Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  Afraid the headset might have an open mike, Edie strode over and forcefully smashed the heel of her shoe against the communications device.

  The smile instantly vanished from the behemoth’s face. Stepping past him, Edie noticed that the crisscrossed bandages on the side of Braxton’s head surreally gleamed in the darkness. Sutures courtesy of Caedmon and a well-aimed bottle. She returned the snide smile.

  Braxton took a threatening step in her direction, his right hand balled in a fist.

  “Touch her and I’ll gladly add a kilo of lead to your current body weight.”

  At a glance, Edie could see that it was no idle threat. In fact, she was beginning to realize that Caedmon Aisquith never made idle threats. He was one of those men blessed with i ncredible follow-through.

  “She’s got you wrapped around her little pinkie, doesn’t she?” Braxton snickered. “Guess you know by now that she’s a real prick tease, huh? Hell, my pecker has been standing on end since I first set eyes on the curly-haired bitch.”

  His shoulders visibly relaxing, Caedmon slyly smiled at Braxton . . . just before he reared back and kick-boxed him in the crotch.

  Sounding a lot like a braying donkey, the behemoth dropped to his knees, clutching his testicles with both hands.

  “I trust that has relieved the condition.” Caedmon turned to Edie. “My apologies.”

  About to say For what? Edie instead went slack-jawed, horrified at seeing a quartet of men who had suddenly, and very silently, materialized, as though from thin air. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in a united front some ten feet behind Caedmon.

  The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come to life.

  Before she could shout a warning, a spotlight was switched on, illuminating the entire area.

  “You would be well advised, Mister Aisquith, to drop your weapon. Very, very slowly,” came the addendum order.

  Calmly, not so much as peering over his shoulder, Caedmon unclipped the leather strap that held the submachine gun to his chest. Holding the weapon in his left hand, his right hand held aloft so it could easily be seen, he slowly bent at the waist, placing the weapon on the ground.

  Stanford MacFarlane stepped forward. Retrieving the submachine gun, he handed it to Boyd Braxton.

  “Here, boy. You look like you could use this.”

  Still doubled over and gasping for breath, Braxton straightened just enough so he could aim the weapon directly at Caedmon’s chest.

  Unthinkingly, Edie grabbed MacFarlane by the forearm, knowing that he was the only man present who could stop Braxton from pulling the trigger.

  “One Christian to another . . . don’t let him do it,” she begged, ready to throw herself at his booted feet if that was what it took to save Caedmon’s life.

  “You are not a Christian woman!” MacFarlane bellowed, his face twisted in an ugly sneer. “You are a harlot!”

  CHAPTER 88

  “And you are a disgusting stain on a snowy white bedsheet,” Caedmon snarled at MacFarlane, words the only weapon left to him.

  Unaccustomed to insubordinate words or deeds, the colonel appeared apoplectic. Like an Old Testament prophet on the verge of an aneurysm.

  “I want him searched before he’s killed,” MacFarlane barked at one of his men.

  The situation having spiraled completely out of his control, Caedmon stood motionless while a muscular man with a shaved pate roughly patted him for weapons. The torch he tossed aside; the GPS receiver and diving knife he handed to his overlord. MacFarlane quickly perused the confiscated items before giving them to yet another of his men for safe-keeping.

  Still gasping to draw breath, Braxton gracelessly rose to his feet, instantly transforming from a wounded bear to a menacing mountain of a man. “Let’s just say I ain’t gonna miss you when you’re gone.”

  Having known all along that this was how it might possibly end, Caedmon defiantly stared his executioner in the face. As he did, Goya’s famous painting The Third of May flashed across his mind’s eye; bloodshed and violence were the chain that inevitably linked one historic epoch to the next.

  “Turn your head, woman,” MacFarlane commanded. “Unless you have a predilection for bloodshed.”

  “You kill him, you kill the messenger!”

  Hearing that, Caedmon swung his head in Edie’s direction.

  The messenger?

  What in God’s name was she up to? A subterfuge, clearly, but not having been briefed, he had no idea of the nature or direction of the lie. Relegating him to the role of hapless passenger.

