CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy

by Lynn Sholes

  THE

  GRAIL

  CONSPIRACY

  THE

  GRAIL

  CONSPIRACY

  LYNN SHOLES AND JOE MOORE

  Midnight Ink

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  The Grail Conspiracy © 2005 by Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2005 Book design by Donna Burch Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sholes, Lynn, 1945The grail conspiracy / Lynn Sholes and Joe Moore. -1st ed. p. cm. ISBN 0-7387-0787-2 1. Women journalists-Fiction. 2. Jesus Christ-Relics-Fiction. 3. Christian antiquities-Fiction. 4. Americans-Iraq. 5. Biblical scholars-Fiction. 6. Conspiracies-Fiction. 7. Cloning-Fiction. 8. Grail-Fiction. 9. SectsFiction. 10. Iraq-Fiction. I. Moore, Joe, 1948- II. Title. PS3619.H646G43 2005 813'.6-dc22 2005043770

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific location will continue to be maintained. Please refer to the publisher's website for links to authors' websites and other sources. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications A Division of Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept.0-7387-0787-2 Woodbury, MN 55125-2989, U.S.A. www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATED TO

  Nancy for the match

  Gary Givens for the spark

  Carol and Tommy for the flame

  The authors wish to thank the following for their assistance in adding a sense of realism to this work of fiction.

  Dr. Mark A. Erhart, Ph.D.

  Professor of Molecular Biology

  Chicago State University

  Dr. Ken Winkel, Ph.D.

  Director, Australian Venom Research Unit

  Department of Pharmacology

  University of Melbourne, Australia

  Dr. Joseph W. Burnett, M.D.

  Professor and Chair

  Department of Dermatology

  University of Maryland School of Medicine

  J. H., whose professional ethics guided his decision to remain anonymous

  "The prince of darkness is a gentleman;"

  -William Shakespeare, King Lear, Act III, Scene iv

  PROLOGUE

  AFTER CREATING THE HEAVENS and the earth, God produced, in his own image, the first man, and named him Adam. He then commanded all the legions of Heaven, the Angels and Archangels, to bow before Adam and pay him homage and respect, for God was to give Adam control over all the earth and its creatures. But Lucifer, the most beautiful angel of all, became jealous and refused to bow before Adam. He gathered others around him who felt as he did, and they formed a massive army rebelling against the Creator. A vicious battle raged between God's angels and those who had turned their backs on Him. So much blood was shed that it formed two mighty rivers flowing across the scorching desert. In the end, the great warrior, Michael the Archangel, along with the Host of Heaven, defeated Lucifer and drove him and his rebels out of paradise.

  The Fallen Angels, Nephilim as they were called in the Bible, were forbidden to ever enter heaven again. So they descended to the Earth and furtively walked among men. Down through the ages, their hatred grew, and Lucifer vowed that someday he would have his revenge.

  But there was one among them who repented and secretly sought the Creator's forgiveness. His name was Furmiel, Angel of the 11th Hour. For his remorse, God agreed to give him mortality and let him live the rest of his existence as a man. Since Furmiel's spirit could never return to Heaven, God allowed him a daughter who would be taken at birth to assume her father's place among the Angels. But because God sensed that the time of Lucifer's revenge was at hand, he permitted Furmiel's wife to give birth to twins, the second daughter to live upon the Earth. She grew to adulthood unaware that the blood of the Nephilim coursed through her veins.

  And because of that bloodline, she was destined to be called upon.

  ABANDONED

  NINEVEH, NORTHERN IRAQ

  "Get out!" The Iraqi driver's thin, high-pitched voice filled the car. Sand and dust spewed up as the vehicle skidded to a stop.

  Jarred awake, Cotten Stone sat upright. "What?" She tried to focus in the gathering twilight.

  "Out! I drive no American."

  The radio blared the frantic-paced voice of an Iraqi announcer.

  "What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

  The driver threw open his door and ran to the rear of the car.

  Cotten tugged the rusty door handle until it finally gave with a squeak. "Hey, what are you doing?" she called, jumping out.

  He opened the trunk and tossed her two bags onto the shoulder of the highway.

  "You can't leave me here," she said, coming around to the back of the car. "This is the middle of the damn desert."

  The driver cocked his head toward the voice on the radio.

  She picked up the duffle bag that held her videotapes and chucked it back into the trunk. "Listen, I gave you all the cash I have. I don't have any more." She turned her pocket inside out. It was just a little lie. She had squirreled away close to two hundred dollars and stuffed it inside an empty film container. Her emergency stash. "Do you understand? See, no more money. I paid you to take me to the border."

  The driver jabbed her shoulder with a stiff forefinger. "End of ride for American." He yanked the bag out again and slammed it into her chest, sending her stumbling backward. Then he was around the car and in the driver's seat, grinding the gears and spinning the old Fiat around.

  "I don't believe this;' she said. Cotten dropped the bag on the ground beside her other one and threaded a loose strand of tea-colored hair behind her ear, watching the taillights fade.

