Templar's Code

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 The Iliad splayed on top of the podium, greatly amused. Beware Greeks bearing gifts. . . .

“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?”

The guard pointed to a hall on the other side of the atrium. “Take the stairs to the basement level. Then walk through the portrait gallery. The reading room’s on the right. Can’t miss it.”

“It is a beautiful sanctuary,” Saviour murmured, glancing about one last time. “You, my friend, have an enviable job.”

The other man shrugged. “There are better jobs.”

“Trust me, brother, there are far worse ways to earn a living.” Degrading, humiliating ways. For a few coins, the price of two oranges at the fruit vendor’s stall, he’d learned that man’s depravity knew no bounds.

Saviour shoved the unpleasant memories aside. Those days had passed. He had reinvented himself. A feat no other wharf rat could lay claim to.

He stepped toward the staircase, his stride purposeful. Perhaps it was the energy exuded by the exotic chamber, but suddenly he was excited. Invigorated. A Greek warrior about to launch an attack against the unsuspecting Trojans.

He’d been following the blond-haired man for the last week. Ever since the archaeologist dug up the mass grave site. There could be no witnesses to the massacre. Not even five hundred years after the fact.

Not now.

Not ever.