by C. M. Palov
“Would you mind . . . ?” Edie toggled her glass back and forth, silently indicating that she needed a refill.
“Not in the least.” Getting up from the bed, Caedmon walked over to the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. Along the way he collected his own glass.
The silence unnerving, he busied himself with mixing the drinks. Rightly concerned that he might cross the invisible line, and equally worried his companion might be receptive, he went easy on the gin. With his font of small talk dried up, he wordlessly handed Edie a replenished glass.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his tumbler to hers.
“Actually, more like ‘Tears,’ don’t you think?” Her demeanor glum, Edie listlessly raised the tumbler to her lips.
“For myself, I prefer taking the ‘glass is half-full’ approach to all of this.”
“Don’t you care that your friend was murdered?”
“Of course, I care,” he retorted, not wanting to have this conversation with a woman he barely knew. “However, experience has taught me that the pain will only worsen if I permit myself to wallow in it.”
“Is that what I’m doing, wallowing?”
“No, you are not wallowing. Wallowing is when one for-goes the tonic water.” As well he knew. Hoping to lighten the mood, he said, “His pet name for me was ‘Mercuriophilus Anglicus.’”
“I assume that you’re referring to Dr. Padgham.”
“Padge could never recall anyone’s forename.”
“Probably because he was too caught up in his own self-importance.” No sooner did the words escape her lips than Edie slapped a hand over her mouth. “God, that was horrible! I’m sorry.” Then, laughing, “Did I mention that I’m a mean drunk? So, what does Mercurio Blabbityblop mean?”
“It means the English Mercury Lover.”
Still smiling, she lifted a brow. “Hmm, sounds kinky. Do I really want to know the story behind your strange moniker?”
Enjoying the silly game, he feigned indignation. “I can assure you that the story is not nearly as racy as you presume. It so happens that alchemical mercury suffuses all of creation. In ancient times, it was thought to be the secret essence of the All in all things.”
She drew a long face. “Oh, puh-leeze. There must be a class you guys take at Oxford where they teach you how to pontificate to us little people.”
“Are you always so frank?”
“Not always.” Her brown eyes mischievously twinkled. “I do have to sleep.”
Caedmon threw back his head and laughed, her offbeat humor growing on him.
“You know it’s crazy,” Edie said, suddenly serious. “All of this murder and mayhem happening because of an old breastplate.”
He walked over to the striped wingback chair situated on the far side of the bed and seated himself. “The Stones of Fire are much more than ‘an old breastplate.’”
“You said something about the breastplate being designed by God and manufactured by Moses.”
“So claim a good many biblical scholars.”
“Come on. You don’t really think that the breastplate was divinely inspired?”
“Actually, I think the breastplate has a far more”—he paused, not wanting to offend her religious beliefs—“complex pedigree than that contained within the pages of the Old Testament.”
“Really? What exactly do you mean by ‘complex’?” Drawing her legs onto the bed, she curled them beneath her bum. “I thought it was pretty straightforward: Moses would don the breastplate in order to control the—how did you phrase it?—the ‘cosmic power’ contained within the Ark of the Covenant.”
“Which raises the question . . . where did Moses learn such a feat? I have long suspected that Moses was not only an Egyptian, but a trained magician in the pharaoh’s court.”
“Moses, the man who led the Jews out of bondage and commanded the ragtag Hebrew tribes as they wandered the wilderness for forty years? That Moses was an Egyptian magician?”
He nodded.
“You know what I think, Mr. Caedmon Aisquith? I think you’ve eaten way too much paste. For starters, the Egyptians were a bunch of pagans. They had—what?—like a couple hundred gods.”
“Not nearly as many as all that,” he quietly corrected, well aware that the theory he was about to propose would scandalize many a churchgoer. “Would it surprise you to learn that the ancient Egyptians were the first people to practice monotheism? Known as Atenism, for several decades it was the state religion, the pharaoh Akhenaton officially declaring that Aten was the only god in the heavens.” Leaning forward, he propped his forearms on his thighs; the point he was about to make was key to his argument. “Aten was not the supreme god; Aten was the only god. Furthermore, I believe that Moses, or Tuthmoses as he was known in the Egyptian high court, was not only an avid follower of the Aten religion, but he fused the beliefs of Atenism to that of the fledgling Hebrew faith.”
Edie stared at him, saucer-eyed. “What are you saying, that Yahweh and the Egyptian god Aten were one and the same?”
CHAPTER 21
Unwilling to tread those murky depths, Caedmon purposefully equivocated. “I am merely saying that there are areas of overlap between the two religions.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Such as the Ten Commandments, which are suspiciously similar to the behavioral mandates put forth in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, a work that predates the biblical Exodus. And let us not forget circumcision, an unusual practice to say the least. Did you know that circumcision was a ritualistic procedure among the Egyptian royal family and their attendant court? Other similarities include the stricture against graven images, a hereditary priesthood, the sacrifice of animals, and the use of a golden ark to contain the might and majesty of what can only be called a very jealous god.” His case made, Caedmon folded his arms across his chest. “Would you not agree that such similarities give one pause?”