  The soft whisper of the desert wind carried the first chill of the evening as the January sky turned from rose to indigo. Cotten pulled the hooded parka from her carryall and slipped it on, feeling the cold already creeping through her.

  She jogged in place, hands stuffed deep in her pockets. Darkness, thick as Iraqi crude, poured over the desert. Someone was bound to come along-had to come along, she thought.

  Ten minutes passed with no sign of another vehicle. Finally, she grabbed the handles of her two carryalls and started walking. Gravel and sand crunched like glass chips under her field boots. She glanced behind, wishing for the glow of headlights, but there was only dark, barren desert.

  "I should have known better than to trust that guy." Her voice cracked from the dryness. Whatever he'd heard on the radio must have spooked the shit out of him. Cotten knew U.S. forces were gearing up for an invasion. The rumors had been flying around the foreign press corps. for weeks as the war drums grew louder in Washington and London. It was no secret that there were already small insertion teams of American and British forces in the country. The invasion might still be months away, but it was hard to hide the buildup of forces in the Arab countries bordering Iraq to the south. The local Arab news buzzed with sightings of Special Forces and Army Rangers appearing and disappearing in the middle of the night. There were even strategic flyovers of fighters, Predator drones, and high altitude recon aircraft testing the vulnerabilities of the Iraqi missile and radar installations.

  Cotten hoisted the strap higher o
n her shoulder. "It's your own fault," she said. "You're so damn headstrong."

  A few weeks ago she had stood in the office of SNN's news director, Ted Casselman, and begged for the assignment to cover the effects of economic sanctions on the women and children of Iraq. It was an important story, she thought, and she didn't care how unstable the region was. Americans needed to see what sanctions did to innocents. And, she told Casselman, if the U.S. had plans to attack Iraq, she wanted to be there, right smack in the center of the action.

  Cotten didn't mention that she also needed to put some distance between her and Thornton Graham. She didn't tell Casselman because she knew she would probably fall apart if she had to explain. The emotional wound was still too raw. Her request to do the story made perfect sense as it was-an eager, hungry reporter-and she wanted an assignment that would make world headlines.

  The Satellite News Network didn't send rookies on assignments in such volatile locations, Casselman told her repeatedly. Yes, he conceded, she had talent and promise. Yes, he felt she could manage the pressure. And yes, he agreed that a Middle East assignment right now was a perfect opportunity to launch a successful career. However, not only was she a rookie, she was a woman, and a woman in Iraq in the current conditions was out of the question. Once the war started, the only journalists would be those chosen in advance by the military and embedded with the troops. And they would only be male. The rules were set, and the answer was no.

  She became incensed and began a tirade about the unfairness of it all.

  Casselman cut her off with another firm, "No."

  After she calmed down, Cotten finally got him to agree to let her tag along with a group of reporters as far as the Turkish border. From there she could cover the plight of any refugees fleeing north once the conflict began.

  He was furious when he learned she went on to Baghdad.

  Then his call came this morning ordering her to leave. "Things are going to get dicey. Get your sweet ass out of there any way you can. And I want to see you as soon as you get back. Clear?"

  She tried to reason with him and buy more time, but he hung up before she could make her case.

  When she got home he was going to I-told-you-so, I-should-fireyou her to death. That was if she got home. Cotten shivered. She was stranded and freezing in the middle of the Iraqi desert.

  Charles Sinclair stared out his office window at the sprawling campus surrounding the BioGentec laboratories near the University of New Orleans. The blue of Lake Pontchartrain lay beyond. He watched the small army of groundskeepers with their John Deere mowers and golf cart utility vehicles moving across the lawn and among the gardensmanicured and in perfect order. He liked perfect order.

  The phone on his desk chirped, and he jumped, spilling a few drops of the chicory coffee onto the Persian rug.

  "Yes?"

  "Dr. Sinclair, you have an international call on line eight," his secretary said.

  Sinclair punched the blinking button. He wouldn't take this call on the speakerphone. "This is Sinclair." The hiss of the connection annoyed him as he pressed the receiver firmly to his ear.

  "We uncovered the entrance to the crypt two days ago;' the man on the other end said. "Late this afternoon, it was opened."

  Sinclair's knuckles whitened as he clutched the phone. "Ahmed, I hope you have good news." He paced.

  "I do. Everything is just as Archer predicted."

  "What did you find?"

  "Many artifacts with the bones," Ahmed continued. "Armor, reli - gious trinkets, some scrolls, and a box."

  Adrenaline streaked through Sinclair's body making his fingertips tingle. "What does the box look like?"

  "Black, no markings, about fifteen centimeters square."

  Perspiration softened the starch in the white collar of Sinclair's Armani shirt. Static filled the pause before he spoke again. "And its contents?"

  "I do not know."

  "What do you mean? You were there, weren't you?"

  "Archer did not open it. He and the others are packing to leave as we speak. We must abandon the site-the area is becoming too dangerous. Everyone is nervous. There is no time to examine-"

  "No!" Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose. "You go back immediately and get the box. Have Archer show you how to open it. Call me as soon as you confirm what's inside and you have it securely in your possession. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." Ahmed's voice sank into the static.

