Ark of Fire (46 page)

Caedmon glanced at the trio of men busily engaged in hauling their treasure trove out of the hole. Time was not on his and Edie’s side. And it was certainly against them if the excavation turned up anything other than the sought-after prize.

“Why are you telling me all of this? Aren’t such disclosures akin to letting the cat out of the biblical bag?”

MacFarlane took a step in his direction; Caedmon was surprised to see a look of entreaty on his face.

“I have a reason for sharing the prophecy with you . . . I want you to join us in our holy cause. The Lord always has need of good, stalwart men ready to fight his battle.”

“. . . As with Paul on the road to Damascus, you have a chance to redeem yourself. Read the prophecies for yourself and you will see that I speak the truth.”

Astonished that the offer had even been made, Caedmon stood silent for several seconds. That is, until cynicism got the better of him.

“Ah, yes, ‘the sure word of prophecy,’” he drolly remarked, quoting another Church father, St. Peter.

“I know you to be a man searching for meaning in his own life and in the world around him.”

“Though that may be true, I’m not a malleable soul ready to latch onto the first prophet who offers a ready-made curative to life’s travails.” Purposefully he held MacFarlane at bay, knowing that if he committed too soon, he would show his hand.

“Your words imply a deep-seated fear. I can take that fear from you.” MacFarlane expansively gestured to the three men industriously working to haul their treasure trove aboveground. “My Warriors of God know no fear.”

“He’s feeding you a load,” Edie exclaimed, grabbing him by the arm. As though she feared he might step across the imaginary line that had been drawn between them and their nemesis. “I’ve read the Ezekiel prophecies, and do you know what I think? I think Ezekiel was a madman, a doomsday prophet who would have been on lithium and a very short leash had he lived in the twenty-first century. One of his so-called visions actually tells of how he came upon a pile of dry bones in the desert and supposedly breathed life into those same bones, creating a mighty army. Maybe I’m the crazy one here, but that sounds like the kind of delusional prophecy that would be spouted by some homeless guy pushing a shopping cart.”

Eyes narrowing, Stanford MacFarlane contemptuously glared at Edie.

Hoping to smooth the rough waters, Caedmon cleared his throat. “Although I won’t go so far as to speculate on Ezekiel’s mental state of mind, I know that many of the Old Testament authors wrote metaphorically, never intending their verses to be literally interpreted by later generations.”

“This I know above all else,” MacFarlane countered in an acid tone, “not only will the divine revelation given to Ezekiel come to fruition, but the Battle of Gog and Magog
will
be fought. Only those who put their trust in the Almighty will escape the coming doom. And those who take up arms against the soldiers of Magog will be doubly blessed. When the battle is fought and won, the Ark of the Covenant will be restored to its rightful place within the new Temple. Repent and you will live eternally. Turn your back on the Lord and you will be damned.”

“But why ask me to join your ranks? It’s been years since I last stepped foot in an Anglican church.”

“We can use a man with your specialized talents.”

Something in the offhand compliment gave Caedmon pause, leaving him with the distinct impression that MacFarlane knew about his tenure with MI5. Such skills would certainly appeal to a man like MacFarlane. Although he had a small army at his disposal, there was a world of difference between a soldier and a trained intelligence officer.

“I would be happy to join your ranks. However, there is a condition attached to my acceptance . . . you must free Miss—”

“Don’t do it, Caedmon!” Edie screeched over the top of him.

“—Miller. Needless to say, the point is not negotiable,” he added, hoping to check Stanford MacFarlane. And to check Edie as well. To that end, he cast her a stern glance, wordlessly ordering her to cease and desist.

“The woman knows too much. She can’t be trusted to keep quiet,” the other man uncharitably replied.

“I trust her implicitly. Is that not enough?”

“She is a degenerate vessel, unworthy of your consideration. My offer does not include the woman.”

Visibly rigid with the force of his contempt, MacFarlane glared at Edie. Loathing incarnate. Throughout history, men such as Stanford MacFarlane had voraciously condemned the female sex, blaming them for the ills of the world. He’d always thought the loathing stemmed from a deep-seated fear of woman’s innate wisdom.

With a heavy heart he offered Edie a silent apology.

Knowing that monsters, by their very nature, were devoid of mercy, he said, “Your offer puts me in mind of a medieval inquisitor attempting to convert a hapless heretic. Regardless of whether the heretic repented, it usually ended badly. For the heretic, that is.”

“I can see that your eyes are jaded. That you aren’t fit to gaze upon God’s glory.” His contempt having mutated into a stern-faced rage, MacFarlane turned to his men. “Harliss, prepare the tabernacle!”

“Yes, sir.” Like a marionette on a string, Harliss unzipped one of the oversized equipment bags.

Unable to look Edie in the eye, well aware that he had lost his only opportunity to save her life, Caedmon was surprised when she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“When the end comes, at least we’ll be together,” she whispered.

“Yes . . . we will be at that.”

“Any idea what they’re up to?” She jutted her chin at the folded stacks of material that Harliss had removed from the zippered bag.

