by Lynn Sholes
"Talk to me," Cotten said. "What does it mean?"
"Near the end of the Seventh Crusade a group of religious zealots, known as the Knights Templar, was formed. They wore the Cross Pattie-the Templar's Cross-emblazoned on their white habits, and their seal was two knights riding the same horse, a symbol of their vow of poverty. Their mission was to protect the treasures of the great temple of Jerusalem. It is suspected that in reality, they plundered the wealth of the temple and hid it away. Instead of being impoverished, they became exceedingly wealthy as well as powerful, answering only to the Church. Some of the Templars claimed to be of divine lineage, descendants of a proposed union between Jesus and Mary Magdalene. They also proclaimed themselves as Guardians of the Grail."
John held up the chalice. "If this is truly the Cup from the Last Supper, it would be the most prized relic in the Church-in all of Christendom."
"Why the wax?" Cotten asked.
"I would assume to protect the inside from being touched or contaminated. If it held the blood of Christ, it would be considered quite sacred."
As Cotten stared at the Cup, Archer's dying words still spooked her. "What about the message that I'm the only one who can stop the sun, the dawn? How would that tie in?"
He shook his head. "No idea."
She shifted. "It really bothers me, John. If I'm the only one to do whatever Archer was talking about, then I'm the only one they're looking for."
«WhO?"
"Whoever broke into my apartment. I've got a bad feeling about the whole thing. You weren't there when the Arab pulled the gun and tried to kill Archer. He wasn't just stealing some old trinket box. He was driven-I saw it in his eyes. It was creepy. Archer believed he had the Grail, and whoever tried to kill him was convinced of it, too. Even you said if it's genuine, it would be the most valuable relic in the world. It's a logical conclusion that whoever searched my apartment was looking for it."
"Maybe you're right."
Cotten put both hands to her mouth and spoke into them as if guarding the words so they didn't escape her lips too quickly. "I could have been hiding the biggest religious story of the century underneath the lid of my stove."
"Are you Catholic?" John asked.
"No." Her expression turned from wonderment to puzzlement.
"Christian?"
Her fingers intertwined in her lap. "I'm not sure I know how to answer that."
"Embarrassed to tell me because I'm a priest?"
"No, I really don't know how to answer. I used to go to church, believe in religion, God, all that."
John looked at her as if trying to read her thoughts.
"I was born in Kentucky, an only child-my twin sister died at birth. My father was a farmer; we were poor. When I was six there was a terrible drought, and we lost everything. The bank foreclosed, and my father committed suicide. Mama always said she thought there was something more, something else troubling my father. He'd been despondent for quite a while, even before the drought, but nobody knew why. He wrote a note blaming God for ruining our lives. At the time, I agreed with him. Before the drought, we were a churchgoing family.
"After my father died, my mother and I moved to a small house, and she went to work in a textile mill-we barely got by for years."
"Well then, you do believe. In order to blame God, you have to believe He exists."
"That's how I felt back then. When I got older, I realized the saying on the bumper sticker is right-shit happens. It was just a frigging drought." She wiggled her fingers in the air. "Nothing supernatural, no divine hand descending from the heavens to smite the Stone family. My father needed to blame something, someone. He hung it on God. I let go of that a long time ago-never went back to church."
"I'm sorry about your father and what happened to your family."
"Why did you ask me about my religion?"
"I just wondered what this," he motioned to the Cup, "means to you.
"Actually, a great deal-but probably not what you think. If this is the real thing, it means the biggest story of my career. It could be my ticket to a senior correspondent's position at the network."
He stared at her in silence.
"We all look at things differently, John. Like my father and I-he blamed God; I blamed a lack of one. This relic could be your salvation. And it could be mine, too. But in a different way." Cotten leaned back her head, eyes closed, then looked at him again. "I'm sorry, but you and I just don't have the same beliefs."
