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

by Lynn Sholes

  “Hey,” Ted said, picking up.

  “I’m on my way to Yeager. You’re not going to believe this, but Thelma Sutton’s grave was empty. No body in the coffin. And how about this, it was an Asian doctor who treated her and signed the death certificate. And of course he has since vanished. This is getting more intriguing by the minute.”

  “Are you kidding? Someone stole the body?”

  “No joke. I’ve got a contact in the CDC. Pete Hamrick. I interviewed him back during that anthrax incident at the America Media building in Boca Raton. I’m flying to Atlanta this afternoon. He said he’d do what he could to get me in to see the director. I believe it’s a task that would fall under their shop’s responsibility anyway. Somebody with authority has to get involved now. With this new turn in events, it’s more than just suspicion or coincidence. They’ll have to listen. You agree?”

  “Definitely. Let’s keep our fingers crossed. It sounds like we’re on the brink of blowing something heinous wide open.”

  “These cases, even the Pitcairn, are either amazing coincidences, sheer accidents, or someone is testing the water. We know who is behind this, and they have to know we’re sniffing around. That might push their buttons and cause them to make a mistake. We just have to find them and whoever else they’ve gotten involved.” Cotten was quiet for a moment. “This really scares me.”

  “Me, too. Be safe, kiddo.”

  She pushed the end call button. This was going to wind up being much more than she could handle. She held down the call button and spoke into the phone.

  “John, cell.”

  the target

  “We have an emergency,” the Old Man said.

  “Excuse me?” Moon looked up with a start, not hearing him enter her office. She had been making notes in her log after the morning meeting when she heard his voice. Out of respect, she started to rise.

  With a wave of his hand, he stopped her, then walked to the window near her desk and stared out across the farmlands surrounding the secret government complex.

  “What kind of emergency?” she asked.

  “I need one of your young recruits to move up his launch date as soon as possible. He must leave today. And I need to change his target.”

  “With all due respect, we have their schedules precisely timed and their targets have been chosen well in advance under the impeccable supervision of Dear Leader. Some are individuals but others are groups involved in scheduled events like Times Square on New Year’s Eve and Midnight Mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London—they are dependent on the calendar. Your request is out of the question.”

  He turned to her. “I can understand your hesitation. After all, you have no desire to interrupt your meticulously designed schedule. But trust me, Dr. Chung, not reacting to this emergency could jeopardize your entire program. You recall that I told you early on that you and your project were stepping stones to my ultimate goal of returning a family member to the fold? What you have created can deliver my loved one to me. But if you do not cooperate, then I will seek another solution. I assume that you don’t want to do anything that might endanger the success of Black Needles?”

  “Of course not. I would never risk the project. But what is about to take place as our recruits go forth is the result of a year of hard work and careful planning. Besides, having a target hit before our designated launch date will expose our hand and attract unwanted attention. A documented case of the Black Needles virus would alert the authorities and cause them to go on the defensive before we have everyone in place. I cannot alter our timetable in any manner without just cause.”

  There were two chairs in front of Moon’s desk. The Old Man went to one and sat. “Let me enlighten you on a few things that might give you a clearer view of what is at stake here.”

  “At stake?” With a huff, she straightened in her chair. “You have no idea what is at stake. You did not watch your mother being tortured and gang-raped by barbarians as I did. You did not witness the murderous acts of cruelty against my countrymen as I did. What is at stake here is the retribution for years of pain and suffering at the hands of the imperialist aggressors. And I will not budge from my objective. It’s a part of every breath I take, every minute of every day.”

  She folded her hands on her desk in confidence, proud of her display of courage to stand up to this … person. She had one goal, and one goal only—to inflict the most death and destruction on her sworn enemies as possible. And that was what she was about to do. Black Needles would be her legacy, her masterpiece. It would secure her a place in history.

  The Old Man’s gaze suddenly made her uncomfortable. She felt an uneasiness that grew in intensity, heating her body on the inside. Her hands shook, and she wondered if it was because her medication was wearing off or because she feared she had overstepped her bounds.

  A change in reasoning occurred to her. Perhaps she was being foolish and overreacting. If ignoring his request would jeopardize the project, then maybe she should choke back her pride a bit and listen to what he had to say.

  “I apologize for the outburst,” she found herself saying, the words awkwardly tumbling out her mouth. “We are on the verge of the culmination of a project that has been in the making for two generations. I must protect it at all costs. There is little else in life that is of value to me.”

  When he said nothing, she continued, “It’s just that I don’t have a lot of time left. My body is not cooperating. It is deteriorating each day, making it harder for me to do my work. A setback now might cause me to lose focus and the ability to see this through.”

  Suddenly, Moon had another surge of confidence. “I didn’t ask questions in the beginning, taking your word that you would divert attention from the Calderon-T-Kup incident so that I could complete this project unhindered. I didn’t ask you how you would do this or even what you would gain.” Moon took a deep breath and swallowed. “But now I feel I must …”

  Moon’s gaze settled intently on his, ready to identify clues that would divulge his internal reaction to her forthcoming question. She locked in her own flat and controlled expression. He would be able to read nothing in her eyes or face. Finally, she said, “Who are you?”

