CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (37 page)

A burst of fireworks popped nearby. Cotten jumped, and her
mouth dried as if someone had sprinkled alum inside. Beneath the
mask her skin turned damp, and a bead of sweat rolled down her
spine.

She continued on, weaving through the multitude. A giant float
decorated with gargoyles crawled by-glittering strands of braided
beads, fake gold doubloons, and garland necklaces rained down.
Hundreds of parade-goers' hands scrapped and clutched at the souvenirs. A spatter of cold liquid splashed her back. Cotten spun
around.

"Sorry," the grinning man behind her slurred, lifting his plastic
cup of beer above the crowd.

Cotten sidestepped and crabbed another several yards, slowly
fighting her way to the rendezvous point. She wanted to look back for
John, but she resisted. Cotten prayed that he'd been able to keep her
in sight. Funny, she thought, she'd prayed in one fashion or another
more times in the last few days than she had in the last ten years.

Finally she stood at the corner of St. Charles and Jackson. The
crowd became oppressive-smothering. Not everyone wore a costume-some only masks, others just in street clothes with gobs of
Mardi Gras beads dangling around their necks. And there were the
quirky-like the man who stumbled past her with the seat of his
jeans cut out to flaunt his naked rear end, or the girls who were topless-except for their beads. Everyone wore beads.

Cotten removed her mask and slowly turned in a circle, searching
the faces around her, letting her face be seen.

She first noticed the eye patch, then purple pants, white shirt,
beard, mustache, buccaneer hat-and somewhat out of place, a pair
of thick work gloves. Her heart broke its rhythm as the pirate pushed
his way to her and grabbed her arm.

She resisted, wrenching away.

"Walk with me," he said. "Don't be afraid."

Cotten followed, risking the chance to look behind for John. If he
was there, the swarm of people kept him hidden. But someone else
did get her attention, a large man in a monk's costume and mask,
lumbering and shoving through the crowd, heaving people out of the
way.

The pirate yanked her forward. "Come on," he shouted, apparently noticing her hesitation.

Cotten's eyes locked on the monk whose bulk prohibited any
agility as he forced his way toward them.

The pirate glanced over his shoulder at her and tracked her line of
vision. He froze.

Another sudden burst of fireworks startled Cotten, and she
shrank, drawing her shoulders together, shielding her face with her
arm. In the same instant, the monk pulled a gun from a slit in the
brown robe just below the rope belt. She heard the rapid poppinglouder and closer than the fireworks. She saw the spark of flame at
the end of the pistol and felt the grip on her arm loosen. The pirate
slumped to the ground.

Cotten screamed as fear ricocheted through the crowd. Who had
been the target, her or the pirate?

Bodies dropped, knocked down by others trying to get away from
the gunfire.

One of the bystanders jumped at the armed man, attempting to
wrestle the pistol away. The monk jabbed his elbow into the man's face, then waving the gun, clambered over those who had fallen in the
melee.

From out of the dense mass, Cotten caught a glimpse of John battling his way toward the shooter. With a long leap, he dove onto the
monk's back, driving him to the pavement. Others caught in the
crush of the crowd faltered and went down. People screamed as they
scrambled in every direction.

She lost sight of both John and the monk as they were swallowed
in the confusion. Cotten dropped beside the pirate. Blood trickled
from the corner of his mouth and onto the fibers of the artificial
beard. His white shirt had turned crimson.

Finally, the terrified crowd thinned, fleeing the corner of St.
Charles and Jackson.

"Help will be coming," Cotten told the pirate. "You're going to be
all right." She strained to look for John. "Oh, God, please don't let
him be hurt." She found herself rocking. "Please. Please."

The pirate coughed, but the sound was more like the gurgle of air
blown through a straw into a glass of water.

"St. Clair," he mumbled. "Stop Sinclair."

Cotten slipped the beard and mustache off his face and removed
the buccaneer hat.

"Oh, my God," she said, recognizing him.

"Cotten! Are you hit?" John called as he came behind her, a
bloodied lip and out of breath.

Cotten shot to her feet and flung her arms around him. "Thank
God, thank God," she said. "No, I'm fine. You're all right. What happened to the monk?"

"He broke away and disappeared in the crowd. I tried to follow,
but there were just too many people."

"It doesn't matter," she said, putting her palm to his cheek. Cotten
looked down at the wounded man at her feet. "John, it's..." she said
in almost a whisper.

John bent over and looked at the pirate. "Holy Mother of God."

In 1442, in Scotland, Sir William St. Clair, a member of the St.
Clair/Sinclair family who were apart of the Templars since 1118, began
building a collegiate church dedicated to St. Matthew. The church was
laid out in the shape of a cross, but only the chapel was ever completed.
The chapel, an enigma to even modern scholars, was based on the floor
plan of Solomon's Temple. Engraved in the masonry are maize and aloe,
which are New World plants-but the chapel was built before Columbus's voyage. Everywhere inside the chapel are Christian, Islamic, Celtic,
pagan, and Masonic pictures, hieroglyphs, and symbols. It has been conjectured that the Knights Templar hid treasure and other sacred relics
there. The name of this Gothic structure is Rosslyn Chapel.

"You ARE THE ONE who called me? Told me to come to New
Orleans?" Cotten used the underside of the hem of her dress to dab
blood from the face of the man who had disguised himself as a pirate.
"Why? What is it that you know?"