“A badger skin, a length of blue cloth, and a tightly woven veil were traditionally wrapped around the Ark whenever it was in transport. I suspect the three layers created a primitive form of nonconducting insulation. Clearly, MacFarlane intends to play the game by the book.”

“That being the Good Book, huh?”

“Indeed. Although the scriptures have a way of becoming distorted beyond recognition when spouted by a man like MacFarlane.”

Curiosity superseding his dread, Caedmon watched as the other two members of the trio hauled a large metal box out of the earth. A quick mental calculation proved that the box was large enough to house the Ark of the Covenant. As he’d done at the cloister, Braxton opened the lock with a mighty swing of his pickax.

His movements slow and reverential, Stanford MacFarlane opened the lid.

Although he craned his neck, Caedmon could see nothing more than the dull glimmer of gold. A gold
what
, he couldn’t say. What he could see, however, was the awestruck expression affixed to the face of each of the four men gathered around the open box. As though they’d just wandered into Aladdin’s cave.

“‘And there was seen in his temple the ark of his testament and there were lightnings, and voices, and thunderings, and an earthquake, and great hail,’” Stanford MacFarlane loudly i ntoned.

“Don’t forget the drizzle,” Edie muttered under her breath. “And the fog,” she added a moment later when Harliss set off a smoke bomb, completely obscuring the proceedings from their view.

“The Hebrew priests used to shroud the Ark in a thick blanket of incense to keep it hidden from curious onlookers.” As he spoke, Caedmon squinted and strained, but the smoke barrier was impenetrable.

A few seconds later, Harliss emerged from the smoke. Two sets of plastic flexi-cuffs dangled from his fingertips. “I’ve got a restraining order for you two.”

“Will you at least tell us if the Ark of the Covenant was uncovered?” he asked, desperate to have a definitive answer.

“Oh, yeah,” the other man slowly replied, the bedazzled expression returning to his unshaved, rawboned features. “The two angels on top of the gold box were the telltale clue.”

Hearing that was like hearing an unexpected boom of thunder; Caedmon slightly swayed on his feet.

Knowing it was futile to resist, he stood motionless as Harliss bound his hands together, his mind unable to wrap around the enormity of the find.

Softly humming a jaunty tune, Harliss ripped a piece of duct tape from a roll. “Wouldn’t want to disturb the neighbors,” he said with a mean-spirited cackle as he slapped the length of tape across Caedmon’s mouth. That done, he bound and gagged Edie in a similar fashion.

“We got orders to row you two to shore and take you to a remote location. The colonel says it wouldn’t be right to kill you in the same place where we found the Ark.”

For the second time that day, the specter of death hovered over Edie’s shoulder. But this time, unlike those petrified moments when she’d stood shaking beneath the sharp point of Braxton’s pickax, she’d had time to prepare for her death; Harliss and Sanchez had loaded them into the Range Rover and taken them to a remote location some ten miles east of Swanley. Somewhere toward the sea; Edie could discern the tang of salt in the air.

In the distance, she heard the outraged screech of a seagull. The thunderous roar of a jet engine. Familiar sounds. Probably the last sounds she would hear.

At least she’d lived longer than her mother.

She turned and glanced at Caedmon, who, duct tape strapped to his mouth, hands bound in front of him, stoically stared at the passing scenery. She wondered if he, too, had used the time to take stock of his life. He could have saved himself back on the isle. But he didn’t do it. Instead, he tried to garner her freedom. From a madman, no less. Although she was furious with him for passing up his one and only chance, she thought she might just love the brave, quixotic Englishman.

Harliss, again relegated to being the copilot, peered over the headrest. “Soon you two will be sleepin’ with the angels. The colonel is fond of sayin’ that ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold . . . sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.’”

Still leaning over the back of his seat, Harliss reached into his jacket pocket and removed a pack of filterless Camels. “I’d offer you one, but . . .” Chortling, he shook a cigarette free. He then flipped open a silver lighter. Taking a drag, he blew a perfect smoke ring into her face.

Inhaling the smoke through her nostrils, Edie gagged. Beside her, Caedmon twitched, his muffled protest sounding as though he were attempting to speak under water.

Seemingly oblivious to the psychodrama, Sanchez steered the SUV onto what looked to be a deserted farm road; the Range Rover lurched from side to side as they slowly proceeded down a rutted lane. They’d gone approximately a half mile when Sanchez put on the brakes and cut the engine.

Edie and Caedmon simultaneously turned and looked at one another.

Craning his head from side to side, Harliss gave an approving nod. “This looks as good a place as any. Don’t know that anyone’s been down this road in a good long while.” He turned to his partner. “What do ya think?”

“I think I gotta take a crap,” Sanchez blurted, releasing his seat belt.

“Jesus! A body could tell time by your bowel movements.”

“Shut up and get me the wipes out of the glove compartment.”

A few seconds later, diaper wipes in hand, Sanchez ambled toward a clump of trees. Harliss, a half-smoked Camel sticking out of the corner of his mouth, opened the passenger’s-side door and got out of the SUV. Slamming the door shut, he stretched his back, then walked around to the front of the vehicle. Leaning against the hood, with his back to them, he proceeded to finish smoking his cigarette.