Ark of Fire (16 page)

“What was running through your gourd, Gunny, detonating that wad of C-4 without the Miller woman being in the vehicle? This operation was supposed to have been swift and silent, not a blind man’s game of grab-ass.”

“Sir, the explosives were rigged to go off when the engine was started. I had no way of knowing the C-4 would detonate when the tow truck hooked the—”

“Well, you should have known! And how is it that Aisquith and Miller eluded six, count ’em, six men trained in urban warfare?”

“I don’t know how they got the slip on us, sir.”

Hearing that, MacFarlane was sorely tempted to ram his knee into his subordinate’s crotch. Penance for his sins. Instead, he strode over to his desk. A hardbound book,
Isis Revealed
, lay in plain sight on top of his in-basket. He snatched the book in his hand, waving it in front of the gunny’s face.

“Are you saying that the man who wrote this pack of lies outsmarted six of Rosemont’s finest?” He’d earlier had one of his assistants purchase the book; a hunter needed to know the nature of the beast before he laid his traps.

“He’s good, sir. That’s all I know. Riggins is fairly certain they slipped through the Seventh Street exit.”

MacFarlane wasn’t fooled by the Brit’s bravado. No doubt Aisquith and the Miller woman were holed up somewhere, trying to figure out their next move. They were afraid, uncertain whom they could trust. He had carefully cultivated that mistrust when he earlier spoke to the woman. The mess at the Hopkins Museum had been swept clean and the fiasco at the National Gallery of Art attributed to a rogue terrorist. But all that could change if Ms. Miller gave a statement to the police.

He dismissively tossed the book into his in-box, his gaze momentarily landing on the book jacket photo of a red-haired man in a tweed sports jacket.

There was a special place in hell for men who blasphemed the teachings of the one true God.

Soon enough, the ex-operative turned faux historian would know the meaning of terror; Aisquith was playing with a fire that could not be extinguished.

As the silent seconds ticked past, Boyd Braxton wordlessly stared at him, a
Help me, I’m drowning
look on his broad face. It put him in mind of the night that the gunny murdered his wife and child—a boot mistake committed in a moment of unchecked rage. MacFarlane had used the calamitous event to bring the sobbing, baby-faced gunnery sergeant to God. He’d done good work that night, having made a promise not to turn his back on the man who now stood before him.

Ass chewing administered, Stanford MacFarlane pointed to the parquet floor. “On your knees, boy. It’s time you begged the Almighty’s forgiveness.”

A look of relief on his face, the gunnery sergeant obediently dropped to his knees, his head bowed in prayer. Glancing downward, MacFarlane could see the crisscrossed scars that marred his subordinate’s skull. Remnants of a sinner’s life, the scars were undoubtedly the result of a broken beer bottle making contact with Braxton’s head.

Stepping back, giving the other man the space he needed to make his peace with God, he walked over to the shipping container on the other side of the room, the Stones of Fire packed and ready for transport. Acquiring the breastplate had been the preliminary step in a much larger operation. A means to an end. The end being the cleansing of all perversion, all licentiousness.

Like ancient Egypt, America was headed down the path of destruction, the world no different now than it was in the days of the pharaoh. Plague upon plague had been sent upon the godless pagans, none immune save the God-fearing Moses and his Hebrew entourage. So, too, this epoch would see God’s might as never before, his “terrible swift sword” striking down the false prophets, the feel-good TV shrinks, the prosperity gurus. Those who did not heed the warnings of the Old Testament prophets would discover firsthand how God judges sin.

With so little time left, America must have a revival of repentance, the nation having strayed from the tenets of God’s word as transcribed by the prophets. A course correction was needed. Holy warriors were needed.

MacFarlane walked over to the framed map that hung behind his desk. Starting at Washington, D.C., he cast his gaze due east. To Jerusalem.

“Oh, holy city of Zion. God’s glittering jewel,” he murmured. “God said the Temple shall be rebuilt . . . and so it shall.” Rejuvenated, he turned away from the map. “Rise to your feet, boy, and start acting like the man of God that you are.”

As Braxton shoved himself upright, a disembodied voice came over the telephone intercom. “They just brought Eliot Hopkins into the waiting room, sir.”

Pleased, MacFarlane turned to his subordinate. “Show the museum director into the office. And make sure you give him a hearty Rosemont welcome.”

“How is it that you know so much about Moses and his Egyptian roots?” Edie inquired as she and Caedmon waited for the computer to boot up.

The hotel night clerk, a good-natured student at the nearby George Mason School of Law, had given them access to a computer in the back office. More a storage alcove than a true office, the room was stacked with plastic bins and boxes. Sitting side by side at the computer, Caedmon in the lone swivel chair, Edie perched on a bin, they were there to cyber sleuth. Although what Caedmon thought he’d find was a mystery to her.

“For a brief time, I dabbled in Egyptology while an undergraduate student at Oxford,” Caedmon said in response to her question. “That was before I became thoroughly infatuated with the Knights Templar and jumped ship, as you Yanks are prone to say.”

“The Knights Templar? Yeah, I can see that.” Volunteering a personal tidbit of her own, she said, “I’ve got a master’s degree in women’s studies.”

Broadly grinning, Caedmon winked at her. “Nearly as obscure a course of study as medieval history. And this business with taking the digital photographs at the Hopkins Museum?”

“A girl’s got to make a living somehow.”

Enjoying the flirtatious banter, she wondered if anything would come of it. Because of the near miss at the National Gallery, they’d decided against separate rooms.
Would he put the moves on her once the bed covers were turned down?
Imagining what that might be like, she stared at his hands, admiring the raised pattern of veins. She’d seen those hands before. In Florence on Michelangelo’s
David
.

