CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (5 page)

Her mother had called her fanciful, said she was a dreamer. It was
true. And on the wings of those dreams she'd fled a life where women
grew old too soon, gave up hope too soon ... and died too soon.

"I'm sorry, Mamma," she whispered.

Cotten dabbed perfume behind each ear and closed the cosmetics
drawer. In the kitchen, she munched on a granola bar and downed a cup of instant coffee. While she ate, she gazed at the stove. It looked
normal enough. Just for good measure she pulled a frying pan from
the cabinet and placed it on the unit next to the teapot.

Perfect.

She headed along the ten blocks from her apartment to SNN
headquarters. It was cold, but Cotten paid little attention. She was
anxious to get the answer to some nagging questions. Suddenly, her
cell phone vibrated.

"Hello," she said, trying to dodge others on the crowded sidewalk.

"Hey, baby. You're back!"

"Nessi!" Cotten smiled, glad to hear her friend's voice.

"How was it? Looks like things are really heating up over there."

"You won't believe the shit I've been through the last couple of
days." She began filling in her friend but deliberately left out the part
where Archer had begged her to take the box, had gazed eerily at her
as if he knew her, spoke to her in a language that didn't exist for anyone else on the planet but her. Nobody would understand. "Then I
had to bribe my way across the Turkish border. I was jammed on a
bus for a day with people who smelled like goats. And I think I illegally smuggled some kind of ancient artifact out of the Middle East
into the U.S." She caught a glimpse of the New York Times headline as
she passed a newsstand: MILITARY BUILDUP ACCELERATES.
"Other than that, it was uneventful. You miss me?"

"Always." Vanessa Perez said. "I was worried about you. Is your
boss pissed?"

"I think he had to double up on his blood pressure medication.
I'm heading in to work now. Got a meeting with him at nine thirty,
and my edit is at ten."

"What about the Thorn in your side?"

"Nessi, lighten up."

"Is he going to be there?"

"I guess. Maybe I'll luck out, and he'll be off on assignment somewhere."

"You better start thinking about what you're going to say when
you see him."

"I'm over it."

"Yeah, I've heard that before."

Cotten's stomach sank. Nessi had heard that before-more than
once. She'd always meant it, wanted to believe she was finished with
him. But this time had to be different. He was a bad road to travel,
painful, and a dead end. She had to convince herself that she had put
Thornton behind her-packed that bag and shipped it off to her past.

"You have a shoot today?" Cotten asked.

"South Beach-it's for Hawaiian Tropic-you'll soon see me on
billboards flashing a little TWA in a skimpy bikini."

Cotten laughed. "Knock 'em dead."

"I always do." There was an uneasy pause. Then Vanessa said,
"Don't give in to him."

"Give me a little credit." Cotten felt the blast of warm air as she
passed through the revolving doors into SNN's headquarters.

"Hey, that's what friends are for." Vanessa half sang the Burt
Bacharach lyric. It was their personal mantra.

"It's a good thing you're beautiful,' cause you sure can't sing;' Cotten said with a chuckle.

"I love you, too," Vanessa said, and hung up.

Cotten slipped the cell back in her overcoat pocket and stopped to
watch the on-air monitor over the lobby security desk-sound bites
from the President's State of the Union address.

She signed in at the security desk and clipped on her identification badge.

The network's studios, production, audio, duplication, satellite
linking and transmission, and engineering took up the first seven
floors. Cotten got off on the eighth where SNN had its video edit
suites and archives.

"Cotten."

It was Thornton Graham.

She forced a smile and a nod. Shit, why did she have to run into
him first thing?

"It's so good to ... you feeling okay?" he asked. "You don't look-"

"I'm fine. I didn't have any mascara, that's all."

He kissed her cheek, and she smelled his cologne, flooding her
head with vivid memories.

"Got a minute?" He motioned toward his office.

"I'm really in a rush."

"Your edit isn't for an hour-I checked."

"I've got to do some research first."

"I've missed you," he said in almost a whisper, touching her arm,
moving closer.

There was a heavy silence.