He held up his hand. "That's not a problem. Hey, my closest friend is a Jewish rabbi. We grew up together. He's one of those friends you don't see much, but know you can count on. But talk about differing views. We're the real odd couple. You can imagine some of the discussions we've had over the years."
"Look," she said, "besides the career move, the sooner I write this story, the sooner I can stop looking over my shoulder. Once I tell the world about the Grail, the focus will be on it, not me. I'll be just another byline." She moved to the edge of the couch, aware that he watched her. "So how do we prove it's the real deal?"
"Well, the metalwork is fairly easy to match to a known style and time period. The wood and the hinge of the box can also be dated and matched to others like it-so can the cloth. And the beeswax can be pinned down with radiocarbon dating."
"What's next?"
"I'd like to take it to Rome. The dating technology at the Vatican is some of the best in the world."
"Why the Vatican? I mean I realize that's your thing, but what about right here in our own backyard? Doesn't Brown, or NYU, or Columbia have an archaeology department?"
"Sure. But the Vatican has been in the authentication business for centuries. Who would you rather interview for your report-Professor John Doe of a local university or Cardinal Ianucci, the curator of the largest collection of religious relics and artifacts in the world?"
"Okay, you've made your point." Cotten smiled shyly. "Do my aspirations to snag the big story make me greedy?"
"That's what reporters do," he said. "Reporting your story with St. Peter's Basilica in the background would be impressive."
"Or standing next to a Michelangelo while interviewing that cardinal you mentioned would look good on my demo reel." She shook her head. "You must think I'm shameless."
"No, I think you take your job seriously, and you work hard at it to be the best. There's nothing wrong with that. I envy you."
Cotten found his remark curious. "Really?"
"I don't think it's common for most people to live their passions. Some are lucky, like you. I can see the fire in your eyes. You can't wait to jump on this story. That's what fills you up. My grandfather was fortunate that way. He was an archaeologist, too, and when I was a kid he filled my head with tales of ancient civilizations. Talk about fire in somebody's eyes. You couldn't help but listen to him and become excited. Those wondrous stories stayed with me. It's what made me go on after my ordination for a degree in Medieval and Byzantine Studies and later in Early Christian Studies."
"I hate to admit it, but I didn't know priests did other stuff. You know, other than priestly things."
John laughed. "I've done that, too. I was an assistant pastor in a small parish for a short while."
"You didn't like it?"
"Barbara Walters has nothing on you," he said. "You're going to get the whole story."
"Hope so. I find it interesting. So did you like being shepherd of your small flock?"
"As a matter of fact, I did."
"But?"
"But, Ms. Walters, it didn't fill me up is the best way I can put it. I've always wanted to serve God. That's never been a question. What's the best way is another story. Maybe it was all my grandfather's stories of the windswept plains of Africa or the ancient tombs below the streets of Middle Eastern cities. Who knows? I took a leave of absence from the priesthood to live some of those tales, see if it put fire in my eyes." John folded is arms. "Now you know my life story."
She looked into his navy blue eye
s. They were gorgeous with or without fire. But Cotten felt as if she had intruded, been too much the reporter, especially since it was she who had come to him for help in the middle of the night. "I feel like I should apologize, first for keeping you up and secondly for prying. I didn't mean it that way."
"I know you didn't. If I'd been offended, I wouldn't have spoken so freely. It was my choice."
They sat in silence for a moment, then John said, "How about a snack? I've got some rhubarb pie."
"Sounds great. I'll help." She followed him into the kitchen.
"How soon can we leave?" she asked.
"What?" He opened a cabinet. "Plates are in there."
"For Rome. How soon can we leave?"
"Well, I suppose today if I can make the arrangements."
Cotten found two small plates and set them on the counter. "Yes, today. Can you set it up?"
John pulled the pie from the refrigerator and looked at his watch. "It's still early. I have a friend with some clout. Felipe Montiagro, he's the Vatican Apostolic Nuncio."
"I'm not familiar..."
