by Chloe Palov
‘Good God! Do you mean to say that you’re Oliver Hopkins’ grandson?’ Considered by scholars to be daft as a brush, during the early part of the twentieth century Oliver Hopkins had spent a fortune searching for the Ark of the Covenant. To no avail, the wealthy adventurer barely escaping the Holy Land with his head intact.
‘I came considerably closer to finding that elusive jewel in the biblical crown than my grandfather did. And in so doing, I knew that if I was to avoid the curse of Bethshemesh, I had to first find the Stones of Fire.’
Edie snickered derisively. ‘The curse of Bethshemesh? Who are you, a character in an Indiana Jones movie?’
‘Hardly,’ Cædmon replied, the conversation about to darken several shades. ‘The punishment for accidentally touching the Ark of the Covenant is a very painful death, Yahweh having a beastly temper. That said, in the Book of Samuel the cautionary tale of the city of Bethshemesh is recounted, Yahweh indiscriminately slaughtering fifty thousand of the residents as punishment for the handful of men who, overtaken with curiosity, had dared to peer inside the Ark.’
‘Jesus,’ she softly swore. ‘God did that?’
‘Elsewhere the Bible speaks of the Ark levelling whole mountains, parting rivers, annihilating enemy armies and destroying fortified cities. Those who doubted the Ark’s power often found themselves covered in cancerous tumours or painful burns,’ he informed her, knowing that most people preferred their God sanitized, the ugliness of the Old Testament swept under a heavenly carpet.
‘It sounds more like a weapon than a religious artefact.’
‘The Ark of the Covenant was, to use modern parlance, a weapon of mass destruction, enabling the ragtag Israelites to conquer the Holy Land. Shielded with the Stones of Fire, the high priest could channel and control all of that explosive energy.’
‘Thus making the Stones of Fire a “prerequisite” to finding the Ark of the Covenant.’
Having stood silent, Eliot Hopkins rejoined the conversation. ‘Now you see why I’m convinced that my mysterious consortium is intent on hunting bigger game? Think of the power contained within that precious gold chest. The Ark radiated divine power and might. And if one had a mind to communicate with the celestial spheres, the Ark could summon forth angels and even manifest the Almighty himself.’
The enraptured expression on Eliot Hopkins’ visage belonged to that of a man obsessed. Cædmon knew the look well, having once been an obsessed man himself, his fascination with the Knights Templar having bordered on the fanatical – the reason, long years ago, he was expelled from Oxford.
‘A lot of people would say that the supposed power of the Ark was nothing but a fanciful myth used to entertain Hebrews gathered around the evening campfire,’ Edie argued.
‘And there are those who claim that God is dead. I, however, am not one of them.’
‘So, what happened to the Ark? Was it stolen? Was it lost? Was it destroyed?’ his companion asked in rapid-fire succession.
Eliot Hopkins lifted his wool-clad shoulders in an eloquent shrug. ‘The pages of the Old Testament don’t give so much as a hint. We know only that Moses constructed the Ark in the fifteenth century BC; five centuries later King Solomon built a lavish temple to house the Ark; and sometime prior to the construction of the Second Temple in 516 BC the Ark vanished, seemingly into the dust of history.’
‘Surely there’s a theory or two to explain its disappearance,’ Edie persisted.
‘Most biblical historians concur that there are five probable scenarios to explain the Ark’s disappearance,’ Cædmon replied, beating the older man to the starting gate. ‘The first of these concerns Menelik, King Solomon’s son with the Queen of Sheba. Those who adhere to this theory have postulated that Menelik stole the Ark from the Temple around 950 BC and took it to Ethiopia, where it resides to this day.’
‘Let’s not forget the theory put forth in Raiders of the Lost Ark,’ Edie said, smirking. ‘You know, that the Ark is in Egypt.’
‘A valid theory, as it turns out, the adherents of which believe that a few years after Solomon’s death the Ark was stolen in a raid by the Pharaoh Shishak and taken to his newly constructed capital of Tanis. Then there are the three remaining theories – which involve the Ark being plundered by the Babylonians, the Greeks or the Romans; take your pick.’
