The Huguenot Thief

by L. K. CLEMENT

  Amarintha stood and moved her hand to push her nonexistent hair behind her ear; a gesture Thompson had seen her do dozens of times. She finally said, “Those particular genes have been linked to how people age, and influence how the body handles inflammation. There are also relationships between cancer and bacterium that could explain what happened to the priest.”

  “And what happened to you, Mama.”

  Amarintha went into teacher mode, her tone flat. “Bacterium can release toxins that disrupt cell growth, which can affect cancer. Over a hundred years ago, a bone surgeon named William Coley noticed that when patients had virulent bacterial infections, their tumors shrank.”

  She glanced behind the boat as Richard steered it away from Charleston, then turned to look at Thompson, her eyes narrowing. “You still haven’t explained why you’d handcuff a Charleston detective to keep him from taking me to MUSC to be tested. Any tests that MUSC can’t do, we’ll get the CDC to do. I need to get back to Charleston.”

  “I kept the detective from taking you in because I’m afraid there is a leak at the FBI or at CPD. No one could have learned about the reliquary except through a leak, so the fact that you handled the item could now be known by whoever orchestrated the theft. I’m assuming it’s Bunin.”

  The three women gawked at him. Wanting them to understand the magnitude of the potential danger Amarintha was in, he went on, “Amarintha, you are at risk, especially if it’s discovered you were exposed to the material in the reliquary and are now recovering from cancer. Can you imagine if the reliquary contains something that can provide a cure for cancer, and a criminal gang is the only one who has it? Everyone wants to talk to you. The Vatican is asking that you be quarantined, and I suspect the U.S. government would want to have access to you as well.”

  “Access? What does that mean?” Amarintha put her hands on her head, swaying as a wave rocked the boat. They were all waiting, Richard too, for some reassurance that “access” did not mean being locked up, poked with medical instruments, or held in isolation. Their faces showed an expectation that their rising agitation would be relieved, that he could

  make the entire situation bearable. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie.

  “Nothing good,” Thompson said.

  The boat rocked as it crossed the wake from a massive freighter.

  Fannie huffed, “Surely you’ve figured it out by now, Mr. Secret Agent.” She flipped her white braid over her shoulder as she went below. She said, “Whoever planted the bombs and stole that thing is doing the same thing my husband was doing in 1986—looking in old containers for something that can cause a lot of trouble. If a superbug is found that we have no treatment for, that’s worth more to a criminal than any diamond.”

  Chapter 65

  Frank Edson sat at a long banquet table in one of the ballrooms of the Francis Marion Hotel, the white tableclothed surface now covered with his fellow officer’s gear. Scenes he had witnessed from his motorcycle ride from Richard Anderson’s house to the hotel would not leave him.

  A dead horse, still connected to its overturned carriage, had been lying prone on Calhoun Street behind yellow tape. Two motionless lumps lay close to the carriage, covered with what Frank knew were body bags. The smell of diesel fuel, burned flesh, and melting asphalt made his eyes water, and for a moment, he thought he might throw up. Two ladder trucks poured water on a still-smoking crater, whose ragged edge grasped one of the dead horse’s forelegs like a shark’s mouth. A bomb-sniffing German shepherd sat by its young female handler. Inside the yellow tape, Frank saw a small group of people, who he assumed were FBI agents, along with some of his Charleston PD colleagues. He was sure he knew most of the cops, but they were all but unrecognizable now, their uniforms streaked with dust, their faces black with soot.

  He had leaned over to the young officer driving the bike and said, “Let’s go. Nothing we can do here.” When the motorcycle stopped at the hotel’s front door on King Street, Frank bounded into the building and up the stairs.

  It had now been a little over sixty minutes since the explosions.

  Frank scanned the room for anyone he knew. Twenty or so CPD officers and SLED agents milled around, all seeming to be purposeless, but Frank knew each had, or would shortly be given a mission. Brook Reynolds walked to the podium.

  “I need your attention,” she said into a microphone. The room quieted. “Across the hall, the Mayor and the Chief of Police are meeting to prepare for a public briefing that will occur in a few minutes. Here is what we know at this point.” She read from a sheet of paper.

  “Two explosions occurred almost simultaneously. One at the Medical University of South Carolina and one at the Huguenot Church on Queen Street. Our experts believe it was dynamite. The FBI is tracing the source of the explosive material. There were no casualties at the church, and although the steeple has fallen, it appears to have done so because it was weakened by termites prior to the explosion. The blast at the hospital killed two individuals whose identity is pending notification of the families.”

  Brook Reynolds took a breath. “The blast at MUSC was in front of the laboratory. Two technicians were attacked, but sustained no injuries. Two FBI agents were momentarily incapacitated by blows to the head, but they are not seriously injured and have returned to duty. Surveillance tapes from the scenes show two men entering the hospital

  and one man entering the church. Here is the first look at the suspects.”

  A grainy black and white composite image of three faces appeared on a screen behind her. “We have already identified these individuals.” A murmur ran through the crowd. Brook held up her hand, and everyone quieted. “They are associated with a criminal group operating out of Horry County which launders money. All three have been arrested before, which is why we were able to match the surveillance tapes to their mugshots. The mayor will ask for help in finding them and will warn the public that these men are presumed to be armed and dangerous.”