  Refusing to be bullied into submission, Edie startled every man present, including Caedmon, when she next said, “And something tells me that you’ll want to hear what MI5 has to say. They know all about your planned terrorist attack on the Dome of the Rock. Lucky for you, they want the Ark of the Covenant, which is why they’re willing to broker a deal. But all bets are off the table if you gun down Caedmon Aisquith. The Queen’s men don’t like it when you kill one of their own. In fact, they would take it very personally if any harm came to him.”

  Although MacFarlane stood in the shadows, Caedmon could see that the older man didn’t appear the least bit surprised to learn of his connection to MI5.

  Bloody hell. Edie’s stratagem might actually work. No doubt Stanford MacFarlane, like most Americans, stood in awe of the mighty Five.

  With a brusque wave of the hand, MacFarlane motioned Boyd Braxton to stand down. His eyes narrowing, the behemoth lowered the submachine gun. Then, snarling like a rabid animal, he brazenly toggled his index finger over the trigger, wordlessly relaying a very stark message—with the mere press of a finger, he could instantly end Caedmon’s life.

  Having no control over Braxton, Caedmon turned his attention, instead, to his commanding officer. Well aware that the best falsehoods were those crafted from the truth, Caedmon did just that. He told the truth. “Since last we met, I’ve used my time wisely. With Miss Miller’s able assistance, I put together an in-depth intelligence dossier.”

  “Complete with photographs, maps, you name it,” Edie embellished, spinning yet another outlandish lie on her improvised loom.

  “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” As MacFarlane spoke, the muscles in his jaw began to spasmodically twitch.

  “As Edie mentioned, Thames House has been apprised of your plan to destroy the Dome of the Rock two days hence on Eid al-Adha,” Caedmon replied, having quickly cobbled together what he hoped was a plausible scenario. “And, to answer your next question, Five has already contacted their Israeli counterparts. The moment you enter Israel, Mossad will very painfully tighten the noose around your neck. The Israelis do not take kindly to terrorists in their midst.”

  “And the deal?” Other than a tightness in his jaw, MacFarlane gave no visual clues as to whether he believed the tale thus told.

  “The deal is simple: Surrender yourself to British authorities and you will be assured humane and civilized treatment. Reject the offer and you will be at the mercy of Mossad. I understand their interrogation tactics are particularly brutal.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m an American citizen,” MacFarlane declared, as though that gave him some sort of carte blanche.

  “Do you think that will matter to the Israelis? To them you are merely a terrorist intent on destroying the most holy site in all of Jerusalem.”

  The tic in MacFarlane’s jaw became more noticeable. “And what of the Ark?”

  Beginning to think he might actually pull off a bloodless coup, Caedmon said, “It must be turned over to Her Majesty’s government. Were it not for the fact that you have the Ark of the Covenant in your possession, you would have been thrown to the Israeli wolves as a matter of course.” Caedmon glanced at this wristwatch: 10:20 P.M. “If you have not surrendered yourself to the British consulate by twenty-three hundred hours, the deal will be rendered null and void.” Of course, he had no way of knowing if, at this late hour, anyone was on duty at the consulate. He would
cross that rickety bridge when he came to it.

  A terse silence ensued, the only sound being a soft rat-a-tat-tat as Braxton drummed his fingers against his weapon stock. Caedmon purposely refrained from looking at Edie, knowing that any communication, even a silent exchange of glances, would be closely scrutinized; MacFarlane was in the process of separating the wheat from the chaff.

  “Since the beginning, I wondered if you would contact British intelligence,” MacFarlane finally said after what seemed an interminable silence. “But knowing the power that the Ark holds, something told me that you’d want to keep MI5 out of the loop. Why? Because I assumed that like most men, you would want the Ark of the Covenant all for yourself. It’s the reason why Galen of Godmersham made no mention of his extraordinary find to his brethren, the Knights of St. John, even though he was duty-bound to do just that. Instead, he lugged the Ark back to England, where he promptly hid it from prying eyes.” MacFarlane took several steps in Caedmon’s direction, the tic in his jaw no longer in evidence. “So I have to ask myself . . . what makes you a better man than that brave knight?”