  "Ahmed," he said, keeping his voice low and controlled, "it is imperative that you complete your assignment. I cannot stress that enough."

  "I understand."

  Sinclair hung up the phone and stared at the receiver. The Arab could not even begin to understand.

  THE CRYPT

  SUDDENLY, THE SOUND OF an approaching vehicle caught Cotten's attention. Headlights danced in the distance along the uneven highway. At last, she thought. But what if it was Iraqi soldiers? She backed onto the sandy shoulder, her heart thumping up into her throat. Finally, when it was close enough, she guessed from the lights on the cab and trailer that it was a fuel tanker. She took a few steps forward, waving her arms, but the vehicle didn't slow. Shielding her eyes from the sand and gravel thrown up as the truck roared past, Cotten watched it disappear as quickly as it had appeared.

  It probably wasn't wise to hail a ride anyway. No telling what frame of mind any Iraqi would be in at this point. She'd be safer keeping out of sight and making as much distance as possible before daylight.

  After an hour of walking, Cotten plopped her bags down and sat on one. Her arms ached from the weight of the carryalls, and she shuddered as the cold penetrated her heavy parka. When she got back to the States, she was going to Florida for a long overdue thawing out. That was a promise.

  Cotten emptied one of the bags, taking out anything she could leave behind. As she sorted through her belongings, she wondered if coming to Iraq had been smart. Maybe she'd made a stupid decision. She hadn't stopped to analyze everything, and then when Casselman protested, she got one of those dog-with-a-bone attitudes. There were other assignments she could have taken-ones of equal importance, ones that would have distanced her from Thornton.

  "Damn, damn, damn," she said as she retrieved only the essentials: wallet, passport, and press credentials along with her still camera, lenses, film, and the plastic film container that hid her emergency money. She stuffed them in the other bag with the videocassettes. After taking one last look over her shoulder at the small pile of belongings left behind, she trudged on.

  The moon rose and painted the desert with enough light to keep her from losing sight of the road. She wished for her sofa and comforter, a hot cup of Starbucks or better yet, a smooth Absolut over ice.

  Suddenly, she stopped and blinked, making sure what she saw was not a mirage. There were lights in the distance. Not from vehicles, but from some kind of settlement or camp with electricity. She set the bag down and rubbed her shoulder and arm to get the circulation back. Taking out her camera, she attached the telephoto lens and brought the lights into focus. If it was an encampment of the Republican Guard or even the Iraqi regulars, an American woman traveling alone would stand little chance. Some of her colleagues in Baghdad had told her stories of the brutality, rapes ... men who behaved like animals, like feral dogs.

  She panned across the site. There were no obvious weapons, army vehicles, or anything that resembled a military installation. It looked more like an excavation site. Buckets, temporary tents, tables, spoil piles. An archaeological dig? Cotten guessed she was somewhere near one of the ancient Assyrian ruins scattered throughout the region. Several old trucks were grouped near a crumbling stone structure. A handful of men moved in a flurry of activity.

  This might be her opportunity to catch a safe ride to the border, she thought. She hesitated, wondering if she should take the chance. Finally she stowed the camera and headed for the lights.

  Near the site, she saw men scrambling about, loading equipment and crates onto the
trucks. The sporadic confrontations between the Iraqi military and the increasingly brazen, U.S.-backed Kurdish rebels had probably made the area become too dangerous for an archaeological dig.

  She strained to hear their voices. Turkish! Not Iraqi. Relieved, Cotten entered the camp and approached one of the men. "Excuse me," she said.

  He wore a dark shirt ringed with sweat under the arms. The stench from his body was sharp in the cold air. He glared at her for a moment as if wondering where she came from. "No English," he said, taking a crate from a wheelbarrow and throwing it onto the bed of the truck. If she hadn't leaned back, he would have swiped her with it.

  Cotten tried to stop another man who sidestepped her and gave her an annoyed glance.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around. A short, stumpy man stood close.

  "American?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Turk," he said, and smiled, revealing a mouth filled with crooked brown teeth beneath a mustache that hung over his lip like an awning.

  "I need a ride," she said, pointing north.

  He twitched his head toward the ruins. "Go see Dr. Archer, Gabriel Archer."

  Someone shouted and, with a polite nod, the Turk hurried away.

  A small group boarded one of the trucks. The engine coughed to life, and the truck pulled onto the road. There were still two trucks left, but they were quickly being loaded. Not much time to find this Dr. Archer and beg for a lift.

  In the moonlight, she located the entrance to the stone structure. Wooden scaffolding shored up the walls and, as she entered, she ducked beneath a low archway. Just ahead, a string of bare lightbulbs dangled over the entrance and along a passageway beyond. She followed the passage until it ended at a set of steps leading underground. Buckets of dirt were stacked nearby, waiting to be hauled outside and emptied into screens. A gas generator rattled, powering the string of lights running into the hole. She leaned over the head of the steps and called out. "Hello ... Archer?" There was no response. "Dr. Archer?" she called louder.