C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“So it would seem.” Caedmon typed a new entry into the search field. “Damn. Rosemont Security Consultants doesn’t maintain a Web page. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, given that such companies prefer to operate out of the public eye.”

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

“We don’t know that,” Caedmon interjected, still the voice of reason. “Padgham’s killer may simply be in the employ of Rosemont Security Consultants. It in no way implies that the firm had anything to do with Padgham’s murder or the subsequent 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 of paper out of Caedmon’s hands. Turning it toward 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 ex-Marine 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,” Caedmon replied, obviously not one to leap without looking. He quickly typed the words Stanford + MacFarlane into the search engine. A dozen entries popped up, most of them dating to the year 2006.

“That one,” Edie said. “The Washington Post article dated March twentieth.”

Caedmon clicked on the entry.

In silence, they both stared at the photograph that accompanied the front-page story: 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 gray buzz cut is Colonel Stanford MacFarlane. I think you better—”

“Righto,” Caedmon said, hitting the Print button.

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 had a fall from grace, but it appears he bounced into a very lucrative career running a security contracting firm.” She derisively snorted, the story a common one in D.C. “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 worrisome, Colonel MacFarlane probably maintains his high-level contacts within the Pentagon. The man did, after all, work for the Undersecretary of Defense.”

“I have no idea who’s on his Christmas list. All I know is that MacFarlane has at least one inside man working for the Metropolitan Police force. If we go to the authorities, MacFarlane will find us.” Edie despondently stared at the newspaper article. “Religious fanatics . . . not good. Try searching for this ‘Warriors of God,’ will ya?” She tapped her index finger against the computer screen.

A few seconds later, Caedmon found MacFarlane’s Web page, the domain address none other than www.warriorsofgod.com. It featured a scathing rant against homosexuality.

“Did God not make Jonathan Padgham as he made you and me?” Caedmon softly whispered.

“Do you think that’s the reason why they killed Dr. Padgham, because he was a homosexual?”

A sad look in his eyes, Caedmon slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think that was the reason why they killed Padge. Although in another place, and at another time, that might have been sufficient reason to take his life. But it wasn’t the reason this day.”

Edie took several deep breaths, opened her mouth to speak, then found she had nothing to say. The day’s events had unraveled in such a helter-skelter fashion, she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to untangle the skeins.

“While some might dismiss that”—she jutted her chin at the computer screen—“as your run-of-the-mill hateful chatter, it scares the bejesus out of me.”

Having had her fill, the diatribe bringing to mind her own religious upbringing, Edie turned away from the computer. Her grandfather had been a hardcore evangelical Christian, fervently believing that the Bible was a literal transcription. From God’s mouth to the prophets’ ears. And like those towering figures of the Old Testament, Pops had been a rigid taskmaster, daily force-feeding his family an ultraconservative brand of hellfire and eternal damnation. Unable to bear it, her mother had left home at age sixteen. Edie lasted a bit longer, beating a hasty retreat on her eighteenth birthday, managing to escape via a full scholarship to George Washington University. The day she boarded the northbound Greyhound bus was the last day she spoke to her maternal grandfather, Conway Miller.

For the first couple of months, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to keep in touch with her gran, but when the letters were returned, unopened, she got the message. She’d not only left the family, she’d left the flock. She had officially been branded a nonperson. It was another fifteen years before she stepped foot inside a church. The congregation at St. Mattie’s was an eclectic mix of female priests, gay deacons, and multiracial couples. People of all stripes and colors, joined together in mutual joy. A blessed gathering. Edie didn’t know if it was a form of rebellion against the religion of her youth, but she loved attending Sunday service at St. Mattie’s. No doubt, Pops weekly turned up the dirt above his gravesite.

“It would appear that Stanford MacFarlane is the kingfish in a very murky pond,” Caedmon said, drawing Edie’s attention back to the computer screen. “In my experience, men consumed by a burning hatred, who cloak themselves in God’s love, are the most dangerous men under the heavens.”

“Just read the newspaper. Religious fanaticism is a global phenomenon.”

“Which raises the question . . . why did a group of fanatical Christians steal one of the most sacred of all religious r elics?”

Edie turned to Caedmon, shrugging. “I have no idea.”

“Nor I. Although I am keen to uncover the answer.”

CHAPTER 24

Outside the hotel room window the day had dawned, damp and cold. No glimmer of sunshine to cast even a smidge of false hope. Through the leafless trees Edie stared at the snaking procession of headlights, the early-morning motorists lost in an enviable world of undone Christmas shopping, overdue bills, and holiday office parties.

She sighed, her breath condensing into a cloudy smudge as it struck the plate glass window.

“All is not lost,” Caedmon said from behind her, his voice taking her by surprise.

Edie turned to face him, unaware that her glum mood had been so obvious. “Then why am I having so much trouble finding an answer that makes any sense? I don’t know about you, but I tossed and turned all night trying to figure out why an ex-Marine colonel, who now owns and operates a mercenaries-for-hire contracting firm, would have had Dr. Padgham murdered?” She held up her hand, forestalling an objection. “I know. In the world of biblical artifacts, the Stones of Fire are out there. But did they have to go and—”