“I hope you’re right. If they take things into their own hands, they’ll screw everything up.”
“What can I do?”
“Keep your eyes open. If anything happens, just remember to get out quickly.”
“Moustaffa, once we have the art, I’m gone.”
“Good. Just put in an appearance, and then get out of there as fast as you can.”
Metropolitan Museum of Art
HOLLYWOOD-STYLE KLIEG LIGHTS scanned the night sky, and a red carpet ran up the steps to the columned portals of the museum. Several couples were making their way up as camera flashes went off all around them.
Cordelia and Sinclair got out of their limo and paused on the sidewalk.
“Can you believe this?” Cordelia asked, staring up at the billowing white-and-gold banners. “It’s incredible!”
Sinclair reached over and took her hand, his grasp warm and strong. He looked wonderful tonight, certainly as debonair as when she met him last year in Monaco. Cordelia hoped she was carrying off her floor-length strapless chiffon gown with equal style.
“Do I look all right?”
He turned to look at her, his expression astonished.
“What do you mean? You’re beautiful!”
“Well, I just spent the last four months in Egypt, roughing it. I feel like there’s still sand in my hair.”
Sinclair’s eyes traveled down her form, surveyed the deep red gown.
“You look like a goddess.”
She smiled. Typically, comparisons to Greek and Roman deities were his highest compliments.
“Shall we?” Sinclair started to ascend the steps. A wall of flashbulbs erupted. Reporters and photographers started shouting.
“Look this way!”
“Over here, miss . . . over here!”
A bright flash lit up the night, blinding Cordelia. There was a solid wall of lenses all the way up to the door.
“I can’t believe how many reporters there are,” she said, hesitating on the first step.
“Just look straight ahead and smile,” Sinclair coached. “And don’t stop until you hit the top.”
Sinclair slowed his pace to accommodate Cordelia’s high heels. Her nervousness was apparent from the tight grip on his hand. The press were at it again, snapping away over on the other side of the black velvet cordon. It had been almost a year since he had faced their lenses in Europe.
Of course, that romance with Shari was an embarrassment now—but who could resist a gorgeous supermodel? They had been photographed constantly. The affair had ended in disaster. It was over, and he’d broken up with Shari, blaming the whole thing on high testosterone and bad judgment.
He had met Cordelia on the rebound. Who knew what fates had thrown her into his path, but it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And he was eternally grateful to be here tonight, holding her hand as they climbed the steps of the Met.
He turned and looked at her. That flimsy gown she was wearing was beyond sexy. The pure silk chiffon flowed down the lines of her willowy body and billowed out behind her in the breeze. As he went up the stairs, he pictured the two of them later this evening, when they returned to the hotel, and that put a spring in his step.
Dr. Holly Graham took a sip of her champagne and surveyed the fashionable crowd in the Greek and Roman Gallery. The Met invitation asked that women limit their choice of color to “Roman Legion red” or “Classical Greek white.” Everyone seemed to have gone for shades of crimson, but she wore white.
“Holly!”
She turned and saw Carter Wallace over the heads of the guests. Was it only an hour and a half ago that they had pored over the CAT scans of a mummy in her office? This was not the shaggy young Egyptologist she knew. His evening clothes were a vast improvement over that wooly Harris tweed blazer.
Objectively, most people might think Carter was handsome. He had broad shoulders and the strength of a former college football star. Usually that type didn’t appeal to her, but tonight he was transformed.
“Carter, I barely recognized you,” she teased.
“You look pretty glamorous yourself. . . . And as beautiful as ever.”
Nice compliment, but he couldn’t possibly mean it. Holly was too old for him by at least a decade. She didn’t kid herself. Her looks were fading. Fine lines were appearing around her eyes and her hair was turning darker.
In one way, maturity was good. Her appearance had often been a distraction to the men around her, especially when she was trying to establish her bona fides as a serious scholar.
She glanced around and her spirits rallied. Carter wasn’t exactly her idea of a hot date, but an evening like this didn’t come along very often—the champagne was flowing like water.
“Kind of a snazzy crowd, don’t you think?” she observed.
“It’s definitely above my pay grade,” he agreed, taking a flute from a passing tray. He smiled at her as he raised it.
“Cheers!”
Dr. Carter Wallace watched Holly over the rim of his champagne glass. My God, she looked like a movie star tonight. He had suffered a raging crush on her for five years now. Although he dated other people, Holly was definitely his main fantasy.
That cool sophistication was irresistible. His pulse quickened whenever she was around. His feelings were not reciprocated, however. She had always relegated him to the status of junior colleague.
It was clear that she was conscious of their age difference. The tone of voice she used to address him could be condescending and infuriating.
It didn’t dissuade him, however. Most afternoons, he’d find an excuse to drop by her office. Sometimes he’d catch her eating her sandwich at her desk, a pencil stuck through her chignon, glasses halfway down her nose. He’d ask her questions to prolong the visit, and no matter how obscure the query was she always had a detailed and flawless answer. Inevitably, as she talked, his mind would drift, and he would start thinking about what it would be like to take her glasses off and lean over and kiss her.
