CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy (4 page)

The long journey across Turkey was uncomfortable. With so many
people crammed into the bus, Cotten got a good dose of all the odors the human body could produce. She'd heard once that of all the animals, humans smelled the worst. That was supposed to be an advantage, repelling predators. Now she was sure the story was true. Not
only were there the oppressive odors, but the constant joggling of the
ride kept her from sleep. When they finally arrived in Ankara, she was
starving and felt grimier than she ever had in her life.

After using her credit card to buy the Turk and his friends a meal
at a small cafe near the bus terminal, she gave him a firm handshake
before taking a taxi to the Esenboga Airport. There, she booked a
flight to Heathrow with a connection to JFK.

As much as she preferred keeping the carryall with her, she
decided on checking it so she wouldn't have to explain the wooden
box at the Turkish airport security checkpoint. The bag had a better
chance of making it through security without incident if she didn't
carry it on. All she could do was pray that Archer's box didn't contain
explosives or other materials that would set off any alarms.

Cotten sponged off in the airport ladies room but still felt selfconscious when she boarded and sat next to a young woman in a
crisp blue oxford cloth shirt and creased pants. The woman made a
point of leaning away from Cotten.

Gold and purple twilight stretched across the horizon as she
wrapped herself in the airline blanket. Wondering what secret lay
within her carryall deep in the plane's cargo hold, she slid the window
shade down, closed her eyes, and drifted into a troubled sleep.

Landing in the U.K., Cotten retrieved her bag from the carousel,
quickly checking to make sure the box was still safely inside. A ribbon
of arriving passengers made their way into British Immigration. Cotten dug her nails into the palm of her hand as she gripped her bag. Thankfully, the attendant didn't seem to note her nervousness when
he stamped her passport. She moved on to Customs.

"Do you have anything to declare?" the agent asked as she placed
the bag on the table.

"No." Her stomach drew into a knot while the man studied her
face.

After a pause, he said, "Welcome to the United Kingdom, Ms.
Stone," and motioned her on.

Cotten tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. She smiled at
him, gathered the carryall, and moved on. Maybe she could get away
with taking the bag onto the New York flight with her rather than
checking it. She didn't like it being out of her sight. And it had made
it through the first leg home without arousing any safety concerns.

Home. God, it would be good to be home again, she thought, filing through the gate and onto the 747.

It was cloudy, and rain misted on the window as the airplane rose
into the sky. She heard the thump of the wheels retracting into their
wells. Seven more hours.

As soon as the fasten-seat-belt light went off, Cotten retrieved her
carryall from the overhead compartment, took it into one of the
restrooms in the back of the 747, and locked the door. She sat on the
closed toilet lid and opened the bag. Moving the videotapes aside, she
took out the box.

From what she could tell it was made of wood; its color was a dull
black-worn and old-a few fresh scratches. She tried to open it but
found no lid. Strange, she thought, there didn't appear to be a top or
a bottom, no hinges or seams. But Archer had opened it and looked
inside. She remembered the intensity of his gaze. She shook the box,
but it made no sound. How had he opened something that was as
featureless as a solid block of wood? What was so important about
this box that he would demand she take it? Why did the Arab try to kill for it? But the thing that haunted her the most were Archer's
words. Geh el crip.

She finally packed the box back in the bag, returned to her seat,
and stowed it in the overhead.

Arriving at JFK, Cotten quickly passed through Customs and Immigration. As she made her way into the crowded terminal, she stopped
at an ATM for cash and then walked through the automatic doors
onto the sidewalk. The bitter New York winter slapped her face. This
time of year the northeast had no redeeming qualities, she thought.
She was glad she had been away for the holidays, away from the snow
and the painful end of her relationship with Thornton Graham. Cotten hailed a taxi and climbed into the rear of the cab, the carryall
snug in her lap. She gave her midtown apartment building address to
the driver before laying her head on the back of the seat.

She kept recalling the disturbing dreams she'd had on the flight.
She didn't seem to be able to shake them-dreams filled with the
smell of the dank ancient chamber, the deafening blast of the gunshot,
the still-warm Arab's blood, Archer's pallid skin and bluing lips, his
last effort to raise his head, his breath on her ear as he whispered Geh
el crip-you are the only one. It was impossible for him to have spoken to her using those words. Impossible. And yet he did.

Through the car's dirty windows she watched the distorted skyline drift into view.

As soon as she was in her apartment, she left a message on Ted Casselman's answering machine letting him know she had made it back safely. She had called him from Ankara and again from the U.K. But
he still insisted on hearing from her the moment she arrived home.
Father figure, mentor, friend-he was mad at her for taking such risk
and would worry about her until she set foot on U.S. soil.