‘And I did, painstakingly considering each of those theories in turn,’ Eliot Hopkins informed them. ‘As you may or may not know, there are nearly two hundred references to the Ark contained within the pages of the Old Testament. Most of those references concern the period between the Exodus from Egypt and the construction of the Temple. This led me to surmise that the Ark of the Covenant disappeared shortly after Solomon constructed his fabulous building.’
Proving herself a sure-footed student, Edie said, ‘Then the Ark was either stolen by Menelik or Shishak.’
‘I know for a fact that the Ark does not reside in Ethiopia,’ the older man quietly asserted.
Hearing that, Cædmon deduced that Eliot Hopkins had very deep pockets, the political situation in Ethiopia dicey to say the least. Obtaining permission to mount a thorough search would have been expensive.
‘So, that means Shishak stole the Ark, and it’s buried in the pharaoh’s tomb.’
‘Not necessarily,’ the older man said in reply to Edie’s deduction. ‘Some years back, during a trip I made to the Middle East, a group of Bedouin traders told me the most fascinating tale of an English crusader who, en route between Palestine and Egypt, discovered a gold chest buried in the Plain of Esdraelon amidst the ruins of what had once been an Egyptian temple.’
‘I’ve heard this story,’ Cædmon murmured, knocked sideways by memories of his Oxford days.
‘Careful, Mr Aisquith. In this game a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.’ Eliot Hopkins smiled, a kindly man offering a sage word of advice. ‘If you are familiar with the tale, then you undoubtedly have guessed at the final resting place of the Ark of the Covenant.’
Refusing to take the bait, Cædmon went on the offensive. ‘Why are you being so forthcoming with us? For years you’ve gone to great lengths to keep your pursuit of the Ark a secret.’
Grimacing, the museum director slid his gloved hand inside his overcoat. ‘Because it is inconsequential whether you know or don’t know.’
‘And why is that?’
Eliot Hopkins removed his hand from his coat, a Walther PPK clenched in his fist. ‘Because I have been ordered to kill you.’
28
With only a wolf and an eagle to bear witness to their deaths, Cædmon affected a calm he didn’t feel. ‘I say. That’s not very friendly of you.’
‘You’re a fool to think you can get away with murdering us,’ Edie hissed, adopting an entirely different approach.
One side of Eliot Hopkins’ mouth lifted in a rueful half-smile. ‘Killing you and your charming companion will be the least of my crimes.’
‘You’re actually going to kill us in cold blood all because of some religious artefact? Gold stuff! That’s all it is.’
‘None of the artefacts mentioned in the Bible can compare with the Ark of the Covenant,’ Hopkins whispered, the gun unsteady in his gloved hand. ‘The Ark contains the majesty and glory of Yahweh. It alone could inspire or destroy a nation.’
‘Or an innocent couple,’ Cædmon murmured, the Ark about to consume its next two victims.
Raising the gun a few inches higher, Hopkins pointed it at Edie’s chest. ‘I do hope you will forgive me, but if I don’t comply with their orders, they’ll kill my daughter.’
‘“They” being your mysterious consortium, aka the Warriors of God,’ said Edie.
Behind her brave facade, Cædmon saw the tremble in Edie’s shoulder. Although tempted to put a comforting arm around her shoulders, he refrained. Instead he said, ‘I can see to it that no harm comes to your daughter.’
‘Olivia presently attends boarding school in Switzerland.’ As he spoke, tears welled in Eliot Hopki
ns’ eyes. ‘My hands are tied. I have only one child. She alone is my hope for the future. My legacy.’
‘I can contact Interpol,’ Cædmon pressed, that being the only gambit he could think of. ‘Within the half-hour your daughter could be in protective custody.’
‘Entrust my daughter to strangers more than three thousand miles away?’ The museum director wearily shook his head. ‘You ask the impossible.’
Refusing to give up, Cædmon pressed a bit harder. ‘Yesterday afternoon, in your museum, Jonathan Padgham was senselessly slain. Let us stop this madness before anyone else is killed.’
‘I can’t stop the madness,’ the older man croaked, barely audible. ‘I am truly sorry. I have no choice but to –’
A lion roared in the distance, a deep-throated bawl that rumbled through the leafless trees and echoed off the ice-laden boulders. The stentorian bellow momentarily distracted the elderly angel of death, Eliot Hopkins nervously glancing about.