Admittedly intrigued by the brainy, street-smart man with the masculine hands, she decided to pry the lid a bit higher. “Earlier today you said something about being on a book tour.”

“I recently wrote a book about the Egyptian mystery cults. Which permits me to put the word
author
on my curriculum vitae.”

“That would make you—what?—a historian?”

Caedmon keyed in the logon code given to them by the front desk clerk. “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a r ehistorian.”

“Last time I looked, that particular word hadn’t made it to the pages of Webster’s.”

“Nor the Oxford English Dictionary. But seeing as there’s no word to accurately describe what I do, I was forced to improvise.”

“And just how does a rehistorian differ from your standard garden-variety historian?”

“An historian gathers, examines, and interprets the material evidence that remains from the near and distant past,” Caedmon replied as he pulled up the Google home page. “In contrast, a rehistorian reveals that which has remained hidden from view, scholarship and speculation going hand in hand.”

She smiled. “Well, you did lay claim to being an iconoclast.”

“So I did. But enough about me.” Leaning forward, he retrieved the pad of blank notepaper lying on top of the desk, the Holiday Inn logo stamped across the top border. He then removed a pen from his breast pocket. “I want you to tell me every pertinent detail you can recall from your earlier ordeal.”

“You mean at the Hopkins Museum?” When he nodded, she propped her chin on her balled fist, the memories admittedly convoluted. “Well, I already told you about the ring with the Jerusalem cross. But what I didn’t tell you is that right after he murdered Dr. Padgham, the killer called someone on his cell phone. I counted seven digital beeps, so it had to be a local call.”

Caedmon scribbled the words
D.C. phone call
on the pad of paper.

“And I remember that the killer said something about going to ‘London at nineteen hundred hours.’ ” Edie bracketed the last five words with air quotation marks. “Or maybe that was the cop who mentioned London. I’m not sure. Sorry. I don’t remember. No! Wait!” Excited, Edie slapped her palm against the desktop. “The killer mentioned a place called Rosemont.”

“Let me make certain that I have this correct: D.C. phone call, London nineteen hundred hours, and Rosemont.” When she nodded, he ripped the sheet of paper from the pad.

“Now what?” Edie scooted the green bin closer to the desk so she could better see the computer monitor.

“Now, we delve into the abyss.”

Edie nudged him in the arm with her elbow. “Thanks for that bit of heightened drama. Like I wasn’t scared enough already.”

Caedmon glanced first at his arm, then at her face. For several seconds they wordlessly stared at one another, two strangers drawn together by a trio of seemingly unconnected clues.

As she continued to gaze into Caedmon’s blue eyes, Edie detected a fire. A passion. But for what, she had no idea. History. Religion. The occult sciences. Hard to tell.

The first to break eye contact, Caedmon typed the words Rosemont + D.C. into the search field. “Since the London reference is too vague, we’ll start with this.”

“You know, I remember the good ol’ days when everyone used to have what was quaintly referred to as a ‘private life.’”

“Yes, little did Orwell imagine that Big Brother would come in the guise of a desktop computer.”

“Looks like we’ve got a hit,” she exclaimed a half second later, pointing to the computer screen. “It’s a Wikipedia entry for Rosemont Security Consultants.” Quickly, she scanned the brief description. Then, baffled, she turned to Caedmon. “Rosemont is some sort of security firm headquartered in Washington.”

Caedmon clicked on the entry. To her dismay, only one scant paragraph appeared. Caedmon hit the
Print
button and the HP printer whirred to life.

Edie read the particulars aloud. “‘Founded in 2006 by former Marine Corps colonel Stanford MacFarlane, Rosemont is one of several security consulting firms created in the wake of the Afghan and Iraqi conflicts. Specializing in security consulting, stability operations, and tactical support, Rosemont has security contracts in twenty-two nations worldwide.’” As the information began to sink in, Edie’s shoulders slumped. “A security consulting firm . . . that’s a polite way of saying that Rosemont specializes in mercenaries for hire.”

“So it would seem.” Caedmon typed a new entry into the search field. “Damn. Rosemont Security Consultants doesn’t maintain a Web page. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, given that such companies prefer to operate out of the public eye.”

“You know what this means, don’t you? It means that we’re not dealing with one or two armed bad men. We’re dealing with an entire army of—”

“We don’t know that,” Caedmon interjected, still the voice of reason. “Padgham’s killer may simply be in the employ of Rosemont Security Consultants. It in no way implies that the firm had anything to do with Padgham’s murder or the subsequent theft of the Stones of Fire.”

Suddenly recalling something she’d failed to mention, Edie threw her right arm into the air, waving it to catch the teacher’s attention. “One last premature leap, okay? I remember that the killer asked to speak to ‘the colonel.’” She snatched the printed sheet of paper out of Caedmon’s hands. Turning it toward him, she underlined the first sentence of the Wikipedia entry with her index finger. “It says here that the man who founded Rosemont Security Consultants is an ex-Marine colonel by the name of Stanford MacFarlane. Do you think there’s a link? That this might be who the killer called on his cell phone?”

“Possibly,” Caedmon replied, obviously not one to leap without looking. He quickly typed the words Stanford + MacFarlane into the search engine. A dozen entries popped up, most of them dating to the year 2006.

“That one,” Edie said. “The
Washington Post
article dated March twentieth.”

Caedmon clicked on the entry.

In silence, they both stared at the photograph that accompanied the front-page story: a group of military officers, some in dress uniform, some in combat fatigues, linked arm in arm, their heads reverentially bowed.

Edie read the headline aloud. “
Pentagon Top Aide Conducts Weekly Prayer Circle.
And according to the photo tagline, that guy in the middle with the thinning gray buzz cut is Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. I think you better—”

“Righto,” Caedmon said, hitting the
Print
button.