Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  “While some might dismiss that”—she jutted her chin at the computer screen—“as your run-of-the-mill hateful chatter, it scares the bejesus out of me.”

  Having had her fill, the diatribe bringing to mind her own religious upbringing, Edie turned away from the computer. Her grandfather had been a hardcore evangelical Christian, fervently believing that the Bible was a literal transcription. From God’s mouth to the prophets’ ears. And like those towering figures of the Old Testament, Pops had been a rigid taskmaster, daily force-feeding his family an ultraconservative brand of hellfire and eternal damnation. Unable to bear it, her mother had left home at age sixteen. Edie lasted a bit longer, beating a hasty retreat on her eighteenth birthday, managing to escape via a full scholarship to George Washington University. The day she boarded the northbound Greyhound bus was the last day she spoke to her maternal grandfather, Conway Miller.

  For the first couple of months, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to keep in touch with her gran, but when the letters were returned, unopened, she got the message. She’d not only left the family, she’d left the flock. She had officially been branded a nonperson. It was another fifteen years before she stepped foot inside a church. The congregation at St. Mattie’s was an eclectic mix of female priests, gay deacons, and multiracial couples. People of all stripes and colors, joined together in mutual joy. A blessed gathering. Edie didn’t know if it was a form of rebellion against the religion of her youth, but she loved attending Sunday service at St. Mattie’s. No doubt, Pops weekly turned up the dirt above his gravesite.

  “It would appear that Stanford MacFarlane is the kingfish in a very murky pond,” Caedmon said, drawing Edie’s attention back to the computer screen. “In my experience, men consumed by a burning hatred, who cloak themselves in God’s love, are the most dangerous men under the heavens.”

  “Just read the newspaper. Religious fanaticism is a global phenomenon.”

  “Which raises the question . . . why did a group of fanatical Christians steal one of the most sacred of all religious r elics?”

  Edie turned to Caedmon, shrugging. “I have no idea.”

  “Nor I. Although I am keen to uncover the answer.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Outside the hotel room window the day had dawned, damp and cold. No glimmer of sunshine to cast even a smidge of false hope. Through the leafless trees Edie stared at the snaking procession of headlights, the early-morning motorists lost in an enviable world of undone Christmas shopping, overdue bills, and holiday office parties.

  She sighed, her breath condensing into a cloudy smudge as it struck the plate glass window.

  “All is not lost,” Caedmon said from behind her, his voice taking her by surprise.

  Edie turned to face him, unaware that her glum mood had been so obvious. “Then why am I having so much trouble finding an answer that makes any sense? I don’t know about you, but I tossed and turned all night trying to figure out why an ex-Marine colonel, who now owns and operates a mercenaries-for-hire contracting firm, would have had Dr. Padgham murdered?” She held up her hand, forestalling an objection. “I know. In the world of biblical artifacts, the Stones of Fire are out there. But did they have to go and—”

  Hearing a thud, Edie rushed over and unlocked the door to their hotel room, snatching the just-delivered, complimentary copy of the Washington Post off the doormat. Door closed and relocked, she quickly flipped through the newspaper, ignoring the front-page story regarding the terrorist attack at the National Gallery of Art. Instead, she searched for a headline, a photo, a story tucked away in the Metro section, anything regarding a triple homicide at the Hopkins Museum.

  “There’s nothing in the paper . . . how can that be? Surely by now someone has found Dr. Padgham and the two dead security guards.” She tossed the newspaper onto her unmade bed.

  “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the murders were committed,” Caedmon calmly reminded her. He had just showered and shaved, which explained why he was half dressed, his red hair matted to his skull. Attired as he was in a white muscle-man tank, Edie could see that he had broad shoulders and a lean, rangy build.

  “Yeah, but the night shift should have found the bodies. The guards are supposed to make the rounds of the museum every thirty minutes. And I know for a fact that Linda Alvarez in payroll arrives at the museum at seven o’clock sharp. She has to walk right past Dr. Padgham’s office to get to—” Edie stopped, hit with a sudden thought. “Once they access the computer logs at the museum, the police will know that I was at the museum when Dr. Padgham was murdered. Which makes me a fugitive.”

