Ark of Fire

CHAPTER 30

“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.”

Folding her arms over her chest, Edie stubbornly shook her head. “What we need to do is contact SAFE. The FBI. Somebody. Anybody. And let them know what’s happening.”

“And what precisely would you tell the authorities?” he countered. “That a murder occurred at the Hopkins Museum for which there is no body? Or perhaps we could regale the local constabulary with the tale of the fabled Stones of Fire? Given that the relic disappeared several millennia ago, I somehow doubt the police will believe that the relic was stolen from the aforementioned nonexistent corpse. In fact, if not for the dead man at the zoo, whose murder they will most assuredly accuse you of having committed, the police will label you a lunatic.”

“I could take a lie detector test.”

“And if your heart rate accelerated but a notch, your fate would be sealed.”

Edie unfolded her arms, her sails not nearly so fulsome. “You could go to the—”

“If I come forward with my suspicions regarding the Stones of Fire or the Ark of the Covenant, my motives would immediately be suspect, the chaps at the FBI no doubt believing it a publicity stunt to garner more book sales.”

“So what are you saying, that our hands are tied?”

“Most certainly not. We know that Colonel MacFarlane and his men are searching for the Ark of the Covenant. Furthermore, we have reason to believe that they’ll be searching for it in England.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding!” Edie exclaimed, realization dawning in her eyes. “You’re not really suggesting that we go to England and track down Stanford MacFarlane and his goons.”

“Rest assured, I do not expect or desire your company.”

“Ouch! That hurts,” she retorted, having taken offense where none was intended. “Going to England in pursuit of the Ark of the Covenant is big. Huge. You’ve given this—what?—about thirty seconds of thought before making a decision.”

“If you’re accusing me of being rash, nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Then how’s this for being rash: have you thought about how you’re going to pay for this little junket? As soon as you whip out a credit card, MacFarlane will be on to you like ugly on an alligator.”

“I agree that an electronic funds transaction could easily be traced.” He cleared his throat. Knowing there was but one way to clear the hurdle, he charged forward. “Which is why I thought to ask you for a loan.” When Edie cast him a pointedly askance glance, he added, “I’m good for it, as you Yanks are wont to say.”

“Well, here’s another phrase we Yanks are wont to say: ‘My way or the highway.’ Meaning you take me with you or you don’t see a dime of my money.”

No sooner was the ultimatum delivered than an invisible Maginot Line loomed between them, both retreating into a wordless world of move and countermove. Ignoring him, Edie reached into the now-wet paper bag and removed a hazelnut biscotti. Behaving as though he didn’t exist, she loudly chomped down on it.

“Why the sudden interest in pursuing my ‘crazy’ theory?” he asked, if for no other reason than to break the unnerving silence.

“I have my reasons. Look, I’m good with details. And let’s not forget the old adage about two heads being better than just the one.”

“Honestly, Edie, I don’t think that—”

“I can be your research assistant,” she interjected, unwavering in her persistence.

“I don’t need a research assistant. Once I arrive in England, I have connections that—”

“Yeah, speaking of ‘connections,’ you told Eliot Hopkins that you could contact Interpol . . . making me wonder just what kind of shadowy connections you have.”

Not seeing the sense in keeping it from her, he said, “I used to be an intelligence officer with Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You mean like James Bond?”

“Hardly. During my tenure at MI5, I spent most of my time in front of a computer and very little time chasing after nefarious characters. Certainly none with an outlandish moniker.”

“Well, that explains your supercharged street smarts,” she remarked, seeming to take his confession in stride. “Yesterday I was truly stumped as to how a bookworm could so easily keep his cool when the bullets started to fly. In fact, there were a couple of times at the National Gallery when you looked like you were in seventh heaven.”

“Trust me, that wasn’t the case,” he countered, not about to let her think otherwise.

“Whether you enjoy that kind of action or not, I still want to go with you.”

Something in Edie Miller’s brown eyes, a defiant expression, seized hold of him, refusing to let go. He was well aware that if they paid for their airline tickets with cash, it wouldn’t prevent MacFarlane from discovering their destination. If MacFarlane managed to get ahold of the airline passenger manifold lists, he would soon discover they’d flown into Heathrow. Whereupon they would find themselves, once again, in a dangerous strait.

He raised his face heavenward. “‘It’s raining feathers,’” he conversationally remarked, the sleet having softened into a light snowfall. “Admittedly, it’s not an original thought. The Greek philosopher Herodotus coined the phrase some twenty-four hundred years ago.”

“I’ve got one for you: ‘It’s raining men.’ The Weather Girls at the height of the disco era.”

Caedmon sighed, thinking them an odd pair indeed.

“It would appear that our destinies are linked,” he said, capitulating to her request to accompany him. For several long seconds, he stared at her. Although it was brief, he glimpsed a wariness in her eyes, at odds with her usual defiance. He intuited that Edie Miller’s tough façade was akin to gold leaf. Rigid to the glance, but gossamer thin.

“You know, Caedmon, I’m a little uncertain about the agenda. Are you planning to stop MacFarlane from finding the Ark, or are you hoping to beat him to the punch?”

Thinking it best not to truthfully reply, he said, “For now, we must concentrate our efforts on stopping MacFarlane from finding the Ark.”

“I agree. If the Ark is, as you claim, a weapon of mass destruction, it doesn’t bode well that an ex-military man is actively searching for it.”

He acknowledged Edie’s spot-on observation with a brusque nod. “Just as worrisome, I suspect that MacFarlane is well funded, his stockpile of cash translating into a highly developed network of communications and logistics.”

“So, in other words, it’s going to be a whole lot like David going up against Goliath.”

Caedmon kept silent, not about to point out that David, at least, had a slingshot.