The Templar's Code (25 page)

Although once he arrived in the city, there were familiar sights and sounds. Modiano Market with tables piled high with oranges, figs, tomatoes, and fresh-cut flowers. The bouzouki music that emanated from the tavernas. The clusters of men with their newspapers and clacking worry beads.

The first two nights he stayed at a downtown hotel where he endured the constant roar of traffic outside his window. Needing his sleep, he checked out of the pricey hotel and headed for the old Turkish quarter near the Byzantine walls. There, he rented an unadorned flat in a whitewashed building. He slept blissfully that night, awaking the next morning to a breakfast of feta cheese, olives, and crusty bread. Refreshed of mind and body, he set off to find the house where he’d lived the first seven years of his life.

He found it easily enough, taken aback to see a crone mopping the marble stoop.
Black shawl. Black hose. Black shoes
.
White hair.
So much like their old housekeeper, Cybele, that he nearly called out her name
.
Instead, he respectfully doffed his beret—an affectation he’d adopted as a much younger man—and introduced himself, explaining that his family once owned the house.

The crone eyed him suspiciously, then said curtly, “Did you know the Jew named Moshe Benaroya?”

If she’d asked if he’d known Atatürk, he would not have been more surprised. Now his turn to be suspicious, he warily nodded his head.

“Perimenete!”
she ordered, gesturing for him to wait outside while she scurried into the house. A few minutes later she appeared, carrying what looked to be a loose-leaf manuscript of several hundred pages bound with string. “We found this under the floorboards in one of the bedrooms.” She thrust the bundle at him before impatiently shooing him on his way.
“Fighe!”

He took no offense at her brusque manner, too stunned to be insulted.

By all that was holy . . . she’d just handed him a treasure trove.

One week later, he went to Agía Sophía, a magnificent Orthodox church that had been constructed in the eighth century, to photograph the ceiling mosaics. He’d just finished photographing the famous ascension mosaic in the central dome. Not yet acclimated to the heat, he sat down in a wooden chair.

No more than a few moments had passed when a shadow fell over him.

He glanced up, taken aback to see a young man standing beside his chair. There was a halo of light surrounding the youth’s dark head. He blinked several times. Noticed the small details. That the young man wore tight jeans and too much cologne.
But, oh, that face . . .

Suddenly, he was very much aware of being a mature man in a tailored wool suit.

Without asking permission, the young man sat in the chair next to him.

Leery, Mercurius clutched his soft-sided attaché to his chest. Afraid that a thief might make off with the incredible manuscript, he’d taken to carrying it with him. He learned his lesson years earlier at the Archaeology Museum in Amman.

Oblivious to the sanctity of the church, the young man nonchalantly said, “Would you like to fuck me up the ass? For you, I’ll give a discount.”

Mercurius didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He relaxed the tight hold on his attaché. “No, but I would like to take you to the patisserie on the other side of the square.” In truth, he feared a church priest might overhear the profane young man.

The beautiful youth accepted the invitation with a bored shrug. Together, they walked across Agía Sophía Square.

“The Christians held a thanksgiving service in this square when the Allies liberated the city from the Germans,” he remarked. The comment elicited another bored shrug.

Although it was a hot day, they sat outside at a bistro table, shaded by a colorful umbrella. Possessed of a ravenous appetite, Saviour ate not one, but two, slices of almond cake piled high with chocolate shavings. Mercurius refrained—doctor’s orders—and, instead, sipped unsweetened coffee from a demitasse. No sooner did Saviour wipe the plate clean than he suggested they leave. Intrigued by the young man, Mercurius led him to the old section of town.

As they approached the towering Byzantine walls, the streets became narrow, more precipitous, the old district set on a hillside that overlooked the harbor. Inexplicably animated, he pointed to a waterless fountain. “When I was a young boy, I once saw the ghost of a whirling dervish twirling in that fountain, arms spread to the heavens as water spewed between his lips.” A moment later, he gestured to a row of shops. “Before the war, that used to be an olive grove. Until the Italians mistook it for a military target and bombed it.”

“The Italians can’t hit porcelain when they piss,” the young man contemptuously sneered.

Standing in the shadow cast by the ancient walls that had once fortified the Byzantine city, he showed Saviour several places in the wall that had been repaired with marble tombstones from the desecrated Sephardi cemetery. Removed from the necropolis when the Greeks went on a wild rampage searching for Jewish treasure.

Whether it was the burst of melancholy induced by that somber reminder of the past or the fact that he’d given up jogging years ago, Mercurius came to a sudden halt. Breathless, his sixty-five-year-old heart wildly raced.

“We must rest,” his companion abruptly declared, taking hold of Mercurius’s elbow as he ushered him to a marble stoop.

They sat side by side on the steps, the air fragranced with the scent of honeysuckle and mimosa.

“Tell me, why did you leave Thessaloniki? I left once. I couldn’t wait to return.” As he spoke, Saviour bent down to pet a stray cat that had impudently rubbed against his lower leg. When the cat began to lick the same fingers that Saviour had earlier licked at the patisserie, the young man smiled, clearly enjoying the feline’s antics.

Mercurius found himself, again, breathless. This time for a wholly different reason.

Hit with a sudden impulse to make a connection with the youth, he proceeded to tell Saviour about the remarkable friendship between a Muslim
Ma’min
and a Jewish Kabbalist. To his surprise, the youth listened to the tale with rapt attention.

“As soon as the war ended, my family moved to America. None of us knew about the hidden manuscript.”

“
Is that what’s inside your attaché?
”
the youth astutely inquired.