  One side of Caedmon’s mouth quirked upward. “Hardly a fugitive.”

  “Well, okay, a person of interest. Isn’t that what they call them on cop shows?” She peered at her mussed reflection in the wall mirror. Feeling the sting of tears, she turned her back on Caedmon, worried the dam might burst.

  Since yesterday afternoon she’d been fighting the onslaught, and, truth be told, she was tired of fighting. Tired of being strong. She just wanted to curl up in her unmade bed, pull the pile of stiff covers over her head, and cry her eyes out. But she couldn’t. She barely knew Caedmon Aisquith and if she scared him off, she’d be left to fend for herself. Like she’d had to do so many times before. When she was a kid, her mother used to leave her untended for days on end.

  “I’m sorry for getting all emotional on you. I just—” She sank her teeth into her lower lip, struggling to hold back the tears.

  As she stood there, her back still turned to him, she heard Caedmon pad over to where she stood. Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

  “There’s no need to be ashamed of your emotions.”

  “Easy for you to say . . . you’re a redheaded pillar of strength.”

  “Not true.” Gently he turned her in his direction, pulling her into his arms. Because he stood somewhere in the neighborhood of six foot three, her head perfectly fit into the niche of his freckled shoulder.

  Edie closed her eyes, drinking in his warmth, his solidness. It felt so good to be held in his arms. Good in a way that made her think of the sleepless night just passed. How many times had she been tempted to climb out of her bed and get into his? Too many to count.

  Worried she might give in to those wayward urges, sex being the best balm of them all, she extricated herself from his arms.

  “I need to call the Hopkins and find out what the heck is going on,” she said, striding over to the desk that was wedged between the TV armoire and the dresser drawers.

  “Given that we’re very much in the dark, I think that’s a wise idea. Although make no mention of what you saw or witnessed yesterday at the museum.”

  Nodding, Edie dialed the main number for the Hopkins Museum. When prompted by the automated phone system, she keyed in the four-digit extension for the payroll department. Hearing a perky voice answer, “Linda Alvarez. How may I help you?” Edie motioned Caedmon to silence.

  “Hey Linda, it’s Edie Miller. I’m sorry for pestering you so early in the morning, but I really screwed up my time card yesterday . . . oh . . . really? Huh.”

  Edie placed her palm over the handset, whispering, “According to Linda, I never clocked in yesterday. But I know for a fact that I did.”

  She removed her hand from the phone. “Silly me, huh? You’d think after all these weeks I’d be able to get it right. I, um, was in and out so quick that I guess I forgot to—” Caedmon mouthed the words Ask for Padgham. “Is Dr. Padgham in his office by any chance? He asked me to take some photos for a special project and I was just . . . oh, gosh, that’s terrible. Well, um, since he’s not at the museum, would you be a dear and walk down the hall to his office for me? I spilled a cup of coffee all over his Persian carpet and I just wanted to make sure the cleaning crew took care of—Yeah, he is a bit of a priss, isn’t he? Thanks, Linda.”

  Again, Edie placed her palm over the handset. “You’re not going to believe this. She claims that Dr. Padgh
am’s longtime partner was killed yesterday in a hit-and-run accident and that Dr. Padgham flew to London to take care of the burial arrangements.”

  Caedmon’s blue eyes narrowed. “They’re trying to make it appear that Padge is still among the living. My, my, what a tangled web we weave.”

  A finger to her lips, she again motioned him to silence. “That’s great. Well, I, um, gotta run. Thanks a million, Linda. I’ll catch you later.”

  Edie hung up the phone, stunned.

  “What did she say about the bloodstained carpet?” Caedmon prompted.

  “Per Linda Alvarez’s eagle eye, there’s no stain on Dr. Padgham’s carpet. No bloodied bits of brain matter. No noxious pile of vomit. Nothing but a beautifully vacuumed Persian carpet.” Edie pulled out the chair in front of the desk and plopped into it. She glanced at Caedmon’s reflection in the wall mirror. “It’s a cover-up. A huge, wipe-the-slate-clean cover-up.”

