CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (41 page)

In the next instant, the ground and the air convulsed-a shockwave. The blast struck from behind.

The lab had blown.

The explosion pushed her and John a half dozen yards through
the air and landed them in a flower garden. John hit first, face down
in the soft loam. But Cotten smacked her head on one of the decorative stones. She lay still for a moment, dazed.

Finally, she lifted her head and looked back at the classic antebellum architecture of the estate house. Smoke billowed from the roof of
the east wing-flames shooting from broken windows, lapping at the
eaves. The sound of a nearby fountain merged with the crackle of
fire.

The earth shook again with smaller explosions.

The noise in her head, like the buzzing of swarming locusts, a violent vibration, grew louder, deafening.

"John?" She saw his distorted face, as if looking up through the
water from the bottom of a pool.

Cotten felt herself fading into darkness. Her fingers loosened their
grip on the silver case, and a moment later her hand fell away.

"He who endures to the end shall be saved." (Matthew 24:13)

"I THOUGHT I WOULD never see you again," Cotten said as she
looked up into the face of her sister, Motnees, who was framed in a
brilliant light.

"I'm always here."

"Is it really over?" Cotten asked.

"For now," Motnees said, stroking her sister's forehead. "Our father
is proud of you."

"So he is at peace?"

"Yes," Motnees said.

Her image faded, and the light paled. "Never forget."

"What?" Cotten said, reaching.

"Geh el Grip." The radiance barely illuminated Motnees and her
smile. Then she was gone.

Ted Casselman's voice transcended the mist and lifted Cotten up to
consciousness. Suddenly, she felt like a diver returning from the depths.

"I think she's waking up," Casselman said.

Cotten blinked.

John took her hand. "Welcome back."

The room was bleak, sterile, and smelled of disinfectant. She lifted
her arm and stared at the attached IV. The memory of their escape
flooded back.

She wanted to speak, but her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of
her mouth, and her lips felt glued together. She looked at the plastic
pitcher and cup next to her bed.

"Are you thirsty?" John asked.

Cotten nodded.

He poured her a glass and held it for her.

The water cooled her mouth and freed her tongue and lips. The
light streaming in through the hospital window made her squint.
"What time is it?"

"Four thirty," John said. "You've been in and out over the last couple of days. You look more alert, like you are going to stay with us this
time. The doctor says you're going to be fine. Only a bad concussion."

Cotten's stare locked on John. "Where is it?" she whispered.

"FBI," John said.

She closed her eyes. It all seemed so unreal, more like a dream she
had gladly awakened from, even though some of the vestiges of the
nightmare held fast. Her body hurt, and her skin felt sunburned. No, it
had all been real-from the tomb and Gabriel Archer to the cloning
lab and Charles Sinclair, to-she shuddered, recalling Gus's revelations and then the old man blocking their escape from the lab. She
tried focusing on her boss. "What are you doing here, Ted?"

"You're both all over the news. As soon as the first reports hit the
wire, the production crew and I were on a plane to New Orleans. You
know the old saying about someone having a nose for news? Well,
honey, you've outdone yourself."

Cotten wanted to laugh, but she didn't have the energy. It was
more like the story had chased her until it finally ran her over.

"Uncle Gus?"

"No sign," John said.

"No, there wouldn't be."

"It's all over, Cotten," he said.

"Thank God."

"Yes, you should do that."

The nurse came in and checked Cotten's vitals, rendering the
room silent for a few minutes. When the nurse finished, Cotten
directed her gaze back at John. "By the way, that was quite a tackle
you threw on Uncle Gus," she said.

"I was saving it for the next student-faculty game, but it seemed
like the right time to give it a shot."

"I ever tell you those eyes are wasted on a priest?" Cotten said.

Casselman thumped the bed rail with his knuckles. "What's up?
Anything I should know about you two?"

"We're just good friends," Cotten said.

"This is one special lady," John said, speaking to Casselman, but
his eyes on Cotten.

"That she is," Casselman agreed.

Cotten's expression turned somber. "What happened to Sinclair?"
she asked.

Casselman pulled a chair to her bedside but didn't sit. "He didn't
make it. There were about a dozen people injured, and four dead, so
far. Sinclair was one of them. The whole deal is outrageous-what
Sinclair was up to, stealing the Grail, the cloning. Then to top it off,
they found that cardinal you interviewed at the Vatican-Ianucci-
murdered right here in New Orleans. They're saying he's the one who
switched the relic." He glanced at both of them. "Either of you know anything about that?" When they didn't respond, he went on. "That
and the Sinclair story are on the front page of every paper in the
country. And, my dear Ms. Stone, you are going to be the darling of
every news broadcast and talk show. The world isn't going to be able
to get enough of that beautiful face." He reached out and tweaked her
chin almost like a relative would pinch a youngster's cheek. "I smell a
Pulitzer on the horizon, Cotten, once you write the whole story."

She was only half listening to Casselman. "Are you all right?" she
asked John.

"A few cuts and bruises," he said, shrugging. "You're the one who
took the brunt of it."

"And the old man?"

"What old man?" Casselman asked.

John shook his head, casting his eyes to the floor.

"Who are you talking about?" Casselman asked.

