The Stolen Chalicel (42 page)

The grand ballroom was as cool as a refrigerator. The morning sessions had ended, and hundreds of people were swarming in for the midday meal. There were no assigned tables. That was the whole point. People could sit together and continue the discussions with whomever they liked.

John Sinclair selected a table right in the middle of the vast ballroom. Several French oil executives were already seated, discussing the Arab Spring and the current political climate in Egypt.

Two Chinese participants took places next to him. The first course had already been served, so they all began to eat their salad and shrimp. Sinclair picked at the lettuce and looked around.

Large trolleys were being rolled out for the hot entrée—baked chicken in a phyllo pastry. The waitress came from behind and placed a plate down over his right shoulder. Sinclair looked at the food and noticed that he was hungry; it smelled delicious.

“Here you are, John,” she said.

It was Holly’s voice!

Sinclair started to turn toward her.

“
Don’t!
He’s at the next table.”

“Moustaffa’s here in the dining room?”
he whispered.

“Yes. Keep your face turned to the left and he won’t recognize you,” she said, and served the Chinese executive next to Sinclair. The man from Shanghai began to eat and paid no attention to the conversation between the American businessman and the waitress.

“Is he going to strike?” Sinclair asked, moving his napkin up to cover his mouth as he spoke.

“Yes. He says it’s tonight,” she added under her breath, and started to move to the next guest.

“Wait, Holly.
Why
would he tell you?”

“He loves to brag,” Holly said with a sigh and rolled her eyes. “About everything.”

She continued passing plates to the guests, working her way around the table. In a moment she approached Sinclair from the other direction.

“The team has been watching you since Venice,” Sinclair informed her. “So you haven’t been alone.”

“I was hoping that was the case. Anyway, I had my earring,” she said, reaching up and fingering the hidden alarm.

“Will he try to put anything in the food?” Sinclair asked, looking down at his plate.

“I don’t know,” Holly said.

“Holly, do as I tell you. There are a hundred security men in the hall. Just walk up to them and get some protection.”

“No, John.”

“
Don’t argue, do it!
”

“
No!
When this is over, he’ll let me go. He says he’ll disappear and leave me free.”

“And you’re going to
believe
him? Why did he bring you here to the conference in the first place?”

“I guess because it was too dangerous to keep me on the yacht—too many people on the dock. He says he
will
kill me if I try anything.”

“Holly,
please
! Walk out now. Don’t be so stubborn!” Sinclair said.

“No, I’ll stay,” she said, collecting his salad plate. “I’m in the perfect position to learn more about the attack. Keep me in sight. I’ll try to get a message to you.”

She turned to serve the adjacent table and then moved away, passing out the lunch plates to two more groups.

Sinclair watched, anxious and frustrated. That was typical; she wasn’t going to listen. Holly turned and gave him a quick glance, then pushed the empty catering trolley back to the kitchen.

Incredible! Holly Graham had just turned herself from a hostage into the best asset they had.

The sessions beginning at two o’clock were filled to capacity. In one room, the Japanese prime minister talked about alternate energy sources for the Asia Pacific region. In Conference Room Two, participants grappled with the topic of how new technologies would help Middle East economic development.

On the third floor, intelligence officers were glued to the screen, watching Moustaffa in the kitchen. They had redirected all their surveillance to him and hung on his every move.

Sinclair’s attention was focused on a grainy, live image of Holly Graham. She was taking luncheon plates off a trolley and stacking them near the industrial dishwasher.

“I want to get her out of there!” Sinclair demanded.

“No, it might spook him,” the chief of operations said. “We need him to stick to plan.”

“He’s right under your
nose,
” Sinclair said, pointing to the monitor.
“You’re just going to let him do this?
”

“Of course not, but we need to find out where he put the bioweapon. We can’t have bubonic plague floating around out there.”

“What if he doesn’t make a move?” Sinclair asked.

“We need to find the weapon, regardless. The canisters could be on an automatic trigger. A timer. We need him to lead us to them.”

“But what if he doesn’t and we don’t stop him in time?”

“Short of shutting down this conference and evacuating the building, we have no other option but to watch and wait. There are Egyptian relations to consider. Things are at a delicate stage, politically.”

“To
hell
with that!” Sinclair burst out.
“People are going to die!”

“We couldn’t convince the world governments to cancel the event. All the high-level participants were informed of the threat, and they opted to stay.”

Sinclair sighed resignedly. “I assume you went over the ventilation systems and that sort of thing, to make sure he can’t put anything through the air ducts,” Sinclair said.

“We have been here since two a.m. Air-conditioning ducts, heating units, ventilation systems, the works.”

“Do we know what the substance looks like?”

“Most bioweapons are aerosols. It’s probably in a canister. We searched the building top to bottom and removed anything that could possibly contain a bio-agent. We even replaced the fire extinguishers. So far, nothing.”

“Something could be brought in later,” Sinclair suggested. “By someone on a second shift.”

“No. There’s only one shift. Twelve hours straight. They come in at luncheon prep and stay through the dinner.”

“Why’s that?”

“The hotel didn’t want to have to deal with double the number of kitchen staff.”

“What about a delivery?” Sinclair asked.

