The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

  Bursting into the chill of the Moscow night, Cotten stared upon a surreal scene—a sea of police and military vehicles racing across Red Square. They were headed in the direction of the Savior Tower entrance to the Kremlin, responding to the rebel attack, but attracted by the sirens and strobes coming from the mausoleum, many slowed and changed direction.

  “Over here!” Cotten shouted, waving. “Help us!”

  Suddenly, the president’s weight seemed to double, his legs folded, and he collapsed. Cotten wilted beside him on the cold cobblestones outside Lenin’s Tomb.

  aftermath

  “The Russians are calling you a national hero,” said Ted Casselman, SNN news director.

  “So I’ve heard,” Cotten replied into her cell phone. She stared at the Moscow River from her tenth-floor room at the Rossiya Hotel, twenty hours after the Chechen rebel attack. As she watched a tour boat glide along the river, she pictured Ted Casselman—her boss, friend, and mentor. The forty-eight-year-old black man had been like a father to her since she started at the Satellite News Network more than seven years ago. Some serious health problems had slowed Ted down, but he still ran the news department with the force of a general and the heart of a teddy bear. Ted was always the one to pick her up each time she fell and push her to ever greater heights when she hesitated. Without Ted’s guidance and support, her career as a successful network correspondent would never have gotten off the ground.

  “The image of you standing next to the president of Russia in his hospital room has shown up on the front page of every newspaper in the world.”

  Cotten watched the tour boat disappear around a bend. “My heart aches so for the crew, especially those killed. I just met those guys a few minutes before the video shoot. Hardly had time to learn their names.”

  “Our Moscow bureau says the cameraman will survive. He’s pretty bad off, but thank God, he’ll pull through. The soundman was from Minsk. They’re flying his body home tomorrow. We’re taking care of all the arrangements.”

  Cotten shook her head. “I still can’t forget the sounds—the screams, bodies hitting the floor, bullets striking flesh and stone. It was like every sound seemed to echo forever.”

  There was a long pause. Then Ted said, “I’ve seen all the reports and interviews, including yours. The government is keeping tight-lipped about everything. Do they really know how the rebels got in?”

  “I heard they’ve already arrested six top officers in the Russian military—sympathizers who helped the assassins get fake IDs, everything. It’s a mess. Everyone in the Kremlin is looking over their shoulders.”

  “If this had happened back in the bad old days, those traitors would have been dragged out and shot.”

  “That’s still a good possibility.”

  “The rebels picked a perfect time for an assassination attempt,” Ted said. “The ideal situation—small crew, little security, empty church.”

  “This was all well planned, Ted. Ironically, the president told me that nothing happens by chance in a Russian church. Boy, was he right.”

  “What’s the damage to the building?” Ted asked.

  “A disaster. The curator estimates years before they can think about reopening. But even when they do, almost nothing in the cathedral is replaceable. Treasures accumulated over centuries are destroyed.”

  “How are your injuries?”

  Cotten glanced down at the bandages on her legs and arm. “What does it say about combat pay in my contract?”

  “You don’t have a contract.”

  “Then I guess I’ll live.”

  “The conspirators must not be too pleased with you. Do you feel safe?”

  “The government emptied this floor of the hotel and stationed two large, serious-looking Russian men outside my door.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Hey, when you save the president’s life, you get to hang out with guys carrying machine guns.”

  Ted gave an uneasy laugh. Then he said, “John called.”

  “Yeah, he rang my cell, but I was live on the air with the BBC.” She formed an image of John Tyler—his smile, his eyes—the bluest she had ever seen. Probably the only man she had ever truly loved. You always want what you can never have, Cotten Stone.

  Cardinal John Tyler was director of the Venatori, the ultra-covert intelligence agency of the Vatican—and the most important person in her life. They had met years ago when she was a rookie reporter and he was a priest on leave-of-absence from his duties but not his vows. Together, they uncovered and stopped an attempt to clone Christ. The plot became known in the media as the Grail conspiracy.

  “I plan to call him just as soon as I can get a moment’s peace and gather my thoughts.”

  “I assured him that you were fine, just a bit banged up. He said he’s been following all the reports. Anyway, I’m sure the Russians have already fully briefed the Vatican. He’s worried about you, Cotten.”

  “I know,” she said, closing her eyes. “Ted, I’m completely spent. I’ve got to get some sleep before my flight tomorrow.”

  “I won’t keep you a minute longer, kiddo. Just take it easy and get back to us safe.”

  “Deal.”

  “Oh, by the way. Before I forget, someone else called for you—I mean besides the mountain of media requests for interviews.”

  “Who?”

  “Said she was an old friend from your hometown. Saw you on the news and had to get in touch right away. Something about her daughter.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  Cotten heard a rustle of paper through the phone.

  “Here it is. Jordan, Lindsay Jordan. I told her where you were staying. Hope you don’t mind. It sounded legit.”

  “No, that’s fine. I haven’t heard from Lindsay in ages.”

  “Okay, kiddo. Get some rest. We can’t wait to get you home.”

  “Same here. Thanks, Ted.”