"Apostolic Nuncio. Vatican City State is a sovereign country. The nuncio is the equivalent of an ambassador. Archbishop Montiagro is the Vatican ambassador to the U.S. and works out of the Vatican embassy in Washington. We go way back. Let me give him time to get into his office; then I'll start with a call to him."
He cut two pieces of the pie, slid each onto the plates, and put them on the kitchen table. Grabbing two forks from the drawer, he said, "Soup's on."
They sat across from each other-Cotten watching him put a bite of pie in his mouth and chew. When his eyes met hers, she looked down at her pie and cut a piece with her fork.
"And I need to call a cab," she said after tasting. "I've got to go home and pack."
"It's two in the morning. You're more than welcome to stay in the guestroom. Besides, if there is a connection between the box and the break-in, your apartment may not be the best place to go."
John was right. Maybe she shouldn't return to her apartment at all. She could buy a nylon duffle bag and essentials at the airportshe still had her passport in her purse. And she would treat herself to a shopping spree in Rome once the relic was safely in the hands of the Vatican. "If I spend the night, won't your neighbors gossip?"
"Most of them are students, and they haven't even come in for the night." With a lighthearted smile, John added, "Besides, a lot of them are in my classes, and they want a passing grade."
They both laughed and finished up their pie slices. John stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and they returned to the living room.
"Did you bake the pie?" she asked.
"No, it was a gift."
"A lady friend?" Cotten asked, immediately wishing she hadn't.
John grinned. "Kind of."
"Really? I mean, can you-I didn't know a priest-even on leave-"
John laughed aloud. "My lady friend is seventy-eight years old, has acute arthritis, suffers from cataracts, and still finds time to bake me a pie every Thursday. This week was rhubarb."
Damn, she thought. Why had she asked that? P-r-i-e-s-t, Cotten. Don't you get it?
"Let's put this away for the night," John said as he wrapped the relic in the Templar cloth and placed it back in the box. He put it inside Cotten's bag. "Come on, I'll get you settled in."
He led her down the hall to the guestroom. It was plain and sparsely furnished-a single bed topped with a thick comforter, and a nightstand with a tiffany-style lamp, along with a small dresser and mirror. A simple crucifix hung on the wall at the head of the bed. It looked like he had made no investment in this place for it to become his home, she thought. He must not have decided that this is where he wanted to stay or what he wanted to do. He still hadn't found his passion.
"Nothing fancy, I'm afraid," John said.
"It'll do just fine."
"Bathroom is next door on the right. Anything else you need?"
She shook her head. "Can't think of anything."
He set the bag on the bed before saying goodnight.
John closed the door, and she heard the wood floor creak as he walked away.
Cotten gazed in the mirror. Her hair was all about, makeup long faded, eyes dull with exhaustion. "What must he think of me?"
She undressed, peeling away all the layers, then retrieved the blouse, but thought better of it. It would be too rumpled to wear in the morning if she slept in it. So, panties only it was. The room was warm enough, and the comforter looked cozy.
As she pulled back the covers, a tap on the bedroom door startled her. "Just a minute." Quickly, she slipped on her blouse and held it closed. Cracking open the door with her free hand, she peered around it through the small gap.
"I have some pajamas for you," he said. "They might be too big, but you can roll up the sleeves."
She reached through the door. "Oh, thanks," she said. As she pulled them through the narrow opening, they caught on the door handle, snapped from her hand, and fell to the floor. Cotten quickly bent over to gather them up.
John had squatted to help her. When he looked up, she heard him suck in his breath. She realized her blouse had fallen open. Frantically she fumbled to close it while he handed her the pajamas.
"Sorry," he said.
Cotten edged behind the door again, clutching the nightclothes to her chest, only her face peering around. God, she had just flashed him ... flashed a priest for God's sake.
"See you in the morning," he said, stepping away.
"You've got to trust me on this, Ted." Cotten spoke into the in-flight telephone. "I'm sitting next to Dr. John Tyler. He's an expert, and he's examined the relic. He's ninety-nine percent certain it's authentic."
