by Chloe Palov
Reaching the creek bank, they came to an abrupt halt.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, surprised to see that the creek was far more than the trickle of water he’d imagined. A calf-high torrent of water raged past, creating frothy whitecaps as it hit ice-covered rocks. ‘If we attempt to ford this so-called creek, we’ll break our –’
Just then, a tree limb plunged into the water, severed from its parent by a high-velocity bullet.
As though pushed by the hand of God, the two of them barrelled into the frigid creek, lingering concerns about the wisdom of braving the treacherous waters shoved aside.
Within seconds Edie had lost her footing, her arms windmilling in the air as she attempted to regain her balance. Cædmon grabbed hold of her tartan skirt, preventing her from pitching forward. Yanking her upright, he released the fistful of fabric only to shove his hand into her waistband, that being the most expedient way to keep her from falling over into what was fast becoming numbingly cold water. Thus linked, they sloshed across the aptly named Rock Creek.
‘Oh God!’ Edie shrieked as a nearby rock shattered from the impact of another bullet, splashing them both in the face.
Retreat not an option, they emerged from the creek, skirt and jeans saturated with cold water. Their goal being the nearby motorway, they clawed their way up the embankment. After one tumble and an ungainly scramble to keep from sliding back into the creek, they reached the top. In front of them was a four-lane highway, cars whizzing by at forty miles per hour.
‘There’s a cab!’ Edie exclaimed, pointing to a bright yellow vehicle in the distance. ‘Wave your arms so the cabbie can see us.’
Several feet from where they stood, a bullet embedded itself in the asphalt.
Galvanized into action, Edie ran along the hard shoulder, her arms wildly swinging to and fro. Almost instantly, car horns began to blare, one motorist rudely gesturing as he drove past. Cædmon had no choice but to give chase. Drenched to the knees, twigs and debris clinging to their garments, they looked like a pair of escaped asylum inmates.
In a reckless show of heroics, Edie stepped into the roadway, frantically hailing the fast-approaching cab.
The driver swerved into a skid, barely managing to brake his vehicle to a screeching halt several feet from where she stood.
Rushing over, she yanked open the back door.
Like a jack-in-the-box, a wide-eyed passenger popped his immaculately groomed head through the opening. With an upraised arm, he prevented her from getting into the vehicle.
‘In case you didn’t notice, this cab is already taken.’
Undeterred, Edie shoved her hand into her bag. A second later, she slapped a hundred-dollar bill into the passenger’s hand. ‘Now shut up and move over!’
The man obediently slid to the far side of the seat.
29
‘Drop us off at the next corner,’ Edie ordered the cab driver, handing him a ten. Having yet to utter a single word, the cabbie stopped in front of McPherson Square, a city park overrun with homeless men huddled around metal subway grates, their worldly possessions bundled in plastic shopping bags. Still pissed off she’d had to pay a hundred-dollar bribe to the obviously affluent consultant-type, who had got out at a K Street lobbying firm, she grudgingly waved to the driver to keep the change.
No sooner had Cædmon slammed the cab door shut than she turned to him. Confused, angered and more than anything else terrified, she said, ‘I can’t believe they actually killed Eliot Hopkins.’
‘Like you, I didn’t foresee today’s turn of events.’ Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he led her to one of the benches that ringed the park. Although they were both soaked to the knee, no one in the park took any notice of their bedraggled state, more than a few of the bench-warmers in far worse straits. It was no accident that she had picked McPherson Square, the downtown park an excellent place to fade into the city landscape.
‘Just as they manipulated yesterday’s murder scene at the Hopkins Museum, no doubt Colonel MacFarlane had planned a similar device for today’s bloodshed.’
Edie derisively snorted. ‘I can see the headlines now – LOVE TRIANGLE TURNS DEADLY.’
‘Or some such tripe.’ Cædmon’s red brows drew together. ‘I think we’re both in need of a fortifying cup of hot coffee,’ he said, gesturing to a branch of the ubiquitous Starbucks on the nearby street corner.
‘Do you mind if I sit here and wait for you? To be honest, I don’t know if I’m capable of putting one waterlogged foot in front of the other.’
