CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (24 page)

COTTEN HELD THE Tv remote in her lap while she watched the news
she'd taped. Three days ago John had called her early in the morning
before she got out of bed and told her the Grail had been stolen. She
was stunned. After hanging up, she immediately called Ted who told
her Thornton was already on it and would be reporting from Rome
on the evening news. She felt unsettled all that day, nervous, apprehensive, looking over her shoulder. For her, hearing that the Grail had
been stolen was like a stalker victim learning the perpetrator had
escaped from prison. She taped Thornton's report, knowing she
would want to watch it again.

And so she did, tonight.

"As preparations for the pontiff's funeral are being finalized, it
was announced today that a theft of unprecedented proportions has
occurred at the Vatican." Thornton Graham stood in the international press area of St. Peter's Square and read from the teleprompter.

"Scientists in the antiquities authentication department have confirmed that what is considered the most prized religious relic in the
world, the Holy Grail, has been stolen. Although details are sketchy, SNN has learned that the relic, recently discovered and brought to the
Vatican by one of our own correspondents, is missing, and has been
replaced with a counterfeit.

"The artifact had been brought out of its safekeeping for a brief
photo session for National Geographic. It was at that time that the
fraud was discovered.

"A source inside the Vatican, who requested anonymity, told us
that although the replica was obviously the work of a master craftsman, during close inspection it was determined to be a fake. When
the authentic Cup was first examined, a small nick was observed on
the back, the opposite side of the engraving. During the photo shoot
for National Geographic, the prefect realized the object being photographed had no nick. The magazine session ended abruptly.

"All the news photos that had been released of the relic only
showed what is considered to be the front, the side with the IHS
monogram. It's assumed that the counterfeiter crafted the replica from
those news pictures and was therefore unaware of the imperfection.

"The area where the Cup was stored is one of the most secure sections of the Holy City. As yet, investigators have no leads as to how
the switch took place."

Thornton turned to the headshot camera. "We'll have more on the
theft of the Holy Grail during a special segment of Close Up tonight at
eight, seven Central. And for continuous coverage of the papal death
and funeral, and the upcoming election of the new pontiff, stay tuned
to SNN or log onto our Website at satellitenews-dot-org. This is
Thornton Graham reporting from Vatican City. Now back to our studios in New York and the rest of the weekend headlines."

Cotten turned off the television. Thornton had looked good.
Didn't appear to be pining away for her. Certainly didn't sound like
the same man who'd sucked down a half dozen drinks because he was so despondent over their breakup. When Thornton was in front of a
camera, he was in his element. She shook her head, got up, and tossed
the remote on the couch.

It was a cold, drizzly night, and she wanted to rent Charlotte Gray
from Blockbuster, have a glass of wine, and curl up in bed to watch
the movie. Almost out the door, the phone rang. "Damn," she said,
turning back. Cotten peered down at the Caller ID. Thornton's cell
phone.

She reached for the phone, but hesitated. "Nope," she whispered.
More head games. He'd probably been out drinking and was lonely or
horny or both. She'd see him soon enough.

"How's the Wingate thing going, Cotten?"

Looking up from her notes, she smiled at the SNN science correspondent seated next to her. Along with about a dozen other
reporters, they were gathered around a conference table for the 7:00
AM Monday SNN strategy meeting.

"Very interesting, so far." Cotten glanced at her watch. "Are we still
waiting on Ted?"

"Yeah," the correspondent said. "I think he's meeting with Thornton first-they're both running late."

"Figures. Thornton doesn't have a sense of time."

"Ouch," he said. "Do I detect a woman's scorn in your voice?"

"Sorry."

"So what's interesting about Wingate?" the correspondent asked.

"Well, for starters;' Cotten said, "it looks like someone is trying to
blackmail him."

"No shit."

"He's also got a hot temper and a very low opinion of the press,
especially SNN."

"He's going to have to get over that real quick," the correspondent
said. "He sure hides it well. At the moment, he is the darling of the
entire press corps. Everybody loves him."

Cotten flipped through some of her notes. "He certainly took a
dislike to me. Called the press piranhas." Cotten glanced up to see Ted
Casselman coming through the doorway. His shoulders drooped-he
looked drained and spent.

"Good morning," Casselman said, glancing at each of their faces.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news." He sat at the head of the table and
put his glasses down before continuing. "As many of you know,
Thornton has been in Rome this week covering the death of the pope
and the Grail theft. He was to have flown back yesterday and planned
to brief us at this meeting." Casselman paused, cleared his throat, and
massaged his forehead. "Thornton didn't make his plane."

Carousing all hours of the night, it's no wonder, Cotten thought.

Casselman went on, "The hotel's cleaning staff discovered him
unconscious on the floor of his bathroom."