  “Misunderstood.”

  “What?”

  “I am misunderstood.”

  Moon held her hands up in a gesture of confusion. “That tells me nothing. Explain, please.”

  The Old Man sighed. He seemed to sink into the chair as if he were weary of repeating the story. Steepling his fingers and tapping his chin, he said, “There was a time when I basked in the glory of … Paradise.”

  Moon intercepted her gut-level response to anticipating where he was going with this, and she only blinked.

  “In my youth I was considered beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful. Those around me compared my beauty to the brilliance of the dawn. In fact, my former name meant light—the luminescence of the heavens—the Light-Bearer. I was called the Son of the Dawn. Along with my brothers and sisters, we filled the void before the great creation with a radiance that can only be described as complete, absolute, total.”

  Moon’s earlier wave of confidence crashed on the shore of what she was dealing with and a trickle of deep fear leached away the strands of her self-assurance. She was playing with something way out of her league. She never should have asked the question.

  “But there came a time,” the Old Man continued, “when one among us declared that he was supreme, the god of gods. Without any concern for our feelings or our stature in the ranks of our legions, he professed to be our superior. For lack of a better word, he declared himself God. Some of my brothers and sisters agreed with Him, bowing down, succumbing to His will. I did not, for I saw no need. We were all equal. There was no one god over us. There was only … us.”

  Moon felt a growing nausea mounting in her belly. Her right hand shook so fiercely that it b
umped the bottom of her desk. A runnel of sweat ran down the track of her spine. She had been so wrong to begin this questioning. Now there was no turning back.

  “Those who didn’t agree with Him chose to side with me. We tried to reason with Him but it was to no avail. We banded together to prove our determination, and a bloody confrontation resulted in many of us being banished from our home, the only home we had ever known. For simply standing up to an unreasonable tyrant, we were made to pay a price that far exceeds any price you have paid, Dr. Chung. For not only were we exiled from our home, but forbidden to ever return. The place where my brothers and sisters now live is a wasteland of disappointment. For every moment there, we are reminded of what we lost and how unfair it was. So, when you speak of cruelty and revenge, Dr. Chung, let me assure you that I am the king of cruelty and revenge. I am the almighty god of vengeance. I am the fist of retribution and the blade of reckoning. And Dr. Chung, when I tell you that we have an emergency and you must alter your schedule, it is not a suggestion.”

  As he leaned forward, Moon envisioned a cobra about to strike. He slipped a piece of paper across her desk. She stared at it as if it would burst into flames.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “The name of the target.”

  communion

  Dear Father,

  I write with deep regret that I have never accomplished anything worthwhile for you in my short life.

  I was selected quite unexpectedly for a special duty to Dear Leader and am now within moments of fulfilling his request. Once his order was given for my one-way mission it became my sincere wish to achieve success in fulfilling this duty. Even so, I cannot help feeling a strong attachment to our beautiful country. Is that a weakness on my part? On learning that my time had come I closed my eyes and saw visions of your face, mother’s, grandmother’s, and the faces of my close friends. It was heartening to realize that each of you wants me to be brave. I will do that!

  My training in the service of Dear Leader has not been filled with sweet memories. It is a time of resignation and self-denial, certainly not full of comfort. As a singular reward for my service, I can see only that it gives me a chance to die for my country. If this seems bitter it is because I had experienced the sweetness of life before volunteering for this mission.

  The other day I received Dr. Chung’s lecture on life and death. It seems to me that while she appears to have hit on some truth, she was concerned mostly with superficial thoughts on avenging the past. It is of no avail to express it now, but in my twenty-three years of life, I have worked out my own philosophy. But I am willing to take orders from Dear Leader and Dr. Chung because I believe in our noble country.

  The Korean way of life is indeed beautiful, and I am proud of it, as I am of history and mythology reflecting the purity of our ancestors and their belief in the past, whether or not those beliefs are true. That way of life is the product of all the best things which our ancestors have handed down to us. And the living embodiment of all wonderful things out of our past which is the crystallization of the splendor and beauty of Korea and its people. It is an honor to be able to give my life in defense of these beautiful and lofty things.

  My greatest regret in this life is my failure to tell you that I love you. I regret not having given any demonstration of the love and respect which I have always had for you. During my final moments, though you will not hear it, you may be sure that I will be saying I love you and thinking of all you have done for me.

  I did not ask you to come to see me in Pyongyang because I know that you are comfortable at home and do not like to travel. I also know your health is failing and that is why I did not ask.

  I leave everything to you. Please take care of my sisters.

  I pray that you will live long. I am confident that a new Korea will emerge from my actions and those of my brothers and sisters preparing themselves to go forth into the world on our special mission. We must not be rash in our desire for death, but proceed in a belief that our actions are for the best.

