Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 16

Colonel Stanford MacFarlane took a moment to review the dossier just handed to him. Turning his back on his chief of staff, he discreetly removed his reading glasses from his breast pocket. He despised weakness of any sort, particularly in himself. Though he was physically fit, there were days when he felt each and every one of his fifty-three years.

Adjusting the reading glasses on his nose, he glanced at the file. With his contacts inside the intelligence office of the Undersecretary of Defense, he’d managed to finagle a full dossier on one Caedmon St. John Aisquith.

He examined the photo attached to the upper right-hand corner with a paperclip. Red hair. Blue eyes. Fair complexion. He next glanced at the physical particulars. 6’3½”. 190 lbs. It stood to reason that Aisquith was the tall guy with red hair seen with the Miller woman at the National Gallery of Art.

Next, he skimmed the personal background material. DOB 2/2/67. Eton. Queen’s College, Oxford. Master’s Degree in Medieval History. Recruited MI5—1995. Formal resignation—2006.

MacFarlane’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, as though weighed down with a heavy load.

Why now, God? Why this impediment with the prize so close at hand?

Still clutching the file folder, MacFarlane walked over to the sliding glass door behind his desk and pulled it open, stepping onto the balcony. A gentle snow fell upon the midday traffic that ebbed and flowed ten stories below on Virginia Avenue, the busy thoroughfare made heavenly with the covering of pristine white flakes. To his left he could see the majestic gray spires of the National Cathedral high atop the city; to his right, the majestic white spire of the Washington Monument.

God first. Country second.

Words to live by.

A credo to die for.

Again, he glanced at the file folder. MI5 was Britain’s elite secret service branch. As such, the agency safeguarded Britain’s national security. Regnum Defende. Defend the realm.

How did the Miller woman make the acquaintance of a former British intelligence officer?

The dead curator had been a Brit. Perhaps he’d arranged the meeting.

But why? And how was it that Aisquith and this woman knew about the Stones of Fire and the Jerusalem cross?

MacFarlane didn’t like having more questions than answers.

With Armageddon near at hand, why would God—

It was a trial, he suddenly realized, the weight lifting from his shoulders. A trial to prove his worthiness to the Almighty. To prove that he could indeed be trusted with God’s great plan. Shadrach. Meshach. Abednego. Like those holy men of old, he, too, was being tested by God.

MacFarlane glanced at the beautiful gray spires in the distance, offering up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanks, grateful for the opportunity to prove his worth unto the Lord. Closing the file folder, he stepped back into his office. He punched the big blue Speaker button on his telephone console.

“You listen up, Gunny,” he said without preamble. “I’m sending in a five-man team, one man to be posted at each museum exit. ETA two minutes. You stay with the Jeep. Edged weapons only. I want Miller and Aisquith in zippered bags before the new hour strikes. You hear me, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Boyd Braxton replied. “But what if . . .” MacFarlane could hear the confidence leach from the other man’s voice. “What if the two of ’em manage to slip past us?”

Although gung-ho and loyal to a fault, the former gunnery sergeant lacked decision-making skills. Such men made good followers and even better fodder, but were poor leaders.

“To ensure they don’t escape, I want you to rig the Miller woman’s vehicle.”

“I hear ya, sir!” Braxton exclaimed, his confidence clearly regained.

“Keep me posted.”