Cædmon surveyed the park. Not only were there homeless men on nearly every bench, there were homeless men bundled in sleeping bags, the only thing protecting them from the cold, pieces of corrugated cardboard.
‘Go on. I’ll be perfectly safe. They might look dangerous, but these guys are perfectly harmless,’ she assured him.
‘Ironic to see so many men living rough while others live in the lap of luxury.’ He glanced at the nearby Hilton Hotel.
‘Yeah, well, unless we can figure out a safe place to lie low, you and I may be reduced to the same plight come nightfall.’
‘A topic we’ll discuss when I return.’
Edie nodded, inclined to leave the decision-making to Cædmon. Without his quick thinking, she’d be lying in a puddle of her own blood, the second member of the imaginary love triangle. Whether she liked to admit it or not – and she didn’t – she needed his protection.
With a backward wave of the hand, Cædmon departed on his coffee run.
‘Don’t forget the biscotti,’ she yelled at his backside, the shout earning another wave.
Her legs about to give way, Edie sat down on the bench. Within moments it began to hail, pellets of crystallized ice assaulting her person, hitting her on the cheeks, nose and forehead. She hunched forward, tucking her chin into her chest. She listened to the uneven tattoo of ice striking the wood planks of the weathered bench. With nowhere to run, and fast running out of places to hide, she felt imprisoned in a winter canvas of grey, taupe and white. How appropriate, she dejectedly thought, her body starting to go into deep freeze, her limbs becoming immobile, her thoughts reduced to a sluggish meander.
Suddenly seeing red instead of winter neutrals, she shoved her hand into her bag, retrieving her BlackBerry. Hopefully, she had enough juice to make a local phone call.
She dialled 411.
The days of speaking to a real person a thing of the past, she slowly said, ‘Rosemont Security Consultants,’ when prompted by the automated operator. A few seconds later the same computerized voice recited a seven-digit phone number. Edie hit ‘1’, requesting to be connected.
The call was answered on the first ring.
‘Rosemont Security Consultants.’
Momentarily taken aback that the office receptionist was a man not a woman, ‘I want to speak to Stanford MacFarlane,’ she brusquely demanded, hoping the lackey on the other end picked up on her don’t-mess-with-me attitude.
He didn’t.
‘I’m sorry, but the colonel is unavailable to take any calls at this time. If you would like to leave a –’
‘Tell him that Edie Miller is on the line. Trust me. He’ll take the call.’
The receptionist put her on hold, Edie treated to the annoying strains of elevator music.
Midway into Sinatra’s ‘My Way’, the line reengaged.
‘Ah, Miss Miller. What an unexpected surprise.’
Edie shivered, Stanford MacFarlane eerily cordial.
‘I trust that you’re feeling –’
‘Can the bullshit, MacFarlane. How do you think I feel after watching one of your goons gun down a scared old man?’
‘None too well, I suspect. You do know that you’re proving a most elusive target.’ Edie wasn’t certain, but she thought she detected a note of grudging respect in his voice.
Disgusted by the thought that she and Cædmon had become some kind of perverted pastime, she said, ‘I know what you’re up to, you s
ick bastard! Eliot Hopkins told us all about your plan to find the Ark of the –’
From out of nowhere, an unseen hand yanked the BlackBerry away from her ear. Craning her neck, Edie was surprised to find Cædmon standing behind the park bench. In his right hand he held her BlackBerry, in his left, an egg-carton carrier of coffee. Without a word, Cædmon unceremoniously shoved the mobile into his jacket pocket. Then, acting as though nothing was even remotely wrong, he handed her a cup of coffee.
‘If I recall correctly, you take two sugars.’
Edie’s shock turned to outrage.
‘Do you know why the British have never rebelled against the monarchy? Because you’re afraid to take action! You’re afraid to say, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any longer!”’
‘Unlike you, I believe that restraint is the better part of valour.’
‘Oh, stuff an argyle sock in it, will ya? I’m beginning to think you love the sound of your own voice.’
