Ark of Fire (18 page)

“But why cover up the murder? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Caedmon crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other. “What would happen if the authorities discovered that the director of the Hopkins Museum knowingly purchased a stolen relic that was smuggled out of its country of origin?”

“In addition to a hefty fine, Eliot Hopkins might be sentenced to prison.”

“And in the process, his reputation and good name would be ripped to shreds. All of which makes Eliot Hopkins a very weak link.”

“And you want to find out who’s yanking his chain,” Edie said, the reason for the proposed rendezvous suddenly making sense. “I’m guessing it’s the guys at Rosemont. Probably what’s-his-name, Colonel MacFarlane. Who else could it be?”

Rather than answer, Caedmon stretched out along the length of the bed, reaching for a tourist map on top of the nightstand, the map part of the welcome-to-your-cookie-cutter-room package. Unfolding the map, he spread it on his lap. “The National Zoo, the National Cathedral, or the Lincoln Memorial. Which of these are you the most familiar with?”

“The zoo,” she answered, wondering where he was headed. “It’s only a few blocks from my house. When the weather is nice, I like to power-walk it.”

Caedmon refolded the map. “Then the National Zoo it is. Tell Mr. Hopkins to be there at ten a.m. Sharp. Do be sure to add that. When dealing with thieves and murderers, it’s always best to speak with authority, that being the only way to subjugate a schoolyard bully.”

“That or kick him in the nuts,” Edie muttered as she reached for the phone.

GEORGETOWN

 

 

Eliot Hopkins slowly hung up the telephone.

Just as the monsters at Rosemont Security Consultants had correctly predicted, Edie Miller had initiated contact.

The first piece of a very complicated puzzle had fallen into place.

He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that was equal parts regret and pain. Regret because he was fond of the quirky and offbeat Ms. Miller. Pain on account of the cracked rib he nursed, courtesy of a muscled behemoth with a misplaced sense of civility, the fiend having grinned and said “Howdy-do” after administering the unexpected blow. The men of Rosemont wanted his cooperation. And they’d gone about gaining it in a most primitive fashion.

Why negotiate when one can use fists and threats to achieve the same end?

Glancing at the imposing John Singer Sargent portrait that hung above the mantel, Eliot thought he caught the hint of a smirk on his great-grandfather’s stern visage, the coal magnate having put down more than one strike with clubs and bullets. Unlike Andrew Carnegie, who suffered from a guilty conscience, Albert Horatio Hopkins never lost a single night’s sleep worrying about the plight of the men who earned him his immense fortune. A true Hun, Albert Hopkins raped the West Virginia mountains of its minerals and raped the people of their dignity.

Long live King Coal.

Although he was the great-grandson of Albert Hopkins, he was, also, and more important to his mind, the grandson of Oliver Hopkins. In his day and age—the feel-good, anything-goes frenzy before the big crash—Ollie Hopkins had a well-deserved reputation as a ne’er-do-well adventurer. Turning his back on the family business, he instead supped with African chieftains, rode wild horses with Mongolian warriors, and explored the licentious world of the harem with Arab potentates.

Along the way, he spent a king’s ransom searching for the relics of the Exodus.

As a young boy, Eliot would sit for hours at his grandfather’s knee, enthralled by the exciting tales that rivaled the adventure books of his youth. His particular favorite had been the time that his grandfather, disguised as an Ottoman Turk, had tunneled into the bowels of the Temple Mount, only to be discovered by Sheikh Khalil, the hereditary guardian of the Dome of the Rock. Chased through the streets of Jerusalem by an angry mob, his grandfather made his getaway in a hijacked motor yacht harbored in the port of Jaffa.

Considered a wastrel by his father, Oliver was eventually disinherited. Penniless when he died, Oliver left his favorite grandson the fruits of all his labors—an immense collection of artifacts and relics mined over the course of some fifty years. The collection became the cornerstone of the Hopkins Museum of Near Eastern Art, the museum founded in homage to the man who’d given Eliot the only familial affection he ever knew.

His grandfather also bequeathed to him a magnificent obsession . . . the Stones of Fire.

It’d taken decades of dangled carrots and very large bribes, but he finally found it.

Only to lose it in the blink of a jaded eye.

Had he been a religious man, he might have thought it God’s punishment for daring the unthinkable. Certainly, he’d been a fool to entrust Jonathan Padgham with the holy relic. But the man had been an expert on Near East antiquities, and Eliot needed to verify that what he’d found in the sands of Iraq was in fact the fabled Stones of Fire.

Blinded by his obsession, he never considered that there were others even more intent on finding the treasures of the Bible. Men unfettered by the rule of law.

Wearily, Eliot rose to his feet. There being no time to ponder the ethics of the situation, he walked over to a paneled door on the far side of the rosewood library. He pressed a hidden latch and the door swung open. He turned on the light in the small, windowless room. In turn, he surveyed each glass case, his collection of antique weaponry a private passion. Out of respect for his thirteen-year-old daughter, Olivia, who had an unnatural fear of guns, he kept his collection out of sight.

Pausing in front of a velvet-lined case, he briefly considered the Colt revolver once owned by the gunslinger Buffalo Bill.

In the end, he settled on the World War II-era Walther. The handgun of choice for the German SS.

