CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (7 page)

"I didn't know you could take a leave from your vows."

"Not the vows, just the duties. And, yes, under special circumstances, you can."

"All right ... John." She flipped her hair off her neck and rolled
her eyes. "God, calling you by your first name feels disrespectful. Oh,
I shouldn't have said it like that-the God thing. But calling you John
is like calling my sixth grade teacher by his first name."

She was stumbling all over her words, and he wished he could
help her relax. But he did find the blush in her cheeks and flushing
rising up her neck was part of her charm. She had a way about her, a
genuineness, if that was a word, that he found pleasing.

"Well, I'm not your sixth grade teacher," he said. "And besides,
you'll make me feel like an old man if you don't call me John."

Cotten took a deep breath. "Okay, let me start again. John, I'm
doing background for a news feature. The topic is religious legends,
things like Noah's Ark, the Holy Grail, that sort of thing."

Her voice sounded less flustered-more professional.

"That's my field," he said. "Biblical history."

"I know. I ran across interviews in our archives that referred to
Dr. Gabriel Archer and his expertise in those areas. One of the clips
featured you. Since you were so close by, I wanted to talk to you in
person. So..." Cotten turned palms up. "Here I am."

"I'm glad you came. I knew Archer pretty well at one time. He's
quite a character."

"Do you know if he studied languages?"

That seemed an odd question, he thought. "Sure. Greek, Hebrew,
Aramaic-a lot of ancient tongues, and of course Latin. Scholars in
his field have to have extensive knowledge of those languages."

"Oh, sure," Cotten said. "Of course."

"He loves to get involved with religious myths and legends. And
the man can quote scripture with the best of them."

"I saw some evidence of that in the tapes I watched." She cleared
her throat and pushed back her hair. "Do you know if he had brothers or sisters? A twin, maybe?"

The conversation was getting even more peculiar, John thought.
"I believe Archer was an only child. I never heard him mention
brothers or sisters-as a matter of fact I don't recall him ever saying
anything about family or his childhood."

Cotten's brows dipped.

"He is passionate about his work, though. His enthusiasm is ...
commendable," John said.

"You sound like you're being kind when you use the word
enthusiasm."

"I think his zeal has ended up damaging his credibility."

"How? Seems like that would be a good quality."

John took another sip of his coffee. "Is your background piece
specifically on Archer?"

"No, but I thought he was interesting and maybe I could start
with some of his quests and accomplishments."

"I see. And you're right. It would seem that his zeal should be an
admirable quality."

"But?"

"It's sad, really, because he's a brilliant man. I studied under
Archer and worked with him a couple of times in the field."

"Brilliant but eccentric?"

"To the point some might call him an obsessed fanatic. When he
discovered an ancient plate in Jerusalem while excavating the tomb of
a Crusader, Archer became convinced it would lead him to the Holy
Grail. But he wouldn't let anyone else look at it, wouldn't even allow
others to authenticate it. I suppose after so much ridicule, he was
paranoid that someone might steal his find and claim it, leaving him
with nothing but a lifelong work to be scoffed at. It's hard for anyone
to take him seriously. He claimed to have deciphered writing on the
plate that gave the location of the Grail, but who knows? Most
thought he was over the edge, and the plate probably had no value
other than being an interesting artifact."

"You don't think he could have really gone on to find the Grail?"

"Hasn't made the headlines, yet," John said. "In my opinion, the
Holy Grail is more religious folklore than fact. I like to think of it as a
state of mind more than a real object-something in our lives we
strive for but may never find."

Cotten frowned. "What is Archer's theory?"

"There are plenty of scenarios-Archer's being one of many. Tradition has it that the Cup from the Last Supper was also used the next
day to collect Christ's blood at the Crucifixion. According to numerous stories, Joseph of Arimathea, who was present at the Crucifixion
and supplied Christ's burial tomb, was the Cup's first owner. Most
historians believe he eventually took the Cup to the Isles of Avalon in
Britain-the basis of the Arthurian Legend which most of us are
familiar with. But Archer proposes a different scheme. He says Joseph
traveled with Saint Paul on the apostle's first mission to Antioch. He
took along the Cup as a symbol for newly baptized Christians to venerate. After Paul moved on, Joseph stayed in Antioch. When he died,
the Cup disappeared-presumably buried with him.

"From what I've read, Archer then says that the Cup resurfaced
around the middle of the third century and was put on display by the Bishop of Antioch. Then it was lost again-in an earthquake, I think
around A.D. 526. Then it was found again some fifty or so years later.
All the stories of the Grail have that same element in common-it's
found, it's lost, then found again. Adds to the mystery, I guess."

John watched Cotten's expressions, so animated and telltale. He
continued. "Archer claimed his research led him to believe that during the last Crusade, a fellow named Geoffrey Bisol took the Cup and
fled south. He and a small band of Crusaders were captured near
Nineveh in northern Iraq. Bisol maintained that he buried his dead
comrades in some of the ancient ruins nearby before making his way
to Jerusalem. He didn't have the Cup with him when he arrived in the
Holy Land, but swore he knew where it was hidden. Over the years,
many groups have extensively excavated the ruins around Nineveh.
No one has ever claimed to have found anything that would support
Gabriel Archer's theory."

Cotten closed her eyes. She shivered.

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"Just a chill."

"Do YOU RENOUNCE SATAN?"

"We do."

"And all his works?"

"We do."

The priest recited the vows, then reached into the water in the
Baptismal font, scooping up enough to flow over the crown of the
baby's head. "I baptize you in the name of the Father ..:'

When the water touched the sleeping infant's skin, she awoke
crying.

and of the Son ..."

