The Templar's Code (52 page)

Faced with a thorny dilemma, the waiter nervously glanced from table to table.

Edie stopped typing long enough to turn her head and peer across the aisle. At seeing a florid-faced man built like a sumo wrestler straddling not one, but two, rickety cane chairs, she picked up the plate and passed the whipped-cream-topped confection to the next table.
“Bon appétit.”

“Thanks!” the young waiter gushed, clearly relieved that he didn’t have to battle the hefty dragon. “I’ll put a rush on your waffle.”

“No hurry.” Edie turned her attention to the computer screen. “According to the university site, Dr. Lyon is professor emeritus in the Department of Semitic and Egyptian Languages. Here’s a picture of him.” Edie cocked her head to one side. “For an older man, he’s quite handsome. One of those frail, aristocratic Ian McKellen types.”

Caedmon contemplatively stared at the online bio. “How fascinating. Dr. Lyon is an expert in the ancient languages of the Near East. Is there an e-mail address?”

Edie scanned the page. “Yep. M Lyon at cua dot edu.”

“May I?” He gestured to the netbook; Edie obliged the request, sliding the computer to his side of the table.

The direct approach usually being the one that bore fruit, he typed a pithy message.

“Yes, I know, I bent the truth somewhat.”

“How about an out-and-out lie?” Edie indignantly huffed. “You barely knew Jason Lovett. And we did not discover the
artifact
in Rhode Island. Which, by the way, makes it sound like you found nothing more interesting than an old potsherd.”

“If I reveal the truth, I doubt very much that I will be able to secure Dr. Lyon’s cooperation.”

“What exactly do you expect this professor emeritus to do, translate the Emerald Tablet? If so, then . . . then you deceived me.”

“I did no such thing!” he exclaimed in his defense, the accusation baseless.

“All right, we found the Emerald Tablet. The treasure hunt is over.” Reaching across the table, she grabbed hold of his wrist.” But we
cannot
under any circumstances tell anyone that we found it. Death follows in that thing’s wake.”

“Do you not trust me to be careful?”

Releasing his wrist, she caustically laughed. “I know what this is all about. Since you’ve secured the Emerald Tablet, you can rest easy, assured that Rico Suave won’t be selling the relic to some terrorist group. Which means that you can now turn your attention to vindicating your academic credibility. God, Caedmon! You are really a piece of work. Two men have been murdered and all you can think about is your next book.
Testis sum agnitio.
Am I right?” She pointedly glanced at the silver ring on his right hand.

Recognizing a trap, Caedmon considered how best to reply. For the last six days, his focus had been on the hunt. Now that he had the Emerald Tablet, he was unsure how to proceed, suddenly aware that the relic might actually contain a secret of historic magnitude.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said at last, a noncommittal cliché the best he could manage.

Edie’s gaze narrowed. “Given that it’s early spring, I imagine the Rubicon is very cold and very deep.”

Caedmon hit the
Send
button. “No doubt it is.”

About to hand Edie the netbook, he stopped in mid-motion, noticing that the corpulent diner at the next table had turned an unhealthy shade of madder red. Suddenly, without warning, their neighbor banged a beefy fist on the table, flatware and water glass crashing to the floor. In the next instant, he began to spasmodically flail, white froth bubbling between his lips. Gasping for air, the rotund gastronome clutched the area over his heart, then slumped forward, his face landing in the half-eaten Belgian S’more.

“Quick! Someone! Call 911!”

With that hoarse yell, a frantic melee erupted inside the Chow Hounds eatery. Waiters dashed willy-nilly. Several patrons rushed to the table offering assistance to the rotund diner. Several more, small children in tow, headed for the door. One impolite lout aimed his mobile camera at the frenzied scene.

Edie turned to Caedmon, a stricken expression on her face. “Is he . . . ?”

“Poisoned, I believe.” Given the fat man’s lifeless gaze, Caedmon didn’t hold out much hope for resuscitation.

“But . . . that . . . that was my waffle,” she croaked. A split second later, realization dawning, she violently shivered. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Caedmon assumed that she referred to Rubin Woolf’s murderer.

“In Washington? Most definitely. On the premises? Not entirely certain.” Caedmon quickly surveyed the colorful eatery searching for a six-foot-tall, trim, stylishly dressed man.
No one fit the bill
. If the bastard was on the premises, he’d taken cover. Which meant they had two options: Escape via the front entrance or exit through the kitchen located in the rear of the building.

He glanced at the Belgian S’more smeared all over the dead patron’s face. He suspected the waffle had been poisoned in the kitchen before the waiter set the plate on the table. If so, the murderous bastard might still be lurking there. Waiting for them to sneak out the back exit.

Caedmon grabbed the netbook and handed it to Edie. Mind made up, he put a hand on her back and bustled her toward the front door. A gamble, to be sure. For all he knew, the bastard was standing outside on the pavement. He slung an arm around Edie’s shoulder. Meager protection, at best. Particularly if their enemy carried a weapon.

Outside, he scrutinized the environs. A rambunctious quartet milled nearby, having just exited a departing cab. In the distance, he heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance was on its way.
A wasted effort
. But not his concern. He had to get Edie to safety.

Edie tugged at his arm, urging him to veer to the left. “The car’s parked down the street.”

“Too risky,” he informed her, worried that the murderous bastard may have spotted the cherry-red Mini. Parked on a lightly trafficked side street, it was the perfect place to waylay them.