Over the years, he’d dealt with greedy dealers, ruthless brokers, and pompous curators. Last night was the first time he’d come face-to-face with religious zealots, the interaction shocking. One could not reason with such men, for they served but one master.

One could only acquiesce.

“Do you think we’re being followed?” Edie asked, glancing into the side mirror of a parked car.

Caedmon waited until the cross light at Connecticut Avenue turned yellow. Then, cinching his hand around her elbow, he hustled her across the street toward the main entrance to the National Zoo on the opposite side of the intersection. A few seconds later they passed the two bronze lions that stood guard at the gated entrance.

“If we are being followed, our pursuers have successfully faded into the proverbial woodwork.”

Edie shivered, the previous day’s snow having turned into a chill-laden drizzle. She moved closer to Caedmon, the two of them huddled beneath a black umbrella they’d purchased en route. Passing the Visitor Center, she peered at the 180-degree reflection cast by the bank of glass doors. No surprise that the zoo grounds were eerily deserted; animal watching was not a big draw in December. But then, they weren’t there to see the sights. They were there to meet with the man who’d illegally purchased the Stones of Fire, setting into motion yesterday’s brutal train of events.

“Does your family live in the area?” Caedmon conversationally inquired. Throughout their subway ride from Arlington, he’d maintained a steady stream of pleasant chitchat. On to his tricks, Edie assumed the light fare was more for her benefit than his—Caedmon’s way of alleviating her all-too-obvious dread. Little did he know that personal questions elicited a similar response.

“Um, my mother and father were both killed in a boating accident off the coast of Florida,” she answered, the lie well honed from twenty-five years of sharpening. Approaching the Small Mammal House, she gestured to the walkway on the right, the zoo grounds a maze of pathways that wound through what was surprisingly hilly terrain. “It was Labor Day weekend and a drunk in a speedboat rammed right into them. I was only eleven years old when it happened.”

Usually she embroidered the tale, going into great detail as to how the nonexistent boater only had to spend two years in prison. But today, for some inexplicable reason, she felt guilty about the fabrication. Although why she should feel any guilt was a mystery. Shame, yes. Guilt, no. After all, it wasn’t her fault that her father was listed on her birth certificate as
Unknown
or that her mother had been a junkie, never able to lose her taste for smack. When her mother OD’d, Edie had been forced to spend two and a half years in the Florida foster care system. A kindhearted social worker had taken an interest in her case, going the extra two miles to track down her maternal grandparents in Cheraw, South Carolina. Edie never spoke of the thirty nightmarish months spent on the foster care merry-go-round. Not to anyone. Some things a person couldn’t, or shouldn’t, share with another human being.

Seeing a vaporous cloud approach, Caedmon waited until a red-faced man decked out in winter Lycra jogged past. A few moments later, he solicitously took her by the elbow, steering her clear of an icy patch. “Who took care of you?”

“Oh, I, um, went to live with my grandparents in South Carolina. Pops and Gran were great. Really, really great,” she said with a big fake smile. Uncomfortable with the lie, she feigned a sudden interest in the leafless shrubbery planted along the low-slung retaining wall. Winter had its claws dug deep; the nearby trees and plantings were covered in a crystal shroud. Most of the animals had taken to ground. As they passed the tamarin cage, there wasn’t a primate in sight.

“South Carolina . . . how interesting. One would think you’d have a more pronounced accent. And you’ve been in Washington for how long?”

Wishing he’d cease and desist, she said, “It’s coming up on the twenty-year mark. What anniversary is that? Crystal? I’m not sure.”

“I believe that would be china,” he replied, intently watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Edie cleared her throat, wondering if she’d laid it on too thick about Pops and Gran. As happened with all new acquaintances, she feared that he was on to her.

Hearing a branch suddenly snap, Caedmon momentarily paused as the silence filled with several unidentified screeches. Evidently satisfied that the noises were not man-made, he said. “I’m curious . . . why did you get a degree in women’s studies?”

“Why do you want to know? You’re not a closet chauvinist, are you?”

“Not in the least.”

Satisfied with his reply, Edie shrugged. “Since someone else was footing the bill for my education, I studied what interested me. At the time I was interested in the role of women in American society.” What she didn’t tell him was that, given her background, she wanted to find out why women made the choices they did. “I had an internship at a nonprofit, but because of budget constraints it didn’t pan into a paying gig. Luckily, I found gainful employment at a downtown photo shop.” At the time she hadn’t known squat about photography, having charmed her way into the job. But she learned quickly, enamored with the way that photography could be used to manipulate the real world, to erase the ugliness.

“And how long have you been working as a photographer?”

“Gees, what are you, a Spanish inquisitor?” Edie retorted, determined to end the personal interrogation. “You know, I usually love the zoo, but today it’s got creepy written all over it.”

Caedmon slowed his step as they wound their way through what looked to be an impenetrable chasm, with huge buff-colored boulders, a full story in height, lining the pathway. She wondered if the man at her side was thinking what she was thinking, that this would be an excellent place for a gunman to hide.

A few moments later, they emerged from the stone-lined walkway and approached the caged hillside set aside for the Mexican wolves, the designated meeting place with Eliot Hopkins. To the right side of the outdoor exhibit, a lone man bundled in a wool topcoat sat on a park bench, a cup of Starbucks coffee clutched in his gloved hand.