Ark of Fire (21 page)

Several feet from where they stood, a bullet embedded itself into the asphalt pavement.

Galvanized into action, Edie ran along the median strip, her arms wildly swinging to and fro. Almost instantly, car horns began to blare, and one motorist rudely gestured as he drove past. Caedmon had no choice but to give chase. Drenched to the knees, with 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 tote bag. A second later, she slapped a hundred-dollar bill into the passenger’s hand. “Now shut up and move over!”

Cowed into submission, the man obediently slid to the far side of the seat.

“Drop us off at the next corner,” Edie ordered the cabdriver, handing him a ten. Still pissed that she’d had to pay a hundred dollars in bribe money to the Beltway bandit, who’d earlier disembarked at a K Street lobbying firm, she grudgingly signaled the driver that he could keep the change.

Having yet to utter a single word, the cabbie stopped in front of McPherson Square; the city park was overrun with homeless men huddled around metal subway grates, their worldly possessions stowed in plastic shopping bags.

No sooner did Caedmon slam 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 deadly turn of events.” Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he led her to one of the vacant benches that rimmed the park. Although they were both soaked to the knee, no one in the park took note of their bedraggled state; more than a few of the benchwarmers were in far worse straits. It was no accident that she’d picked McPherson Square; the downtown park was 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 artifice for today’s bloodshed.”

Edie derisively snorted. “I can see the headlines now . . . ‘Love Triangle Turned Deadly.’ ”

“Or some such tripe.” Caedmon’s red brows drew together. “I think we’re both in need of a fortifying cup of hot coffee,” he said, gesturing to the ubiquitous Starbucks, the chain coffeehouse located 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.”

Caedmon surveyed the park grounds. Not only were there homeless men on nearly every park bench, there were homeless men bundled in sleeping bags, the only thing protecting them from the cold, flat pieces of corrugated cardboard.

“Go on. I’ll be perfectly safe. They might look dangerous, but these guys are perfectly harmless,” she assured him.

“A bittersweet irony 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 lay low, you and I may be reduced to the same plight come night-fall.”

“A topic we’ll discuss when I return.”

Edie nodded, inclined to leave the decision making to Caedmon. 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, Caedmon departed on his coffee run.

“Don’t forget the biscotti,” she yelled at his backside, the screech earning another wave.

Her legs about to give way, Edie sat down on a vacant park bench. Within moments it began to sleet, pellets of crystallized ice assaulting her person, hitting her on the face, nose, and forehead. She hunched forward, tucking her chin into her chest.

Miserable, 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 gray, taupe, and white.

How apropos
, she dejectedly thought, her body starting to go into deep freeze. Her limbs becoming immobile, her thoughts were reduced to a sluggish meander of the nonsensical.

Seeing red instead of winter neutrals, she shoved her hand into her canvas tote bag, retrieving her BlackBerry. Hopefully, she had enough juice to make a local phone call.

She dialed 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 the 1 key, requesting to be connected.

The call was answered on the first ring. “Rosemont Security Consultants.”

Edie was 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, Ms. Miller. What an unexpected surprise.” Edie shivered. Stanford MacFarlane was 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 Caedmon had become some kind of perverted pastime, she said, “I know what you’re up to, you sick 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 Caedmon 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, Caedmon unceremoniously shoved the cell phone into his jacket breast pocket. Then, acting as though nothing were 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 valor.”

“Oh, stuff an argyle sock in it, will ya? I’m beginning to think you love the sound of your own voice.”

Caedmon 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 defenseless 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 clear. MacFarlane intended to create yet another subterfuge that would shadow his actions from the police.” As he spoke, Caedmon 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 do as ordered, 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 ice-laden 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 to the situation.”

“Proactive? As in going on the offensive?”

“If you like.”

A noticeable pause ensued, Caedmon 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 cutthroats will be searching for the Ark.”

Again, Caedmon failed to elaborate on the details, forcing Edie to needle him a bit harder. “So where are they going to put shovel to dirt?”

One side of Caedmon’s mouth lifted in a bemused half smile.

“Of all places, England.”

“We’re talking about a big island. Where exactly in England is the Ark of the Covenant hidden?”

“The ‘where exactly’ is a bit thorny,” Caedmon replied. “If you recall, Eliot Hopkins spoke of an English crusader who supposedly discovered a gold chest on the Plains 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 attain 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 exorbitantly wealthy man. For centuries whispers and rumors rattled about, some claiming that Galen had uncovered the Spear of Longinus, others claiming he’d 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 to prove or disprove the rumor, although that hasn’t stopped a legion of treasure hunters from pockmarking the environs around Godmersham.”

“Come on, Caedmon. Even you have to admit that 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 candor. “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 rumor about some old knight. Lesson of the day? One crazy rumor does not a fact make.”

“It’s thin gruel, I admit, but many an extraordinary discovery has been made by men who were labeled harebrained. 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 defense of my countrymen, I should point out that Heinrich Schliemann was German born,” Caedmon retorted, the argument having diverged into a petty tit-for-tat. “Since the Bible makes no mention of the Ark being destroyed, we must assume that it still exists. Although biblical scholars have long denied the rumors 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 rumor 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’s premise as a viable possibility.”