CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (11 page)

"You didn't like it?"

"Barbara Walters has nothing on you," he said. "You're going to
get the whole story."

"Hope so. I find it interesting. So did you like being shepherd of
your small flock?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

"But?"

"But, Ms. Walters, it didn't fill me up is the best way I can put it.
I've always wanted to serve God. That's never been a question. What's
the best way is another story. Maybe it was all my grandfather's stories
of the windswept plains of Africa or the ancient tombs below the
streets of Middle Eastern cities. Who knows? I took a leave of absence
from the priesthood to live some of those tales, see if it put fire in my
eyes." John folded is arms. "Now you know my life story."

She looked into his navy blue eyes. They were gorgeous with or
without fire. But Cotten felt as if she had intruded, been too much
the reporter, especially since it was she who had come to him for help in the middle of the night. "I feel like I should apologize, first for
keeping you up and secondly for prying. I didn't mean it that way."

"I know you didn't. If I'd been offended, I wouldn't have spoken
so freely. It was my choice."

They sat in silence for a moment, then John said, "How about a
snack? I've got some rhubarb pie."

"Sounds great. I'll help." She followed him into the kitchen.

"How soon can we leave?" she asked.

"What?" He opened a cabinet. "Plates are in there."

"For Rome. How soon can we leave?"

"Well, I suppose today if I can make the arrangements."

Cotten found two small plates and set them on the counter. "Yes,
today. Can you set it up?"

John pulled the pie from the refrigerator and looked at his watch.
"It's still early. I have a friend with some clout. Felipe Montiagro, he's
the Vatican Apostolic Nuncio."

"I'm not familiar..."

"Apostolic Nuncio. Vatican City State is a sovereign country. The
nuncio is the equivalent of an ambassador. Archbishop Montiagro is
the Vatican ambassador to the U.S. and works out of the Vatican
embassy in Washington. We go way back. Let me give him time to get
into his office; then I'll start with a call to him."

He cut two pieces of the pie, slid each onto the plates, and put
them on the kitchen table. Grabbing two forks from the drawer, he
said, "Soup's on."

They sat across from each other-Cotten watching him put a bite
of pie in his mouth and chew. When his eyes met hers, she looked
down at her pie and cut a piece with her fork.

"And I need to call a cab," she said after tasting. "I've got to go
home and pack."

"It's two in the morning. You're more than welcome to stay in the
guestroom. Besides, if there is a connection between the box and the
break-in, your apartment may not be the best place to go."

John was right. Maybe she shouldn't return to her apartment at
all. She could buy a nylon duffle bag and essentials at the airportshe still had her passport in her purse. And she would treat herself to
a shopping spree in Rome once the relic was safely in the hands of the
Vatican. "If I spend the night, won't your neighbors gossip?"

"Most of them are students, and they haven't even come in for the
night." With a lighthearted smile, John added, "Besides, a lot of them
are in my classes, and they want a passing grade."

They both laughed and finished up their pie slices. John stacked
the dishes in the dishwasher and they returned to the living room.

"Did you bake the pie?" she asked.

"No, it was a gift."

"A lady friend?" Cotten asked, immediately wishing she hadn't.

John grinned. "Kind of."

"Really? I mean, can you-I didn't know a priest-even on
leave-"

John laughed aloud. "My lady friend is seventy-eight years old,
has acute arthritis, suffers from cataracts, and still finds time to bake
me a pie every Thursday. This week was rhubarb."

Damn, she thought. Why had she asked that? P-r-i-e-s-t, Cotten.
Don't you get it?

"Let's put this away for the night," John said as he wrapped the
relic in the Templar cloth and placed it back in the box. He put it
inside Cotten's bag. "Come on, I'll get you settled in."

He led her down the hall to the guestroom. It was plain and
sparsely furnished-a single bed topped with a thick comforter, and a nightstand with a tiffany-style lamp, along with a small dresser and
mirror. A simple crucifix hung on the wall at the head of the bed. It
looked like he had made no investment in this place for it to become
his home, she thought. He must not have decided that this is where
he wanted to stay or what he wanted to do. He still hadn't found his
passion.

"Nothing fancy, I'm afraid," John said.

"It'll do just fine."

"Bathroom is next door on the right. Anything else you need?"

She shook her head. "Can't think of anything."

He set the bag on the bed before saying goodnight.

John closed the door, and she heard the wood floor creak as he
walked away.

Cotten gazed in the mirror. Her hair was all about, makeup long
faded, eyes dull with exhaustion. "What must he think of me?"

She undressed, peeling away all the layers, then retrieved the
blouse, but thought better of it. It would be too rumpled to wear in
the morning if she slept in it. So, panties only it was. The room was
warm enough, and the comforter looked cozy.

As she pulled back the covers, a tap on the bedroom door startled
her. "Just a minute." Quickly, she slipped on her blouse and held it
closed. Cracking open the door with her free hand, she peered
around it through the small gap.

"I have some pajamas for you," he said. "They might be too big,
but you can roll up the sleeves."

She reached through the door. "Oh, thanks," she said. As she
pulled them through the narrow opening, they caught on the door
handle, snapped from her hand, and fell to the floor. Cotten quickly
bent over to gather them up.