"Thornton . . ." She shook her head, not wanting to look him in
the eyes. "Please, it's over."

"No, it's not," he said. "I love you."

"It wasn't love," she whispered. "You know that."

"Cotten, I do love you."

"I've got to go." She headed down the corridor.

"Cotten," he called after her, but she didn't turn around.

She hadn't cried this time-that was a good sign. She'd made the
right decision, she thought, and she was going to get through this. If
she just didn't have to see him-touch him.

Inside the video archives department, Cotten sat at a computer
terminal, entered her security password, and initiated the search function. Then she typed Archer, Gabriel. Within seconds, the screen displayed two references. She selected both, chose the retrieve command, and turned to watch through the glass wall. One of the huge
carousels filled with videocassettes revolved. A robotic arm zoomed
around it, scanning bar codes, then grabbed a cassette, moved laterally to one of the players, and inserted the tape. A video window
appeared on Cotten's terminal, and sound came from a small set of
speakers mounted on each side of the screen. The images blurred past
in high speed as the machine used the timecode on the tape to locate
the correct segment. There was a short pause, and then the picture
and sound came up.

The first image was an electronic slate: Ark Search, Archer interview. A short piece followed from a TV magazine program mentioning Gabriel Archer, whom Cotten learned was a biblical archaeologist
and part of the team searching for the remains of Noah's Ark. Nothing else of apparent significance. And nothing to give her a clue how
he knew to speak to her in that language. After all, wasn't it just a
made-up language-what her mother likened to twin talk?

She stopped the tape and requested the second. This one was longer
and featured Archer. The focus was an interview with him at his home
in Oxford, England. Although the tape was only a few years old, Archer
looked much younger, she thought ... heavier, healthier, and jubilant.
He held a small, round golden plate he had recently discovered on a
dig in Jerusalem. Symbols covered the plate, and he claimed it dated
to the Crusades. "The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in
a field," Archer said. He quoted scripture many times during the
interview. Caressing the plate like it was an infant, he said, "This will
lead me to heaven's greatest treasure."

Next came an interview with a staff archaeologist at the Museum
of Natural History in New York. The man smiled patronizingly, calling Archer a devotee to his own theories. "Sometimes," he said,
"enthusiasm gets the best of the doctor. He's had many extravagant
notions." The archaeologist did go on to credit Archer with several
noteworthy discoveries, including his work on the search for Noah's
Ark, but said his eccentricities diminished his credibility.

There were a few other interviews discussing Archer. One in particular caught Cotten's attention: Dr. John Tyler, a Catholic priest,
biblical historian, and archaeologist, spoke kindly of Archer. Tyler
had studied under Gabriel Archer and said the elderly archaeologist
was dedicated to his work, mentioning that many of his discoveries
had shed much needed light on biblical history.

Tyler appeared to be in his mid-thirties, tall with dark hair, and
had the rugged face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
And he had great eyes, Cotten thought.

She rewound the tape and played Tyler's portion again. He was
soft-spoken, but his words were confident, authoritative.

"He has many aspirations;" Tyler said of Archer. "I wish him well."

Cotten scribbled down the name of the college where Tyler taught.
He was right in New York and could be a good source of information.
She thought about what Archer had whispered to her in the crypt and
his notability to quote the Bible. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twentyeight, Matthew. He had to be referring to a passage in the Bible. She
glanced at her watch-about fifteen more minutes before her meeting
with Ted Casselman.

Ending the archives search, Cotten headed back down the hall,
sticking her head in one of the edit rooms. "Anybody got a Bible?"

"You get religion in the Middle East, Cotten?" the video editor said,
looking at her over his shoulder.

"Try the nightstand in a hotel room," an assistant added.

She grinned. "Very funny. Come on, guys. Really, any idea where I
can locate a Bible?"

"The religion correspondent," the editor said, and returned to his
monitors.

"Right," she said, wondering why she hadn't thought of it. But
then, religion was not something she spent a great deal of time thinking about. She checked her watch again as she headed to his office.