  Fondest regards, just before my final act of heroism,

  Your loving son, Kang

  ___

  He folded the letter, placed it in the envelope he had prepared back in his hotel room, and slipped it into the yellow cassetta postale mail drop box. It was getting cold as the evening shadows gathered. Despite the blue pills he took to overcome the debilitating effects of the medical procedure, he felt weak and lethargic. Working hard so that his appearance did not look out of the ordinary, Kang shoved his hands inside his overcoat before turning to walk the last few blocks along Via dei Quercetti to his target.

  ___

  Resembling a medieval fortress, the fourth-century Basilica of Santi Quattro Coronati emerged from the tree-covered heights of Coelian Hill. Despite being near one of Rome’s busiest markets, the Basilica of the Four Crowned Saints was isolated and reclusive. Passing the high, thick walls and buttress-supported towers, Kang entered the main building of the ancient complex.

  The Mass honoring the feast of St. John of the Cross was already underway. He sat in a pew near the rear and waited, focusing most of his attention on the half-dome apse forming the high ceiling over the sanctuary. Candle smoke and incense gave the appearance of a gray veil between him and the grandeur of the frescoes behind the altar commemorating the four Roman soldiers who gave their lives as martyrs under the Emperor Diocletian.

  Soon, the congregation stood and formed a line down the center aisle to receive communion. Kang pulled the small tube of concentrated pepper essence from his pocket, opened the top, and squeezed a few drops onto the palm of his right hand. Returning the tube to his coat pocket, he rose and joined the end of the communion line.

  Slowly, the procession of the faithful moved forward until only one woman remained in front of Kang.

  “Body of Christ,” the priest said and placed the small wafer of unleavened bread into the recipient’s outstretched palm. Beside the priest stood a young altar boy who held a silver paten beneath the woman’s hands to catch the communion host in case it dropped.

  As the woman turned to walk back to her seat, Kang stepped forward.

  The priest removed a communion host from the chalice-like ciborium and held it for Kang to see. Then he said, “Body of Christ.”

  Kang stared hard into the priest’s face, then said, “Cardinal John Tyler?”

  The priest gave him a perplexed expression. After a moment’s hesitation, he responded, “Yes.”

  Kang brought his palm to his face and breathed deeply. The potent pepper essence entered his nostrils and his body reacted.

  He sneezed.

  peachtree

  Cotten peered out the window of the Atlanta Sheraton Midtown Hotel at a view looking through brick archways into the garden courtyard and pool. In forty-five minutes she was to meet Pete Hamrick of the CDC downstairs in the bar for a drink. There was plenty of time to freshen up.

  She closed the blinds and lifted her purse from the floor beside the nightstand. Digging through it, she pulled an envelope out—a letter she’d gotten several days ago. She stared at it for a moment before running her fingertip over the handwriting.

  John’s writing.

  Cotten stacked both pillows together at the headboard, stretched out and propped up on the pillows. Gingerly, she took the letter from the open envelope. The stationery already showed signs of wear, a bent corner and a couple of creases. She had read the letter many times, etching every word into memory, but it was never enough. Just to see it again and picture John holding the pen and picture John holding the pen and writing …

  Dear Cotten,

  I hope that all is well with you. I have missed you since returning to Rome. I always find it difficult to leave you, but know that this is the way it must be. You are such an incredible woman, and I care about you very much. As we have said so many times, if things were
different … perhaps another time, another place.

  I do not mean to sound unhappy, as I am not. For so long I searched for the best way to serve God, at one time even taking a leave of absence from my duties. But at last I feel I have found my way and I believe that is mostly due to knowing you. Yet, still, there is a void inside me that is unfulfilled, and will remain so for the rest of my life. I must settle for spending short times with you, hearing your voice during brief phone calls, and clumsily attempting to express myself in letters. The time we live in is difficult as the forces of good and evil come closer to the final end. These times define us, who we are, what we do, and we have both found our places. I know that at times you feel you have put me in harm’s way, but that is not true. We both battle the same enemy. And so we are living our lives as God has destined us to live and as we have chosen. We have made personally tough but virtuous choices.

  I am thinking of you every day.

  Devotedly,

  John

  She touched his signature, tracing the sweeping J, then pressed her fingertip to her lips. “If things were different, another place, another time,” she whispered.

  The jangle of the phone startled her as sharply as if she were awakened from a deep sleep by a sudden blare of a horn. She flinched, clutching the letter to her chest.

  “Damn,” she said, then answered the phone.

  It was Pete Hamrick. He apologized for being a few minutes early.

  “No, that’s fine,” Cotten said. “Give me five and I’ll be right down.”

  ___

  Pete Hamrick waved at Cotten as she entered the Peachtree Bar. He sat at a small, low table and already had a drink in his hand.

  As she walked over, he stood.

  “It’s great to see you again,” Pete said, pecking her on the cheek. “You look terrific as always.”

  “Thanks.” Cotten sat. “I appreciate you taking the time out to see me, especially on such short notice.”