  Brook looked at her watch. “I’m turning the meeting over to Major Munez of SLED. He’ll describe the interdiction efforts underway.” She left the podium and with two other agents exited the room.

  One of Frank’s colleagues walked over, nodded to Frank and said, “Hell of a thing.”

  Frank nodded.

  Munez touched the microphone at the podium. “At this moment, teams of special operatives are raiding the last known addresses of the three individuals. Here are the particulars.” Munez clicked a handheld control that advanced through three images, each one with a surveillance photograph, name, and address. All of the addresses were in remote areas of Berkley County.

  A question came from one of the tables. “Major Munez, are we sure these are the only perpetrators?”

  “Yes, but there are other individuals we want to interview.”

  He put up another picture, this one of an intense man with a monk’s haircut. “This man, Imran Sadat, is a person of interest and known associate of the three bombers. He is a suspected member of a crime organization that utilizes illegals to launder money through South Carolina wire transfer locations. We have a team trying to find Sadat.”

  Someone else asked, “Do you know the motive for these bombings? I mean, these two bombing locations are very different. What links them?”

  Frank watched Major Munez for a moment and realized that none of these law enforcement individuals knew about the Task Force or the potentially contaminated reliquary. What was the major going to tell them?

  Frank was surprised that Major Munez held nothing back. He described the computer program from the FIG, the FBI’s Information Group, that had determined there was a risk of a biological attack, and the missing Vatican reliquary that had caused an outbreak in Rome. He explained the danger of the missing reliquary. Though he did not describe exactly where, he did say it had been found in Charleston, sent to the MUSC lab for testing, and that test results were
not yet complete. He showed the audience a picture of the small box, the same picture shown Thompson just the day before.

  When Munez finished no one spoke, so he continued. “We strongly believe that the bombs were planted to cause confusion so that the perpetrators could search for the reliquary. The lab itself had no surveillance equipment, but the employees reported that two men punched the FBI agents just outside the door. The two perpetrators then entered the isolation chamber where the artifact was being tested. They grabbed the object and struck the two individuals working in the chamber. Because the technicians were in protective gear, they were not gravely injured. One even managed to call 911 ten seconds before the bomb exploded. Any questions?”

  When no one spoke, Munez added, “One man entered the church and placed the explosive right inside the door, and exited. Nothing seems to have been taken, and that bomb was very small compared to the one at MUSC. It’s vital that we find this missing object and the three individuals responsible for the death of two American citizens. This is not considered a terrorism action at this time, but it may yet be classified as such.”

  The detective beside Frank asked the major, “So what do we do if we find the box? Isn’t it dangerous?”

  Frank added, “What are we going to tell the public?”

  Munez said, “The artifact may be infected with anthrax. If you see it, or you see one of the suspects with the box, do not approach. We will take special precautions to secure it. DHEC is on standby and is prepared. I’m not sure what the mayor will tell the citizens, so for now keep the information about the anthrax danger within this room.”

  Munez did not talk about the outbreak in 1986, and Frank thought, why would he? These men and women had enough to deal with without adding the secretive DOD project to an already unimaginable scenario.

  “I have assignments here for all of you,” Munez said. “Each of you will be on a team assigned to some aspect in the investigation into the three individuals we’ve identified.” Munez caught sight of Frank and beckoned him over with his left hand.

  The detective made his way through the crowded room. When Frank finally got to Munez, the major was reading a note handed to him by a uniformed officer. Munez frowned, leaned over the podium, and asked Frank, “Do you know where Agent Denton is? The FBI just told me that the leak in the Task Force was from Denton’s boss, Sergei Molotov.”

  Georgetown

  Chapter 66

  There are parts of the South Carolina coast that look much like they did over three hundred years ago, begging the question of just why anyone settled there—given the marsh, mosquitoes, alligators, and infertile, sandy soil. Amarintha grinned as she watched the coast drift by, remembering a letter written by a Huguenot refugee in Boston concerning the arrival of two young men from Carolina. She had memorized it for a third grade project on colonial South Carolina and could still recite it.

  They have never seen so miserable a country, or an atmosphere so unhealthy. Fevers prevail all the year, from which those who are attacked seldom recover, and if some escape, their complexion becomes tawny, like that of the two who have arrived here, and who are pitiable to behold. Moreover, the heat is so intense as to be almost unendurable, and as to infect the water, consequently producing sickness, as they have no other beverage.

  It occurred to her that not much had changed. The heat really could be unendurable.

  Richard piloted the boat towards the Georgetown marina and into a beautiful inland sea. If you avoided looking left or right where the paper mill and the steel mill stood, you could imagine the delight of the immigrants as they first gazed on this new land, at least before they experienced the “unendurable” heat of a Carolina summer.

  “Mom and Ava, you stay near the boat. I’ll go in with Thompson and Richard,” said Amarintha to Ava and Fannie, as the boat reached the dock. All five of them hopped out onto the pier.

