CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (2 page)

When she got home he was going to I-told-you-so, I-should-fireyou her to death. That was if she got home. Cotten shivered. She was
stranded and freezing in the middle of the Iraqi desert.

Charles Sinclair stared out his office window at the sprawling campus
surrounding the BioGentec laboratories near the University of New
Orleans. The blue of Lake Pontchartrain lay beyond. He watched the
small army of groundskeepers with their John Deere mowers and golf
cart utility vehicles moving across the lawn and among the gardensmanicured and in perfect order. He liked perfect order.

The phone on his desk chirped, and he jumped, spilling a few
drops of the chicory coffee onto the Persian rug.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Sinclair, you have an international call on line eight," his secretary said.

Sinclair punched the blinking button. He wouldn't take this call
on the speakerphone. "This is Sinclair." The hiss of the connection
annoyed him as he pressed the receiver firmly to his ear.

"We uncovered the entrance to the crypt two days ago;' the man
on the other end said. "Late this afternoon, it was opened."

Sinclair's knuckles whitened as he clutched the phone. "Ahmed, I
hope you have good news." He paced.

"I do. Everything is just as Archer predicted."

"What did you find?"

"Many artifacts with the bones," Ahmed continued. "Armor, reli
-
gious trinkets, some scrolls, and a box."

Adrenaline streaked through Sinclair's body making his fingertips
tingle. "What does the box look like?"

"Black, no markings, about fifteen centimeters square."

Perspiration softened the starch in the white collar of Sinclair's
Armani shirt. Static filled the pause before he spoke again. "And its
contents?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean? You were there, weren't you?"

"Archer did not open it. He and the others are packing to leave as
we speak. We must abandon the site-the area is becoming too dangerous. Everyone is nervous. There is no time to examine-"

"No!" Sinclair pinched the bridge of his nose. "You go back
immediately and get the box. Have Archer show you how to open it.
Call me as soon as you confirm what's inside and you have it securely
in your possession. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Ahmed's voice sank into the static.

"Ahmed," he said, keeping his voice low and controlled, "it is
imperative that you complete your assignment. I cannot stress that
enough."

"I understand."

Sinclair hung up the phone and stared at the receiver. The Arab
could not even begin to understand.

SUDDENLY, THE SOUND OF an approaching vehicle caught Cotten's
attention. Headlights danced in the distance along the uneven highway. At last, she thought. But what if it was Iraqi soldiers? She backed
onto the sandy shoulder, her heart thumping up into her throat.
Finally, when it was close enough, she guessed from the lights on the
cab and trailer that it was a fuel tanker. She took a few steps forward,
waving her arms, but the vehicle didn't slow. Shielding her eyes from
the sand and gravel thrown up as the truck roared past, Cotten
watched it disappear as quickly as it had appeared.

It probably wasn't wise to hail a ride anyway. No telling what
frame of mind any Iraqi would be in at this point. She'd be safer
keeping out of sight and making as much distance as possible before
daylight.

After an hour of walking, Cotten plopped her bags down and sat
on one. Her arms ached from the weight of the carryalls, and she
shuddered as the cold penetrated her heavy parka. When she got back
to the States, she was going to Florida for a long overdue thawing out.
That was a promise.

Cotten emptied one of the bags, taking out anything she could
leave behind. As she sorted through her belongings, she wondered if
coming to Iraq had been smart. Maybe she'd made a stupid decision.
She hadn't stopped to analyze everything, and then when Casselman
protested, she got one of those dog-with-a-bone attitudes. There were
other assignments she could have taken-ones of equal importance,
ones that would have distanced her from Thornton.

"Damn, damn, damn," she said as she retrieved only the essentials: wallet, passport, and press credentials along with her still camera, lenses, film, and the plastic film container that hid her emergency
money. She stuffed them in the other bag with the videocassettes.
After taking one last look over her shoulder at the small pile of
belongings left behind, she trudged on.

The moon rose and painted the desert with enough light to keep
her from losing sight of the road. She wished for her sofa and comforter, a hot cup of Starbucks or better yet, a smooth Absolut over ice.

Suddenly, she stopped and blinked, making sure what she saw was
not a mirage. There were lights in the distance. Not from vehicles, but
from some kind of settlement or camp with electricity. She set the
bag down and rubbed her shoulder and arm to get the circulation
back. Taking out her camera, she attached the telephoto lens and
brought the lights into focus. If it was an encampment of the Republican Guard or even the Iraqi regulars, an American woman traveling
alone would stand little chance. Some of her colleagues in Baghdad
had told her stories of the brutality, rapes ... men who behaved like
animals, like feral dogs.

She panned across the site. There were no obvious weapons, army
vehicles, or anything that resembled a military installation. It looked
more like an excavation site. Buckets, temporary tents, tables, spoil
piles. An archaeological dig? Cotten guessed she was somewhere near
one of the ancient Assyrian ruins scattered throughout the region. Several old trucks were grouped near a crumbling stone structure. A
handful of men moved in a flurry of activity.

This might be her opportunity to catch a safe ride to the border,
she thought. She hesitated, wondering if she should take the chance.
Finally she stowed the camera and headed for the lights.

