The Templar's Code (43 page)

“My God . . . I don’t bloody believe it.”

Edie turned to him, beaming. “Unless I’m greatly mistaken, we have our three Triad members.” Grabbing a pencil, she circled three names on their handwritten list: Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson. “As you can see, all three men were members of the American Philosophical Society.”

“Adams and Jefferson . . . the catheti to Franklin’s hypotenuse,” he murmured, recalling a line from
The Book of Moses
.

“In 1776, Franklin became a septuagenarian. Old by any man’s measure. In youthful contrast, Adams was forty-one years of age, Jefferson a mere thirty-three,” Edie remarked, fast proving herself a fount. “Both men were young enough to do the physical legwork to safeguard the Emerald Tablet.”

“Without question, Franklin snared the best of a very fine lot.”

“While I can’t lay claim to being an expert in American history, I do know that Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams also served on the committee that wrote the Declaration of Independence, the famous document having the input of all three men.
And
, here’s the real kicker”—she dramatically paused to ensure his full attention—“to a man, they were dyed-in-the-wool Deists.”

“Advocating the light of reason, the hidden stream of knowledge consigned to history’s trash heap.” Hit with a guilty twinge, he glanced at the silver signet on his right ring finger. “Franklin’s committee must have submitted a design for the Great Seal. Do you by any chance know if there’s a record of it?”

Broadly grinning, she pulled a single sheet of loose paper from the volume’s inside cover. “One step ahead of you, Big Red. I had the librarian photocopy this and”—she slapped the sheet in front of him—“guess what? The Triad put the All-Seeing Eye on the design!”

Astounded, his jaw slackened.

As with the emblems on the back of the dollar bill, there were two separate drawings, constituting the front and the back of the proposed Great Seal. On the face side were Lady Liberty and Lady Justice crowned with the All-Seeing Eye. On the reverse, a detailed drawing of Moses parting the Red Sea emblazoned with Franklin’s catchphrase ‘Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.’ The gratin on the casserole.

“Do you think the Moses reference has anything to do with Franklin’s espionage activity in London?” Edie asked, her attention also drawn to the biblical scene. “After all, Moses was his code name.”

“Rather tongue-in-cheek, don’t you think? I suspect the biblical scene has more to do with the ragtag American colonies severing their ties with the English monarch. This design was, after all, conceived shortly after the Declaration had been signed. Shackles shucked, the Americans will now venture forth to find the Promised Land.”

“I don’t know about you, but there’s no doubt in
my
mind that the 1776 Great Seal is one of Franklin’s ‘signposts.’ ”

“Mmmm . . . an intriguing notion.” Transfixed, he stared at the photocopied seal as he wrapped his mind around the various pieces of the puzzle.

“What I don’t get is this business about the All-Seeing Eye. As Deists, Franklin, Jefferson, and Adams spurned the superstition and ritual of the ancient religions. So why include a symbol on the Great Seal that so brazenly harkens to Thoth, the Radiant Light of Aten, and the hidden stream of knowledge?”

“It does add ‘a precious seeing to the eye.’ Perhaps the All-Seeing Eye is a red herring,” he suggested.

Edie nodded. “For nearly fifty years, Franklin had the Bacon frontispiece in his possession. Not to mention, he was the grand master of the Philadelphia Lodge. Knowing the All-Seeing Eye was highly symbolic within esoteric circles, he could have used the symbol as a smokescreen. He knew the Freemasons would be searching high and low for the stolen relic, so he cloaked himself in the magi’s mantle. ‘Don’t look at me. I didn’t steal it. I’m a Freemason in good standing.’ ” She chuckled. “You’re right. Benjamin Franklin
was
a brilliant boffin.”

“And, as I recall, something of an amateur cryptologist.”

Edie grabbed a sharpened pencil and a blank sheet of paper. “Okay, where do we start?”

“Given that Dr. Franklin purposely hid
The Book of Moses
, we must assume
that
is the first signpost. What connects the secret missive to the proposal for the 1776 Great Seal is—”

“ ‘Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God,’ ” she interjected, transcribing the motto onto the sheet of paper. “Making it the
second
signpost.”

“Perhaps.” Unlike Edie—who tended to hurl herself at a conclusion—he preferred a more circumspect approach. “There’s a possibility that the phrase is an anagram.”

“Oh, I get it. You think the letters of the motto can be rearranged to make another phrase.”

He grabbed a pencil and began scribbling several word combinations. “We’ll need to shake the tree and see if any fruit falls from the limb.”

“I like
God
and
stone
,” Edie said, leaning over his shoulder to examine the list.

“As do I.” He stared at the remaining twenty-six letters, wondering if they’d undertaken an impossible task. “This may take some time.”

It did. Three hours and fourteen minutes, to be precise. As well as four sharpened pencils and ten sheets of paper.

Physically exhausted and mentally drained, Caedmon turned to Edie. “Well, what do you think? I know, it’s not perfect.”

Caedmon underscored the first word with his finger. “This may be an archaic or variant spelling of the word
biblical
.”

Edie chuckled. “Personally? I think it’s a colonial typo.”

“Whether it’s a typo or a variant spelling, I think we found our second ‘signpost.’ ”

“I agree,” his partner enthused. “The ‘biblicil aten stone’ obviously refers to the Emerald Tablet, which
used
to be kept in the Ark of the Covenant. And ‘Gods eye’ is clearly a reference to the All-Seeing Eye. Together, they form a flashing neon signpost that leads to . . .” Edie frowned, her voice trailing into silence.

“As you have just surmised, we’ve reached an impasse.”

Because without a bloody map, the newly discovered signpost was meaningless.

“ ‘The pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre,’ ” Caedmon murmured, glancing about the Christ Church burial grounds.