Cædmon straightened his shoulders, drawing himself to his full imposing height of six foot three. ‘Because of your impetuousness, we have lost our only advantage. Not only did you divulge the fact that we know their identities, but you foolishly disclosed the information given to us by the now deceased Mr Hopkins.’
‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of being hunted down like a defenceless animal. And while you might not give a rat’s patootie, I want to know why Colonel MacFarlane ordered Eliot Hopkins to kill us.’
‘The answer to that is patently obvious. MacFarlane intended to create yet another subterfuge that would disguise his intentions.’ As he spoke, Cædmon sat down beside her. ‘The first part of the plan was to have Hopkins kill us. At which point, I suspect, the unwitting museum director would have been forced to put the gun to his own head and pull the trigger.’
Raising a hand to her head, Edie rubbed her temples, grateful she still had a temple to rub.
‘This is insane. All of it. Eliot Hopkins pulled a gun on us. And when he didn’t shoot us straightaway, they killed him. That makes two men killed before my very eyes in as many days. And they would have killed us if we hadn’t slogged across that creek.’ Raising her arms, she gestured to the park. ‘So, now what? I ask because this doesn’t seem like much of a plan.’
‘I agree that we need to take a more proactive approach.’
‘Proactive? As in going on the offensive?’
‘If you like.’
A noticeable pause ensued, Cædmon refusing to elaborate.
‘Just how are we going to pull that off?’ Edie prodded.
‘We know that Colonel MacFarlane is going after the Ark of the Covenant. And, assuming that Eliot Hopkins spoke the truth, I know where MacFarlane and his gang of cut-throats will be searching.’
Again, Cædmon failed to elaborate, forcing Edie to push him a bit harder. ‘So where are they going to put shovel to dirt?’
One side of Cædmon’s mouth lifted in a bemused half-smile.
‘Of all places, England.’
30
‘We’re talking about a big island. Where exactly in England might the Ark of the Covenant be hidden?’
‘The “where exactly” is a bit thorny,’ Cædmon replied in response to Edie’s question. ‘If you recall, Eliot Hopkins spoke of an English crusader who supposedly discovered a gold chest on the Plain of Esdraelon. He was referring to one Galen of Godmersham, a younger son who, like so many younger sons, went to the Holy Land to seek the fortune denied him by the circumstance of his birth.’
‘And did he find his fortune?’
‘Indeed, he did, returning to England in 1286 an extremely wealthy man. For centuries whispers and rumours rattled about, some claiming that Galen had uncovered the Spear of Longinus, others claiming he had found Veronica’s Veil.’ Leaning close enough to brush shoulders, he said in a lowered tone, ‘And then there are those who believe that not only did Galen of Godmersham discover the Ark of the Covenant, but that he transported the Ark to his home in Kent, whereupon he promptly buried the holy relic. Admittedly, there’s scant evidence for the theory, although that hasn’t stopped a legion of treasure hunters from pockmarking the environs of Godmersham.’
‘Come on, Cædmon. Even you have to admit the idea of some English knight just happening upon the Ark of the Covenant is hard to swallow.’
‘With your own eyes, you saw the sacred Stones of Fire. If the breastplate exists, why not the Ark?’
‘Maybe I don’t want the Ark to exist,’ she answered with her trademark candour. ‘If what you say is even partially true, the implications are immense. History altering, in fact.’
‘Do you think that hasn’t crossed my mind?’
‘Has this thought crossed your mind? Right now, you’ve got nothing more solid than a rumour about some old knight. Lesson of the day? One crazy rumour does not a fact make.’
‘It’s thin, I admit, but many an extraordinary discovery has been made by men labelled hare-brained. Most thought Schliemann mad when he went searching for Troy with only a battered copy of Homer as his guide.’
Edie snickered, her breath condensing in the chill air. ‘Yeah, well, you know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen.’