She turned to John who gave a hesitant shrug.
They were over the Atlantic on a direct Delta Airlines flight to Rome's Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.
"Get the marketing department ready to promote the biggest religious story since the Shroud of Turin," she said. "But don't leak what it's actually about. Not yet. Not until we've turned it over to the Vatican.
"I'll call our Rome bureau chief," Ted Casselman said. "I want you to keep in constant contact with him-update him on everything. He'll arrange for a production crew, editing, and anything else you need. Once you've got your piece, uplink immediately."
"I'm the principal, right?"
"Yes."
"The Rome bureau is there to support me, right?"
"Yes."
Cotten slammed back in the seat. "I love you, Ted."
"Yeah, I know. But just once, I'd like to think I'm in charge of assigning stories."
"You won't regret this."
"Right." There was a pause. "Isn't that what you told me from Baghdad?"
"This is the break I'm looking for and the story you need to boost those sagging ratings."
"Be careful, Cotten." Ted Casselman hung up.
She pushed the telephone into its holder on the back of the seat in front of her and turned to John. "What?"
"Ninety-nine percent certain?"
"Where's your faith?"
"I've got plenty of faith. Scientific proof is something else."
She reached over and patted his hand. "You worry too much."
There are several royal and noble European families that are believed to be of the Merovingian bloodline, the divine lineage. They are: Hapsburg-Lorraine, Plantard, Montpezat, Luxembourg, Montesauiou, some branches of the Stuarts, and the Sinclairs.
BREEDING
"AND WHO IS THAT?" the Time science correspondent asked, pointing to a framed photograph on the desk.
"My new granddaughter," Charles Sinclair said. "She was christened only last week in St. Louis Cathedral."
"She's beautiful. You must be very proud, Dr. Sinclair."
"I am."
"And I see you like ocean racers." The correspondent motioned to a collection of photos along a side wall. "Those are impressive boats. Do you drive them?"
"No, no. BioGentec sponsors a number of high-speed racers. Smaller versions are a hobby of mine, though. I have a few go-fast boats. I take then out sometimes on poker runs."
"How does that work?"
"We usually start at Friends Restaurant in Madisonville, then onto The Dock in Slidell, then we race the twenty miles across Lake Pontchartrain. We hit a few spots there, then back across the lake to Friends. At every stop we have a drink and draw a card from the deck. At the end of the day, the best five-card poker hand wins the pot."
"Do you always win, Dr. Sinclair?" the correspondent said, smiling.
"Always."
Both men laughed.
"And other hobbies?" asked the correspondent.
"I own a few thoroughbreds."
"And are they winners, too?"
"But of course. No triple crown yet, but we've fared well at Evangeline, Saratoga, Aqueduct, Bel-"
"You have a fancy for racing and competition."
"I suppose I have a penchant for speed, not necessarily the competition. But there's more to it than that. I admire and appreciate the craftsmanship, the perfection in the construction of a racing vessel. The performance reflects the attention to minute detail."
"And the horses?"
Sinclair leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. The faintest beginnings of an arrogant smile etched his face. "The breeding."
Apropos," the correspondent said as he scribbled a note. He looked up at Sinclair. "Getting back to your comment that cloning is nothing new?"
"Human clones walk among us everyday. You've probably met quite a few. They're called identical twins-babies born from a single egg in their mother's womb that splits into two."
"How do you answer your critics who say that you're trying to play God by attempting to clone a human?" The correspondent made another note on his pad. "Even a Nobel laureate like you must think about the ethics issues."
"I'm just a scientist trying to save lives. I discover by research, by carrying out experiments. Nothing more should be read into it." Sinclair glanced at the antique mantel clock over his library fireplace. He didn't want to get any deeper into the ethical minefield. Through the French doors leading to the brick patio of his plantation estate, he saw the Mississippi beyond the ancient magnolias. Dark clouds gathered across the river.