"Which version?" the correspondent's secretary asked.

"I don't know; isn't there a standard one?"

The secretary pointed to the door behind her and got up. Cotten
followed.

Against one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. The secretary
pulled a King James Version off the shelf. "Just put it back when
you're done," she said before leaving.

"Thanks," Cotten said, not looking up. What had Archer said?
Matthew? Matthew was in the New Testament, she knew that much.
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. That was as far as she'd gotten in
Sunday school.

"Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty eight," she said, flipping through
the pages. Running her finger down each page, she stopped at the
Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter 26, and read verses 27 and 28 aloud,
"And He took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying,
Drink ye all of it. For this is my blood of the New Testament, which is
shed for many for the remission of sins."

"Jesus," she whispered, then realized the pun. Could all this have
something to do with the cup from the Last Supper? Could that be
what was in the box sitting under the hood of her Hotpoint stove?
Archer said he was looking for heaven's greatest treasure. She blew
out a breath at the thought that she could be on top of a huge story.

Pulling the slip of paper from her pocket, she picked up the
phone on the desk and called information. After getting the number
for the college where Dr. Tyler taught, she dialed it.

"Yes, I'm trying to locate a Reverend Dr. John Tyler. I understand
he teaches there." She listened for a moment, and her face dropped.
"Well, do you know where he's assigned now?" Another pause and
she said, "Let me give you my number."

Cotten hung up, grabbed her things, and rushed to the office of
Ted Casselman, SNN's news director. She knocked.

"Come in."

Casselman sat at the head of the conference table, a handful of
folders spread before him. Two chairs away from the news director sat
Thornton Graham. Thornton smiled warmly as Cotten moved across
the room.

Ted Casselman looked up. He was a forty-two-year-old black
man, medium build, manicured nails, with some early gray hair that
flattered his deep skin tone.

"Well, you're one lucky lady," Casselman said, standing to kiss her
on the cheek. "Try pulling a stunt like that again and I'll see to it that
the only job you can get is reporting the weather on the local cable
channel in Beaver Falls." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "And
you're late."

"Forgive me, Ted," she said, putting on her best little-girl smile. "I
had to make a quick trip to the archives."

"Oh? I thought you had all your research."

"Just a few loose ends."

"Sit and relax. We're almost done here." Casselman returned to his
chair and opened one of the folders. He scanned the top sheet and
said to Thornton, "What do you know about Robert Wingate?"

"Basic stuff," Thornton said. "Mostly from his press kit." He let his
pencil bounce on its eraser. "He's a wealthy industrialist, new to the political scene, and gaining a sizable following. He's based his platform on family values and high moral character. So far, he seems to
have no blemishes-the perfect candidate." Thornton flipped to
another page of his ever-present comp book. "Devoted family man
and generous with his wealth. One of his pet projects is a national
organization that sponsors youth ranches for urban delinquent kids.
And it's not only troubled kids he works with. Wingate's been instrumental in getting quite a few chapters of DeMolay going in different
areas of the country, especially in Florida, his home state. He's outspoken against child abuse and-"

"Hold on;' Casselman interrupted. "What's DeMolay?"

Thornton looked up. "Kids' version of the Freemasons. It's an
organization for boys between twelve and twenty-one."

"Anything else?" Casselman asked.

"Can't find a whole lot about him. Wingate popped up on the
political scene from out of nowhere. Apparently, he has a substantial
money machine behind him."

Ted Casselman scratched his chin. "Let's find out what makes
Wingate so perfect. Put together a segment on him for Sunday night."

"I'll get my staff on it right away," Thornton said. He gathered his
notes, stood, and came around the conference table to Cotten. "Stop
by after your edit if you have a chance."

"I'll see," Cotten said, looking up at him.

"How's the footage look?" Casselman asked her as Thornton left
the room.

"It's better than I ever expected. Believe me, Ted, international
sanctions and embargos have taken a heavy toll on the Iraqi kids and
elderly. It's going to be a gut-wrenching story. But it won't score too
many points with the State Department now that they're about to
start another war."