Divine intervention or serendipity, Cædmon had no way of knowing. He only knew it was the moment to act. Before the window slammed shut.
Carpe diem, he silently invoked, his thighs, buttocks and biceps all tightening as he yanked the closed umbrella from where it hung on his forearm and hurled it like a spear. That done, he shoved Edie out of the line of fire behind a massive concrete rubbish receptacle and watched as the umbrella hit its mark, the stainless-steel tip hitting Eliot Hopkins square in the chest.
Knocked off balance, Hopkins dropped the pistol. The handgun fell to the ground, skittering along the icy surface.
About to retrieve the gun, Cædmon froze as a bullet whizzed past his ear, slamming into Eliot Hopkins’ heart, killing him on impact.
There was a sniper on the hillside!
It had been a set-up. None of them was to have left the zoo alive.
Knowing that in combat he who hesitates is lost, Cædmon dived behind the rubbish receptacle, pushing against Edie’s quivering backside.
‘I’m beginning to think that “land of the free” means free to shoot and kill,’ he muttered into her ear.
‘He’s on the hill above the bald eagle, isn’t he?’
Cædmon nodded, assuming the man was a professional assassin. If they showed themselves, he would snap off two kill shots. Men trained to kill at a distance did so without remorse or regret, the action no different than breathing.
Edie peered at him from over her shoulder, a stricken expression on her face. ‘Please tell me you’ve got a plan.’
‘I haven’t,’ he replied truthfully. Although I had better come up with something bloody quick. Briefly he considered trying to retrieve Hopkins’ pistol. Just as quickly he rejected the idea, certain he’d take a bullet to the head for his troubles.
‘May I take a peek inside your bag?’ he asked, tugging on the large canvas sack she had clutched to her body.
Edie wordlessly complied, opening it for his inspection. There being no time for niceties, he rifled through the bag’s contents. He pulled out her khaki-coloured waistcoat.
‘Perfect.’ Reaching beside him, he grabbed a fistful of snow.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Weighing it so I can chuck it in the air. If we’re lucky, the sniper will see the sudden motion, take aim and fire. The ruse won’t gain us more than a few seconds, but that’s all we’ll need to get our arses behind those rocks.’ With a lift of the chin, he indicated a jumble of boulders some twenty yards from their current position.
If she had misgivings, and no doubt she did, she kept them to herself.
Hoping the venture didn’t prove a deadly mistake, Cædmon quickly tied the ends of the waistcoat into a knot, securing the ball of snow. Silently mouthing, ‘On three,’ he counted to two before throwing the waistcoat through the air. A perfectly bowled cricket delivery.
There being no time to observe the arc and descent of the makeshift decoy, Cædmon snatched Edie by the hand. Bending at the waist, making himself as small a target as possible, he charged towards the clustered rocks. Behind him, he heard a bullet ping! off the metal handrail that fronted the Mexican wolf enclosure.
The ruse had worked.
With Edie in tow, he dodged behind a waist-high boulder. Crouching, they pressed themselves against the stone. Quickly, he glanced from side to side. In the hilly terrain above the bald eagles he thought he detected a figure in a black anorak. A deadly predator on the prowl.
‘It would be suicide for us to retrace our steps to the main entrance,’ he said in a hushed tone, fearful that if they didn’t find another means of escape they would meet the same fate as the museum director.
Edie lifted her head a scant few inches, enabling her to glance about furtively. Grimacing, she wiped the base of her palm across the trickle of blood that oozed from a scrape on her upper cheek. With the same hand she gestured uphill.
‘If we can get to the Think Tank at the top of the hill, there’s a path leading down to Rock Creek. This time of year, the creek should be low enough for us to cross on foot.’
‘And the advantage of this escape route?’
‘It’s the quickest way out of here.’ Again she wiped at the scrape on her upper cheek. A blooded huntswoman.
He took a moment to consider the merits of her plan. Although the uphill route would put more strain on lung and leg, the path was hedged with clustered bunches of reedy bamboo, which would provide excellent cover. If they moved quickly and carefully, they could remain hidden from sight. Assuming the sniper had no friends with him.