  Cotten pushed the button to end the call. She would wait to contact John when she could think clearly. Right now, all she wanted was a good night’s rest.

  She watched the last rays of the sunset fade and the blanket of city lights come alive across the capital of Russia.

  Lindsay Jordan? Her closest friend from childhood through high school. Why would she be calling after so many years?

  tera

  The sound of the crickets reminded Lindsay Jordan that she’d left the window open. It was careless. Too careless. She closed it and tested the brass lock.

  Earlier, just before nightfall, Tera, her eight-year-old daughter, had been staring out the window. Lindsay opened it for her. “What are you thinking about so hard, Tera?” Her daughter’s response rocked Lindsay, catching her so off balance that she had forgotten about the open window until now.

  Lindsay checked the dead bolt on the front door before pacing her living room. She glared at the telephone, trying to decide whether or not to make the call. How was she going to explain without sounding like she was crazy?

  “Damn you,” she said, lifting a picture of her husband from the end table beside the sofa. Then she clutched it to her chest. Sometimes she not only grieved for him, but she was angry with him for dying and leaving her and their daughter alone.

  Lindsay put the framed photo back on the table before padding down the hall, following the soft glow of the nightlight. Quietly, she opened the door to her daughter’s room and peeked in.

  Tera slept soundly, curled under a pink coverlet printed with ballerinas striking elegant poses. Tendrils of Tera’s blond hair spread out on the pink pillowcase. Her favorite stuffed animal rested just below her chin.

  How precious Tera is, Lindsay thought.

  She stared at her only child for several more minutes until the fear inside her built to such a staggering panic that she was afraid she would cry out and wake Tera. Lindsay clo
sed the door and returned to the living room.

  Again, she looked at the phone.

  _____

  Cotten Stone fumbled in the dark hotel room for the ringing telephone on the nightstand.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice whispery and gravelly with sleep. She squinted at the red numbers on the clock radio. 5:19 AM. The faint sound of a siren drifted up from the Russian streets below.

  “Cotten, I don’t know who else to turn to. You’ve got to help me. Please. I’m desperate.”

  “Who is this?” Cotten said.

  “It’s Lindsay.” When there was no response, she said, “Lindsay Jordan, from back home.”

  Remembering Ted’s comment about her calling, Cotten suddenly recognized the voice. “Lindsay? It’s five in the morning . . . what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry to call like this. I phoned SNN earlier and they finally put me through to your boss. He told me where you were staying. Sorry I woke you. I wasn’t sure what time it was there, Cotten, but … oh, God, I don’t know how to explain.”

  Cotten sat up and switched on the lamp. “Slow down. It’s okay that you called. Are you all right?”

  “It’s Tera.”

  “Has something happened to her?”

  “Not yet.” A moment of dead time passed before Lindsay said, “Tera is . . . different, Cotten. I’ve known it since she was just a baby. Special. I know that’s what every mother says, but Tera really is. I can’t explain it all to you on the phone. I need you to come here. See Tera. Then you’ll understand.”

  “Lindsay, what’s going on? What’s this all about?” Cotten pushed up against the headboard, completely puzzled.

  “You have to trust me.” Lindsay heaved out a sigh. “You won’t believe me if I tell you. You’ve got to see for yourself.”

  They used to remember each other’s birthday, but over time, even the exchange of Christmas cards faded. So why the sudden frantic call, now?

  “Lindsay, I’m flying home tomorrow.” She looked at the clock. “I mean today. Maybe after I get this Moscow story squared away, I’ll give you a call. I’ve wanted to come to Kentucky to do a piece on thoroughbred racing anyway, so I could come by to see you and Tera in a couple of weeks—”

  “No.” Lindsay’s voice was sharp. “You can’t wait that long. I’m going to lose her, Cotten. I’m certain of it. She’s had these dreams—nightmares. I say they’re nightmares, even though they don’t frighten her. But when she tells me about them, it scares the hell out of me.” Lindsay’s voice cracked. “I wish I could explain better.”

  “Dreams are just that, Lindsay.”

  “There’s much more than that. It’s not just the dreams.”

  Cotten raked back her hair. What was wrong with her friend? She had heard that Lindsay’s husband died—a fall from the barn roof he was repairing. Someone, she couldn’t remember who, sent her the local newspaper clipping and obituary. Maybe Lindsay hadn’t recovered—maybe she’d become a little out of touch with reality.

  “Lindsay? Are you there?”

  “I’m here. Cotten, I don’t want you to think I’m nuts or that Tera is a freak­—but she sees things, knows things. I don’t understand, but I believe Tera does. And I think you will. That’s why I’m calling. Please, Cotten, you’ve got to help us.”

  “Lindsay, if you don’t have any clue what Tera’s dreams mean, why would you think—”

  “Because of who you are, Cotten. The stories in the news over the years—all the religious stuff you’ve covered and been involved with. You’re the only one who will understand. Just believe me, please.”

  “I do, Lindsay. I do. Tell you what. Let me give you my cell number. That way if anything changes, you can call me no matter where I am.”

  “Hang on,” Lindsay said.

