CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (3 page)

His voice was weak, not much more than a whisper. "Twenty-six,
twenty-seven, twenty-eight, Matthew."

"I don't understand."

He didn't answer, appearing to stare straight through her. Then
Archer motioned her closer, and she leaned in to hear as he whispered.

She shook her head in confusion. "Please, you aren't making any
sense. You want me to stop the sun ... the dawn?"

He seemed to rally, lifting his head, his voice suddenly strong as
he spoke. "Geh el crip."

Cotten reeled. He couldn't have said what she thought she heard. It
was impossible. Impossible. Archer had spoken a language she hadn't
heard since she was a child. Only one other person had ever spoken to
her in that language-her twin sister.

Her dead twin sister.

"How COULD YOU KNOW those words?" Cotten asked, her voice
shaky.

But Archer's eyes were already closed. His grip loosened, and his
head slowly fell back, chest still.

Archer was dead.

The string of bulbs blinked, and then went dark. The generator
must have run out of fuel, she guessed. Carefully, she moved Archer's
head from her lap. She couldn't help him now, and with only one
truck left, there was no time to waste.

Afraid she might trip over debris, she tucked the box under her
arm and crawled through the blackness in what she hoped was the
direction of the tunnel. Suddenly, the earth shook and the walls
quaked. Cotten curled over her knees and shielded her head, waiting
for the ceiling to collapse. Dust and sand filtered down, collecting in
her hair and on the backs of her hands. Small stones pummeled her
back. Had bombs dropped somewhere close?

The rumble subsided, and she continued crawling. Her bag wasn't
that far away, but moving in the pitch-black room was slow going. As
her hand touched the floor, she recoiled.

The Arab's blood.

Cotten cringed and wiped the blood off her hand on the dead
man's pants leg. When she reached the wall she felt her way to the
tunnel opening where she had left her bag. Her fingers groped
through the nylon carryall until she found her penlight.

The bulb flickered when she twisted the tip and then died. "Come
on!" she said, shaking it. It glowed again, but the light was little better
than none at all.

Holding the penlight in her mouth, Cotten dumped some of the
tapes and other articles onto the dirt floor and placed Archer's box
inside the bag. As she repacked, the light died again. She swept her
hand across the floor for anything she might have missed.

A second rumble rocked the chamber, followed by a third and a
fourth. It was a distinct clap, one she recognized from when she'd
done a piece on high tech Air Force ordinance: sonic booms from
fighters breaking the sound barrier.

"Archer." A man called from the direction of the passage. "We can
wait no longer." There was a pause. "Do you hear me, Archer? We go
now!"

"Wait," Cotten cried, zipping up the bag and scrambling to her
feet.

She stumbled through the dark until she finally reached the passageway. A truck engine growled to life and pulled onto the highway
as she emerged from the ruins.

"Stop!" she yelled running toward it.

The Turk stood up in the back of the vehicle and waved Cotten
on. When she was close enough, she swung her bag up. The Turk
grabbed it, then reached out and yanked her up into the truck.

"You run fast," he said.

She gave a nervous laugh as she sank down, breathing hard.

"Where is Archer?" he asked, his voice faltering from the rough
ride.

The canvas partially covering the sides of the stake body truck
flapped, beating against the wood frame, and the motor grumbled,
making it hard to hear.

"Dead. Heart attack." Cotten pointed to her chest.

The Turk shook his head and translated the news to the handful
of men riding with them.

Jets roared in the darkness overhead and two pinpoints of orange
light shot up along the horizon. She watched with dread, waiting for
the missiles to find what she assumed were American fighters. But
there were no impacts. The missiles drifted over the desert and burned
out like shooting stars.

As the truck rolled north toward the Turkish border, Cotten
crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped around her legs. She tried to
make sense of what had happened back in the crypt-one man willing to murder a second for a box whose contents were unknown to
her. Then the strange ramblings of a dying old man whom she would
have thought delirious if not for one thing. He spoke to her in a language known only to Cotten and her twin sister-a sister who had
died at birth.

Chaotic shouts jarred her awake. The Arabian sun, already high in the
morning sky, blinded her as she sat up in the bed of the transport
truck. Like swarming ants, the Turkish dig team clambered out the
back. Cotten pulled herself up to look around.

Throngs of people lined the highway, marching across the rolling
hills and out of the surrounding mountains. Refugees, she thought,
fleeing before the war began. Women, clasping infants to their breasts
and clinging to the hands of their other children, swept past the truck
like the incoming tide. Cotten looked into their dazed faces. That was
what Americans needed to see.

She grabbed her carryall and climbed down to the asphalt. Coming around the side of the truck, she saw more vehicles lined up, their
engines silent, their beds and cabs empty. She realized they had finally
reached the Turkish border, probably near Zakhu. A large Constantine wire fence stretched across the terrain, and the highway passed
through a narrow checkpoint with barriers of tanks and armored
personnel carriers. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers, all holding automatic weapons, herded the refugees into a bottleneck for quick
inspections and document checks before letting them through.