  “Since the last thing that the thieves want is for the police to become involved, they’ll undoubtedly devise an accident for Padge in London. No one on this side of the Atlantic will question Padgham’s sudden death except to say that it was a tragic misfortune he didn’t see the lorry in the roundabout.”

  “I think they killed Dr. Padgham’s partner.”

  “More than likely they did,” Caedmon replied, his crisp accent noticeably subdued.

  “How in God’s name did the thugs at Rosemont pull off such a well organized cover-up?”

  Caedmon seated himself on the edge of the bed. “With inside help, I dare say. Who captains the ship?”

  “At the Hopkins? That would be the museum director, Eliot Hopkins.”

  “Call him. Set up a meeting for later this morning.”

  Edie cast him a long, considering glance. “Tell me why exactly I want to set up a meeting with the museum director?”

  “In the hopes that Mr. Hopkins will spill some gilded beans.”

  “You’re a fine one for wishful thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why Eliot Hopkins would agree to meet with us, let alone give us the straight scoop.”

  “Try coming at the problem from a different angle. Why would the venerable Mr. Hopkins agree to participate in the theft of a relic he already owned?”

  “That’s easy. Insurance fraud. He intends to collect on the policy.”

  “But I suspect that the Stones of Fire was purchased on the black market.”

  “Meaning the relic wasn’t insured,” Edie said, beating him to the punch.

  “Ergo, Eliot Hopkins had nothing to do with Padge’s murder. But I believe he had something to do with the subsequent cover-up.”

  “But why cover up the murder? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Caedmon crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other. “What would happen if the authorities discovered that the director of the Hopkins Museum knowingly purchased a stolen relic that was smuggled out of its country of origin?”

  “In addition to a hefty fine, Eliot Hopkins might be sentenced to prison.”

  “And in the process, his reputation and good name would be ripped to shreds. All of which makes Eliot Hopkins a very weak link.”

  “And you want to find out who’s yanking his chain,” Edie said, the reason for the proposed rendezvous suddenly making sense. “I’m guessing it’s the guys at Rosemont. Probably what’s-his-name, Colonel MacFarlane. Who else could it be?”

  Rather than answer, Caedmon stretched out along the length of the bed, reaching for a tourist map on top of the nightstand, the map part of the welcome-to-your-cookie-cutter-room package. Unfolding the map, he spread it on his lap. “The National Zoo, the National Cathedral, or the Lincoln Memorial. Which of these are you the most familiar with?”

  “The zoo,” she answered, wondering where he was headed. “It’s only a few blocks from my house. When the weather is nice, I like to power-walk it.”

  Caedmon refolded the map. “Then the National Zoo it is. Tell Mr. Hopkins to be there at ten a.m. Sharp. Do be sure to add that. When dealing with thieves and murderers, it’s always best to speak with authority, that being the only way to subjugate a schoolyard bully.”

  “That or kick him in the nuts,” Edie muttered as she reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER 25

  GEORGETOWN

  Eliot Hopkins slowly hung up the telephone.

  Just as the monsters at Rosemont Security Consultants had correctly predicted, Edie Miller had initiated contact.

  The first piece of a very complicated puzzle had fallen into place.

  He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that was equal parts regret and pain. Regret because he was fond of the quirky and offbeat Ms. Miller. Pain on account of the cracked rib he nursed, courtesy of a muscled behemoth with a misplaced sense of civility, the fiend having grinned and said “Howdy-do” after administering the unexpected blow. The men of Rosemont wanted his cooperation. And they’d gone about gaining it in a most primitive fashion.

  Why negotiate when one can use fists and threats to achieve the same end?

  Glancing at the imposing John Singer Sargent portrait that hung above the mantel, Eliot thought he caught the hint of a smirk on his great-grandfather’s stern visage, the coal magnate having put down more than one strike with clubs and bullets. Unlike Andrew Carnegie, who suffered from a guilty conscience, Albert Horatio Hopkins never lost a single night’s sleep worrying about the plight of the men who earned him his immense fortune. A true Hun, Albert Hopkins raped the West Virginia mountains of its minerals and raped the people of their dignity.

  Long live King Coal.

