CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy

by Lynn Sholes

  She resisted, wrenching away.

  "Walk with me," he said. "Don't be afraid."

  Cotten followed, risking the chance to look behind for John. If he was there, the swarm of people kept him hidden. But someone else did get her attention, a large man in a monk's costume and mask, lumbering and shoving through the crowd, heaving people out of the way.

  The pirate yanked her forward. "Come on," he shouted, apparently noticing her hesitation.

  Cotten's eyes locked on the monk whose bulk prohibited any agility as he forced his way toward them.

  The pirate glanced over his shoulder at her and tracked her line of vision. He froze.

  Another sudden burst of fireworks startled Cotten, and she shrank, drawing her shoulders together, shielding her face with her arm. In the same instant, the monk pulled a gun from a slit in the brown robe just below the rope belt. She heard the rapid poppinglouder and closer than the fireworks. She saw the spark of flame at the end of the pistol and felt the grip on her arm loosen. The pirate slumped to the ground.

  Cotten screamed as fear ricocheted through the crowd. Who had been the target, her or the pirate?

  Bodies dropped, knocked down by others trying to get away from the gunfire.

  One of the bystanders jumped at the armed man, attempting to wrestle the pistol away. The monk jabbed his elbow into the man's face, then waving the gun, clambered over those who had fallen in the melee.

  From out of the dense mass, Cotten caught a glimpse of John battling his way toward the shooter. With a long leap, he dove onto the monk's back, driving him to the pavement. Others caught in the crush of the crowd faltered and went down. People screamed as they scrambled in every direction.

  She lost sight of both John and the monk as they were swallowed in the confusion. Cotten dropped beside the pirate. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and onto the fibers of the artificial beard. His white shirt had turned crimson.

  Finally, the terrified crowd thinned, fleeing the corner of St. Charles and Jackson.

  "Help will be coming," Cotten told the pirate. "You're going to be all right." She strained to look for John. "Oh, God, please don't let him be hurt." She found herself rocking. "Please. Please."

  The pirate coughed, but the sound was more like the gurgle of air blown through a straw into a glass of water.

  "St. Clair," he mumbled. "Stop Sinclair."

  Cotten slipped the beard and mustache off his face and removed the buccaneer hat.

  "Oh, my God," she said, recognizing him.

  "Cotten! Are you hit?" John called as he came behind her, a bloodied lip and out of breath.

  Cotten shot to her feet and flung her arms around him. "Thank God, thank God," she said. "No, I'm fine. You're all right. What happened to the monk?"

  "He broke away and disappeared in the crowd. I tried to follow, but there were just too many people."

  "It doesn't matter," she said, putting her palm to his cheek. Cotten looked down at the wounded man at her feet. "John, it's..." she said in almost a whisper.

  John bent over and looked at the pirate. "Holy Mother of God."

  In 1442, in Scotland, Sir William St. Clair, a member of the St. Clair/Sinclair family who were apart of the Templars since 1118, began building a collegiate church dedicated to St. Matthew. The church was laid out in the shape of a cross, but only the chapel was ever completed. The chapel, an enigma to even modern scholars, was based on the floor plan of Solomon's Temple. Engraved in the masonry are maize and aloe, which are New World plants-but the chapel was built before Columbus's voyage. Everywhere inside the chapel are Christian, Islamic, Celtic, pagan, and Masonic pictures, hieroglyphs, and symbols. It has been conjectured that the Knights Templar hid treasure and other sacred relics there. The name of this Gothic structure is Rosslyn Chapel.

  INVITATION TO THE BALL

  "You ARE THE ONE who called me? Told me to come to New Orleans?" Cotten used the underside of the hem of her dress to dab blood from the face of the man who had disguised himself as a pirate. "Why? What is it that you know?"

  "I have sinned against my God. A grievous sin. I'm ready to accept my fate." Lying on the sidewalk, Cardinal Antonio lanucci stared at the night sky. "Oh, God, forgive me." His words sputtered. "You ... you must stop Sinclair. What he does is an abomination." He clutched Cotten's arm, struggling to raise his head.