  Caedmon shrugged. “I was faced with a crisis that Galen of Godmersham never had to confront.”

  “And what crisis might that be?”

  “How best to prevent the destruction of the Dome of the Rock. Brave knight though I am, I am but an army of one,” he drolly added, hoping to recapture the momentum. “And so I had no choice but to contact Thames House. Better the British Museum have the Ark of the Covenant than a man bent on destroying the world.” Even before the words passed his lips, Caedmon knew them to be the truth, silently damning himself for not contacting Five. For thinking that he, like Galen of Godmersham, could keep the Ark all to himself.

  And when the wretched knight saw this, his death was well deserved.

  How apropos; the cryptic line from the quatrains finally made perfect sense to him.

  “Mark my words, doomsday will soon be upon us. And when it comes, we will slay the beast of perfidy with divine revelation.” As he spoke, Stanford MacFarlane compulsively twisted the silver Jerusalem cross that he wore on his right ring finger. Caedmon suspected the ring was his anchor. A constant reminder of the big picture.

  Seeing that repetitive motion, he feared the scales had just tipped. And in the wrong direction.

  Edie, who had heretofore remained silent, pointed to the string of lights visible from a vessel that had just entered the bay in the distance. “Doomsday is coming, all right. Dressed in commando black and wielding some awesome firepower. You guys have only got a few minutes left to surrender peaceably.” Wearing her bravado like a new suit of clothes, she donned a cocky grin.

  Good God. The woman was taking her cues from a Holly-wood script.

  Without warning, MacFarlane stepped over and grabbed Edie by the hair, yanking her against his chest. Although she valiantly tried to twist free, he wrapped her curly locks around his fist as he pulled her head back at an awkward angle, exposing her neck. He then held out his free hand, palm up. “Give that me that diving knife.”

  Suddenly realizing the other man’s intention, Caedmon lurched forward.

  Only to be pistol-whipped in the side of the head by one of MacFarlane’s men.

  Knowing he could do nothing to save Edie if he was dead, he stood immobile. Edie, evidently sensing that she couldn’t escape, had suddenly stopped resisting.

  “You know, boy, I’ve got a funny feeling that you and this curly-haired harlot are lying to me.” MacFarlane, his face twisted in a sneer, locked gazes with him. “Now, I know that you’re a trained intelligence officer. So I’m going to assume that you have the mental fortitude to stand by while I hold a gun to your pretty woman’s head.” As he spoke, he lightly ran the knife blade along Edie’s cheek. “But do you have the stomach to watch the flesh flayed from her bones in long bloody strips?”

  Although her neck was stretched taut as a bow string, Edie tried to shake her head. Tried to caution him not to reveal that there would be no commandoes dressed in black coming to the rescue.

  A brave woman. But, more importantly, a beloved woman.

  “As earlier stated, I did, in fact, compile a dossier outlining everything that has occurred since Jonathan Padgham’s murder,” he confessed, the match lost, his queen taken. “Included in the report is a detailed threat assessment of your planned attack on the Dome of the Rock.”

  “Where’s the dossier?”

  “It is in the vault of the Dragonara Hotel.” Having carefully planned for just such a moment, Caedmon then presented what he hoped would be their Get Out of Jail Free card. “If Edie and I have not returned to the Dragonara Hotel by eight o’clock tomorrow morning, the dossier will promptly be delivered to the British consulate. From there, it will be forwarded to Her Majesty’s intelligence service. You are a clever enough man to realize that it would be advantageous to keep us alive. Now, would you please be so kind as to relax your grip on Miss Miller’s hair?”

  MacFarlane unwound a palm’s length of hair. Just enough so Edie could move her neck, but not enough for her to escape.

  “How do I know that you’re telling me the truth?”

  “As with your belief in Old Testament prophecy, you must take it on good faith that I am.”

  MacFarlane unwound Edie’s hair from his fist. Muttering something about “lying harlots,” he forcefully shoved her aside. Opening his arms, Caedmon caught Edie, clutching her to his chest.