‘In defence of my countrymen, I should point out that Heinrich Schliemann was German,’ Cædmon retorted, the argument having degenerated into petty tit-for-tat. ‘Since the Bible makes no mention of the Ark being destroyed, we must assume that it still exists. While biblical scholars have long denied the rumours regarding Galen of Godmersham, there is a scholar at Oxford, a man by the name of Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown, who has devoted his life to studying the thirteenth-century English crusaders. If there is any credence to the notion of an English knight discovering a gold chest on the Plain of Esdraelon, Sir Kenneth would certainly know of it. And given all that has transpired in the last twenty-four hours, we must accept Eliot Hopkins’ premise as a viable possibility.’
Folding her arms over her chest, Edie stubbornly shook her head. ‘What we need to do is contact the IARC. The FBI. Somebody. Anybody. And let them know what’s happening.’
‘And what precisely would you tell the authorities?’ he countered. ‘That a murder occurred at the Hopkins Museum for which there is no body? Or perhaps we could regale the local constabulary with the tale of the fabled Stones of Fire? Given that the relic disappeared several millennia ago, I somehow doubt the police will believe that the relic was stolen from the aforementioned non-existent corpse. In fact, if not for the dead man at the zoo, whose murder they will most assuredly accuse you of having committed, the police would label you a lunatic.’
‘I could take a lie-detector test.’
‘And if your heart rate accelerated but a notch, your fate would be sealed.’
Edie unfolded her arms, the wind dying in her sails. ‘You could go to the –’
‘If I come forward with my suspicions regarding the Stones of Fire or the Ark of the Covenant, my motives would immediately be suspect, the chaps at the FBI no doubt believing it a publicity stunt to increase my book sales.’
‘So, what are you saying – that our hands are tied?’
‘Most certainly not. We know that Colonel MacFarlane and his men are searching for the Ark of the Covenant. Furthermore, we have reason to believe that they’ll be searching for it in England.’
‘Oh, you have got to be kidding!’ Edie exclaimed, realization dawning. ‘You’re not really suggesting that we go to England and track down Stanford MacFarlane and his goons.’
‘Rest assured, I do not expect you to come.’
‘Ouch! That hurts,’ she retorted, taking offence where none was intended. ‘Going to England in pursuit of the Ark of the Covenant is big. Huge. You’ve given this – what? – about thirty seconds of thought before making a decision.’
‘If you’re accusing me of being rash, nothing could be further from the truth.’
‘Then how’s this for rash? Have you thought about
how you’re going to pay for this little junket? As soon as you whip out a credit card, MacFarlane will be on to you like ugly on an alligator.’
‘I agree that electronic transactions can easily be traced.’ He cleared his throat. Knowing there was but one way to clear the hurdle, he charged forward. ‘Which is why I thought to ask you for a loan.’ When Edie looked at him askance, he added, ‘I’m good for it, as you Yanks are wont to say.’
‘Well, here’s another phrase we Yanks are wont to say – “My way or the highway.” Meaning you take me with you or you don’t see a dime of my money.’
No sooner was the ultimatum delivered than an invisible Maginot Line loomed between them. Ignoring him, Edie reached into the now wet Starbucks bag and removed a hazelnut biscotti. Behaving as though he didn’t exist, she loudly bit into it.
‘Why the sudden interest in pursuing my “crazy” theory?’ he asked, if for no other reason than to break the unnerving silence.
‘I have my reasons. Look, I’m good with details. And let’s not forget the old adage about two heads being better than just the one.’
‘Honestly, Edie, I don’t think that –’
‘I can be your research assistant,’ she interjected, unwavering in her persistence.
‘I don’t need a research assistant. Once I arrive in England, I have connections that –’
‘Yeah, speaking of “connections”, you told Eliot Hopkins that you could contact Interpol, making me wonder just what kind of shadowy connections you have.’
Not seeing the sense in keeping it from her, he said, ‘I used to be an intelligence officer with MI5 – the Security Service.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You mean like James Bond?’
‘Hardly. During my tenure at MI5 I spent most of my time in an office and very little time chasing nefarious characters. Certainly none with an outlandish moniker.’
‘Well, that explains your street smarts,’ she remarked, seeming to take his confession in her stride. ‘Yesterday I was truly stumped as to how a bookworm could so easily keep his cool when the bullets started to fly. In fact, there were a couple of times at the National Gallery when you looked like you were in seventh heaven.’