“Yeah, well, right now I need to pause and catch my breath because I’m still grappling with Moses being an Egyptian magician.” Edie took a noisy slurp of her G&T, loudly chomping down on an ice cube. “I’m sorry, Caedmon, but I’m having a hard time buying off on Judaism descending from some long-lost Egyptian religion.”
“I am not speaking of Judaism as it is practiced today, that being a religion primarily created in the sixth century B.C. during the Babylonian Captivity. I am speaking of the Hebrew religion as it was practiced from the time of the Exodus up until the Babylonian Captivity, a span of roughly seven hundred years.”
“So, which came first, the worship of Aten or the worship of Yahweh?”
“Ah, the ‘chicken or egg’ conundrum. In the same way that Roman religious practices influenced early Christianity, I believe that the enslaved Jews in Egypt influenced, and perhaps even inspired, the worship of Aten. The Old Testament makes mention of Moses having been instructed in ‘all the wisdom of the Egyptians.’”
“What exactly does that mean, ‘all the wisdom of the Egyptians’?”
The question immense in its scope, Caedmon thoughtfully considered his reply. “The prescribed Egyptian education included the study of crystals and metals, necromancy, and the art of divination. Knowledge that Moses put to good use when creating the fabled Stones of Fire.”
“But I saw the breastplate with my own eyes. It was just”—she shrugged—“twelve jewels and some bits of old gold.”
“Yes, but it’s those very jewels that give the Stones of Fire its immense power.”
“Okay, I’ll nibble. What’s so special about those twelve jewels?”
“Allow me to preface my answer by saying that gemstones are not the inert, inanimate objects that most people assume them to be. Indeed, gemstones, as well as crystals, are energy conduits. In Asian cultures, such energy is known as chi.”
“I have a girlfriend who’s into crystals. She swears that if you hold a crystal long enough in your hand you’ll soon feel a vibratory pulse. Personally, I consider that awfully New Agey.�
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“Not if you consider the fact that crystals are used to boost radio waves in a process known as piezoelectricity. In a similar process, the ancients used gemstones and crystals to both generate and enhance energy. A high priest steeped in the mysteries of ancient Egypt, Moses used his vast knowledge of gems and crystals when creating the Stones of Fire. I would even go so far as to say that the breastplate is nothing less than a form of ancient technology, each stone specifically selected for its unique vibratory properties.”
At hearing that, Edie snorted. “You’re kidding, right? I’d hardly call an old breastplate a technological wonder.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly what the breastplate was, and perhaps still is—ancient technology. Just because the word Sony isn’t stamped on it doesn’t make it any less sophisticated than the mobile phone in my breast pocket,” he countered, patting said pocket. “The Stones of Fire, even by twenty-first-century standards, is state of the art.”
She mulled that over for a paltry half second before uttering a noncommittal, “Huh.”
Reaching across to the nightstand that separated the two double beds, Edie grabbed a pink and white bag of Oreo cookies. Using both hands, she ripped it open, slid free a tray of factory-packed, chemical-laced brown biscuits, and offered him one.
“No, thank you,” he politely demurred.
Her lips curled in a come-hither smile. “Ah, come on, Caedmon. Try it, you’ll like it.”
Realizing how easily Adam had been swayed, he took a crème-filled biscuit.
“Quite tasty,” he remarked a few seconds later.
With a twist of the wrist, Edie unscrewed the two halves of her biscuit. Then, to his utter surprise and lurid fascination, she proceeded to lap at the white cream with her tongue. “Okay, let’s suppose for argument’s sake that Moses was a member of the Egyptian priesthood. Why would he lead a bunch of Hebrew slaves out of Egypt?”
“Your question presumes that the Jews, and only the Jews, left Egypt.”
“Well, who else would have gone with them?”
“All those in grave danger of losing their lives.” He let that sink in a moment before saying, “Specifically, the entire court of Akhenaton.”
She lowered her cookie. “Come again?”
“What you must understand is that when the pharaoh Akhenaton imposed a monotheistic faith upon the inhabitants of Egypt, it was nothing short of a religious revolution. Not unlike the furor that ensued when Martin Luther put nail to paper. Suddenly, overnight, the pantheon of familiar gods and goddesses—Isis, Set, Osiris—were rendered null and void.”
“I’m guessing that what some considered a new religion, others considered an out-and-out heresy,” Edie correctly surmised.
“Indeed. When Akhenaton died, the practitioners of the old religion swooped down upon the royal court. And with a vengeance, I might add, all traces of Akhenaton and Aten wiped clean from the annals of Egyptian history.”
“What happened to those Egyptians who still believed in Aten?”
“They fled Egypt in the dead of night. A vast migration of slave and nobility.”
“Well, that would explain the passage in the book of Exodus where the Hebrew slaves supposedly took ‘jewels of silver and jewels of gold’ with them when they fled Egypt. I mean, how the heck did a bunch of slaves get that kind of treasure trove?”
He nodded, surprised that she was so well versed in scripture. “In truth, it was not the Hebrew slaves who possessed such wealth, but rather the Egyptian nobility who accompanied them on their flight.”
“Moses leading the way to the Land of Canaan.”
“So I believe.”