  "Cotten! Thornton's list," John said. "Saint. Sin. St. Clair. St. Clair was the French name. They became the Sinclairs. Famous early Templar family. That's it. Sinclair is the name of the Grand Master," John said. "Where is he? How do we stop him?"

  From the inside of his shirt, lanucci struggled to pull a bloodstained envelope. "Take it and-" A wet, bubbly cough erupted. He gasped for air, and it rattled into his lungs.

  Kneeling beside the cardinal, John read the contents of the envelope before looking at Cotten. "It's an invitation to a masquerade ball tonight at the estate of Dr. Charles Sinclair."

  "Oh, shit," Cotten said. "Charles Sinclair."

  John leaned in close to Ianucci. "You want us to go? We should use this to get in?"

  The cardinal nodded and tapped his pants pocket.

  John reached in the pocket and withdrew a small plastic box. He cracked open the lid, then snapped it closed and stared at the cardinal. "Sweet Jesus, what have you done?"

  The wail of sirens blared, growing closer.

  The cardinal opened his mouth as if to speak, but then grimaced.

  "We'll stay with you," Cotten said.

  lanucci's eyelids fluttered, and the grasp on Cotten's sleeve relaxed. His hand fell to the ground; his labored breaths grew quiet, then still.

  Cotten dragged her hand over her face. "He's dead."

  John blessed the cardinal, then looked up at Cotten. "We've got to get out of here."

  "Shouldn't you give him the Last Rites or something?"

  "Cotten, that guy might have been shooting at you, not lanucci. We've got to go, now."

  John gathered Cotten to her feet, pulling her along even as she kept looking over her shoulder at the dead cardinal who lay in a sprawl of blood.

  Quickly, they took to the side streets and narrow dark alleys until the sound of the sirens faded into echoes of Dixieland Jazz and the call of street vendors and barkers.

  Winded, and the pain in her side growing intense, she had to stop. She darted into a recess that formed the entrance to a small antique shop closed for the night. Towing John in with her, she leaned back against the door, panting. "I can't go any farther."

  He pulled off the Phantom mask, breathing hard.

  "Should we go back to the motel and ditch these costumes?" Cotten asked.

  He shook his head as he bent over in the small alcove with his hands on his knees. "We need them to get into the masquerade ball."

  "But what about this?" she said, pointing to the blood splotch on the hem of her dress.

  "We'll find a bathroom and wash it out as best we can." Still catching his breath, he looked at Cotten. "Sounded like you've heard of Sinclair."

  "Yes," she answered, closing her eyes. "What you said about the cloning-it must be really happening. Charles Sinclair is a geneticist, a Nobel Prize winner. His research is on human cloning. SNN has covered his accomplishments many times."

  John straightened and paced, still breathing hard. He slapped his palm to his forehead. "Why didn't I see it before with the Saint and Sin on Thornton's list? It should have rung a bell."

  "But you didn't know about Charles Sinclair, that he was a geneticist."

  "No, but I know about the St. Clairs, Sinclairs. That's what I should have picked up on. Back in the fourteen hundreds William St. Clair built Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, Scotland. It has strong connections to the Templars and today's Freemasons. The chapel is thought to have been built to hide a sacred treasure. Rumors said it held the Ark of the Covenant-even the mummified head of Christ Himself, if you can believe that. The St. Clair family has a long, distinctive line of successio
n. I'll bet you anything, it ends with Charles Sinclair as a direct descendant of William St. Clair. The Grand Master."

  "What are we supposed to do at this ball?" Cotten asked.

  John shook his head. "Hopefully, it'll become clear once we get there. Believe me, Ianucci had something specific in mind." He took the small plastic box from his pocket and opened it.

  As soon as Cotten saw the contents, she gasped.

  "Step out of the car, please," the private security guard said as he opened the taxi door.

  John got out, followed by Cotten, both still in costume.

  "Invitation, please," a second guard said, extending his hand. John gave the man the white embossed card, and the guard shined his flashlight on it.

  "Extend your arms out to the sides, sir," the first guard said.

  John complied, and the man scanned him with a handheld metal detector wand. He then moved to Cotten and performed the same routine.

