Stones of Fire

say.’

‘The Knights Templar? Yeah, I can see that.’ Volunteering a personal titbit of her own, she said, ‘I’ve got a masters degree in women’s studies.’

Grinning, C?dmon winked at her. ‘Nearly as obscure a course of study as medieval history. And taking digital photographs at the Hopkins Museum?’

‘A girl’s got to make a living somehow.’

Enjoying the flirtatious banter, she wondered if anything would come of it. Because of the near-miss at the National Gallery, they’d decided against separate rooms. Would he make a move once the bed covers were turned down? Imagining what that might be like, she stared at his hands, admiring the raised pattern of veins. She’d seen those hands before. In Florence on Michelangelo’s David.

Admittedly intrigued by the brainy, street-smart man with masculine hands, she decided to prise the lid a bit higher. ‘Earlier today you said something about being on a book tour.’

‘I recently wrote a book about the Egyptian mystery cults. Which permits me to put the word “author” on my curriculum vitae.’

‘That would make you — what — a historian?’

C?dmon keyed in the log-on code given to them by the porter. ‘Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a rehistorian.’

‘Last time I looked, that particular word hadn’t made it to the pages of Webster.’

‘Nor the Oxford English Dictionary. But seeing as there’s no word to accurately describe what I do, I was forced to improvise.’

‘And just how does a rehistorian differ from your standard garden-variety historian?’

‘A historian gathers, examines and interprets the material evidence that remains from the near and distant past,’ C?dmon replied as he brought up the Google home page. ‘In contrast, a rehistorian reveals that which has remained hidden from view; scholarship and speculation going hand in hand.’

She smiled. ‘Well, you did lay claim to being an iconoclast.’

‘So, I did. But enough about me.’ Leaning forward, he grabbed a pad of Holiday Inn notepaper lying on the desk. He then removed a fountain pen from his breast pocket. ‘I want you to tell me every pertinent detail you can recall from your earlier ordeal.’

‘You mean at the Hopkins Museum?’ When he nodded, she propped her chin on her balled fist. ‘Well, I already told you about the ring with the Jerusalem cross. But what I didn’t tell you is that right after he murdered Dr Padgham, the killer called someone on his cell phone. I counted seven digital beeps, so it had to be a local call.’

C?dmon scribbled ‘DC phone call’ on the pad.

‘And I remember that the killer said something about going to “London at nineteen hundred hours”.’ Edie bracketed the last five words with air quotation marks. ‘Or maybe the cop mentioned London. I’m not sure. Sorry. I don’t remember. No! Wait!’ Excited, Edie slapped her palm on the desk. ‘The killer mentioned a place called Rosemont.’

‘Let me make certain that I have this correct: DC phone call, London nineteen hundred hours and Rosemont.’ When she nodded, he ripped the sheet of paper from the pad.

‘Now what?’ Edie dragged the green bin closer to the desk so she could see the computer monitor.

‘Now, we delve into the abyss.’

Edie nudged him in the arm with her elbow. ‘Thanks for that bit of heightened drama. Like I wasn’t scared enough already.’

C?dmon glanced first at his arm, then at her face. For several seconds they wordlessly stared at one another. Two strangers drawn together by a trio of seemingly unconnected clues.

As she continued to gaze into C?dmon’s blue eyes, Edie detected a fire. A passion. But for what, she had no idea. History. Religion. The ‘occult sciences’. Hard to tell.

The first to break eye contact, C?dmon typed ‘Rosemont+DC’ into the search field. ‘Since the London reference is too vague, we’ll start with this.’

‘You know, I remember the good ol’ days when everyone used to have what was quaintly referred to as a private life.’

‘Yes, little did Orwell imagine that Big Brother would come in the guise of a desktop computer.’

‘Looks like we’ve got a hit,’ she exclaimed a half-second later, pointing to the computer screen. ‘It’s a Wikipedia entry for Rosemont Security Consultants.’ Quickly, she scanned the brief description. She turned to C?dmon. ‘Some sort of security firm headquartered in Washington.’

C?dmon clicked on the link. To her dismay, only one scant paragraph appeared. C?dmon hit ‘Print’, the HP printer whirring to life.

Edie read the particulars aloud. ‘“Founded in 2005 by former US Marine Corps Colonel Stanford MacFarlane, Rosemont is one of several security consulting firms created in the wake of the Afghan and Iraq conflicts. Specializing in security consulting, stability operations and tactical support, Rosemont has security contracts in twenty-two nations worldwide.”’ As the information began to sink in, Edie’s shoulders slumped. ‘A security consulting firm… That’s a polite way of saying Rosemont specializes in mercenaries.’

‘So it would seem.’ C?dmon typed a new entry into the search field. ‘Damn. Rosemont Security Consultants doesn’t have a website. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, given such companies prefer to operate out of the public eye.’

‘You know what this means, don’t you? It means we’re not dealing with one or two armed bad men. We’re dealing with an entire army of —’

‘We don’t know that,’ C?dmon interjected, still the voice of reason. ‘Padgham’s killer may simply be in the employ of Rosemont Security Consultants. The firm may have nothing to do with Padgham’s murder or the theft of the Stones of Fire.’

Suddenly recalling something she’d failed to mention, Edie threw her right arm into the air, waving it to catch the teacher’s attention. ‘One last premature leap, okay? I remember that the killer asked to speak to “the colonel”.’ She snatched the printed sheet out of C?dmon’s hands. Turning it towards him, she underlined the first sentence of the Wikipedia entry with her index finger. ‘It says here that the man who founded Rosemont Security Consultants is an exmarine colonel by the name of Stanford MacFarlane. Do you think there’s a link? That this might be who the killer called on his cell phone?’

‘Possibly,’ C?dmon replied, obviously not one to leap without looking. He quickly typed ‘Stanford+ MacFarlane’ into the search engine. A dozen entries popped up, most of them dated 2005.

‘That one,’ Edie said. ‘The Washington Post article dated March 20th.’

C?dmon clicked on the entry.

In silence, they both stared at the photograph that accompanied the front-page story, of a group of military officers, some in dress uniform, some in combat fatigues, linked arm in arm, their heads reverentially bowed.

Edie read the headline aloud. ‘PENTAGON TOP AIDE CONDUCTS WEEKLY PRAYER CIRCLE. And according to the photo tagline, that guy in the middle with the thinning grey buzz cut is Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. I think you better —’

‘Righto,’ C?dmon said, hitting ‘Print’.

As the page printed, they silently read the article. Edie’s gaze zeroed in on the last paragraph: ‘Found guilty of violating military regulations regarding religious expression, Colonel MacFarlane was officially relieved of his duties as intelligence advisor to the undersecretary of defense. In a news conference held late yesterday, Colonel MacFarlane announced that he intended to operate a private security firm specializing in defense contracts while continuing his ongoing work in the religious organization Warriors of God.’

‘MacFarlane may have fallen from grace, but it appears he landed a very lucrative career in security contracts.’ She derisively snorted, the story a common one in DC. ‘Talk about a golden parachute. Last I heard, there’s tens of thousands of these armed paramilitary types running around Iraq, most of them ex-special forces.’

‘Even more worrying, Colonel MacFarlane probably maintains his high-level contacts within the Pentagon. The man did, after all, work for the undersecretary of defense.’