Cotten suddenly couldn't get enough air. "No," she whispered,
shaking her head as if she could dislodge Ted Casselman's words so
that nothing he said would be true.

Casselman stared directly at her with an I'm so sorry, Cotten
expression in his eyes. "He was rushed to a local hospital but was pronounced dead in the emergency room. A brain hemorrhage."

Cotten ran through the front door of her apartment and came to a
halt in front of her answering machine. Thornton had left a message.
She hadn't been able to make herself delete it as she had said she would. Nor had she listened to it. The message was still on the
machine-the red button flashing. What had she thought-that
maybe one evening when she was feeling particularly self-destructive,
she'd want to test herself and play the message to assess her emotional
response?

She sat next to the phone and stared at the blinking light. "It's just
like you, Thornton," she said. "You go and die on me just when I'm
beginning to feel emotionally healthy, not drowning in your backwash." She wiped tears from her cheeks. "Shit."

Finally she pushed the play-message button.

"Cotten, it's me. You need to pick up. Are you there?"

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again.

"I hope ... hear me. My cell isn't ... a good signal.

"Cotten, there's something wrong. Have ... following this Grail theft
story. I stumbled across . . . someone with contacts deep inside .. .
There's more to this than ... As a matter of fact, I think ... the tip ...
iceberg."

His voice, digitized and at times metallic sounding, faded in and
out, making it difficult to follow his stream of thought.

"I'm ... danger ... fear for my life. I'm flying... I should ... Monday morning."

Even through the bad connection, Cotten thought she noticed an
uncertainty in his voice-one she'd never heard before. "Oh, God,"
she whispered.

"I think I've found ... international connections. If something happens ... still love you."

There was a final bit of static before the call went dead.

In the seas off northern Australia lives an almost invisible killer, the
Irukandji jellyfish, Carukia barnesi. Both the body and the tentacles are
armed with stinging cells that inject poison into prey or an unlucky
swimmer.

The initial sting is not usually very painful. However, within five to
forty-five minutes, the victim experiences excruciating pain.

In January 2002, a tourist was stung by what was believed to be an
Irukandji jellyfish. His preexisting conditions made the sting rapidly
fatal. He had recently had a heart valve replacement and was taking
warfarin to thin his blood. After being stung, his blood pressure spiked,
causing a brain hemorrhage and death.

The poison is not classified, and there is no test available to detect its
presence.

IT WAS COLD AND snowing as Cotten Stone and Ted Casselman
walked with about three hundred other mourners from their cars to
the freshly dug grave. She had not slept well since hearing the news of
Thornton's death, and she knew her eyes showed fatigue and distress.
Had there been anything she could have done to save his life? she
asked herself repeatedly. Even if she'd taken Thornton's call that
night, nothing would have changed. But maybe he would have told
her what he had found out-what it was that had him so alarmed.

The Italian medical examiner's report showed brain hemorrhage
as cause of death. Possibly brought on by a combination of things
including hypertension and his medication, it was explained. She just
couldn't buy it. He was too young to die of natural causes. And as far
as the medication, he'd just had his Coumadin levels checked. But
mostly what troubled her was his last phone call and the message he'd
left on her answering machine.

The pallbearers brought the casket to the grave. Cheryl Graham,
Thornton's wife of fifteen years, followed, flanked by her relatives and
Thornton's parents.

Cotten watched as the widow took her place graveside. She wondered if Cheryl had been content to be childless, or if that was Thornton's preference. Cotten studied the widow who was dressed in black
with a wide-brimmed hat and dark overcoat-large sunglasses hiding
her eyes. Cheryl dabbed her nose with a handkerchief.

Cotten's knees weakened at the sight of the coffin. It was hard to
un-love someone, she thought.

She had met Cheryl Graham briefly before at SNN when the news
department threw Thornton a surprise birthday luncheon. It was a
few weeks after their affair had started, and Cotten made it a point to
avoid Cheryl, only saying hello as they were introduced.

Now she watched the grieving widow and wondered how much
she knew of her husband's womanizing. His extramarital affairs were
no secret at the network, but did Cheryl know about them ... about
her? She watched Thornton's wife and felt sick inside. It wasn't fair
what Thornton had put either one of them through.

Cotten hadn't told anyone about Thornton's last phone call, yet.
Even though the medical report was straightforward and conclusive,
it seemed too coincidental that Thornton would say he was in danger
and then wind up dead. She knew Thornton was fanatical about
keeping notes in his comp book, documenting every detail of his
investigations. Perhaps he left something behind in his notebook that
could either confirm his suspicions or indicate that he was in no real
danger. As much as she wanted to avoid contact with Cheryl, she really
needed to ask if his notes were included with the belongings returned
from Rome. If so, and she could take a look at them, she could pursue
it with Ted or dismiss her concerns. Despite the unpleasantness it
might cause, she had to speak to Thornton's wife.