Her cries grew louder.

11
... and of the Holy Spirit."

Tears welled in the mother's eyes as she looked down at the infant.

Charles Sinclair stood close by watching the christening of his
only granddaughter. His wife clung to his arm. In his early fifties, Sinclair was tall and lean in his tailored double-breasted suit. Thick eyebrows and a generous amount of black hair sprinkled with sterling
softened his hard-edged features. His jet eyes peered out from an olive complexion and mirrored a mind that seemed to be working at
high speed.

Light poured in through the stained glass windows of historic St.
Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter. The cries of Sinclair's granddaughter filled the church.

While the priest continued, Sinclair's mind wandered, and his
gaze drifted to the magnificent frescos adorning the arched ceiling.
He should have received some word by now, he thought. Concern
creased his forehead. A gentle nudge from his wife brought him back.

The priest stood in front of him. "Congratulations, Dr. Sinclair.
It's an honor to bring your granddaughter into the Kingdom of God."

"Thank you, Father." Sinclair reached into his suit pocket and
removed an envelope containing a check for the priest's services.
Then he hugged his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law.
As the rest of the group gathered to pose for pictures, Sinclair glanced
toward the back of the church and saw his attorney, Ben Gearhart,
slip in and wait in the shadows of the vestibule. "I'll be right back,"
Sinclair said to his wife.

Joining Gearhart, he strolled out of the cathedral and crossed the
street to Jackson Square. They stopped at the foot of the statue of
Andrew Jackson. Sinclair asked, "What have you found out?"

"I haven't been able to get in touch with Ahmed, so I sent someone out to see what was going on. I got confirmation earlier this
morning that he and Archer are dead. We cleaned it up."

Unlike Sinclair's skin, Gearhart's fair complexion reacted to the
cold, dry air blowing across the Square. His cheeks glowed from
windburn, and his blue eyes watered. He rubbed his nose with a tissue as he spoke.

"At first I blamed the military activity for the lack of communications, but then I became suspicious," Gearhart said. "I tried to contact him several times but with no luck." He lifted his head to read the
taller man's expression.

Sinclair raked a hand through his hair. "How did they die?"

"Ahmed was shot with his own gun."

"And Archer?"

"There was evidence of a struggle, but it appears he died of natural causes. Sounds like he fought with Ahmed, shot him, then keeled
over from the ordeal."

"And the artifact?" Sinclair's face tightened.

Gearhart wiped his nose and shook his head.

Sinclair went on. "I take it from your silence that we don't know
where the box is, much less have verification of its contents." He
walked a few steps ahead, put his hands in his pockets, then turned to
face the attorney. "So where is it?" His voice was low, full of control
and gravity.

"My contact believes someone else was in the chamber. A videocassette was found near the bodies. It contains news footage shot by a
reporter for SNN. A woman named Cotten Stone."

Charles Sinclair saw his family emerging through the cathedral's
large wooden doors. His wife waved at him. "Is Stone still in Iraq?"

"We've traced her to New York."

"She could jeopardize everything."

"I realize that. But nothing has shown up in the news. She may
not know what it is."

"If she even has it at all." Sinclair looked up at the statue of the
seventh president.

"I have someone in New York right now," Gearhart said.

Stepping forward, Sinclair leaned in close to Gearhart. "No more
mistakes, my friend." He lowered his head to the wind and walked
back to the church.

"Is anything wrong, Charles?" his wife asked when Sinclair
returned.

He gave her a light peck on the cheek. "You ride with the children
to Broussard's. I'll be right behind."

"Bad news?" she asked.

"Nothing for you to worry about."

Sinclair gave his family a reassuring wave as they walked to the first
of two limousines. Then he went back inside the cathedral. The scent
of the candles hung heavy, their smoke collecting in the columns of
light from the windows.

The old man was there, waiting.

Sinclair walked up the aisle, slid in the pew, and sat next to him.

"How is your granddaughter?"

"She didn't like the cold water," Sinclair said.

"Understandable." The old man, his gray hair the color of ashes,
did not look at Sinclair, but stared at the altar. "How are things?" The
words were almost whispered.

"There has been a minor setback, but Gearhart is taking care of
it."

He looked at Sinclair. "Should I be concerned?"

"No. Not at all."

"Tell me about it. We should have no secrets, no matter how
small."

The old man waited as the church became overcome with silence.

Sinclair finally spoke. "A woman reporter-she might have seen
something in the crypt. Like I said, Gearhart is on it."

"You know who she is?" the old man asked.

"Her name is Cotten Stone."

The old man rocked back. "Stone," he repeated, then nodded
slowly as if coming to an understanding. "You know, Charles, perhaps it is time to give you some additional assistance." He turned to Sinclair. "I have an old friend who can help."

Sinclair fought back a sigh. "It will all be done as you've requested.
There's no need to involve anyone else."

The old man patted Sinclair's leg. "Just to be on the safe side. After
all, you never know . . ." He turned back toward the front of the
church in silence, seeming to signal that the conversation was over.

Sinclair stood and moved to the aisle. Out of habit, he genuflected
and made the sign of the cross before walking to the back of the
church. Pushing open the door to leave, he turned and stared at the
crucifix suspended over the marble altar. Shards of sunlight struck it
in an almost surreal way. He could clearly see Christ's head sagging to
the side-tired, weary, encircled by an askew crown of thorns.

A gust of cold wind blew through the door, whirling leaves inside
and making Sinclair pull his topcoat closer to his neck as he headed
toward the waiting limousine.