  Although he was the great-grandson of Albert Hopkins, he was, also, and more important to his mind, the grandson of Oliver Hopkins. In his day and age—the feel-good, anything-goes frenzy before the big crash—Ollie Hopkins had a well-deserved reputation as a ne’er-do-well adventurer. Turning his back on the family business, he instead supped with African chieftains, rode wild horses with Mongolian warriors, and explored the licentious world of the harem with Arab potentates.

  Along the way, he spent a king’s ransom searching for the relics of the Exodus.

  As a young boy, Eliot would sit for hours at his grandfather’s knee, enthralled by the exciting tales that rivaled the adventure books of his youth. His particular favorite had been the time that his grandfather, disguised as an Ottoman Turk, had tunneled into the bowels of the Temple Mount, only to be discovered by Sheikh Khalil, the hereditary guardian of the Dome of the Rock. Chased through the streets of Jerusalem by an angry mob, his grandfather made his getaway in a hijacked motor yacht harbored in the port of Jaffa.

  Considered a wastrel by his father, Oliver was eventually disinherited. Penniless when he died, Oliver left his favorite grandson the fruits of all his labors—an immense collection of artifacts and relics mined over the course of some fifty years. The collection became the cornerstone of the Hopkins Museum of Near Eastern Art, the museum founded in homage to the man who’d given Eliot the only familial affection he ever knew.

  His grandfather also bequeathed to him a magnificent obsession . . . the Stones of Fire.

  It’d taken decades of dangled carrots and very large bribes, but he finally found it.

  Only to lose it in the blink of a jaded eye.

  Had he been a religious man, he might have thought it God’s punishment for daring the unthinkable. Certainly, he’d been a fool to entrust Jonathan Padgham with the holy relic. But the man had been an expert on Near East antiquities, and Eliot needed to verify that what he’d found in the sands of Iraq was in fact the fabled Stones of Fire.

  Blinded by his obsession, he never considered that there were others even more intent on finding the treasures of the Bible. Men unfettered by the rule of law.

  Wearily, Eliot rose to his feet. There being no time to ponder the ethics of the situation, he walked over to a paneled door on the far side of the rosewood library. He pressed a hidden latch and the door swung open. He
turned on the light in the small, windowless room. In turn, he surveyed each glass case, his collection of antique weaponry a private passion. Out of respect for his thirteen-year-old daughter, Olivia, who had an unnatural fear of guns, he kept his collection out of sight.

  Pausing in front of a velvet-lined case, he briefly considered the Colt revolver once owned by the gunslinger Buffalo Bill.

  In the end, he settled on the World War II-era Walther. The handgun of choice for the German SS.

  Over the years, he’d dealt with greedy dealers, ruthless brokers, and pompous curators. Last night was the first time he’d come face-to-face with religious zealots, the interaction shocking. One could not reason with such men, for they served but one master.

  One could only acquiesce.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Do you think we’re being followed?” Edie asked, glancing into the side mirror of a parked car.

  Caedmon waited until the cross light at Connecticut Avenue turned yellow. Then, cinching his hand around her elbow, he hustled her across the street toward the main entrance to the National Zoo on the opposite side of the intersection. A few seconds later they passed the two bronze lions that stood guard at the gated entrance.

  “If we are being followed, our pursuers have successfully faded into the proverbial woodwork.”

  Edie shivered, the previous day’s snow having turned into a chill-laden drizzle. She moved closer to Caedmon, the two of them huddled beneath a black umbrella they’d purchased en route. Passing the Visitor Center, she peered at the 180-degree reflection cast by the bank of glass doors. No surprise that the zoo grounds were eerily deserted; animal watching was not a big draw in December. But then, they weren’t there to see the sights. They were there to meet with the man who’d illegally purchased the Stones of Fire, setting into motion yesterday’s brutal train of events.

  “Does your family live in the area?” Caedmon conversationally inquired. Throughout their subway ride from Arlington, he’d maintained a steady stream of pleasant chitchat. On to his tricks, Edie assumed the light fare was more for her benefit than his—Caedmon’s way of alleviating her all-too-obvious dread. Little did he know that personal questions elicited a similar response.