Standing beside him at the grave site, Edie shuddered. “The joint definitely feels haunted. As in ‘Who ya gonna call?’ ”

Having left Library Hall, they’d been en route to their hotel when he espied a placard publicizing the great one’s grave site. Of like mind, they’d nipped inside the cemetery, hoping to find a signpost inscribed on Dr. Franklin’s last resting place. Perhaps a cleverly worded epitaph. Or an ingeniously designed emblem.

Instead they discovered the humble inscription:
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN and DEBORAH. 1790
. Husband and wife buried side by side, each grave marked with a simple stone slab, no mention of Franklin’s brilliant achievements.
Ashes to ashes.

Digital cameral in hand, Edie snapped several photos of the conjoined slabs. “A teensy clue would have been nice.”

“I, too, had hoped for a snippet,” he admitted, well aware that while they’d deciphered the Great Seal anagram, they had no idea how to parlay the secret message into something concrete.

Moses. The Knights Templar. Sir Francis Bacon. Benjamin Franklin.
The magus. The warrior monks. The alchemist. The Deist.
Separated by the centuries, they were bound, one to the other, through a complex web of symbols and secrets.

Biblicil aten stone to Gods eye Do not err—
what the bloody hell did it mean?

Glancing at the burial slab, he plaintively sighed.

Pivoting in his direction, Edie took his photo. “I’m going to label that pic ‘Caedmon in pensive mode.’ Since there’s no All-Seeing Eye on the tombstone, we can assume that ol’ Ben didn’t take the Emerald Tablet to the grave.”

“Damn. I shall have to scratch that possibility off the list,” he good-naturedly grumbled.

As Edie continued to take photos, Caedmon took a moment to survey the grounds. Serene in the way that old cemeteries often are, the two-acre brick-walled enclave was also curiously surreal. On the near horizon, looming office buildings cast dark shadows onto the marble yard; and in the near distance, the erratic rumble of car engines lulled the dead to sleep. The pungent odor from a hot dog vendor’s cart combined with muffler exhaust, the fused scents wafting over the brick enclosure.

“This is going to sound strange, but I have no idea where my mother is buried. Somewhere in Orlando, I suppose.” Edie lowered the camera from her face, enabling him to see that she had a deep pucker between her brows. “Is there still such a thing as a pauper’s grave?”

Startled by the candid remarks followed by the unexpected query, he fumbled a bit. “Er, yes. No doubt cemeteries still maintain a pauper’s section.”
For the poor always ye have with you,
he thought, but didn’t say, not wanting to unintentionally cause offense. Then, inspired, he said, “I could help you locate the grave site.”

The pucker deepened. “Why? She’s not there. She was never there. You know, high on arrival.”

Caedmon presumed the odd remark referred to her mother’s heroin overdose.

“The here and now, that’s all we have,” Edie continued as she stowed the digital cameral in her shoulder satchel. “Take your pleasures where you can because tomorrow the sheriff’s deputy might slap an eviction notice on the trailer door. Although, don’t get me wrong, there were times when my mother and I were very tight. Just two little hamsters on the wheel of life.” Smiling wistfully, she made a twirling motion with her fingers.

He placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her fuchsia-clad torso. His Edie.
So beautiful. So intrepid
.
And at times so incredibly fragile.

“I didn’t say that to elicit your sympathy.”

“I know.” He rested his chin on top of her head.

“Change of subject: Is it just me, or is there something weirdly seductive about being in a graveyard?” Tilting her head, Edie peered up at him as she slid her hands under his wool blazer. “No need to answer. Your heartbeat just accelerated a notch.”

“Close contact has that effect.”

She affected a disappointed moué. “Here I thought we had something special, but it seems that a close encounter with
any
woman can—”

“Not true,” he interjected, pulling her even closer. “And you’re the only woman of my acquaintance who can do
this
to me.” He purposefully pressed himself against her midsection.

“Oh my. Now
my
pulse just quickened.”

Throwing back his head, he laughed.

“Hel-lo! That remark was supposed to turn you on not make you laugh uproariously.”

“My apologies.” He softly nuzzled the corner of her mouth before moving to a flushed cheek, then a shell-colored lobe, all the while breathing in her scent, a heady vanilla. Raising a hand, he smoothed a flyaway curl from her face.

Quite brazenly, Edie pressed her breasts against his chest, bringing the two of them into even closer contact. “
Now
you may kiss me.”

“Thy will be done.”

However, not as she may have intended. For what began as a sweetly romantic kiss quickly snowballed into something decidedly carnal. A passionate kaleidoscope of twisting mouths, grasping hands, and muffled whimpers.

Aware of their surroundings, he reluctantly brought it to a breathless close.

An impassioned silence vibrated between them. Accentuated by the strains of Spanish flamenco, a street musician giving an impromptu concert on the other side of the brick wall.

Edie heaved a lusty sigh. “Wow . . . almost like a mariachi band playing under my balcony window.”

His mood greatly improved, he took Edie by the elbow and steered her away from the great man’s grave site. “Fancy a stroll?”

“Think we should risk it?” She glanced heavenward, the skies inundated with swollen clouds saturated with unshed rain. “Maybe we should scurry back to the hotel.”

“Live dangerously, I say. One can’t always have a brolly at the ready.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Pulling away from him, she stepped over to a raised funerary slab, the surface pitted by acid rain. Without a care for the dearly departed, she unceremoniously parked her backside. “Let’s do some cyber sleuthing.”

“
Here
? In the middle of the Christ Church burial grounds?”

“Don’t look so aghast.” Opening the leather satchel, she removed the netbook. “Just think of this as an open-air office. Makes me wonder how folks managed before the information age. A laptop computer with 3G wireless service sure beats a quill pen and messenger pigeon, huh?”