“Somehow I doubt that MacFarlane’s God would have much truck with those of us who long for peace, not war.”
Sighing, Edie wrapped her free arm around his waist, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in desperate need of a group hug.”
As am I, love. As am I.
The web of life was fragile, indeed, and he hoped this day’s atrocities would quickly recede from Edie’s memory. Hoped she could forget what she’d witnessed. And forgive what she’d seen him do. As soon as they reached London, he intended to call in a favor from an old chum at MI5 and have her placed in an out-of-the way safe house. Some place where Stanford MacFarlane and his assassins could never find her.
Edie inclined her head away from his shoulder. “What do you think MacFarlane plans to do now that he has the Ark?”
“The first order of business will be to get the relic out of Britain. If he’s discovered with the Ark on English soil, not only will the bloody thing will be confiscated, it will be sent directly to the British Museum.” Where it would draw larger crowds than the Rosetta stone, the Elgin Marbles, and the Sutton Hoo treasure combined.
He removed the nicked GPS receiver from his anorak pocket. “It’ll take a few moments to initialize,” he informed her as he hit the Power button. He held the receiver aloft to get a satellite fix on their position. A few seconds later, glancing at the small display screen, he said with a teasing smile, “Ah, we are exactly where we should be.”
Edie halfheartedly returned the smile. “Since I have yet to correctly program the TV remote, I’ll have to trust you on that one. But isn’t the GPS receiver a bit superfluous? I mean, we’re here already and we know where ‘here’ is located.”
“On the contrary. Given that this is a handheld computer with satellite capabilities, untold information could be stored on the device.” Using the NAV key, he accessed a database file of saved maps. “Now, isn’t this interesting. A number of maps were recently downloaded. According to the list, there are maps for Oxford, Oxfordshire, Godmersham, Swanley, and—” He stared at the list, stunned.
“Come on, Caedmon. I can only hold my bated breath for so long.”
“And Malta,” he replied, turning the receiver in her direction.
“Malta?” Tapping her pursed lips, she stared at the display screen. “Although world geography isn’t one of my strong suits, I seem to recall that Malta is a spit of an island located in the Mediterranean Sea. Do you think that’s where MacFarlane is headed?”
“Given that the list of maps perfectly corresponds to MacFarlane’s known movements in the last seventy-two hours, we must assume that Malta is his intended destination.” And how very ironic, given that the diminutive isle had once been home to the Knights of St. John, the same order of warrior monks to which Galen of Godmersham had been an initiated member.
“Isn’t Malta where St. Paul was shipwrecked while en route to Rome?”
“Hmm? Er, yes,” he answered, interrupted from his reveries. “As a crossroads between Africa and Europe, the island has hosted many a famed and infamous personage during its turbulent history.”
“But why would MacFarlane take the Ark to Malta?”
Caedmon shrugged, admittedly at a loss. “The dreams of a madman are difficult to decipher.”
“I’m guessing that getting the Ark out of England is going to be an even more difficult feat, what with airport security having tightened considerably in recent years.”
“Which is why Stanford MacFarlane will no doubt transport the Ark via a shipping vessel. An innocuous boat leaving port in the dead of night sounds about right.” As he spoke, the mobile phone in his pocket began to shrilly beep.
“What’s that?”
Caedmon shoved his hand into his anorak pocket and removed the mobile he’d taken from Sanchez. He glanced at the digital display.
“Unless I’m greatly mistaken, we’ve just been given Stanford MacFarlane’s next chess move,” he said, showing her the flash message.
104-13-94-38-35-17-89-62-122-57-19-97-33-26-42-109-86- 70-40-9-53-2-119
“Well, will ya look at that? It’s some sort of a text message sent by an unnamed person at Rosemont Security Consultants. Although I don’t know that I would call it a text message per se, since it appears to be nothing more than a numeric list.”
“A coded numeric list, I daresay.” Caedmon suspected that Stanford MacFarlane maintained contact with his troops with flash messages sent via mobile phones. A brilliant means of communication in the satellite age, enabling MacFarlane to simultaneously issue battle orders to followers across the globe.
“If only we had the encryption code,” he murmured.
“Do you think the encryption has anything to do with the map of Malta that we found on the GPS receiver?”
“Mmmm . . . difficult to say.” His gaze ricocheted between the receiver and the mobile. “Probably not, given that Harliss was the only one of MacFarlane’s men to carry a satellite receiver. I suspect that MacFarlane moves his chess pieces very carefully across the board, revealing the master plan in dribs and drabs.”
“Where do we begin the hunt?”
“In Malta. However, from this point forward, there is no more ‘we.’”
When Edie heard that, her brown eyes furiously gleamed. “So, in other words, you’re planning to dump me and chase after MacFarlane on your own.”
“Rather than ‘chase after MacFarlane,’ I intend to retrieve the Ark.” Getting up from the bench, he walked over to the nearby trash receptacle and tossed his coffee cup into the plastic-lined can.
He had no delusions as to the difficulty of the task he’d set for himself. Tracking down MacFarlane and actually confiscating the Ark of the Covenant would more than likely prove an impossible, if not deadly, undertaking. But try he must. The GPS receiver had proved a godsend. Now, at least, he knew where to hunt for his nemesis.
Grabbing him by the wrist, Edie urged him to retake his seat on the bench. “I know you’re worried about me. That said, going after the Ark isn’t a one-man job. You’re going to need all the help you can get to vanquish MacFarlane and his Warriors of—”
“I can’t take you with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t have time to potty-train you.”
“Why, you arrogant bastard!” She leaped to her feet. “I’m not some Bond girl along for the ride. I’m your partner. And in case you didn’t get the memo, I am a full and equal partner.”
Caedmon stared at her, unable to take his eyes off the long corkscrew curls that blew about her flushed face. Also unable to quash the memory of her standing beneath an upraised pickax.
“‘In the world you will have tribulation,’” she continued. “John sixteen. A Bible verse that Stanford MacFarlane, no doubt, holds near and dear.”
“And a frightening prospect it is.”
“Yes, it is frightening. Which is why I’m going with you to Malta. Unlike you, I completely understand MacFarlane and his radical beliefs. For five years, I was fed a steady diet of Ezekiel and the End Times prophecy.”
“After today’s primer in apocalyptic belief, I should be able to manage.”
“What you heard was just the tip of the iceberg. Think of me as your very own expert in Christian fundamentalism. Besides, we’re a team. We have been from the very beginning. So, short of knocking me unconscious, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“Very well,” he murmured.
If she wondered at his ready acquiescence, she gave no indication. “Okay, now that we’ve got that settled, what’s the game plan?”