  The guard returned the invitation. "Enjoy your evening," he said, stepping aside.

  John paid the taxi driver. Then he and Cotten walked through the security checkpoint at the iron-gated entrance to the Sinclair plantation. They moved down the driveway onto a great expanse of manicured lawn that gently sloped to the river. Costumed guests sipped champagne from crystal flutes and walked among torch-lit paths, fountains, and gardens. A string quartet played Mozart, and the sweet sound drifted on the Mississippi River breeze.

  Judging by the rows of limousines and exotic cars they passed coming in, Cotten guessed that the elite of New Orleans society were in attendance.

  John squeezed her hand, nodding at the ornate carving stretching across the entrance to the house-the Cross Patee with twining roses in recessed gold leaf below the name of the estate.

  "Rosslyn Manor," John read. "Sinclair named this place after the chapel."

  Despite the tight security at the gate, Cotten noticed little in the way of guards or security uniforms as she and John wandered toward the gardens. "I'm surprised they didn't check our IDs," she said.

  "Picture IDs would be useless at a masquerade ball," John said, motioning to a woman walking past them whose face was painted like a rainbow.

  "Keep your eyes open to anything odd," John said. "Out of the ordinary."

  "Are you kidding? This whole shebang is nuts," Cotten said. "For starters, you can't tell who's who." They passed a boy-on-a-dolphin fountain. "This reminds me a little of the place I told you about in Miami," she said.

  "Vizcaya, where you first met Wingate?" John asked.

  Cotten nodded and looped her arm through his.

  Soon, they stood on a wooden dock on the bank of the Mississippi. A beam from a tugboat's searchlight swept across them like a blind man's cane as the vessel pushed a long line of barges through the darkness. The string quartet stopped playing, and a voice came over the PA. "I'd like to welcome everyone to my annual Mardi Gras celebration."

  "That must be Sinclair," Cotten said.

  "Please gather beneath the veranda so I can see all of the spectacular costumes," the voice said.

  Cotten and John walked up a stone path, joining those gathering beneath the balcony.

  A man stood on the balcony dressed as a crusader with sword at his side. On his chest was the red Cross Patee. "Welcome to Rosslyn Manor."

  Enthusiastic applause broke out.

  "That's him, I'm sure," Cotten said. "I've seen his face on our science segments."

  Their host continued. "We've planned a wonderful evening of food and entertainment. Until dinner is served, feel free to wander the grounds and enjoy the beautiful starlit sky. I think you will all agree Louisiana is God's country."

  Another roar of applause washed across the lawn as Sinclair waved, then disappeared inside.

  "He doesn't look all that menacing;' Cotten said.

  "Remember the story of the wolf in sheep's clothing."

  The two watched until the knot of people dispersed.

  "Now what?" Cotten asked.

  "Time to scope out the mansion."

  "Are you crazy? How?"

  "By doing exactly what they won't expect. We'll walk right in the front door."

  "And I will give power to my two witnesses." (Revelation 11:3)

  IN PLAIN SIGHT

  JOHN RAPPED THE BRASS doorknocker, and Cotten pushed the doorbell.

  "Ready?" John asked.

  She nodded.

  As the door opened, Cotten started. "I told you we need a cell phone now that we have the baby. A beeper isn't-"

  Cotten turned and faced the man standing in the doorway. He was tall, balding and formal, dressed in a white tie and tails.

  "Good evening," he said.

  The butler, she assumed, and mentally named him Jeeves since he could have posed for the cartoon character on the popular Internet search website.

  "Dinner will be served at nine," Jeeves said. "Doctor Sinclair will not be receiving guests until then."

  "No, no," Cotten said. "We need to use the phone. The sitter just beeped us."

  "The baby's been sick," John said. "My wife's a little nervous. First child and our first time away from him."

  Cotten flipped her hair back and said to John, "I told you we shouldn't have come." She turned to the butler. "Could we use the phone? Please?"

  Jeeves hesitated, then stepped back, clearing the doorway. He gave a slight motion of his arm allowing them entrance.

  "Thank you;' Cotten said.

  They followed the butler through the marble-tiled foyer and past the double spiral staircase.