Near the site, she saw men scrambling about, loading equipment
and crates onto the trucks. The sporadic confrontations between the
Iraqi military and the increasingly brazen, U.S.-backed Kurdish rebels
had probably made the area become too dangerous for an archaeological dig.

She strained to hear their voices. Turkish! Not Iraqi. Relieved,
Cotten entered the camp and approached one of the men. "Excuse
me," she said.

He wore a dark shirt ringed with sweat under the arms. The
stench from his body was sharp in the cold air. He glared at her for a
moment as if wondering where she came from. "No English," he said,
taking a crate from a wheelbarrow and throwing it onto the bed of
the truck. If she hadn't leaned back, he would have swiped her with it.

Cotten tried to stop another man who sidestepped her and gave
her an annoyed glance.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around. A
short, stumpy man stood close.

"American?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Turk," he said, and smiled, revealing a mouth filled with crooked
brown teeth beneath a mustache that hung over his lip like an
awning.

"I need a ride," she said, pointing north.

He twitched his head toward the ruins. "Go see Dr. Archer,
Gabriel Archer."

Someone shouted and, with a polite nod, the Turk hurried away.

A small group boarded one of the trucks. The engine coughed to
life, and the truck pulled onto the road. There were still two trucks
left, but they were quickly being loaded. Not much time to find this
Dr. Archer and beg for a lift.

In the moonlight, she located the entrance to the stone structure.
Wooden scaffolding shored up the walls and, as she entered, she
ducked beneath a low archway. Just ahead, a string of bare lightbulbs
dangled over the entrance and along a passageway beyond. She followed the passage until it ended at a set of steps leading underground. Buckets of dirt were stacked nearby, waiting to be hauled
outside and emptied into screens. A gas generator rattled, powering
the string of lights running into the hole. She leaned over the head of
the steps and called out. "Hello ... Archer?" There was no response.
"Dr. Archer?" she called louder.

In the distance she heard the throaty diesel of another truck start
up and pull out. Only one left.

Cotten started down the stairs. The icy air smelled old like a mausoleum. She'd only been in one, but that distinct mustiness, the dank
odor of soil and rock, couldn't be forgotten. Even though she'd been a
child at the time, she remembered her father's funeral: the sickeningly
sweet scent of flowers, the strange acidic odor of chemicals, and the
cold, stony smell of the burial vault.

The steps ended in a small room. She crossed it and peered through
a short tunnel leading into an expansive chamber. There she saw two
men. One was slightly hunched over and gray-haired, dressed in a
dusty khaki shirt and faded jeans. He must be Archer, she thought,
because the other man had the swarthy skin and garb of an Arab.

She squeezed through the narrow shaft.

Archer stood next to what Cotten thought was a crypt in the far
wall of the chamber. She caught a glimpse of brown bones and a glint
of metal. He held open a small box at which both men stared intently.

Cotten opened her mouth to call out.

Suddenly, the Arab pulled a gun from under his robe. Cotten
froze as the man pointed the pistol at Archer. "Give it to me!" he
demanded.

Archer closed the lid and took a step backward, keeping a firm
grip on the box. His eyes widened, his face turned skeleton white.
"You're one of them."

Cotten pressed back against a loose support timber. It shifted, and
a small avalanche of pebbles and sand spilled to the ground.

The men turned at the sound and for an instant looked at her.

Archer dropped the box and grappled for the gun. He slammed
into the man, and they tumbled to the dirt floor.

The Arab shoved the gun barrel against the archaeologist's head.
Archer thrust up an elbow, redirecting the aim of the weapon just as
it discharged. The blast was deafening in the hard-walled chamber.

The Arab straddled Archer, forcing the gun into the old man's
cheekbone. With a loud grunt, Archer kicked his knee up, driving the
Arab forward and ramming his head into the wall. Dazed, the man let
up for an instant, and Archer scrambled out from under him. The
Arab lifted the pistol, took aim, and Archer dove for it, crashing down
hard on his opponent.

The gun wedged between them.

A second shot pealed, but their bodies muffled this one.

Cotten held her breath as both men lay motionless. The chamber
fell silent except for the sound of her blood pulsing in her ears and
the thudding of her heart against her ribs.

Then, finally, Archer moved, slowly rolling off the Arab. A red
blotch stained the front of his shirt. More blood seeped from the
Arab's chest.

Archer struggled to his feet and stood over the dead man. His
chest heaved and labored as he wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked
up the box, his tree-knot knuckles blanching as he clutched it.

He coughed and straightened, eyes fixing on Cotten. He squinted,
staggering a few steps before slumping to the ground. "My heart," he
said, grabbing his chest.

Cotten dropped her bag and moved cautiously, checking behind
her. She stared at the body of the Arab as she stepped past him.

"What can I do?" she asked, kneeling next to Archer. "I'll go get
help."

"No." Archer reached for her hand. A cough wracked him, and
Cotten elevated his head in her lap.

"The box," he said. "Take it." He looked over at the dead man.
"They will stop at nothing now."

"Who? What do you mean?"

His face twisted with a wave of pain. Hands shaking, he pushed
the box toward her. His skin paled, his lips darkened. "You must not
let them have it."

"What is this?" she asked.