Cædmon deferred to her plan with a quick nod.
Once again snatching her by the hand, he led the way, running towards the uphill fork in the path. He considered it a good sign that he heard no whizzing bullets. However, the screeching bald eagle did not bode well, signalling that the sniper was in pursuit.
Midway up the hill, Edie started to lag, her exhalations loud and uneven. There being no time to rally the troops, he yanked her after him. Letting go of her hand, he slung his left arm around her shoulder, pulling her to his side, forcing her to keep pace with him.
‘You can catch your breath once we’re clear.’
Propelled no doubt by a burst of fearful adrenaline, Edie managed to pick up speed.
A few seconds later the path levelled out.
‘The Think Tank is that stone building straight ahead of us,’ Edie gasped, pointing to a quaint structure straight out of a Thomas Hardy novel.
Pulling her behind a drystone wall that oozed icicles, he surveyed the area. Dismayed, he could see that they’d have to navigate a long stretch of open path – no trees, rocks or bamboo to obscure their movements.
‘There’s thirty yards of open terrain between here and the Think Tank. Will you be able to sprint that far?’
She nodded. Then, sinking her fingers into his forearm, she whispered, ‘Cædmon, I’m afraid. Really, really afraid.’
‘No disgrace in that. I’m feeling a bit unmanned myself.’
Her brown eyes opened wide. ‘You’re kidding right? You’re like one of those guys in the Light Brigade.’
‘Yes, well, we know what happened to them, don’t we?’
‘No, what happened?’
‘Nearly half of them perished in the charge.’ Not giving her time to contemplate the significance of that bit of British history, he snatched hold of her hand and set off at a run. His gait the longer, she had to move her legs twice as fast to keep up. A lone zookeeper, attired in wellies and a pair of brown overalls, overtook them in a covered golf cart, several buckets of animal feed lashed into the cargo space with bungee cords.
‘I’m halfway tempted to hitch a ride,’ Edie muttered, puffing heavily as she spoke. Barely able to raise her arm, she pointed to a grotto-like area. ‘There’s the path – on the other side of the building.’
‘Right.’ He veered in the direction indicated, ‘the path’ being a set of boarded steps that snaked down the side of a very steep hillside. At the bottom of the wooden steps
Cædmon could see a deserted car park.
‘Rock Creek is on the other side of the parking lot,’ Edie informed him between two noisy gasps. ‘Once we cross the creek, we should be able to hike our way up to Beach Drive, where we can hopefully hail a cab.’
Cædmon directed his gaze beyond the car park. Through a dense grove of leafless trees, he could see a creek winding through tumbled rock. And he could hear a busy motorway on the far side of the ravine, cars moving along at a fast clip. Somehow he had his doubts about hailing a cab.
Keeping his reservations to himself, he led the way down the wooden steps. They made good time, the steps laid in a pattern that allowed for an easy descent of the steep hill. As they neared the bottom, Edie muttered an apology, her heavy-heeled boots repeatedly making rhythmic thumps on the weathered wood.
‘It might help if you –’ He stopped in mid-suggestion, suddenly picking up the vibration of an unseen footfall.
He peered over his shoulder, catching a flash of motion at the top of the steps. His visibility impaired by the thick shrubs and trees on either side of the steps, he had no way of knowing if the third party was a zookeeper, a bystander or a cold-blooded killer.
‘We have company,’ he whispered in Edie’s ear, motioning her to silence.
Frantically, she glanced behind her. He wasn’t certain, but he thought she mouthed, ‘Oh God.’
A few seconds later, reaching the bottom of the steps, they arrived at a paved road. They crossed it. On the left was the deserted car park, on the right an abandoned greenhouse, sheets of torn plastic eerily waving in the breeze. In front lay a wild hinterland that hadn’t seen scythe nor blade in many a year.
‘This way,’ Edie hissed, lifting her skirt to knee height as she plunged into the wilderness.
Cædmon fell into step, reaching over her head to brush aside hanging limbs and foliage. While the brambles and briars caught on hands, face and clothing, the growth provided excellent cover. Cædmon was still unsure who had followed them down the steps, the intruder having yet to reveal himself.