Holly had a mind like a computer . . . and the full figure of a Greek goddess, especially tonight in that white dress. The graceful folds of the fabric had the simplicity of the classical statues all around her. The red lipstick was a nice touch. He had never seen her dressed up before. She really camouflaged her body in those cable-knit cardigans and slacks, but if she didn’t half the leches in the museum would be after her.
Including him. Not that he was a lech. His intentions were honorable. He just wanted . . . well, a respectable dinner date for a start. Not much to ask, was it?
Carter looked around. The gala was so crowded the waiters could barely navigate with their trays. He’d play it cool during cocktails and wait until dinner to lay on the charm. Then, during the dancing, he was planning on sweeping her off her feet.
Vojtech passed through the Roman Gallery with a tray of stuffed grape leaves. He was invisible. As a waiter, he was merely an hors d’oeuvre opportunity for the guests.
He had an enormous sense of calm after speaking to the others and reviewing the timetable. Two other waiters were going to join him during the dessert course. And together the three of them would execute the plan.
The Metropolitan gala was on the main floor, but the galleries upstairs were closed to the public. Charlie Hannifin climbed the empty service stairs to the American Painting section. The room was empty.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took a strobe out of his pocket. He needed to land the puck-size device squarely in the center of the gallery to trigger the alarm. If he overshot, he couldn’t retrieve it or he would show up on the heat/motion sensors.
This called for a gentle lob. He took two steps back in the stairwell to give the toss some momentum, swung underhand, and then let it go. The spherical strobe arced through the air, landed, and rolled as slowly as a golf ball on the last green of the Masters Tournament. Right in the middle. Perfect. In ten minutes the alarm would go off.
Charlie peeled off the
latex gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his tuxedo—he’d flush them down the toilet later. Right now he needed to get out of here. He quickly bolted down the interior stairwell and stepped out to the main lobby.
Two guards approached. Charlie flashed his gold-and-red security chit, but the board of directors lapel pin gave him the right to be anywhere on the premises.
“Everything all right, sir?” one of them asked.
“The elevator was busy, I had to take the stairs,” Charlie explained.
“It’s filled with cops,” the museum guard informed him.
“I’d rather have you guarding the paintings,” Charlie told them.
“Why’s that?”
“Those Nineteenth Precinct boys wouldn’t know a Pissarro from a pepperoni pizza.”
The guards smirked.
“Have a good night,” Charlie said. “Keep up the good work.”
“Yes, sir.”
1010 Fifth Avenue
TED VERPLANCK WALKED through his penthouse securing window fastenings and testing the brass handles on the French doors. It was better to keep the alarm system turned off. In all likelihood, Tipper would rush in to get dressed and would trigger it by accident. Then he’d have to spend half the night on the phone. Why was it that she could never get the hang of the security code?
As he walked through the living room, all the paintings glowed. Later this evening he would indulge in his cherished nocturnal ritual of enjoying each masterpiece as he shut off the lights.
His most prized possession, the famous Sardonyx Cup, was in a small alcove in the living room. He paused briefly to look at it. The cup had been carved from a single piece of the mineral sardonyx. Of all the precious stones, rust-colored sardonyx was the most prized in ancient Egypt—even more valuable than gold or silver; it was believed to have mystical powers that could eliminate evil forces.
Fragile and carved to a thinness that made it nearly transparent, the Sardonyx Cup had started as an Egyptian drinking vessel. Later, in medieval France, it had been turned into a gold chalice.
Over the ages, the Sardonyx Cup had generated a cultlike following. Both princes and popes had held it in their hands. A mere sip of communion wine from the cup at Mass was said to cure any disease.
A legend began. Most early Egyptian artifacts seemed to have curses attached to them. But this cup was considered a talisman, and bestowed great blessing on its owners.
That was why Ted VerPlanck cherished it. If the cup stayed right here in its niche in the living room, he believed nothing bad would ever happen to him.
Metropolitan Museum of Art
THE STEPS LEADING up to the museum were empty. All the cameramen were inside their TV vans, hunkered over their Subway sandwiches. It was time to chow down and kick back until the gala was over.
The reporter for Extravaganza Tonight was still on the sidewalk, rolling up his microphone cord. Disappointing. It looked like Lady X was a no-show, but this wasn’t the first time that the rumor of her attendance had proved to be false.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lone figure sprinting across Fifth Avenue. It was the billionaire art collector Theodore Stuart VerPlanck. The famous mogul was late. VerPlanck hit the top step without a pause. Damn, that guy kept himself fit! At fifty-two, he had the spring of a twenty-year-old.
So where was the lovely Mrs. VerPlanck? Tipper was a lush and a pill popper. Ted defended his wife, insisting that her stint in Betty Ford had cleared up all that. But this reporter wasn’t buying it. He’d bet his press badge that Tipper had fallen off the wagon again.
Ted VerPlanck disappeared into the museum. That was probably the last arrival for the evening. Around midnight the camera crews would reassemble on the steps to catch the people leaving. What a dog’s life. Just once he’d like to drink the bubbly with the swells.
