‘I can be your research assistant,’ she interjected, unwavering in her persistence.
‘I don’t need a research assistant. Once I arrive in England, I have connections that —’
‘Yeah, speaking of “connections”, you told Eliot Hopkins that you could contact Interpol, making me wonder just what kind of shadowy connections you have.’
Not seeing the sense in keeping it from her, he said, ‘I used to be an intelligence officer with MI5 — the Security Service.’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘You mean like James Bond?’
‘Hardly. During my tenure at MI5 I spent most of my time in an office and very little time chasing nefarious characters. Certainly none with an outlandish moniker.’
‘Well, that explains your street smarts,’ she remarked, seeming to take his confession in her stride. ‘Yesterday I was truly stumped as to how a bookworm could so easily keep his cool when the bullets started to fly. In fact, there were a couple of times at the National Gallery when you looked like you were in seventh heaven.’
‘Trust me, that wasn’t the case,’ he countered, not about to let her think otherwise.
‘Whether you enjoy that kind of action or not, I still want to go with you.’
Something in Edie Miller’s brown eyes — a defiant expression — seized hold of him and refused to let go. He was well aware that even if they paid for their air tickets with cash, it wouldn’t prevent MacFarlane from discovering their destination. If MacFarlane could get hold of airline passenger manifests, he would soon discover they’d flown into Heathrow. Whereupon they would find themselves, once again, in dangerous straits.
He raised his face heavenwards. ‘It’s raining feathers,’ he remarked conversationally, the hail having softened into light snow. ‘Admittedly, it’s not an original thought. Herodotus coined the phrase some twenty-four hundred years ago.’
‘I’ve got one for you: “It’s raining men.” The Weathergirls at the height of the disco era.’
C?dmon sighed, thinking them an odd pair.
‘It would appear that our destinies are linked,’ he said, capitulating. For several long seconds he stared at her. He glimpsed a wariness in her eyes. The wariness at odds with her usual defiance, he intuited that Edie Miller’s tough facade was akin to gold leaf. Solid to the glance, but gossamer thin.
‘You know, C?dmon, I’m a little uncertain about the agenda. Are you planning to stop MacFarlane from finding the Ark or are you hoping to beat him to the punch?’
He ignored the second part of her question: ‘For now, we must concentrate our efforts on stopping MacFarlane finding the Ark.’
‘I agree. If the Ark is, as you claim, a weapon of mass destruction, it doesn’t bode well that an ex-military man is after it.’
He acknowledged Edie’s spot-on observation with a brusque nod. ‘Just as worrisome, I suspect that MacFarlane is well funded, his cash translating into a highly developed communications and logistics network.’
‘So, in other words, it’s going to be a whole lot like David going up against Goliath.’
C?dmon kept silent, not about to point out that David at least had had a catapult.
31
‘I will take revenge on my hateful enemies. I will sharpen my sword and let it flash like lightning.’
Being a military man, Stan MacFarlane knew that another battle loomed on the horizon. Yet another chance to vanquish the enemy.
A lesson well learned in Panama, Bosnia, Operation Desert Storm.
And, of course, Beirut.
Some said that’s where he found religion. He preferred to think that’s where his relationship with the Almighty began.
He still had vivid nightmares of that deadly October day when two hundred and forty-one marines were taken out by a suicide bomber driving a water truck packed with explosives… the sickening stench of sulphur and burnt flesh… the cacophony of pain and outrage… the frenzied rush to rescue the injured… the grievous task of finding the dead.
Amazingly, he’d survived the blast, his bunk mate not so lucky.
In retrospect, able to see with a survivor’s clarity, he knew the attack had been the first sign that the End Times were near.
His wife, the treacherous Helen, left him within a year of his conversion, claiming spousal abuse. In the nine years of their marriage he’d never laid a violent hand on the woman — although he’d been tempted to wring her scraggy neck with his bare hands during the divorce proceedings.
The judge, a pussy-whipped liberal, had given Helen custody of their son Custis, Stan only able to see his son at the weekends. Afraid Custis would turn into a mummy’s boy, he’d made sure his son joined the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps while still in high school. Pulling a few strings, he’d been able to secure Custis a berth at Annapolis. Helen claimed that he’d bullied Custis into joining the marines, but he knew he’d done right by his son, the Corps making a man of him.
Who or what had turned him into a weak-kneed coward was to this day a deep, dark mystery. The official account claimed that after one deployment to Afghanistan and two to Iraq, Custis had been suffering from PTSD. Stan knew it wasn’t post-traumatic stress disorder that had caused his son to put the barrel of a loaded M16 rifle into his mouth. Stan knew it was the barbarous infidels of Babylon who had caused his only son to heed Satan’s siren call. Men of God had a duty to battle the godless among them. Custis had shirked his duty.
And would burn in the pits of hell because of it.
Soon after his son’s death, he had founded the Warriors of God, convinced it was his duty to lead the army of the righteous, that duty akin to King David leading the Israelite army to victory over the Jebusites and Philistines, or Godfroi of Bouillon heading the crusaders as they battled Muslim infidels in the streets of Jerusalem. And, of course, there was his personal hero, Thomas ‘Stonewall’ Jackson, a deeply religious military man who had refused to fight on Sunday and had led his men in prayer before each battle.
Today, despite his fervent prayers, the battle had yet to be won.
Part of his contingency plan had been to send in a sniper in case the old man lost his nerve. No need to worry about the scion of one of America’s great industrial families being gunned down in the middle of the National Zoo; the police would jump to the conclusion that a copycat killer was replicating the sniping spree that had paralyzed the nation’s capital during the autumn of 2002.
No doubt the funeral eulogies would wax poetic about Eliot Hopkins’ generosity and philanthropy, making no mention of the many stolen items featured in his collection. The tributes would also not cite Hopkins’ secret passion, the Ark of the Covenant. Because of Stan’s thorough planning, the biblical scholars and archaeology watchdogs would continue to snore, unaware of any goings-on.
When all the pieces were in place, only then would the world know of Stan’s divinely inspired mission. At the moment the world was following his timetable. It was early, too early to reveal God’s great plan. Although if the unbelievers had but eyes to see they too would know that global events manifested an urgent call to arms from the Almighty.
Anxious about the upcoming mission, the colonel hit the intercom button on his phone console. ‘Any word on the flight plan?’
‘I’ve just received the official approval, sir. You’re wings up at thirteen hundred hours.’
‘Excellent,’ Stan said to his chief of staff before disconnecting.
Despite the fact that English food rivalled messtent slop, he looked forward to greeting the new day in London. The Miller woman had set the schedule back a full twenty-four hours, and while frustrated by the snafu, he felt curiously uplifted, ready, willing and able for the task he was about to undertake. Besides, in the larger scheme of things, Edie Miller and her consort were insignificant, minor players in a drama penned by the Almighty twenty- six centuries ago.
He glanced at his watch. He had enough time to post his daily blog.
