The Stolen Chalicel (11 page)

“Cordelia, what’s wrong?” Sinclair asked.

“I don’t like it that you went off with that woman and left me alone!”

“I
didn’t
leave you on your own. I was dancing.”

“
Exactly
. I leave you for thirty seconds and you run off with some blonde!”

Sinclair stared at her. She was jealous! It was incredible how irrational she could become.

“Her name is Hollis Graham. She’s an old friend.”

“Is that why she called you
‘darling’
?”

“Figure of speech,” said Sinclair, waving the word away in the air. “She’s like that. It means nothing.”

“How do you know her?”

“She is one of the top Egyptologists in the country. I’ve known her for years. Why are you so upset?”

“I was worried! Weren’t you?”

“Yes, of course I was. I was looking for you.”

Cordelia ignored his reply and picked up her skirts in a huff and flounced down the red carpet. He followed along resignedly.

Delia was a complicated woman and didn’t always sort out her emotions quickly. Most times she reacted first, and then thought things
through later. It didn’t take long for her to calm down. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she was out of steam and turned back to him.

“Should we walk back to the hotel? The limo’s gone,” she said with a certain degree of contrition.

“I’d carry you in my arms if you’d let me,” he replied, and meant every word.

“I was so afraid that you were going to get hurt,” she said, her lips trembling. “I thought I heard gunshots, and you weren’t around.”

So that was it!
The horror of her parents’ accident still haunted her. Losing both her mother and father at the age of twelve had been a terrible shock, and even now she had a deep fear of being abandoned.

“Surely you know that I would never leave you, Cordelia,” he said.

“John, I hate it when one of your old girlfriends pops up. It happens all the time.”

“Holly is
not
one—”

“She isn’t?”

“No, she isn’t. You’re the only woman in my life,” he replied and held out his arms to her. Mercifully, she came to him.

“Delia, how can you even
think
—”

“John, I never want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Sinclair said, pulling her closer. “You’re
trembling
!”

“No, I’m just cold. I left my wrap inside.”

“Well, too late to look for it now,” he said, peeling off his jacket and putting it around her shoulders. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

Madison Avenue and Eighty-Second Street, New York

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE WATCHED
the yellow cab move away and thread its way through traffic. He wished Holly would turn around and wave. She didn’t. The cab took a right and headed down a side street. Suddenly, his life was empty again.

The beautiful Holly Graham. After tonight, his crush was worse than ever. The whole time she was with Sinclair on the dance floor, he had been miserable. And then he had made a total ass of himself by acting jealous and hostile.

But somehow everything had worked in his favor. Upset by the turn of events, she had clung to him. That counted for something, didn’t it?

He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her body in that brief moment of contact—her hand on his lapel, her hair brushing his face. It took every ounce of self-control not to kiss her on the spot.

“In your dreams, pal,” he said aloud, and laughed.

God, what a beautiful night! The air had cooled off. It was almost chilly now as he started to walk. Up in the sky, the moon was a comma between the buildings.

He should go home. But why not take one more look at the museum before getting a cab? It was gawking, of course, but how many times had he been in the middle of something like that? And he was still curious—nobody had explained exactly what had happened.

As he approached, he could see the dome lights of the police cars alternating blue and red, painting the facade of the Met. East Eighty-Second Street was silent, most of the brownstones shuttered for the night. There were dark pools of shadow under the trees.

Suddenly, on the far sidewalk, he saw two workmen carrying a crate between them—treating it as gently as if it were an egg carton. They approached a white van parked at the curb and lowered the box onto the sidewalk. The taller of the two men took keys out of his pocket and unlocked the back door. Then they lifted the crate into the van, bracing it so it would not move during transit.

Working silently, neither man noticed Carter walking by. The vehicle had New York plates—76823N.

Funny, two guys loading a crate like that in the middle of the night. Carter’s job was to transport rare artifacts for the museum. That crate was state-of-the-art.

