Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 25

GEORGETOWN

Eliot Hopkins slowly hung up the telephone.

Just as the monsters at Rosemont Security Consultants had correctly predicted, Edie Miller had initiated contact.

The first piece of a very complicated puzzle had fallen into place.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that was equal parts regret and pain. Regret because he was fond of the quirky and offbeat Ms. Miller. Pain on account of the cracked rib he nursed, courtesy of a muscled behemoth with a misplaced sense of civility, the fiend having grinned and said “Howdy-do” after administering the unexpected blow. The men of Rosemont wanted his cooperation. And they’d gone about gaining it in a most primitive fashion.

Why negotiate when one can use fists and threats to achieve the same end?

Glancing at the imposing John Singer Sargent portrait that hung above the mantel, Eliot thought he caught the hint of a smirk on his great-grandfather’s stern visage, the coal magnate having put down more than one strike with clubs and bullets. Unlike Andrew Carnegie, who suffered from a guilty conscience, Albert Horatio Hopkins never lost a single night’s sleep worrying about the plight of the men who earned him his immense fortune. A true Hun, Albert Hopkins raped the West Virginia mountains of its minerals and raped the people of their dignity.

Long live King Coal.

Although he was the great-grandson of Albert Hopkins, he was, also, and more important to his mind, the grandson of Oliver Hopkins. In his day and age—the feel-good, anything-goes frenzy before the big crash—Ollie Hopkins had a well-deserved reputation as a ne’er-do-well adventurer. Turning his back on the family business, he instead supped with African chieftains, rode wild horses with Mongolian warriors, and explored the licentious world of the harem with Arab potentates.

Along the way, he spent a king’s ransom searching for the relics of the Exodus.

As a young boy, Eliot would sit for hours at his grandfather’s knee, enthralled by the exciting tales that rivaled the adventure books of his youth. His particular favorite had been the time that his grandfather, disguised as an Ottoman Turk, had tunneled into the bowels of the Temple Mount, only to be discovered by Sheikh Khalil, the hereditary guardian of the Dome of the Rock. Chased through the streets of Jerusalem by an angry mob, his grandfather made his getaway in a hijacked motor yacht harbored in the port of Jaffa.

Considered a wastrel by his father, Oliver was eventually disinherited. Penniless when he died, Oliver left his favorite grandson the fruits of all his labors—an immense collection of artifacts and relics mined over the course of some fifty years. The collection became the cornerstone of the Hopkins Museum of Near Eastern Art, the museum founded in homage to the man who’d given Eliot the only familial affection he ever knew.

His grandfather also bequeathed to him a magnificent obsession . . . the Stones of Fire.

It’d taken decades of dangled carrots and very large bribes, but he finally found it.

Only to lose it in the blink of a jaded eye.

Had he been a religious man, he might have thought it God’s punishment for daring the unthinkable. Certainly, he’d been a fool to entrust Jonathan Padgham with the holy relic. But the man had been an expert on Near East antiquities, and Eliot needed to verify that what he’d found in the sands of Iraq was in fact the fabled Stones of Fire.

Blinded by his obsession, he never considered that there were others even more intent on finding the treasures of the Bible. Men unfettered by the rule of law.

Wearily, Eliot rose to his feet. There being no time to ponder the ethics of the situation, he walked over to a paneled door on the far side of the rosewood library. He pressed a hidden latch and the door swung open. He turned on the light in the small, windowless room. In turn, he surveyed each glass case, his collection of antique weaponry a private passion. Out of respect for his thirteen-year-old daughter, Olivia, who had an unnatural fear of guns, he kept his collection out of sight.

Pausing in front of a velvet-lined case, he briefly considered the Colt revolver once owned by the gunslinger Buffalo Bill.

In the end, he settled on the World War II-era Walther. The handgun of choice for the German SS.

Over the years, he’d dealt with greedy dealers, ruthless brokers, and pompous curators. Last night was the first time he’d come face-to-face with religious zealots, the interaction shocking. One could not reason with such men, for they served but one master.

One could only acquiesce.