Another black sedan turned the corner onto Fifth and slowly pulled up to the curb. It wasn’t a hired town car but, rather, a chauffeur-driven sedan—a Maybach. This was someone.
“Tony, get this one on tape, pronto!” The videographer lifted the camera to his shoulder as he went.
Sure enough, a long, tanned leg emerged from the car, wearing a high-heeled gold sandal. Then a beautiful mane of hair appeared, followed by a bloodred dress. The reporter gasped in amazement when he realized who was getting out.
“Holy shit! It’s Lady X!”
This was the money shot—and brother, did she look like a million bucks tonight.
Lady X was fascinating. Her beauty came from her Egyptian mother. Her vast fortune came from her father—a British businessman who had the Midas touch with fish and chips. The Chippy’s logo, a jolly walrus, was an instantly recognizable road sign all over the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand. But in every fancy school she attended, Xandra had been made well aware that nothing was more common than fish and chips.
Then, in a social coup, Xandra had married Lord Sommerset, a cousin to the queen. His first wife had died while producing an heir. With the succession assured, the elderly Lord Sommerset was free to marry whomever he chose.
Xandra became his adored second wife. They were a surprisingly happy couple. British aristocracy was forced to turn a blind eye to what they considered to be Xandra’s mongrel pedigree. Secure in her position in society, Lady X was free to flaunt the conventions of the upper classes. She did so with a vengeance.
The tabloids loved her. She became their bankable celebrity. Every newspaper sold out if they put Xandra on the cover. Tonight, if rumors were correct, Xandra would be seated across from the First Lady of the United States.
“Lady X, this way please,” the reporter called.
She turned to look and slowly blinked her enormous amber eyes.
At the south side of the museum, two uniformed NYPD officers walked up to the employees’ entrance. They were each carrying New York deli cups and paper bags with bagels. They flashed their badges through the window and the guard buzzed them in.
“Thanks a lot. We went out for coffee.”
“Yeah, I packed a sandwich,” said the security guard. “This thing won’t be over until midnight.”
“Well, hang in there.”
The four Secret Service agents didn’t deign to join in the chatter. Their eyes were glued to the glass-paneled door, as if waiting for an ambush.
The two cops drifted away, not speaking until they were out of earshot.
“Well, that was easy.”
“The more hectic things are, the easier it is.”
“How so?”
“On a night like this, nobody looks at two cops in plain sight. We’re part of the scenery.”
Security Chief Tom McCarthy stared at the monitor. It was eight-thirty and the fire alarm was going off in the Portrait Gallery of the American Wing.
“Come with me,” he said to his computer guy. Yanni was not much backup, but nobody else was available.
McCarthy walked rapidly through the grand lobby and heaved his bulk up the grand staircase to the European and American Painting galleries. This area was off-limits and surveillance was by electronic camera only.
Sprinting through the labyrinth of corridors, McCarthy knew every hallway, every exhibit. He barreled into Room 14. The silent red bulbs of the fire alarm were flashing, tingeing the priceless paintings with a rosy tone.
But nothing was amiss. All the canvases on the walls were intact: the stately colonial portraits by Gilbert Stuart, the somber James McNeil Whistler figures, and the tender mother and child studies by Mary Cassatt.
At the far end was John Singer Sargent’s majestic life-size Portrait of Madame X, posed with her head angled away in profile. The artist had managed to capture her aristocratic hauteur. Only now her posture suggested she was irritated by the disruption in the gallery.
McCarthy stopped in astonishment. There was a light strobe on the floor, which must have set off the alarm. At the slightest sign of an increase in temperature, the sprinklers were supposed to come on.
But they hadn’t. So clearly someone had wanted to trigger the alarm without damaging the paintings.
He lifted his radio to call the security control room.
“Turn off circuit six alarm, please.”
Yanni looked concerned.
“I wouldn’t do that, sir. That camera circuit covers five of the rooms along this corridor.”
“I am aware of that,” McCarthy said as he brushed him off. “This is a diversion, designed to get us worked up about something here while they hit another part of the museum.”
“I understand, sir, but it would leave you without any security in this section.”
Yanni stood there shaking his head at him for emphasis. His eyes were intensified by thick glasses and he looked like a bobble-head doll.
“They wouldn’t call attention to this gallery if they were going to steal something here. They would strike somewhere else,” he explained again.
“Oh, I see. That makes sense. You’re probably right,” Yanni agreed hastily.
“Of course I’m right. I didn’t spend thirty years in the department for nothing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, get back downstairs. The First Lady is arriving in twenty minutes.”
1010 Fifth Avenue
MRS. TED VERPLANCK stood in front of her dressing-room mirror. Her evening gown was a crimson Carolina Herrera in heavy dupioni silk. The Harry Winston necklace was made of rubies and diamonds. She was back from the rehab clinic, and this town had better watch out!
A phrase ran through her head, advice her father had always given her.
“Never, never let anyone give you guff,” he would say.
Tipper’s father had been a brilliant businessman and the center of her universe. He was the one who came up with her nickname—Tipper.
When she was a toddler, her father used to sing “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” over and over as they drove the snowy roads to their ski house in New Hampshire or to Lake Winnipesaukee in the summer.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 3