Cotten hugged her carryall to her chest as she let the tide steer her
closer to the checkpoint. When there were only a few ahead of her, she
dug into her bag and pulled out her passport and press credentials.

"American press;" she shouted, holding the documents up. "American press." As soon as she could get through the checkpoint, she'd
stop and take some still shots of this scene. Black and white-powerful close-ups of faces, the wide dark eyes of the children, of mother's
hands holding smaller hands. She could already envision them intercut into her video edit. No music, no voiceover. Just the stark frozen
faces of despair and fear. It would be a brilliant, moving ending. No
one would be able to watch and not get chills.

A young Turkish soldier saw her and waved his arm. "Come on,
American. This way." He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her
across the border into Turkey.

"Thank you;" she said, but he was already inspecting the documents of the next in line.

Suddenly, another soldier took hold of her arm and pulled her
aside.

"Papers!" said the Turkish officer.

"I'm an American," Cotten said, staring up into his cold eyes and
his hard expression. "I just showed my papers to the soldier at the
checkpoint."

"And now you will show them to me."

Cotten handed him her passport and press ID. "I work for the
American news network SNN."

He opened her passport and compared the photo to the one on
her press ID. "This way," he said, guiding her toward a truck a few
yards away.

"Is there some kind of problem? I just finished an assignment in
Baghdad, and I'm on my way back to New York. You have no-"

The tailgate of the large transport was down, and the officer
pointed to it. "Place your bag there."

She had to remain calm. This was just a routine inspection. They
had no reason to suspect she was bringing anything illegal into the
country.

"Open it," the officer said, motioning to her carryall.

Cotten unzipped the top and spread the nylon open. Even
through the pile of videos on top she could see a corner of Archer's
box.

"What's on these tapes?"

"My assignment. It's footage of children and the elderly."

"Children," he said, inspecting a tape and its label. "How do I know
you're not lying?"

Cotten wiped her forehead on her sleeve. "You'll just have to take
my word for it."

He moved the tapes aside. "Where's your video camera?"

"I'm the reporter," she said. "My cameraman is still in Iraq."

He continued to rummage through the bag. "And this?" he said,
lifting Archer's box out of the bag.

"A weight."

"For what?"

"To help hold down and balance my tripod-for my still camera."

"And where is your tripod?"

"I had to leave it behind."

"But you brought this block of wood?"

"It was already in the bag when I grabbed it to leave. I was in a
hurry."

He turned the box over, shook it, then placed it back in the bag,
and took out her SLR camera.

A rush of relief flooded her.

"Nikon," he said, examining it. "Very nice."

"Yes, it is;' she said, growing impatient. "Can I go now?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On what happens to this camera."

"That's a seven hundred-"

"Very, very nice," he said, caressing it.

Cotten reached for the camera, but he jerked it away.

"You are anxious to return to America, yes?" he said, removing
the lens cap. He looked through the viewfinder. "We have already
detained several Americans for questioning. That is our policy." He
panned to his left and then stopped. "Do I need to detain you?"

Cotten reluctantly exhaled. "No."

He rotated the Nikon in his hands admiring it, then strung the
strap over his head.

Cotten eyed her camera, wanting to rip it off his neck, but decided
that under the circumstances she had no choice but to sacrifice it.

Shouts erupted from the direction of the checkpoint. "Fucking
fools," he said. He shoved her passport and ID back at her. "Go home,
American." He turned and headed toward the disturbance-the
Nikon swinging from his neck.

Cotten zipped her bag closed, shoved her identification back in
her coat, and walked on.

Beyond the military vehicles was a sea of cars, trucks, vans, and
buses lining the shoulders of the highway. People stood on the roofs
and hoods, desperately searching for their relatives among the immigrants pouring past. Cotten continued along the highway looking for
a taxi or commercial bus.

Suddenly, she heard a loud, shrieking whistle. To her right, a man
waved wildly at her from a bus window. It was the Turk from the dig
team.

"We go to Ankara, lady," he yelled. "Hurry."

I think I love this man, Cotten thought, sprinting to the bus. Digging into her bag, she retrieved her reserve cash and bought a ticket
from the driver. Once aboard, she maneuvered down the crowded
aisle and placed her hand on her new friend's shoulder, thanking him
as she passed his seat. She squeezed into a narrow spot in the last row
of seats. Cotten held her bag close, wondering what it was she had
just smuggled out of Iraq. She was anxious to be alone with Archer's
box so she could examine it.

In a moment the old bus vibrated and shook, then pulled onto
the highway. She took a quick glance out the back window. The tide
of refugees had swelled to a flood.