Fresh from a steaming, thirty-minute shower, Cotten pushed down
on the handles of the corkscrew, and the cork popped out of the bottle
of chardonnay. She filled her glass. No Absolut tonight. Wine always
made her sleepy, and sleep was what she needed most.

Archer's box rested in the center of her kitchen table. She studied
it while she sat in the dinette chair cradling the glass of wine between
her palms. There were no marks, no joints, and no hinges. If there
were seams, they were somehow concealed in the wood grain.

She rubbed her neck. The muscles ached, but the shower had
helped ease the tension. The hot water had been delicious, pulsing on
her neck and back. Blessedly, the coconut scent of the shampoo
helped wash away the odors that seemed to have collected and hung
on somewhere in her nose and sinuses. Cotten sipped the chardonnay, then unclipped the barrette and let her damp hair tumble down
the back of the chenille bathrobe.

After a few minutes, she got up and wandered into the living
room. The pile of accumulated mail lay on the desk where her landlord had left it. `Bills and junk mail,' she mumbled, about to rake it
all in the desk drawer. There, partially hidden under some even older
mail was a silver-framed picture of Thornton Graham. She had
shoved it in the drawer the day before she left for Iraq. Becoming
involved with him was a mistake. She brushed the envelopes aside
and uncovered his face.

Thornton Graham was the SNN news anchor seen across the
country during the dinner hour. Handsome, confident, experienced
-and married. When she got her first assignment with the network,
he had been the one who took special notice of her. Between his charisma, handsome looks, and her admiration for him, she was
completely overwhelmed.

Cotten remembered the first time she met Thornton-it was during the Christmas holidays last year. She usually walked to work, but
that day she'd taken a cab because she was bringing in office decorations. In order to avoid more than one trip to the taxi, she carried two
boxes, slung her satchel over her arm, and gripped a Ziploc bag of
Dutch chocolate that she wanted to put in a bowl on her desk. She
made it through the front doors with the help of the office-building
doorman, and all the way to the elevators. But stepping into the elevator, she bumped the door just enough to make her satchel strap
slide down her arm. Someone behind her lifted the strap and put it
back on her shoulder. She turned to say thanks, noticing that the
hand lingered, and stared into the face of SNN's senior correspondent, Thornton Graham. She managed the thank you, but her voice
caught on the word, you, coming out garbled. Thornton seemed flattered with her enchantment and flashed his famous smile. She
turned, trying to appear nonchalant and not so obviously spellbound-she couldn't help but look at his reflection in the brass elevator doors. But when she did, she was embarrassed to find him watching her. The ride up seemed to take forever. When she got off the
elevator, he did, too. Thornton took the boxes and walked her to her
office. Before leaving he asked her to join him for lunch later. That was
the beginning of what became an almost year-long fiery, physical relationship. Now it was over-over and done.

The wine warmed Cotten as she drained the glass. Her neck muscles relaxed, and she felt the faint buzz of the alcohol. She pushed the
stack of letters into the drawer, covering Thornton's face, and strolled
back into the kitchen. Glancing at Archer's box she decided that, as a
precaution, she needed to put it in a safe place until she figured out
what to do with it.

Cotten rinsed her glass. As she dried it, she tilted her head and
looked at the teapot sitting on the stove. She had an idea and moved
the pot onto the counter, then lifted the range lid.

She took a quick look at the box, then at the space under the lid.
Carefully, she placed the box between the heating elements then
closed the range lid and heard it click into position. Good a place as
any, she thought. She returned the teapot, turned out the lights, and
went to bed.

For the first time in years, she dreamed of being a child again, playing on her family's farm. But mostly, she dreamed of her twin sister.

IN THE MORNING, COTTEN rummaged through her cosmetics drawer.
No mascara. There were several bottles of foundation and an unused
blush. Eye shadows, eyeliners, and lipsticks, but no mascara. She'd
taken her only tube with her to Iraq and left it in the desert. She examined her face in the mirror. Her wheat-brown eyes appeared neglected.
She swept back that maverick wisp of hair that always seemed to stray
and gave a last look at her reflection. For an instant, she glimpsed her
mother's face in her own. Her fingertips touched the skin beneath her
eyes and around her mouth. Memories of the life she'd left behind in
Kentucky unsettled her. She'd seen deep lines and dark circles in the
faces of the women-women not much older than she was now.
Twenty-seven was close to thirty, and thirty was not far from ...