Carter reached Fifth Avenue and stopped to watch the activity. The police vehicles were still there, radios squawking, but there was not much to see, so he doubled back to find a cab.

“Sheridan Square,” he told the driver, and fished in his pocket for a pen and notepaper to jot down the license plate number.

Those movers certainly didn’t look legitimate to him. Who loads a van in the middle of the night with a custom-made crate? Tomorrow he’d report it. He tucked the note in his pocket.

Then he sat back and relaxed for the twenty-minute ride downtown—plenty of time to indulge in his alpha-male fantasies about Holly. Too bad his imagination was the only thing he’d be taking home to bed.

1010 Fifth Avenue

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK SAT
in the darkened living room and swirled a brandy. His eyes were focused on the crystal snifter because he couldn’t bear to look at the empty wall niche.

It had been a brazen act to steal the Sardonyx Cup tonight. Half of the NYPD had been just across the street protecting the First Lady. Or
not
protecting her, as it turned out.

Ted could still hear the police activity outside his windows. He had closed the drapes, unwilling to watch the ruins of the evening in the street below. Since he was a director of the museum and co-chairman of the gala, the security chief had notified him about the thwarted attack. FBI agents had also requested that he keep any knowledge of the attempted attack to himself. Federal authorities, not local police, would spearhead the investigation.

No one at the gala had been allowed to view the attacker’s body. It was behind the catering screen. The fast-thinking security detail had explained away the gunshots as exploding champagne corks. Museum officials were instructed to say the security breach had been minor.

Ted couldn’t believe how close they had all been to disaster. Just a few more minutes would have been fatal! With this kind of incident, his missing Sardonyx Cup was a minor problem. There was no point in calling the police tonight.

Suddenly the phone rang, blasting his nerves to shreds. He stared at it. Who was calling him at this hour? Ted checked his watch. Two a.m.

“Hello?”

“Ted, are you still up? It’s Andy Thompson. I am sorry to call, but I just heard about the theft.”

Ted froze, and the silence lengthened. Anderson Thompson cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry. I guess you hadn’t heard yet. I just assumed.”

“No, no,” Ted said. “I’m afraid . . . I have no idea . . .”

“At the gala tonight. Quite a lot of art was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes, the Egyptian Gallery was robbed. The glass case was cut and they got away with some valuable objects.”

“Oh, my gosh, that is terrible,” Ted replied cautiously. “What did they take?”

“Let me see . . . I have the list right here,” he replied, reading off a list of valuable Egyptian funerary figurines.

“That’s quite a loss. I just can’t
believe
it.”

“I can’t either. Listen, I know it is late, but I wanted to give you the word in advance. It will be all over the papers. They may be calling you for a quote.”

“All right, I’ll be prepared. Much appreciated,” said VerPlanck. “Take care.”

Ted put down the phone. Art theft? The museum had been hit and so had he! That meant lots of publicity. Not something he wanted right now with Tipper on a bender.

On second thought, he wouldn’t report his missing cup to the police or to the insurers. Private investigators were the way to go. That way he’d keep his affairs to himself.

He picked up his phone and called his lawyer, Jim Gardiner, in London. There was no answer, so on voice mail he laid out his tale of the theft, along with instructions to find someone to help track the cup privately. Then Ted sat back on the sofa and drained his brandy snifter and stared at the empty pedestal.

The Mark Hotel

J
OHN
S
INCLAIR POURED
himself a dram of Macallan and tossed it back. Hell of a night! It was hard to believe they had arrived in New York only ten hours ago. The hotel had seemed so peaceful then. Now the evening was in ruins, tainted with fear and recrimination—not quite the romantic ending he had envisioned.

Steam was coming out of the bathroom. Cordelia had retreated to the shower. After fleeing the gala she had been chilled to the bone, her teeth chattering all the way back to the hotel. Even his dinner jacket hadn’t helped.

Sinclair walked over to the bed and pulled back the duvet. The sooner he could get her to sleep, the better. The door opened and Cordelia came out wrapped in a large terry-cloth robe.