  “You and the harlot have a reprieve.”

  Without asking, Caedmon knew that he and Edie would be accompanied to the Dragonara Hotel by one of MacFarlane’s men. Once there, they would be forced to retrieve the dossier from the hotel vault and give it to their escort. After which, they would promptly be executed.

  All told, the reprieve would amount to no more than a few hours. Not unlike watching the killer shark from the glass-bottomed boat, knowing all the while that the vessel would soon capsize.

  Hearing the mobile phone clipped to MacFarlane’s belt shrilly ring, Caedmon watched as the other man took the call, turning his back on the assembled group. A few moments later, he turned to his second-in-command, the gargantuan Boyd Braxton.

  “Call in the troops. We’re ready to set sail.”

  Edie frantically tugged on his sleeve. “The boat that just sailed into the bay, I bet that’s how they’re getting the Ark out of Malta,” she hissed in his ear.

  “I suspect you’re right.”

  “The harlot is right,” MacFarlane verified, having overheard the exchange. “Not only is my mission ordained by the Almighty, but God is acting through me. How else do you explain that after three thousand years, the Ark of the Covenant has been reclaimed?” His eyes sparkling with an inner fire, he smiled, confirming Caedmon’s suspicions that Stanford MacFarlane was quite mad, the man suffering from a full-blown messiah complex.

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be measuring for the drapes just yet,” Edie taunted. “If you think for one second that the good, sane, decent people of the world will stand by and let you and your misguided followers start the next world war, think again.”

  “God spoke through the prophet Ezekiel, making his will known to mankind. I will see to it that his orders are carried out.”

  “No greater sacrilege is known under the heavens than to take upon one’s shoulders the mantle of God,” Caedmon quietly informed their nemesis. “Men like you not only diminish the human spirit, you diminish the very nature of God.”

  “Soon enough you and your whore will learn what comes of sleeping with the devil,” MacFarlane retorted. Then, pointing an accusing finger, “‘But evil men and imposters will grow worse and worse, deceiving and being deceived.’ Gallagher, take them away!”

  The bald-headed underling, with a semiautomatic pistol capably held in his right hand, stepped toward them.

  “At least we bought ourselves a little bit of time,” Edie whispered.

  Caedmon glanced at the yacht in the bay. “Yes, but wh
at of the rest of the world? For them the doomsday clock still ticks.”

  CHAPTER 89

  “‘ . . . If you warn the wicked, and he does not turn from his wickedness, or from his wicked way, he shall die for his in iquity.’” As he spoke, their guard, the bald-headed Gallagher, motioned Edie and Caedmon to take a seat on a nearby slab of limestone.

  Caedmon plunked down on the raised flat stone. “Good God, but I’ve had enough apocalyptic nattering to last a l ifetime.”

  Wordlessly, Edie sat next to him, knowing it would be a lifetime cut down in its prime if they didn’t figure out a way to escape their captor.

  Approximately a hundred yards away, Edie could see that MacFarlane and his crew were quickly piling into the military-style transport truck. The same truck into which they’d earlier loaded the Ark of the Covenant. She assumed that the plan was to drive the truck to a boat launch at the bottom of the sea cliff. They could then transport the Ark from shore to yacht via a small motorboat.

  From there it would be clear sailing. All the way to Israel.

  That thought enraged and terrified her all at once. But it was an impotent rage. And an equally impotent fear. There was nothing she or Caedmon could do to stop the ancient prophecies from being fulfilled. With the End Times hanging over them like an ominous shadow, the voice of reason had become eerily silent. Instead, she’d reverted to being the terrified child who feared the death and destruction that was part and parcel of God’s wrath.

  “Caedmon. . . I’m afraid. I don’t want it to end. Not the world. Not any of it,” she lamely murmured, unable to put her feelings into words. At least not words that made any sense.

  He placed an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. “As the Irish are fond of saying, ‘At least we had the day.’” Edie intuited that he was speaking of their earlier love-making onboard the ferryboat.