“While it makes for the greatest story never told, I still need more proof before I chuck away years of Sunday school indoctrination.” She glanced at the electric alarm clock on the nightstand. “Time for the six o’clock newscast,” she announced, lunging off the bed.
Aiming the remote at the telly, she hit the power button. A suited woman sporting a blond bob appeared on the screen.
“In a scene reminiscent of the pandemonium that struck Washington in the wake of 9/11, museum goers at the National Gallery of Art came under terrorist fire earlier today when a gunman began shooting a loaded firearm into the underground concourse area.”
As the news broadcaster read her script, a grainy video of the “pandemonium” appeared on the screen, the footage clearly shot by an amateur hand. And a shaking hand at that, there being a decidedly frenetic quality to the captured images. To Caedmon’s relief, neither he nor Edie was visible in the video.
Slack-jawed, Edie turned to him. “They’ve got it all wrong . . . it wasn’t a terrorist attack.” Reaching for the remote, she quickly changed channels.
“The shooting spree in the museum’s concourse was part of a well-coordinated terrorist attack, with a car bomb detonating yards away from the Fourth Street entrance. No fatal casualties were reported, although several emergency workers suffered severe burns.”
“Oh, God,” she murmured as she watched the accompanying video of the smoldering blast site. Then, her eyes filled with tears, she turned to him. “That’s the Jeep. The same Jeep that I wanted us to—”
“Don’t say it,” he roughly ordered, equally jarred by the charred wreckage being shown on the telly. “By a fortuitous stroke of luck, we escape the demon.”
“That’s crap and you know it! They’re not going to stop until they find us.” She shoved a balled fist against her mouth, her eyes glued to the television screen.
In silence, they watched the remainder of the news broadcast. Edie muted the volume when the sports segment aired.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that there was no mention of Padgham’s murder? There are three dead bodies at the Hopkins Museum, yet there’s no mention of it on the nightly news.”
“I presume the bodies haven’t been discovered.”
She shook her head, negating the suggestion. “On Mondays, the cleaning crew arrives at four o’clock. Why didn’t they—” She gasped. “Oh, God! Maybe they killed the cleaning crew.” Spinning on her heel, she made a grab for the telephone. “I’m going to make an anonymous call to the D.C. police and inform them that Dr. Padgham and the two security guards were—”
Striding between the two beds, Caedmon yanked the phone out of her hand.
“What are you doing?”
“In this day and age, it’s impossible to be truly anonymous,” he matter-of-factly informed her. “We already know that the local police force has a tainted officer in their midst. If you contact the authorities, you may inadvertently lead the enemy—”
“Right to us.” Grim-faced, Edie sank to the bed.
“I have a far better suggestion.”
“Unless it involves a magic wand, I don’t know how you’re going to make things better.”
Knowing its source, he ignored the sarcasm. “I propose we do a bit of cyber sleuthing. High time we meet the enemy.” He removed his wool jacket from the back of the wingback chair.
“But we don’t have a computer.”
“True, but the bloke downstairs at the front desk seemed amiable enough.”
CHAPTER 22
“Boy, you don’t know your dick from a stick!” Stanford MacFarlane railed at his subordinate.
Just like his son, Custis. Had he lived, Custis would be twenty-eight years old this month. But Custis was no longer among the living, the weak-kneed snot having—
MacFarlane shoved the thought to the backwater of his mind.
The framed photographs had been removed, the name Custis Lee MacFarlane stricken from the family bible. No sense regurgitating the past. It was over and done with. Mortal man could affect nothing save the here and now. And then only if it was in God’s purview to do so.
“What was running through your gourd, Gunny, detonating that wad of C-4 without the Miller woman being in the vehicle? This operation was supposed to have been swift and silent, not a blind man’s game of grab-ass.”
“Well, you should have known! And how is it that Aisquith and Miller eluded six, count ’em, six men trained in urban warfare?”
“I don’t know how they got the slip on us, sir.”
Hearing that, MacFarlane was sorely tempted to ram his knee into his subordinate’s crotch. Penance for his sins. Instead, he strode over to his desk. A hardbound book, Isis Revealed , lay in plain sight on top of his in-basket. He snatched the book in his hand, waving it in front of the gunny’s face.
“Are you saying that the man who wrote this pack of lies outsmarted six of Rosemont’s finest?” He’d earlier had one of his assistants purchase the book; a hunter needed to know the nature of the beast before he laid his traps.
“He’s good, sir. That’s all I know. Riggins is fairly certain they slipped through the Seventh Street exit.”
MacFarlane wasn’t fooled by the Brit’s bravado. No doubt Aisquith and the Miller woman were holed up somewhere, trying to figure out their next move. They were afraid, uncertain whom they could trust. He had carefully cultivated that mistrust when he earlier spoke to the woman. The mess at the Hopkins Museum had been swept clean and the fiasco at the National Gallery of Art attributed to a rogue terrorist. But all that could change if Ms. Miller gave a statement to the police.
He dismissively tossed the book into his in-box, his gaze momentarily landing on the book jacket photo of a red-haired man in a tweed sports jacket.
There was a special place in hell for men who blasphemed the teachings of the one true God.