John had squatted to help her. When he looked up, she heard him
suck in his breath. She realized her blouse had fallen open. Frantically
she fumbled to close it while he handed her the pajamas.

"Sorry," he said.

Cotten edged behind the door again, clutching the nightclothes to
her chest, only her face peering around. God, she had just flashed him
... flashed a priest for God's sake.

"See you in the morning," he said, stepping away.

"You've got to trust me on this, Ted." Cotten spoke into the in-flight
telephone. "I'm sitting next to Dr. John Tyler. He's an expert, and he's
examined the relic. He's ninety-nine percent certain it's authentic."

She turned to John who gave a hesitant shrug.

They were over the Atlantic on a direct Delta Airlines flight to
Rome's Leonardo da Vinci International Airport.

"Get the marketing department ready to promote the biggest religious story since the Shroud of Turin," she said. "But don't leak what
it's actually about. Not yet. Not until we've turned it over to the Vatican.

"I'll call our Rome bureau chief," Ted Casselman said. "I want you
to keep in constant contact with him-update him on everything.
He'll arrange for a production crew, editing, and anything else you
need. Once you've got your piece, uplink immediately."

"I'm the principal, right?"

"Yes."

"The Rome bureau is there to support me, right?"

"Yes."

Cotten slammed back in the seat. "I love you, Ted."

"Yeah, I know. But just once, I'd like to think I'm in charge of
assigning stories."

"You won't regret this."

"Right." There was a pause. "Isn't that what you told me from
Baghdad?"

"This is the break I'm looking for and the story you need to boost
those sagging ratings."

"Be careful, Cotten." Ted Casselman hung up.

She pushed the telephone into its holder on the back of the seat in
front of her and turned to John. "What?"

"Ninety-nine percent certain?"

"Where's your faith?"

"I've got plenty of faith. Scientific proof is something else."

She reached over and patted his hand. "You worry too much."

There are several royal and noble European families that are believed to
be of the Merovingian bloodline, the divine lineage. They are: Hapsburg-Lorraine, Plantard, Montpezat, Luxembourg, Montesauiou, some
branches of the Stuarts, and the Sinclairs.

"AND WHO IS THAT?" the Time science correspondent asked, pointing to a framed photograph on the desk.

"My new granddaughter," Charles Sinclair said. "She was christened only last week in St. Louis Cathedral."

"She's beautiful. You must be very proud, Dr. Sinclair."

"I am."

"And I see you like ocean racers." The correspondent motioned to
a collection of photos along a side wall. "Those are impressive boats.
Do you drive them?"

"No, no. BioGentec sponsors a number of high-speed racers.
Smaller versions are a hobby of mine, though. I have a few go-fast
boats. I take then out sometimes on poker runs."

"How does that work?"

"We usually start at Friends Restaurant in Madisonville, then onto
The Dock in Slidell, then we race the twenty miles across Lake
Pontchartrain. We hit a few spots there, then back across the lake to
Friends. At every stop we have a drink and draw a card from the deck.
At the end of the day, the best five-card poker hand wins the pot."

"Do you always win, Dr. Sinclair?" the correspondent said, smiling.

"Always."

Both men laughed.

"And other hobbies?" asked the correspondent.

"I own a few thoroughbreds."

"And are they winners, too?"

"But of course. No triple crown yet, but we've fared well at Evangeline, Saratoga, Aqueduct, Bel-"

"You have a fancy for racing and competition."

"I suppose I have a penchant for speed, not necessarily the competition. But there's more to it than that. I admire and appreciate the
craftsmanship, the perfection in the construction of a racing vessel.
The performance reflects the attention to minute detail."

"And the horses?"

Sinclair leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
The faintest beginnings of an arrogant smile etched his face. "The
breeding."

Apropos," the correspondent said as he scribbled a note. He
looked up at Sinclair. "Getting back to your comment that cloning is
nothing new?"

"Human clones walk among us everyday. You've probably met
quite a few. They're called identical twins-babies born from a single
egg in their mother's womb that splits into two."

"How do you answer your critics who say that you're trying to
play God by attempting to clone a human?" The correspondent made
another note on his pad. "Even a Nobel laureate like you must think
about the ethics issues."

"I'm just a scientist trying to save lives. I discover by research, by
carrying out experiments. Nothing more should be read into it." Sinclair glanced at the antique mantel clock over his library fireplace. He didn't want to get any deeper into the ethical minefield. Through the
French doors leading to the brick patio of his plantation estate, he
saw the Mississippi beyond the ancient magnolias. Dark clouds gathered across the river.

"Some social justice advocates oppose cloning," the correspondent said. "They fear a widening gap between the haves and have-nots
if affluent parents decide to genetically enhance their children."

"That might be a by-product of our research one day. Just like
anything else, you have to weigh the benefits. We're pioneers venturing into new frontiers," Sinclair said. "Therapeutic cloning gives us
the ability to get perfectly matched tissue for the patient, whether
they have Parkinson's disease, diabetes, spinal cord injury-so the
patient will not reject those cells. That's what we do at BioGentec. We
don't debate ethics, we don't play God-we simply work to save
lives."

"But you must realize-"

The phone rang on Sinclair's desk. He held his hand up. "Excuse
me a moment." Picking up the receiver, he said, "Yes?"