  Cotten waited for her friend to get a pencil and paper then gave the number. “Leave a message on my voice mail if I don’t answer. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “I promise I won’t pester you.” Lindsay’s voice cracked and there was a moment of silence as if she had to stop herself from crying before she could speak again. “Cotten, today Tera was staring out the window, and when I asked her what she was thinking about, she looked right in my eyes and said, ‘Momma, they’re coming for me.’”

  probe

  A Secret Service agent ushered Rizben Mace into the Oval Office. The outer-office staff had gone for the night. “Good evening, Mr. President,” Mace said with a respectful nod as the door closed behind him.

  “Rizben, come in and make yourself comfortable.” The president motioned to an empty wingback chair. He wore a jogging outfit—and his brown hair was tousled and lacked the expert styling normally seen when he made public appearances. “Your call gave me a good excuse to take a break from the nightly treadmill.”

  Philip Miller, National Security Advisor, occupied a second chair. Dressed in a tuxedo, he gave Mace a forced smile, obviously annoyed that he had been pulled away from some official Washington function.

  Small gathering, Mace thought, glancing at the two empty couches facing each other in the middle of the room. The couches were separated enough to display most of the Great Seal of the Presidency embroidered in the carpet.

  Mace acknowledged Miller with a cordial handshake. “Phil, how are the kids?”

  “Hopefully sound asleep by now,” Miller said, glancing at his watch. The Harvard Law School graduate had been the only opposing voice in the cabinet when the president appointed Mace to direct Homeland Security. Mace knew that Miller still held a grudge from years ago when he’d backed Miller’s opponent in the Arkansas governor’s race. It would be more than a grudge if Miller knew the reason he had done so.

  The president sat behind the historic Resolute Desk, built from the timbers of the HMS Resolute. It had been a gift from Queen Victoria to Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and was used by every president since then except Johnson, Nixon, and Ford. “Gentlemen, thanks for coming at such a late hour.” He turned to Mace with a slight lift of his hand. “Rizben, bring us up to date.”

  “Mr. President, as previously reported, significant portions of the Internet were brought down this evening by attacks from primarily Chinese and Malaysian sources. Since the first call to you tonight, we have confirmed that over a million servers across Asia, Africa, Europe, and India have crashed. The word got out quickly, so the damage is starting to subside as everyone still online takes preventative action, but from a commercial standpoint, the attack has already caused considerable damage.”

  The president removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How much?” he asked.

  “Too soon to tell, Mr. President,” Mace said, “but preliminary estimates are approaching the multibillion dollar mark.”

  “Is there any evidence that specific organizations were targeted?”

  “Actually, no, sir,” said Mace. “It looks like some sort of a flood attack that was meant to disrupt service. So far, we have not received any reports of loss of data.”

  “Maybe we’re getting all revved up over nothing,” Miller said. “Could it have just been malicious hackers?”

  “Crackers,” Mace corrected. “Criminal hackers.”

  “Sorry, crackers,” Miller said with an appeasing wave.

  “Again, it’s too soon to tell.” Mace spoke slowly with a deliberateness he knew Miller wouldn’t miss.

  “And you’re recommending raising the threat level?” the president said.

  “Yes, sir, but only for selective infrastructure”

  “Isn’t this a bit of an overreaction?” asked Miller. “I mean, just because a bunch of Europeans can’t log on to their favorite porn sites for a few hours—does that warrant scaring the hell out of the nation?”

  “I wish it were that simple, Phil,” Mace said. “The fact is we still have to consider the
possibility that events like this could be the first wave of a cyber-terrorism attack. This could easily have been a probing action to see our reaction and gauge vulnerabilities.”

  “But the damage to our infrastructure was minimal, correct?” the president asked.

  “So far,” Mace said.

  “This is the same argument we keep going over, time and again,” Miller said to Mace. “I just can’t believe that terrorism is going to come from the Internet. Terrorists don’t want to see some guy denied access to his AOL account. They want the shock factor of jet airliners crashing into buildings, subways filled with toxic gas, and dead bodies scattered in the streets. Hell, how about trying to assassinate the president of Russia inside the fucking Kremlin, for God’s sake. That’s terrorism.” He turned to the president. “Their objective is to terrorize, not piss off. We’ll be justifiably accused of crying wolf over this. Corporations and agencies in this country are doing a hell of a good job hardening access to their assets. We need to reserve adjusting the national threat level to real threats, not what happened tonight.”

  “You’re right, Phil,” Mace said. “Striking at the heart of America with physical attacks does create the most impact, but that doesn’t mean we have to ignore more subtle probes into our virtual heartland. The true damage can take place without shedding one drop of blood or blowing up a plane.”

  There was a silence that settled over the Oval Office, broken a moment later by a slight squeak of the president’s chair as he leaned back. “I tend to agree with Phil,” he said. “Rizben, send out an official alert bulletin to all private and public organizations that would be vulnerable to this sort of intrusion. Advise them of what happened and suggest they review all security procedures involving cyber attacks.” He gave Mace a patronizing smile. “Let’s keep a sharp eye on this one, but not get our knickers in a knot.” He stood. “Thanks again, gentlemen. Keep me informed of any new developments.”