He hesitated only a brief second before unbuckling his leather attaché and removing the loose-leaf manuscript that had been given to him a few days prior. He noticed the awestruck expression on Saviour’s face when he saw the cover sheet with its exquisite illuminated gold star.

“The manuscript, titled the
Luminarium
, is dedicated to my father
.
With the tip of his index finger, Mercurius underscored the handwritten dedication:
To my dear brother, Osman. The courage of a lion, the gentleness of the lamb.

“Me, I like to read Westerns. What is this
Luminarium
about?”

Mercurius contemplated whether to give the long answer or the abbreviated one. He decided on the latter, not wanting to bore his companion with the history of Judaic mysticism.

“It’s s a book about Creation and how the world came into being ex nihilo.” The young man’s brow wrinkled. “Out of nothing,” he clarified.

What Mercurius didn’t tell the young man, at least not then, was that when the crone had unceremoniously shoved Moshe’s manuscript into his hands, it was the Third Sign. Validation that he was the chosen one, his destiny intertwined with the stunning revelations contained within the
Luminarium
.

Another seven years would pass before the Fourth Sign, the final one, was revealed to him.

“Why hide it? Maybe if he’d published it, your Moshe could have made some money.”

“Moshe Benaroya had to hide the
Luminarium
to ensure its survival. During the war the Nazis sent the Sonderkommando Rosenberg to Thessaloniki to plunder the sacred Jewish texts. While the Nazis loathed the Jews, they were fascinated with their mystical teachings.”

“Like the Nazis who tried to find the Ark of the Covenant in the
Indiana Jones
movie.”

Mercurius suppressed an amused smile. “Exactly so. Afraid that the ancient teachings would be confiscated by the Germans, Moshe carefully hid the
Luminarium
.”

Saviour lifted a shoulder. “It doesn’t look ancient,” he said dismissively.

This time, Mercurius did smile, the young man no fool. “The
Luminarium
is the first
written
transcription of ancient teachings that had been deemed too holy to ever transcribe. For millennia, these sacred teachings were verbally passed from one Kabbalist to the next. Moshe Benaroya, fearing that no Jewish Kabbalists would survive the war, did the unthinkable: He put pen to paper and recorded the
Luminarium.
The manuscript contains many secrets and”—he leaned closer to the youth and lowered his voice to a soft whisper—“it describes a sacred relic that the Jews of Spain gave to the Knights Templar.”

Hearing that, Saviour’s brown eyes opened wide. “This relic, it’s made of gold and silver,
ne
?”

“Something far more valuable than gold and silver. Although when the Inquisition arrested the knights in the fourteenth century, the sacred relic had mysteriously disappeared.” As he spoke, Mercurius realized that the sun had nearly vanished in the western sky, leaving a pink blush in its wake. They’d been conversing for hours.

“So you are the only person in the world who knows the secret.”

“No, Saviour. Now there are two of us.”

That was seven years ago.

Mercurius feared that someone else might now be privy to the secret.

As he lifted the telephone from its cradle, Mercurius ponderously sighed.
London, that great cesspool.

Or so claimed Dr. Watson.

“. . . and I happen to think our hotel is ultra-hip,” Edie remarked as she passed in front of Caedmon and scooted into a glass turnstile. Mischievously grinning, well aware that he despised modern design, particularly when fused to other styles, she pushed the revolving glass door, exiting the lobby.

“It’s hotel as grand theater,” she continued a few seconds later when he joined her on the pavement in front of the St. Martin’s Lane Hotel. “Very energetic. Kinda like this fuchsia-colored trench coat, huh?” Holding her straightened arms in front of her, Edie glanced from one brightly colored sleeve to the other. As he’d earlier mentioned, there was no risk of losing her in the crowd.

“You’re a vision,” he gallantly complimented. “The hotel, on the other hand, is . . .” He glanced behind him at the stark glass façade.

Given the plain, almost drab exterior, one would never suspect that the interior housed an eye-popping space filled with gold stools shaped like back molars, African art, and upholstered baroque armchairs. Catching sight of the two traditional red call boxes at the edge of the pavement, he thought it all a bit surreal. Surreal but incredibly secure. The real reason that he booked the reservation at the “energetic” hotel. Catering to celebrities and well-heeled tourists, the hotel management provided a safe sanctuary for its guests.

And security was an issue
whenever
he visited his homeland. Five years ago, he killed the Real Irish Republican Army ringleader responsible for a deadly terrorist act. Soon thereafter, the RIRA put a bounty on his head. His superiors at MI5, concerned for his safety, spirited him out of the United Kingdom. To this day, he maintained a residence in Paris rather than London.

He shook off the bad memory. It was an unsavory chapter that he preferred not to think about. God knows how Edie would react if she ever discovered his dark secret.

“Shall we nip across the street for a coffee? Our appointment with Rubin Woolf isn’t until three.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “There’s still twenty minutes before the clock strikes the hour.”

“How far is it to Rubin’s bookstore?”

Caedmon jutted his chin at the pedestrian passageway on the other side of the street. “His shop is located at the far end of Cecil Court. No more than a block away.” Yet another reason he’d booked the room at the St. Martin’s. The less time he spent gadding about in public, the better.

“Since I’m about to succumb to a bad case of jet lag, I think a cup of coffee is definitely in order.” As she spoke, Edie took hold of his upper arm and companion-ably leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Right. Starbucks it is.” He ushered her across the street to the coffee bar opposite, the American franchise nearly as ubiquitous in London as red double-decker buses and black hackney cabs.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to plop on the bench while you go inside and contend with the bean and the blend and the nonsensical cup sizes.” Edie gestured to a wood garden bench beneath the familiar green and white signage.