Hoping to confound their assailant, Caedmon grabbed Edie’s hand and ran across the street, heading for an establishment fronted with blue opaque glass. Emblazoned on the plate-glass door was the silhouette of a woman holding a ridiculously long cigarette holder to her lips. Below that, in a fancy script, was the name of the watering hole—C’est Bleu.

Yanking the door open, he ushered Edie across the threshold. And into a dimly lit lounge.

Caedmon waited for his pupils to dilate so he could better see in the murky, smoke-filled depths. It took a few seconds for his middle-aged eyes to make the adjustment. To their immediate right was a sleek bar that glowed with an otherworldly blue light. To their left, a bank of mirrors reflected that eerie blue light. Despite the woefully inadequate lighting, he could see that the habitués of C’est Bleu were a smartly dressed lot, approximately sixty of them scattered about the lounge.

The biggest surprise was that the back wall did double duty as a movie screen; an old black-and-white subtitled film was currently being projected onto the wall. The movie looked familiar. Perhaps
Ascenseur pour l’énchafaud
. He wasn’t sure.

“I think this place is about to give birth to the cool,” Edie observed in a lowered voice.

The observation was spot on, the quintessentially “cool” jazz strains of Miles Davis pulsing through the sound system. Moreover, the place reeked with a blasé pretentiousness that was off-putting to everyone save the clientele.

They headed toward the other end of the glowing blue bar, as far away from the front door as possible.

Edie grabbed his hand. “Now what?”

Hit with an uneasy premonition, Caedmon glanced back at the front entrance just in time to see a lone man enter the lounge.
Six feet in height. Trim physique.
Several females seated in the near vicinity slyly turned their heads in the newcomer’s direction.

“It’s Rico Suave,” Edie murmured—just before she loudly hacked, her lungs violently reacting to all of the cigarette smoke.

The man at the door instantly turned in their direction. Even in the dim blue light, he and Edie cast an easily identifiable silhouette—a six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch male and a woman with corkscrew curls.

“Blast,” Caedmon muttered under his breath.

Brainstorming on the run, he ushered Edie in the direction of a dimly lit hall. Within moments, they found themselves in a vestibule of some sort, the walls covered in a metallic paper that cast a lunar hue on the narrow hall. Caedmon opened the first door he came upon—the ladies’ lavatory—and pushed Edie across the threshold.
Out of sight
.

“Stay put!”

“But I—”

“Under no circumstances are you to leave the loo!” he interjected, shortchanging her objection.

Order issued, he strode back to the lounge. The beautiful bastard was nowhere in sight.

Unnerved rather than relieved, he purposefully marched in front of the makeshift movie screen, briefly sharing the screen with Jeanne Moreau. For those few moments, the projector cast a harsh light onto a tall redheaded bugger with a satchel clutched to his chest. The gauche move incited a good bit of notice, the conversational drone punctuated with audible curses.
Perfect.
He wanted to make it easy for the bastard to find him. To lure him away from the vestibule on the other side of the lounge. To let the bastard see that
he
was the one carrying the bulky case that contained the coveted prize.

No sooner was Caedmon out of the projector’s glare than he came upon a swinging door ornamented with silver studs. A small sign affixed to the middle of the door read
PRIVATE.
No time to squabble over semantics, he shoved his shoulder against the door and stepped inside. As he did, a beam of garish yellow light momentarily invaded the lounge, provoking yet another round of muttered curses.

Finding himself in a small store room illuminated with a bare bulb, he searched for something,
anything
, that could be used as a weapon. He suspected that he only had a few seconds to arm himself.

“Damn,” he muttered, the room stocked with oversized items, not a one of which weighed less than four stone.
Industrial vacuums, floor buffers, and stacked cocktail tables.
Not a single liquor bottle or fire extinguisher to be had.

Quickly opting for Plan B, he wedged himself into a narrow alcove on the far side of the room. In desperate need of a weapon, he opened the leather satchel strapped around his chest and removed the metal case that contained the Emerald Tablet. Grasping the sturdy case with both hands, he stood at the ready.
Waiting . . .

The swinging door turned on its hinge. The loud creak sent a bone-jangling shiver down his spine. Caedmon slowed his breathing, listening as his nemesis cautiously prowled around the storeroom. No doubt wondering where the hell he was hiding.

Caedmon suddenly caught a whiff of sandalwood
.
His cue.

Lurching from the alcove, metal case hoisted in the air, he swung it toward the bastard’s head, making contact with the other man’s jaw. A sickening, yet satisfying, crunch coincided with a wounded grunt of pain. A dazed look in his eyes, the younger man swayed unsteadily before collapsing on the floor in an ungainly heap. Blood gushed from his nostrils, staining his fashionable suede jacket. A battered Apollo.

Still clutching the case, Caedmon stood over the unconscious bastard, conflicted. All it would take was a firm grasp of the head and one vigorous twist.
Problem solved
. Jason Lovett and Rubin Woolf could rest in peace. So, too, the overweight glutton at the eatery. Strong-armed justice at its most violent.

Realizing that he’d just contemplated killing the defenseless man sprawled at his feet, Caedmon’s breath caught in his throat. The fact that his nemesis was unconscious left a foul taste in his mouth. Although God knows the beautiful bastard deserved a fate worse than a blackened eye and a bashed jaw.

“Shag it!” he muttered, shoving the metal case back in the satchel. He needed to collect Edie and get out of C’est Bleu before the bloodied beast revived, a wounded animal always more ferocious.

Grateful for the reprieve, he hurriedly strode across the lounge, ignoring the disdainful glances and indignant whispers that followed in his wake.