CS 01 The Grail Conspiracy Read Free Page B

and then died. "Come
on!" she said, shaking it. It glowed again, but the light was little better
than none at all.
    Holding the penlight in her mouth, Cotten dumped some of the
tapes and other articles onto the dirt floor and placed Archer's box
inside the bag. As she repacked, the light died again. She swept her
hand across the floor for anything she might have missed.
    A second rumble rocked the chamber, followed by a third and a
fourth. It was a distinct clap, one she recognized from when she'd
done a piece on high tech Air Force ordinance: sonic booms from
fighters breaking the sound barrier.
    "Archer." A man called from the direction of the passage. "We can
wait no longer." There was a pause. "Do you hear me, Archer? We go
now!"
    "Wait," Cotten cried, zipping up the bag and scrambling to her
feet.
    She stumbled through the dark until she finally reached the passageway. A truck engine growled to life and pulled onto the highway
as she emerged from the ruins.
    "Stop!" she yelled running toward it.
    The Turk stood up in the back of the vehicle and waved Cotten
on. When she was close enough, she swung her bag up. The Turk
grabbed it, then reached out and yanked her up into the truck.

    "You run fast," he said.
    She gave a nervous laugh as she sank down, breathing hard.
    "Where is Archer?" he asked, his voice faltering from the rough
ride.
    The canvas partially covering the sides of the stake body truck
flapped, beating against the wood frame, and the motor grumbled,
making it hard to hear.
    "Dead. Heart attack." Cotten pointed to her chest.
    The Turk shook his head and translated the news to the handful
of men riding with them.
    Jets roared in the darkness overhead and two pinpoints of orange
light shot up along the horizon. She watched with dread, waiting for
the missiles to find what she assumed were American fighters. But
there were no impacts. The missiles drifted over the desert and burned
out like shooting stars.
    As the truck rolled north toward the Turkish border, Cotten
crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped around her legs. She tried to
make sense of what had happened back in the crypt-one man willing to murder a second for a box whose contents were unknown to
her. Then the strange ramblings of a dying old man whom she would
have thought delirious if not for one thing. He spoke to her in a language known only to Cotten and her twin sister-a sister who had
died at birth.

    Chaotic shouts jarred her awake. The Arabian sun, already high in the
morning sky, blinded her as she sat up in the bed of the transport
truck. Like swarming ants, the Turkish dig team clambered out the
back. Cotten pulled herself up to look around.

    Throngs of people lined the highway, marching across the rolling
hills and out of the surrounding mountains. Refugees, she thought,
fleeing before the war began. Women, clasping infants to their breasts
and clinging to the hands of their other children, swept past the truck
like the incoming tide. Cotten looked into their dazed faces. That was
what Americans needed to see.
    She grabbed her carryall and climbed down to the asphalt. Coming around the side of the truck, she saw more vehicles lined up, their
engines silent, their beds and cabs empty. She realized they had finally
reached the Turkish border, probably near Zakhu. A large Constantine wire fence stretched across the terrain, and the highway passed
through a narrow checkpoint with barriers of tanks and armored
personnel carriers. Hundreds of Turkish soldiers, all holding automatic weapons, herded the refugees into a bottleneck for quick
inspections and document checks before letting them through.
    Cotten hugged her carryall to her chest as she let the tide steer her
closer to the checkpoint. When there were only a few ahead of her, she
dug into her bag and pulled out her passport and press credentials.
    "American press;" she shouted, holding the documents up. "American press." As soon as she could get