“Hop in, darling girl. I’ll join you in minute.”

“We both need a good night’s rest,” she agreed as she slid between the sheets.

“I had room service send up something warm.”

Sinclair poured Belgian cocoa from the pot and handed her a cup.

“Oh, John, thank you. . . .”

He sat on the edge of the bed, while she sipped the hot chocolate.

“I feel much better,” she said with a smile, settling down.

Sinclair took the empty cup and carried it over to the table.

“Try to get some rest,” he said as he put the saucer down. When he turned around, Cordelia was fast asleep.

Mayfair, London, England

I
T WAS NINE
a.m. when Jim Gardiner went into the kitchen to make coffee. It had been a long night. Sleep had been elusive, but he had finally managed to get three scant hours.

The insomnia wasn’t because of his age. Pain kept him up at night. The result of a near-fatal accident nine months earlier. He had been poisoned by a toxic nerve agent and was suffering serious physical damage.

He had survived—just barely—but now the specialists were telling him he might have chronic pain for the rest of his life. Not exactly a cheerful thought!

Reaching for the canister of coffee, he saw the message light beeping on his mobile phone. Gardiner unplugged it from the charger and hit the retrieve button. The timing, this early in the morning, suggested the call was from the States.

Ted VerPlanck had left a brief, desperate voice mail. He had been robbed of a
very
valuable piece! And he wanted to recover the object through a private inquiry.

Poor Ted. Add this to the litany of calamities that had befallen him. First, his wife ran away with a rock star. Then she became addicted to drugs and alcohol. VerPlanck was old school—a real gentleman who stood by his wife.

Gardiner saved the message and leaned back against the kitchen
counter to think. Legally, it was a delicate matter. Keeping the insurers in the dark wasn’t a very good idea.

He pulled the belt of his robe tighter and turned to his immediate task—making breakfast. As he began to measure out the coffee, he realized who might be able to help. One man had done more to recover lost artifacts than anyone else he knew—John Sinclair.

Carlyle Hotel

L
ADY
X
ANDRA SLIPPED
on her sheer peignoir and carried a latte to the window. The pedestrians on Madison Avenue were going about their normal weekday—city buses stopping for mothers with schoolchildren, people hurrying to the office.

Xandra watched the activity as she sipped her coffee and bit into her croissant, slathered with sweet butter and strawberry confiture.

Last night had gone well, despite the thwarted attack. She had played her part to perfection: vamping for the TV cameras, charming the First Lady with amusing anecdotes, chatting up the museum patrons. Meanwhile, throughout the city her men had been stealing treasures that had been carefully selected for their high market value. The stolen figurines from the Met were still there in her hotel room, lying on the dresser.

The other goods were stashed on her yacht—a two-hundred-foot Feadship,
The Khamsin,
docked at the base of Manhattan in North Cove Marina. Two special compartments had been built in the ship’s cabinetry to facilitate smuggling. The boat crew had instructions to sit and guard the yacht all night.

Xandra calculated the time difference in Cairo and dialed Moustaffa. He answered from 5,600 miles away.

“It’s Xandra. Everything is fine. I have it all.”

“What’s going on there!” he snarled in a foul temper.

“You were right about an attack, but it didn’t succeed.”

“Who was responsible?”

“I don’t know. I got out. But don’t worry. We have everything.”

“I
knew
they were planning something . . .” he fumed. “But
you
said no . . . they wouldn’t dare . . .”

“I only said I didn’t
know
about it.”

“So what
happened
?” Moustaffa demanded.

“Someone started shooting in the museum and everyone evacuated the building. Luckily I got out before it was mobbed with police.”

“Was the gunman killed?” he asked.

“I didn’t stick around to find out.”

“Well, I hope it wasn’t one of our men.”

“What difference does it make?” Xandra consoled him. “The Manucci family hired them to cater the event. We’re out of it.”