Stones of Fire

Although they hadn’t set eyes on one another in nearly twenty years, Aisquith had agreed to meet him later that evening for drinks. Hoping to pique his interest — and in the process glean some kernel of information about the mysterious Hebrew relic — he intended to email Aisquith the digital photographs. A true Renaissance man with an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient history, C?dmon Aisquith would hopefully be able to shed some much-needed light. As with the freelance photographer, Padgham did not deem the secrecy stipulated by the museum director applicable to his Oxford chum.

‘All finished,’ the photographer announced. Popping open the digital camera, she removed a tiny rectangle of plastic and handed it to him.

He stared at the minuscule object. ‘And what am I supposed to do with this? I asked you to take a photograph.’

‘And I did just that. There’s your photograph. On the memory card.’ She stuffed the camera into her pocket, her outlandish garb topped by a khakicoloured waistcoat.

Cheeky cow, Padgham thought. Although only forty-two years of age, he often felt as though the modern world and all its technical sleights of hand were passing him by at a dizzying speed.

As she dismantled the tripod, Padgham repeated his question. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

‘You’re supposed to download it on your computer. Once you do that, you can print it, email it, doctor it up, whatever.’

There being no staff available to assist him, Padgham was forced to grovel. ‘I would be most appreciative if —’

Just as he hoped, she snatched the memory card out of his hand. Bending at the waist, she inserted it into the computer tower under his desk.

Biting back a pleased smile, he pointed to a notepad inscribed with the museum logo. ‘I would like to send the photographs, via email, to that address.’

‘Yes, sire. I live to serve.’

Padgham turned a deaf ear on her disgruntled mumblings. ‘You’re most kind, Miss Miller.’

‘You say that only because you don’t know me.’ She seated herself at his carved mahogany desk. ‘All right, let me get this straight. You want me to send the pics to one C.Aisquith at lycos.com?’ When he nodded, she said, ‘Probably best if we send the photos as JPEGs.’

‘Yes, well, I’ll leave it up to you.’

She quickly and deftly tapped away on the keyboard. Then, getting up from his executive-style chair, she said, ‘Okay, I want you to pull up your email account.’

‘I would be only too happy to oblige.’ Padgham seated himself at the desk. ‘What the bloody hell!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Are you blind, woman? The screen has gone blank.’ He pointed an accusing finger at the monitor.

‘Calm down. No need to have a conniption. It’s probably just a loose cable.’

‘Hmm…’ He peered under the desk then glanced at his Gieves and Hawkes hand-tailored trousers. The problem had but one solution. ‘Since you so easily diagnosed the problem, would you be a dear and…?’

‘You do know that this is not in my job description,’ Edie Miller griped as she scrambled to her knees. There being no room to pull the computer tower forward, she was forced to wedge herself under the desk in order to check the cables. Padgham glanced at the Waterford dish on the nearby console, thinking he might offer her a cellophane-wrapped sweet. Recompense for a job well done.

As the woman under the desk silently went about her business, Padgham picked up the ancient breastplate, returning it to the incised bronze coffer.

‘Ah, let there be light,’ he murmured a moment later, pleased that a spark of life now emanated from his computer, the monitor flickering the familiar Dell logo. Out of the corner of his eyes Padgham saw a third person enter the office. Surprised to see a man attired in grey overalls, a black balaclava pulled over his head, he imperiously demanded, ‘Who the devil are you?’

The man made no reply. Instead, he raised a gun and pointed it at Padgham’s head, his finger poised on the trigger.

Death almost instantaneous, Padgham experienced a sharp, piercing pain in his right eye socket. Then, like the flickering lights on his computer monitor, he saw an explosion of colour before the world around him turned a deep, impenetrable shade of black.

2

‘Who the devil are you?’

Pop.

Crash!

Thud.

Those sounds registered on Edie Miller’s brain in such quick succession, it wasn’t until she saw Dr Padgham’s lifeless body sprawled on the Persian carpet three feet from her huddled position under the desk that she realized what had happened.

She stifled a shriek of terror. Like a freight train that had jumped the tracks, her heart slammed against her chest. In a state of shock, her brain sent a series of urgent messages. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t twitch so much as a finger.

Terrified, Edie heeded the commands.

And then her fear turned to joy.

Several seconds had passed since Dr Padgham hit the floor and she was still alive. It was her lucky day. The killer didn’t know she was crouched in the knee well under the desk. Covered on three sides by antique mahogany, she was hidden from view. In order to see her, the killer would have to bend down and peer under the desk.

From her vantage point, Edie saw a pair of grey-clad legs come into view. At the end of those legs was a pair of tan military-style boots. Next to those legs hung a large masculine hand wrapped around a pistol that had a silencer attached to it. As though she were looking through the lens of a camera, she focused on that ham-fisted hand, noticing the hairy knuckles and the unusual silver ring made up of interconnected crosses. The notion that she and the killer might actually pray to the same God caused her to bite down on her lip hard, a hysterical burst of laughter threatening to escape.

And that’s when the killer did the completely unexpected.

Stepping over Dr Padgham’s body, he set the gun on top of the desk and began clicking away on the computer keyboard. A few seconds later, Edie heard him softly swear under his breath as he yanked open a drawer.

He was looking for something.

Edie barely had time to wrap her mind around that thought when the killer reached under the desk and removed the digital memory card from the computer.

She held her breath, praying to God, Jesus, anyone who would listen, that the killer didn’t see her. It stood to reason that you couldn’t plead with a man who sneaked up on his victims and killed in unpitying silence.

Only able to see the killer from the waist down, she watched as he unclipped a mobile phone from his belt. Then she listened and was able to hear seven digital beeps. A local phone number. He was calling someone in the Washington DC metropolitan area.

‘Let me speak to the colonel.’ Several moments passed in silence before he again spoke. ‘Sir, I’ve got the breastplate. I’ve also got a problem.’

The breastplate, she belatedly realized. Dr Padgham had been killed because of the jewelled breastplate.

‘I’m not sure, but I think the little English homo sent digital photos of the relic to someone outside the museum. I found a tripod on the desk, a memory card with photos of the breastplate and an email address.’ Edie heard a sheet of paper being ripped from a pad. ‘C.Aisquith at lycos.com.’ A short pause. The killer carefully spelled out the email address. Another pause ensued. ‘No. I couldn’t find the camera… Yes, sir, I took care of the guards…