“We are screening all incoming packages. And the workers are not allowed outside, not even for a cigarette.”

The room fell silent as they considered the options. A panel of forty camera monitors flickered; the screens reflected the normal activity of a conference. People stood, walked around, and talked together.

Sinclair’s eyes were drawn again to the camera that recorded Holly’s workstation. The kitchen was active. She turned and picked up a stack of plates. As she went by the security camera, Holly suddenly looked up at the lens. It seemed to Sinclair that she was staring right at him.

Then deliberately and slowly, she winked at the camera! He simply couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman. Holly Graham was a
very
cool operator.

It was late afternoon on
The MoonSonnet,
and about eighty degrees, but it felt comfortable with the breeze blowing across the aft deck, the perfect combination of hot and cool. Beyond the railing was the gorgeous turquoise sea. The Sinai Peninsula formed an unbroken line of land on the horizon.

Carter Wallace sat with Ted VerPlanck, saying very little. They were both drinking gin and tonics, and with each sip the ice tinkled in the glasses enticingly. Carter marveled at how the rich do everything to absolute perfection—the heft of a crystal glass, just the right squeeze of lime.

He glanced across the deck at his host. VerPlanck appeared to be waiting for events to unfold with dispassionate equanimity. He certainly
looked
as if he hadn’t a care. Lounging in the wicker chair, impeccable in his Nantucket red pants, white oxford shirt, and blue linen blazer, he was every inch the gentleman.

Of course, that kind of sangfroid came with the turf. VerPlanck had been trained to hide his feelings from birth. He was the bluest of the bluebloods, and that blood ran cold. The old joke was that the only things these people showed any emotion about were their dogs and their horses . . . and their boats, apparently.

Ted clearly loved his. And, Carter had to admit, VerPlanck’s yacht was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—very old school. This was no vulgar gleaming superyacht. The billionaire had explained it was a 125-foot, three-masted schooner that had been built in the Netherlands. The lines were extraordinarily elegant. The hull was painted a deep navy blue, which offset the beautiful teak deck and woodwork. The masts were thick, each fashioned out of a single Douglas fir.

He had learned that
The MoonSonnet
was a type of boat known as a motorsailor, because it had both sails
and
engines. Six-hundred-twenty-four-horsepower Caterpillars for a cruising speed of twelve knots, VerPlanck said.

The sails were mesmerizing. Sitting under the expanse of white, the sound of the taut fabric straining and snapping in the breeze made his blood stir. With sails up,
The MoonSonnet
skimmed over the blue water as smoothly and swiftly as a magic carpet.

The romance of the seafaring lifestyle was growing on Carter. Waking up to the gentle sound of the waves and the fresh breeze. All this was a luxury he had never experienced.

The staff treated him with incredible courtesy. But they really won him over when he went down to the galley late one night and asked for a beer and some potato chips. They had offered him a choice of sixteen varieties.

Despite the luxury and comfort, Carter was nervous. It was hard not to get impatient, especially when he learned that Holly was in the conference center. And here he was, stuck with the old guys—VerPlanck, Gardiner. And, of course, Cordelia, who was still recovering from her ordeal and spent a considerable amount of time resting belowdecks.

MI6 had asked Carter to keep an eye on everyone aboard
The MoonSonnet
. It was a big job, they assured him. So
insulting
! Now that the operation was under way, they were treating him like a kid.

“You’ve worked with her a long time, haven’t you?” VerPlanck asked, breaking into his thoughts.

The older man was attempting to sound casual, but his voice had a certain tension. It was clear he was talking about Holly again.

Carter had begun to notice the early symptoms of infatuation. Day and night, VerPlanck spoke of no one else but Holly.

“Yes, we’ve known each other quite a few years,” Carter admitted. “She’s the reason I wanted to help catch the art thieves.”

“Then how could you possibly think she was involved in the thefts?” VerPlanck queried.

Carter blushed. That had been a gross miscalculation on his part, one that he was ashamed of, in hindsight.

“When she turned up with Sinclair, I distrusted her on every level.”

“Why?”

“She was smoking,” Carter said.

Ted looked perplexed.

“So?”

“The Holly I knew didn’t smoke. She even gave me crap about smoking myself. So she was either a liar or someone who had a lot to hide.”

“I see.”

“Then she suddenly turns up with Sinclair. And, just a few weeks before, she pretended they hadn’t met for years.”

“So you were . . . suspicious?”

“No. Jealous,” Carter admitted.

“You were jealous?”
VerPlanck asked, surprised.

“Yes, she’s a beautiful woman,” Carter said, giving him the knowing eye. “I’m sure you noticed.”

“Yes, so I have come to realize,” VerPlanck said smoothly. “You care for her?”

“Yes, I do. And, unfortunately for me, the rest of the world does too.”

“Has lots of admirers, does she?” VerPlanck asked.

“You could say that,” Carter affirmed.

“Are you and Holly . . .” VerPlanck asked, fading off for loss of words.

“No,” Carter admitted, standing up. He put his glass down on the side table. He turned back to VerPlanck.

“Thanks for the drink. I need to go below to check on something.”

“I hope I haven’t offended you,” VerPlanck returned.