enter the dimly lit space than he came to a sudden halt, taken aback by the lavishly designed chamber.
“It’s magnificent,” he murmured, dazzled.
Well acquainted with ancient architecture — Thessaloniki, the city of his birth, inundated with churches, towers, and Roman arches — the atrium was wholly different from those grandiose monstrosities. While the expansive chamber with its massive granite columns had the heft and gravitas of a basilica, this was no Christian sanctuary. There were no Byzantine saints casting down their stern disapproval. No lavishly painted enthroned Madonnas. In lieu of the Stations of the Cross, there were bronze medallions with bas-relief symbols. The square and compass. The sun and the moon. The All-Seeing Eye.
The temple proudly flaunted its pagan origins.
Beautiful. Erotic. Like a muscle-bound youth.
Enthralled, he walked toward the center of the room, drawn to the gargantuan marble table supported by carved double-headed eagles. Marveling at the superb craftsmanship, he ran his palm across the top of it. As he did, he envisioned a certain blond archaeologist, naked, sprawled on top of the marble slab.
A dagger through his heart.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the security guard approach.
“That table is a replica of one they found in the ruins at Pompeii.” The other man held his gaze a second too long.
“I have always wanted to visit Pompeii,” Saviour replied. Then, exploiting the overture, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. Perhaps you saw him, a blond-haired man.”
There was no mistaking the flash of disappointment. “Yeah, I saw him. He came through a few minutes ago. Asked where the lecture was being held.” He motioned to a placard set on an easel near the entryway.
Saviour examined the publicity photo of a red-haired man. “ ‘The Egyptian Origins of the Ark. A Lecture by Author Caedmon Aisquith.’ This lecture, where is it being held?”
