back.
The priest stood in front of him. "Congratulations, Dr. Sinclair.
It's an honor to bring your granddaughter into the Kingdom of God."
"Thank you, Father." Sinclair reached into his suit pocket and
removed an envelope containing a check for the priest's services.
Then he hugged his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law.
As the rest of the group gathered to pose for pictures, Sinclair glanced
toward the back of the church and saw his attorney, Ben Gearhart,
slip in and wait in the shadows of the vestibule. "I'll be right back,"
Sinclair said to his wife.
Joining Gearhart, he strolled out of the cathedral and crossed the
street to Jackson Square. They stopped at the foot of the statue of
Andrew Jackson. Sinclair asked, "What have you found out?"
"I haven't been able to get in touch with Ahmed, so I sent someone out to see what was going on. I got confirmation earlier this
morning that he and Archer are dead. We cleaned it up."
Unlike Sinclair's skin, Gearhart's fair complexion reacted to the
cold, dry air blowing across the Square. His cheeks glowed from
windburn, and his blue eyes watered. He rubbed his nose with a tissue as he spoke.
"At first I blamed the military activity for the lack of communications, but then I became suspicious," Gearhart said. "I tried to contact him several times but with no luck." He lifted his head to read the
taller man's expression.
Sinclair raked a hand through his hair. "How did they die?"
"Ahmed was shot with his own gun."
"And Archer?"
"There was evidence of a struggle, but it appears he died of natural causes. Sounds like he fought with Ahmed, shot him, then keeled
over from the ordeal."
"And the artifact?" Sinclair's face tightened.
Gearhart wiped his nose and shook his head.
Sinclair went on. "I take it from your silence that we don't know
where the box is, much less have verification of its contents." He
walked a few steps ahead, put his hands in his pockets, then turned to
face the attorney. "So where is it?" His voice was low, full of control
and gravity.
"My contact believes someone else was in the chamber. A videocassette was found near the bodies. It contains news footage shot by a
reporter for SNN. A woman named Cotten Stone."
Charles Sinclair saw his family emerging through the cathedral's
large wooden doors. His wife waved at him. "Is Stone still in Iraq?"
"We've traced her to New York."
"She could jeopardize everything."
"I realize that. But nothing has shown up in the news. She may
not know what it is."
"If she even has it at all." Sinclair looked up at the statue of the
seventh president.
"I have someone in New York right now," Gearhart said.
Stepping forward, Sinclair leaned in close to Gearhart. "No more
mistakes, my friend." He lowered his head to the wind and walked
back to the church.
"Is anything wrong, Charles?" his wife asked when Sinclair
returned.
He gave her a light peck on the cheek. "You ride with the children
to Broussard's. I'll be right behind."
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Nothing for you to worry about."
Sinclair gave his family a reassuring wave as they walked to the first
of two limousines. Then he went back inside the cathedral. The scent
of the candles hung heavy, their smoke collecting in the columns of
light from the windows.
The old man was there, waiting.
Sinclair walked up the aisle, slid in the pew, and sat next to him.
"How is your granddaughter?"
"She didn't like the cold water," Sinclair said.
"Understandable." The old man, his gray hair the color of ashes,
did not look at Sinclair, but stared at the altar. "How are things?" The
words were almost whispered.
"There has been a minor setback, but Gearhart is taking care of
it."
He looked at Sinclair. "Should I be concerned?"
"No. Not at all."
"Tell me about it. We should have no secrets, no matter how
small."
The old man waited as the church became overcome with silence.
Sinclair finally spoke. "A woman reporter-she might
The priest stood in front of him. "Congratulations, Dr. Sinclair.
It's an honor to bring your granddaughter into the Kingdom of God."
"Thank you, Father." Sinclair reached into his suit pocket and
removed an envelope containing a check for the priest's services.
Then he hugged his daughter and shook hands with his son-in-law.
As the rest of the group gathered to pose for pictures, Sinclair glanced
toward the back of the church and saw his attorney, Ben Gearhart,
slip in and wait in the shadows of the vestibule. "I'll be right back,"
Sinclair said to his wife.
Joining Gearhart, he strolled out of the cathedral and crossed the
street to Jackson Square. They stopped at the foot of the statue of
Andrew Jackson. Sinclair asked, "What have you found out?"
"I haven't been able to get in touch with Ahmed, so I sent someone out to see what was going on. I got confirmation earlier this
morning that he and Archer are dead. We cleaned it up."
Unlike Sinclair's skin, Gearhart's fair complexion reacted to the
cold, dry air blowing across the Square. His cheeks glowed from
windburn, and his blue eyes watered. He rubbed his nose with a tissue as he spoke.
"At first I blamed the military activity for the lack of communications, but then I became suspicious," Gearhart said. "I tried to contact him several times but with no luck." He lifted his head to read the
taller man's expression.
Sinclair raked a hand through his hair. "How did they die?"
"Ahmed was shot with his own gun."
"And Archer?"
"There was evidence of a struggle, but it appears he died of natural causes. Sounds like he fought with Ahmed, shot him, then keeled
over from the ordeal."
"And the artifact?" Sinclair's face tightened.
Gearhart wiped his nose and shook his head.
Sinclair went on. "I take it from your silence that we don't know
where the box is, much less have verification of its contents." He
walked a few steps ahead, put his hands in his pockets, then turned to
face the attorney. "So where is it?" His voice was low, full of control
and gravity.
"My contact believes someone else was in the chamber. A videocassette was found near the bodies. It contains news footage shot by a
reporter for SNN. A woman named Cotten Stone."
Charles Sinclair saw his family emerging through the cathedral's
large wooden doors. His wife waved at him. "Is Stone still in Iraq?"
"We've traced her to New York."
"She could jeopardize everything."
"I realize that. But nothing has shown up in the news. She may
not know what it is."
"If she even has it at all." Sinclair looked up at the statue of the
seventh president.
"I have someone in New York right now," Gearhart said.
Stepping forward, Sinclair leaned in close to Gearhart. "No more
mistakes, my friend." He lowered his head to the wind and walked
back to the church.
"Is anything wrong, Charles?" his wife asked when Sinclair
returned.
He gave her a light peck on the cheek. "You ride with the children
to Broussard's. I'll be right behind."
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Nothing for you to worry about."
Sinclair gave his family a reassuring wave as they walked to the first
of two limousines. Then he went back inside the cathedral. The scent
of the candles hung heavy, their smoke collecting in the columns of
light from the windows.
The old man was there, waiting.
Sinclair walked up the aisle, slid in the pew, and sat next to him.
"How is your granddaughter?"
"She didn't like the cold water," Sinclair said.
"Understandable." The old man, his gray hair the color of ashes,
did not look at Sinclair, but stared at the altar. "How are things?" The
words were almost whispered.
"There has been a minor setback, but Gearhart is taking care of
it."
He looked at Sinclair. "Should I be concerned?"
"No. Not at all."
"Tell me about it. We should have no secrets, no matter how
small."
The old man waited as the church became overcome with silence.
Sinclair finally spoke. "A woman reporter-she might
Similar Books