  "This way," Jeeves said. He showed them into a study-dark wood paneling, a large desk with hand-carved legs, a high-back leather chair, several occasional chairs and tables, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases swelling with hundreds of volumes. Thick draperies shadowed the windows that stretched the height of the room.

  Cotten watched the butler turn on the banker's light beside the telephone on the desk.

  "We appreciate it," John said.

  Jeeves strode back across the room but parked himself in the doorway.

  Cotten picked up the cordless phone and dialed, never pressing the talk button. She held the receiver to her ear and waited, then rolled her eyes and put it down. "Busy."

  "The sitter must be on the Internet," John said, looking at the butler. "We're the last of the dial-up diehards."

  She glared at John. "You'd have us living without electricity ..." Her voice was cold. Cotten leaned against the desk. "Do you mind if we wait a few minutes and try again?"

  John sat in a leather wingback. "Don't let us keep you," he said to the butler. "As soon as we get in touch with the sitter, we'll show ourselves out."

  Jeeves cocked his head as if calculating his responsibility. "Very well," he said with a bit of hesitation. "You can find your way out?"

  "No problem. And thanks so much." Cotten gave her most grateful smile. As the door closed, she said, "Damn. I didn't think he'd ever leave us alone."

  John cracked the door. "Let's start on the second floor. There's going to be too much activity down here."

  They slipped out of the study and crept up the staircase-Cotten cringing at every sound.

  The first three doors they tried led to bedrooms, and the fourth to an office suite equipped with an entertainment center-plasma TV, DVD player, the works-covering one entire wall. "Impressive;' Cotten said. There was also a desk with a computer which she assumed was for the convenience of any visitors staying at the plantation. Guests could get on the Net and surf or check their email.

  Cotten went to a window, pulled back the sheer curtain and peered out. "So these are the riches you get when you sell your soul." She turned to John. "Any idea what we're looking for?"

  John shook his head. "Hopefully we'll know when we see it."

  They explored several other rooms that turned out to be additional bedrooms-all extravagant, but of no help. Cotten wondered if the cardinal had sat on the edge of one of those beds in the middle of the
night contemplating his deed.

  At the end of the hall was a door smaller than the others.

  "Storage closet?" Cotten said.

  "Probably."

  The door opened to a cramped media room outfitted with a video projector sitting on a tall stand. Its lens was aimed through a glassed rectangular window looking out onto an expansive, highceiling conference room below. Tall racks of audio gear and other electronic equipment stood beside the projector. Muffled voices came from beyond the window.

  John and Cotten squeezed between the projector and equipment rack, and peered through the window. Cotten saw that the room below had a richly polished ebony conference table in the center and ten high-backed chairs ringing it. Only two men were seated. One was Sinclair; the other she didn't recognize. On a far wall, seven video monitors glowed-each filled with a different face.

  "My God," Cotten said quietly. "I recognize those men. They're the ones from Thornton's list!"

  "The Guardians-the seven heads;" John whispered. He motioned at Sinclair and the other man seated at the table. "And two more of the ten horns. The gang's almost all here."

  "Who's missing?" Cotten asked.

  "Don't know."

  Sinclair spoke to Gearheart, but the soundproofing of the media room reduced the transmission of the conversation between the two rooms.

  "Here," John said, rotating a wall-mounted knob labeled monitor speaker. As he slowly turned it, the voices from below could be heard.

  Sinclair said, "Gentlemen, welcome. All of you know my associate, Ben Gearhart."

  Cotten recoiled. Gearhart ... Gearhart. She nudged John. "Ben Gearhart, that's the name on the card-the business card given to Robert Wingate that night at Vizcaya. Shit, he's Sinclair's right-hand man." The words spooled from her lips, but not as fast as her thoughts came together. "Wingate's tied into this, too." She closed her eyes. John's theories about God and the devil were scary enough, but in a removed surreal way. She couldn't comprehend Lucifer and God engaged in battle other than in some distant ethereal place or on the movie screen with Linda Blair's heading spinning. But this ... The presidential candidate's involvement brought what had floated in the foggy realm of fantasy smack into the bright light of reality. All of this was becoming too real.