"Someone we ran into on the way out," John said.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure we'll be getting a complete list of all those
injured or killed. What was his name?"

"Son of the Dawn," she whispered, turning away.

"What?" Casselman said.

"It doesn't matter," Cotten answered. "Robert Wingate is involved
in this, too," she said.

Casselman seemed to reel back on his heels. "No shit," he said.
"Well then, listen to this. This has been a hell of a week. Monday
morning Wingate was found dead in his car in the garage. Carbon
monoxide poisoning. Looks like suicide. Guess the guy couldn't handle the scandal. Same day that he announced he was back in the presidential race, some kid came forward and accused him of child
molestation. After that initial allegation, four other boys came forward. Seems Wingate had a fetish for young boys. That accounts for the boys' ranch. Always turns out to be little league coaches and scout
leaders or priests-excuse me, John. No offense."

"None taken," John replied.

Casselman dropped down in the chair. "It's amazing how far the
tentacles of this Grail thing reach-like somebody spit in the pool
and the ripples just keep on spreading." He patted Cotten's hand.
"We're sending you to Rome to cover the Grail's return to the Vatican.
Of course not until you're on the mend. And there's a big fat promotion in this for you, Cotten. Thornton will be missed, but the public
will love you in his spot. Not only are you the rising star, the whole
backstory will have everyone clamoring to sit in front of their televisions when you're on."

She didn't want any more notoriety. The quest for the big story
wasn't high on her list anymore. "Not me." Her voice was small.

"But Cotten," Casselman said, "of course you'll cover it. Think of
the publicity for both you and SNN. Young female reporter saves the
most important religious relic of all time." Casselman grinned.
"Twice!" He rubbed his chin. "In the meantime, I've got a million
questions for you two, starting with this cloning business."

"Let somebody else go to Rome, Ted," Cotten said.

Casselman chuckled. "No way. You're the only one who can do
it-the only one."

Cotten gave a half-hearted laugh. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Movement in the doorway made them all turn.

"Felipe," John said, surprise in his voice.

A tall man in a black suit with a Roman collar entered the room.
His dark complexion matched his eyes. He extended his hand. "John,
it is good to see you." A faint Spanish accent coated his words.

"And it's good to see you again." John took the priest's hand in
both of his and gave it a strong shake. "I'd like you to meet someone;" he said. "Your Excellency, this is Cotten Stone, news correspondent
with SNN. Cotten, this is Archbishop Felipe Montiagro, the Vatican
Apostolic Nuncio to the United States." He nodded toward Casselman. "Archbishop, this is Ted Casselman, news director for the Satellite News Network."

Casselman got to his feet. "It's a pleasure, Your Excellency." He
stepped away from his chair. "Here, please."

Montiagro waved his hand. "No, no." He moved next to the bed
and studied Cotten's face for a few moments. "You are a courageous
young woman. I hope your recovery is going well?"

"Thank you," she said. "I don't know about courage. John is the
one who got us out."

He blessed her and whispered a quick prayer. Then he turned to
John. "I received a call late last night. You've been summoned to the
Vatican to document the extraordinary events that have taken place
here."

"Whoa, that's incredible," Casselman said, raising both hands
high. "An audience with the new pope!"

Montiagro smiled at Casselman. "There is no guarantee of that.
As you can imagine, everyone wants to meet the new Holy Father."

"How soon?" John asked.

"They are anxious."

"Give me a few days."

"I'll relay your request," the archbishop said. "And John, I have a
feeling the Holy Father has something special in mind for you."

The archbishop turned to Cotten. "Miss Stone, the authorities are
making arrangements to return the blessed relic to us. We would be
honored if you could be there to take part in the ceremony."

"She accepts!" Ted Casselman said.

A small idiosyncrasy in Montiagro's expression made her realize
he understood that the final decision would be hers. "We will see you
in Rome, then. May the Lord speed your recovery," he said.

"Archbishop," John said as Montiagro walked to the door. "Thank
you for everything."

Montiagro placed his hand on John's shoulder. "It is you we must
thank-both of you."

When the archbishop had gone, Casselman grabbed Cotten's toes
through the sheets and wiggled her feet. "This just keeps getting better."

"THEY'RE READY, MS. STONE," the priest said. He motioned with his
arm, and Cotten rose from her chair in the Vatican Museum antechamber. Standing nearby was an FBI agent, a group of clergy, and a handful
of plainclothes members of Vatican security. Two Swiss Guards were
positioned on each side of the tall, ornate door-their colorful armor
and plume uniforms dating back to Michelangelo. The FBI agent held
the silver travel case.

As Cotten stepped through the doorway into the Hall of Constantine, the first of the museum's Raphael Rooms, she gasped at the splendor. The room, chosen for this ceremony because of its theme of the
triumphs of Christianity, displayed scenes from the life and battles of
the great Roman emperor.

The hall was packed with clergy, dignitaries, and members of the
world press-a sprinkling of red and purple designated many of the
Roman Curia who were present, including the Secretariat of State,
along with other heads of the Vatican and Italian governments. Cotten also recognized the U.S. ambassador to the Vatican, and the president
of SNN. Beside him was Ted Casselman.

The priest escort ushered her to the center aisle where she turned
and took the case from the agent.