The Templar's Code

different type of creation altogether.”

“Yeah, the safe kind. As in no Big Bang.” Edie pointedly glanced at the yellow sheets of paper. “Last night, Rubin mentioned that Thoth brought the Emerald Tablet to Egypt from Atlantis. Do you think the Emerald Tablet had something to do with the destruction of Atlantis?”

“Mmmm… an interesting question. The few references to Atlantis in the ancient records claim that the entire continent was obliterated from the earth. That said, it is possible that the Genesis code contained within the Emerald Tablet triggered the catastrophe.”

“It would only take one exploding atom to do the trick.” Edie shuddered. “Franklin was afraid of what would happen if the Freemasons found the encryption key and decoded the pictograph.”

“Indeed.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Your Benjamin Franklin is proving a difficult circle to square.”

“Might have been nice if he had left a clue as to where he intended to take the Emerald Tablet once he left London.”

“I believe that he did.” With his index finger, Caedmon drew Edie’s attention to several lines of text. “Franklin writes, ‘I propose to take Thoth’s stone to the City nearest the Centre to that place where men strive to improve the common stock of Knowledge so that all may prosper in mind as well as spirit.’ Without question, it’s a clue as to where Dr. Franklin intended to take the Emerald Tablet.”

Edie rolled her eyes. “Good luck finding that location on a Rand McNally map.”

He studied the last page of Franklin’s missive. Selection made, he said, “These two phrases look promising: ‘the City nearest the Centre’ and ‘the common stock of Knowledge.’ ” He quickly typed both phrases into an Internet search engine.

“In one way or another, it always comes back to ‘knowledge,’ doesn’t it?”

“The glue that binds one century to the next. Well, well. We have a hit,” he announced. At seeing the two phrases pop up in the same online document, he experienced a surge of optimism. “It seems that the wise sage used those same phrases in a written proposal dating to 1743.” He quickly skimmed the text that had come up on the screen. “In this document Franklin states his intention to found an organization in Philadelphia, that ‘being the City nearest the Centre of the Continent-Colonies, ’ to be known as the American Philosophical Society.”

Edie picked up where he left off. “The aim of which was to ‘cultivate the finer Arts, and improve the common stock of Knowledge.’ ” She glanced at him. “Sounds like the American Philosophical Society was supposed to be the colonial counterpart of the Royal Society.”

He quickly typed “American Philosophical Society” into the search engine. “And still is,” he informed her, grinning. One step closer.

Scooting her metal folding chair closer to the table, Edie excitedly pointed to the Web page he’d just pulled up. “Ohmygosh! You’re right. The American Philosophical Society, founded by Benjamin Franklin in 1743, is still a going concern with a library, archives, and a very extensive Franklin Collection. Oh, and get this: It’s located in the old historic district of Philadelphia right next to Independence Hall.” When he raised a quizzical brow, she elaborated. “That’s where the Second Continental Congress convened in May 1775 and where, fourteen months later, Ben Franklin and the rest of the Founding Fathers signed the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776.”

“Mmmm… interesting.” For several seconds he pondered the significance of the Emerald Tablet being hidden in the same colonial city where the American rebels so famously put pen to paper, formalizing their break with Great Britain. “According to The Book of Moses, Franklin intended to establish a protectorate, ‘the Triad’ as he called it, to ensure that the Emerald Tablet never fell into the hands of those who would exploit it for personal gain.”

“So, when do we leave for Philly?”

He smiled. How well she knows me.

“I’ll check the online travel agency to see when the next flight—” He stopped in midsentence, suddenly hearing the refrain from the 1980s song “Karma Chameleon.” The offending sound emanating from his anorak pocket.

“I never took you for being a Boy George fan.”

“I’m not.” Rummaging in his pocket, he removed an unfamiliar mobile phone, belatedly realizing that what they were hearing was the ring tone. Wondering how the bright red mobile found its way into his pocket, he took the call. Except it wasn’t a call. It was an incoming video.

“Hey, that looks exactly like Rubin’s boudoir,” Edie said, leaning over his shoulder. “In fact, there’s Rubin’s big four-poster bed with — Oh, my God!”

“What the bloody—” His heart slammed against his chest as he saw Rubin, stark naked, standing on a Tudor stool beside an ornately carved wood post. A long black cord was looped around his neck, the other end wrapped around the top of the four-poster bed.

Tears streaming down his face, Rubin stared directly at the camera. “Vater, ich liebe dich.”

A split second later, a second person, seen only from behind, walked over and kicked the stool out from under Rubin’s feet. He dropped nearly a foot. Body convulsing. Feet dangling.

Edie screamed.

Caedmon forcefully shoved the mobile into her hand. “Dial 999. Tell the police to go to Woolf’s Antiquarian Books in Cecil Court. And for God’s sake, don’t leave the cafe!” he yelled over his shoulder as he ran toward the door.

CHAPTER 62

Caedmon burst onto the pavement outside the Internet cafe, brusquely shoving several patrons aside in his haste to exit the building.

Shocked by the video he’d just seen — and well aware that he had no time to lose — he sprinted in the direction of Cecil Court. The cafe was only two blocks from the bookshop. There might still be time to rescue Rubin.

Storefronts and eateries passed in a blur of plate glass and shuttered entryways. His heart pounding against his breastbone, he darted across the intersection. Horns blared. The driver of a black hackney cab hollered a rude insult. He kept on running.

He had two minutes. Three if he was lucky. Probably closer to two, since Rubin had a roly-poly build that would put more pressure on his trachea.

Don’t struggle, Rubin! For God’s sake, don’t fight it. You’ll only hasten the end. Death by hanging. In reality, death by strangulation, with the victim’s own body weight causing the noose to tighten. Which induced asphyxiation.

He refrained from glancing at his watch. Instead, he pumped his legs that much harder, grateful the earlier rain had stopped. Although the pavement was slick with moisture. As he found out a few moments later when he skidded into a lamppost.

His energy flagging, he turned the corner onto Cecil Court, immediately assaulted with the pungent scent of garam masala. The Curry House on the corner was open for business. Breathless, he surveyed the pedestrian-only thoroughfare. Searching for a dark-haired man with the face of an angel. The heart of a demon.

The beautiful bastard was nowhere in sight. In fact, Cecil Court seemed surreally calm. A peaceful tableau.

At a glance he saw the usual smattering of tourists and Sunday shoppers leisurely strolling the walkway and huddled in front of book carousels. Time always seemed to move at a slower pace on Booksellers’ Row. Which is why heads turned as he sprinted toward the bookshop in the middle of the court. He paid the curious no mind. A man had just been brutally accosted in their midst and they were serenely oblivious. He didn’t have that luxury.

Reaching the front door of the bookshop, he turned the knob. Locked. Damn!