  “Ok,” said Ava. Fannie grabbed Ava’s hand and the two went to the end of the pier that looked out over the harbor.

  Amarintha, Richard, and Thompson walked down the pier to the office of the marina. Two old timers stared at the television and did not turn when the door opened. Stuck on the wall with duct tape was a Parts Pup girly calendar from 1965, and maps of the Intracoastal Waterway from Florida to Maine.

  A glass case under the counter held a variety of fishing paraphernalia.

  One of the ancient anglers, with drooping tattoos that had once been on a bicep, finally turned around. “Where you folks from? You heard what happened down in Charleston? The hospital and some other place were bombed.”

  Amarintha said, “Myrtle Beach,” at the exact same time that Thompson said, “Florida.”

  “No, we haven’t heard,” said Richard.

  The other codger had on a fishing cap and a dirty sleeveless shirt, and said, “Watch this,” and pointed to the flat screen TV on the wall that was fighting for airtime with the room’s air conditioner wheezing in the corner.

  A CNN anchor was speaking about the “Terror in the Holy City,” a moniker quickly slapped on the situation. Creeping at the bottom of the screen was the crawl:

  Two bombs exploded in historic downtown Charleston, SC: One at the Medical University of South Carolina and one at a Church. No one has claimed responsibility. officials are securing the scene. At least two reported dead. stay tuned for more information.

  In the corner of the screen, an aerial shot, presumably from a helicopter, showed two columns of smoke. At the next commercial, one of the two old men turned his attention to Amarintha. “So you from Myrtle Beach? Can you believe this? I’ll tell you what I think: it’s the Muslims.”

  Amarintha gave the man a look, left the office, and sat down on a bench just outside the open screen door. She caught bits and pieces of the rant. The old man seemed convinced that Muslim extremists had done the bombing, although what these extremists had against Charleston, he didn’t know. In any event, the man with the tattoo speculated that while it would have been natural, and maybe understandable, if Las Vegas had been the target, the idea that Charleston had been bombed was unbelievable.

  While part of her felt some gratitude that Thompson had spirited her out of Charleston for what he thought was for her own protection, another part of her regarded his motivation as ridiculous. Thompson couldn’t be right. Maybe she was cured, maybe not, but the idea that her recovery could have resulted from contact with something in the reliquary was far-fetched. Even more unbelievable was his belief that this made her a target for some overarching malicious plan.

  Why would a crime gang want to capture her? Were these Russians some kind of religious extremists? Could that be the reason they wanted the reliquary?

  Amarintha put her hands to her eyes and leaned over, her elbows on her knees. The memory of what she had felt when her fingers touched the small creamy objects—something between a static electricity shock and a humming vibration—had not left her. Did that mean anything? A logical explanation for what had happened was out there, and one that had nothing to do with the reliquary or its contents. If something in the artifact had triggered an antibody to her cancer, it would not be something that could be bottled and sold.

  Amarintha looked down the dock at her mother and daughter who were pointing to a dolphin and laughing. She knew her current bout of good health might be cruelly temporary, and she felt her stomach roil as she watched them.

  Thompson and Richard strolled out of the marina office. “I got one of the guys in there to make reservations in his name,” said Thompson. “He thinks we’re hiding out from our spouses.” He grinned and handed Amarintha a piece of paper.

  Amarintha stood and said, “And Richard, Fannie and Ava? Are they supposed to be part of the scheme?”

  Richard said, “I think those two have had too much beer to worry about the details of our situation.”

  The five of them walked out of the marina ont
o the main street of Georgetown. Walking towards a neoclassical house on a side street, now a bed and breakfast, Amarintha noted the oak-covered streets with architecture as wondrous as Charleston’s, albeit less of it. As they turned a corner, Sara Strong came running down the sidewalk pell-mell towards Ava. Jack Strong ran behind her. He stopped when he saw Amarintha.

  “My mother is alive. She’s alive,” cried Sara as she hugged Ava.

  Both girls were laughing now. Amarintha looked at Jack, who nodded. She asked Sara, “How did you know to come here?”

  Ava wiped her eyes and looked at Thompson. “I texted her before Agent Denton took my phone.”

  Amarintha said, “So, what now?”

  Thompson looked at his phone. “I need to call the FBI. I’ll meet the rest of you later.”

  Chapter 67

  Thompson returned to Georgetown’s main street, looking for a phone booth. He passed a drug store and decided to buy a throwaway instead, realizing that phone booths, in their sparseness, would pinpoint his location as accurately as his personal cell phone would. He bought a cheap phone, left the store and sat down at an ornate bench along the street. He needed to reach Brook Reynolds or Frank Edson, but first he would text his mother.

  This is Thompson. I need a picture of you when you were a teenager. Text it to me as soon as possible.

  He looked at his watch. Cocktail time. She would respond.

  Hello there. I was wondering where you were these days. Is this a new cell? Are you in Lyon?

  No, I’m in the United States. I really need that picture. Will call you soon.

  Thompson ended the text and punched in Frank’s number. The phone rang ten times. He was about to hang up when a voice said, “This is Detective Edson. Who am I speaking with?”