CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy Read Free

lights.
    Near the site, she saw men scrambling about, loading equipment
and crates onto the trucks. The sporadic confrontations between the
Iraqi military and the increasingly brazen, U.S.-backed Kurdish rebels
had probably made the area become too dangerous for an archaeological dig.
    She strained to hear their voices. Turkish! Not Iraqi. Relieved,
Cotten entered the camp and approached one of the men. "Excuse
me," she said.
    He wore a dark shirt ringed with sweat under the arms. The
stench from his body was sharp in the cold air. He glared at her for a
moment as if wondering where she came from. "No English," he said,
taking a crate from a wheelbarrow and throwing it onto the bed of
the truck. If she hadn't leaned back, he would have swiped her with it.
    Cotten tried to stop another man who sidestepped her and gave
her an annoyed glance.
    Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she spun around. A
short, stumpy man stood close.
    "American?" he asked.
    "Yes."
    "Turk," he said, and smiled, revealing a mouth filled with crooked
brown teeth beneath a mustache that hung over his lip like an
awning.
    "I need a ride," she said, pointing north.
    He twitched his head toward the ruins. "Go see Dr. Archer,
Gabriel Archer."
    Someone shouted and, with a polite nod, the Turk hurried away.

    A small group boarded one of the trucks. The engine coughed to
life, and the truck pulled onto the road. There were still two trucks
left, but they were quickly being loaded. Not much time to find this
Dr. Archer and beg for a lift.
    In the moonlight, she located the entrance to the stone structure.
Wooden scaffolding shored up the walls and, as she entered, she
ducked beneath a low archway. Just ahead, a string of bare lightbulbs
dangled over the entrance and along a passageway beyond. She followed the passage until it ended at a set of steps leading underground. Buckets of dirt were stacked nearby, waiting to be hauled
outside and emptied into screens. A gas generator rattled, powering
the string of lights running into the hole. She leaned over the head of
the steps and called out. "Hello ... Archer?" There was no response.
"Dr. Archer?" she called louder.
    In the distance she heard the throaty diesel of another truck start
up and pull out. Only one left.
    Cotten started down the stairs. The icy air smelled old like a mausoleum. She'd only been in one, but that distinct mustiness, the dank
odor of soil and rock, couldn't be forgotten. Even though she'd been a
child at the time, she remembered her father's funeral: the sickeningly
sweet scent of flowers, the strange acidic odor of chemicals, and the
cold, stony smell of the burial vault.
    The steps ended in a small room. She crossed it and peered through
a short tunnel leading into an expansive chamber. There she saw two
men. One was slightly hunched over and gray-haired, dressed in a
dusty khaki shirt and faded jeans. He must be Archer, she thought,
because the other man had the swarthy skin and garb of an Arab.
    She squeezed through the narrow shaft.

    Archer stood next to what Cotten thought was a crypt in the far
wall of the chamber. She caught a glimpse of brown bones and a glint
of metal. He held open a small box at which both men stared intently.
    Cotten opened her mouth to call out.
    Suddenly, the Arab pulled a gun from under his robe. Cotten
froze as the man pointed the pistol at Archer. "Give it to me!" he
demanded.
    Archer closed the lid and took a step backward, keeping a firm
grip on the box. His eyes widened, his face turned skeleton white.
"You're one of them."
    Cotten pressed back against a loose support timber. It shifted, and
a small avalanche of pebbles and sand spilled to the ground.
    The men turned at the sound and for an instant looked at her.
    Archer dropped the box and grappled for the gun. He slammed
into the man, and they tumbled to the dirt floor.
    The Arab shoved the gun barrel against the archaeologist's head.
Archer thrust up an