"I have sinned against my God. A grievous sin. I'm ready to accept
my fate." Lying on the sidewalk, Cardinal Antonio lanucci stared at
the night sky. "Oh, God, forgive me." His words sputtered. "You ...
you must stop Sinclair. What he does is an abomination." He clutched
Cotten's arm, struggling to raise his head.

"Cotten! Thornton's list," John said. "Saint. Sin. St. Clair. St. Clair
was the French name. They became the Sinclairs. Famous early Templar family. That's it. Sinclair is the name of the Grand Master," John
said. "Where is he? How do we stop him?"

From the inside of his shirt, lanucci struggled to pull a bloodstained envelope. "Take it and-" A wet, bubbly cough erupted. He
gasped for air, and it rattled into his lungs.

Kneeling beside the cardinal, John read the contents of the envelope before looking at Cotten. "It's an invitation to a masquerade ball
tonight at the estate of Dr. Charles Sinclair."

"Oh, shit," Cotten said. "Charles Sinclair."

John leaned in close to Ianucci. "You want us to go? We should
use this to get in?"

The cardinal nodded and tapped his pants pocket.

John reached in the pocket and withdrew a small plastic box. He
cracked open the lid, then snapped it closed and stared at the cardinal. "Sweet Jesus, what have you done?"

The wail of sirens blared, growing closer.

The cardinal opened his mouth as if to speak, but then grimaced.

"We'll stay with you," Cotten said.

lanucci's eyelids fluttered, and the grasp on Cotten's sleeve
relaxed. His hand fell to the ground; his labored breaths grew quiet,
then still.

Cotten dragged her hand over her face. "He's dead."

John blessed the cardinal, then looked up at Cotten. "We've got to
get out of here."

"Shouldn't you give him the Last Rites or something?"

"Cotten, that guy might have been shooting at you, not lanucci.
We've got to go, now."

John gathered Cotten to her feet, pulling her along even as she
kept looking over her shoulder at the dead cardinal who lay in a
sprawl of blood.

Quickly, they took to the side streets and narrow dark alleys until
the sound of the sirens faded into echoes of Dixieland Jazz and the
call of street vendors and barkers.

Winded, and the pain in her side growing intense, she had to stop.
She darted into a recess that formed the entrance to a small antique shop closed for the night. Towing John in with her, she leaned back
against the door, panting. "I can't go any farther."

He pulled off the Phantom mask, breathing hard.

"Should we go back to the motel and ditch these costumes?" Cotten asked.

He shook his head as he bent over in the small alcove with his
hands on his knees. "We need them to get into the masquerade ball."

"But what about this?" she said, pointing to the blood splotch on
the hem of her dress.

"We'll find a bathroom and wash it out as best we can." Still catching his breath, he looked at Cotten. "Sounded like you've heard of
Sinclair."

"Yes," she answered, closing her eyes. "What you said about the
cloning-it must be really happening. Charles Sinclair is a geneticist,
a Nobel Prize winner. His research is on human cloning. SNN has
covered his accomplishments many times."

John straightened and paced, still breathing hard. He slapped his
palm to his forehead. "Why didn't I see it before with the Saint and
Sin on Thornton's list? It should have rung a bell."

"But you didn't know about Charles Sinclair, that he was a
geneticist."

"No, but I know about the St. Clairs, Sinclairs. That's what I
should have picked up on. Back in the fourteen hundreds William
St. Clair built Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh, Scotland. It has
strong connections to the Templars and today's Freemasons. The
chapel is thought to have been built to hide a sacred treasure.
Rumors said it held the Ark of the Covenant-even the mummified
head of Christ Himself, if you can believe that. The St. Clair family
has a long, distinctive line of succession. I'll bet you anything, it ends
with Charles Sinclair as a direct descendant of William St. Clair. The
Grand Master."

"What are we supposed to do at this ball?" Cotten asked.

John shook his head. "Hopefully, it'll become clear once we get
there. Believe me, Ianucci had something specific in mind." He took
the small plastic box from his pocket and opened it.

As soon as Cotten saw the contents, she gasped.

"Step out of the car, please," the private security guard said as he
opened the taxi door.

John got out, followed by Cotten, both still in costume.

"Invitation, please," a second guard said, extending his hand. John
gave the man the white embossed card, and the guard shined his
flashlight on it.

"Extend your arms out to the sides, sir," the first guard said.

John complied, and the man scanned him with a handheld metal
detector wand. He then moved to Cotten and performed the same
routine.

The guard returned the invitation. "Enjoy your evening," he said,
stepping aside.

John paid the taxi driver. Then he and Cotten walked through the
security checkpoint at the iron-gated entrance to the Sinclair plantation. They moved down the driveway onto a great expanse of manicured lawn that gently sloped to the river. Costumed guests sipped
champagne from crystal flutes and walked among torch-lit paths,
fountains, and gardens. A string quartet played Mozart, and the sweet
sound drifted on the Mississippi River breeze.

Judging by the rows of limousines and exotic cars they passed
coming in, Cotten guessed that the elite of New Orleans society were
in attendance.

John squeezed her hand, nodding at the ornate carving stretching
across the entrance to the house-the Cross Patee with twining roses
in recessed gold leaf below the name of the estate.

"Rosslyn Manor," John read. "Sinclair named this place after the
chapel."

Despite the tight security at the gate, Cotten noticed little in the
way of guards or security uniforms as she and John wandered toward
the gardens. "I'm surprised they didn't check our IDs," she said.