VerPlanck checked his watch.
“It’s noon already,” he said. “We’ll head over to the East Side. I do hope you can stay to lunch.”
Conservation Labs,
Brooklyn Museum
IT WAS NOON when Holly Graham juggled coffee and newspapers onto her desk. Luckily, she didn’t have to be there earlier. Her head was aching from too much champagne and lack of sleep!
Beautiful sunlight flooded through the window. Her office was situated where the north light was best—essential for the detailed repair work she did on the museum collections. The office was so bright she could grow a ficus tree in the corner and a couple of African violets on the windowsill.
There wasn’t much time to relax this morning before heading out. Her team had been preparing a CAT scan over at North Shore Hospital. The mummy they were working on today required a climate-controlled truck, 70 degrees temperature, and constant humidity of 40–60 percent.
It was a lot of work. They had to place the cartouche in custom-cut foam and then in a wooden crate. Carter always insisted that the mummy’s eyes be painted on the top of the outer box, as a courtesy. He said the deceased needed to see where they were going.
Thinking of Carter brought back the memories of last night. Had she really let him hold her in his arms? The thought of it made her smile. He probably didn’t have a clue why she was so upset. She’d look for him later to thank him for his concern.
But first things first. Caffeine! She wasn’t going to budge before finishing her coffee. Holly sat down at her desk and pried the lid off the paper cup. The steam smelled glorious.
The first sip helped wake her up; then she turned to the newspaper headlines:
SECURITY SCARE AT THE GALA!
FIRST LADY FLEES FANCY FETE!
The images were dramatic. People leaving, police cars on the sidewalk. Holly was startled to read a headline on page two.
Rome Gala Robbed—Rare Artifacts Stolen!
Was the evacuation related to the burglary? As she started to read the details, her phone rang. The sound startled her and the coffee sloshed all over the desk. Mopping up the mess with a napkin, she grabbed the receiver on the fifth ring.
The voice that greeted her was the one she had been hearing in her mind all night.
“Good morning, Holly. How are you?” Sinclair’s deep tones sounded confident, in control. “I’m calling to make sure you’re all right.”
“Hello, John. I’m fine. No ill effects,” she managed to say, sounding surprisingly normal.
“I half expected to get your voice mail.”
“I needed to come in. It’s a busy day.”
“I hope you don’t mind me calling.”
“Not at all. It’s very thoughtful.”
Holly shut her eyes; the formality of the exchange was excruciating.
Sinclair’s voice shifted to a brisker tone. “Actually, Hols, I wanted to ask a favor.”
“What’s that?”
A surge of excitement went through her. Was he going to ask to see her again?
“I’ve given your name and contact number to an art collector who had a rare antiquity stolen last night. His name is Ted VerPlanck.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He wants to put out some feelers. If you don’t mind, he may get in touch with you.”
“Sure, John,” she said, trying not to sound deflated. “I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
Sinclair seemed to notice something in her tone, so he went on to explain.
“I hope it’s not an imposition, but I remembered that art security is something you know a lot about.”
She fought to keep her voice dispassionate.
“Yes. I’ve been consulting with the FBI fairly regularly about stolen art, so I’d be happy to talk to him.”
“Great. His attorney, Jim Gardiner, may call you directly.”
There was in imperceptible pause as Sinclair’s voice switched to a heartier register.
“So . . . it was nice seeing you again, Holly.”
“You too, John,” she said as her heart flopped over. Would he ask her out after all? But her hopes were dashed instantly.
“Take care,” Sinclair said and rang off.
Holly put down the phone and exhaled. How was it he could rattle her after all these years? She twisted her hair back up into a chignon and secured it with a pencil. It was time to get over the man. But since they parted company there had been no one even remotely as exciting as Sinclair. In fact, these days her social life was pathetic. The only confirmed date she had was with a two-thousand-year-old mummy.
She glanced at her watch. Almost time to leave for the CAT scan. The appointment at the hospital was for one p.m.
As she started to gather her things, her supervisor poked his head in. Holly’s greeting died on her lips. He looked absolutely distraught.
“Holly, how late were you here last night?”
She searched her mind quickly.
“About six o’clock . . . I guess. I remember I was running late for the gala.”
“Did you go to the storeroom at all yesterday?”
“No, I was working with the CT images on my computer. I found something unusual with Artemidorus. He—”
“He’s gone,” the director said, cutting her off.
An awful lurch of fear stirred deep down inside her.
“Maybe someone—”
“No.”
She stared at him in silence.
“He was stolen,” he said. “I need to call the police.”
“Oh, my God! Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am very sure. I may need you later, to answer some questions.”
“Absolutely. If anyone wants me I’ll be at North Shore Hospital doing a scan.”
19th Police Precinct,
East Sixty-Seventh Street, New York
WHEN CARTER WALLACE walked up to the counter, the cop at the desk didn’t look up.
“Excuse me, I have something to report about the gala last night.”
“At the Met?” the cop asked with sudden interest, putting his pen down. That was a good sign. Carter didn’t want to spend his entire day convincing some jaded officer that he had something serious to report.
“I saw some very suspicious activity last night,” Carter explained. “Two guys loading a van. I wrote down the license plate number.” He pulled the scrap of paper out of his jacket and offered it.
“Hold on to that for a moment. I need you to fill out some forms.”
“Sure.” Carter tucked the number back into his pocket.
The officer slid a sheet of paper onto a clipboard.
“Name, address, and phone number. Somebody will be along to take your statement.”
Carter walked over to the scarred wooden benches along the wall. In his mind he clearly saw the white van and the two men loading the crate. He sat down and began to write.
Brooklyn Museum
AT NOON CARTER Wallace poked his head into Holly Graham’s office. Nobody was there. No brown bag lunch in the usual spot.
Disappointed, he headed back down to his little cubby in the basement. The subterranean passage was empty, but he could hear the phone ringing on his desk. He speeded up and grabbed the receiver just in time.
“Carter here,” he said, hoping like hell it was Holly. Instead it was the nasal whine of the director of the antiquities department.
“Carter, I need you to check something out for me.”
“OK. No problem.”
“It’s stolen art. Egyptian artifacts. I know that Holly usually does this sort of thing, but she’s doing a scan today over at the hospital and then she’s leaving for London. Can you look into it?”
Carter felt his spirits sink. She was going to London and didn’t even tell him? He must be pretty low on her radar for her to go out of the country without saying good-bye.
“Sure. Just tell me where to go.”
He wrote down an address, tore off the sheet, and stuck it in his p
ocket. He’d leave right away. With Holly gone, there was no use hanging around.
North Cove Marina, New York
THE DOCK AT the base of Manhattan’s Financial District was empty except for Lady Xandra Sommerset’s megayacht, The Khamsin. No private boats remained in New York this late in the season. Most people had already headed down to Florida or the Carribbean for the winter. But the nautical charts on The Khamsin were for another destination—a transatlantic crossing.
Xandra walked up the gangplank and glanced out over the harbor. It was a beautiful sunny day. Across the glinting water the Statue of Liberty had her arm lifted, as if in a cheerful wave. Ferries were churning by, taking commuters to New Jersey and Staten Island.
The boat’s engines were already idling and the twenty-four-man crew was standing by, ready to cast off. She gave an affirmative nod to the captain as she boarded, and the men immediately set about clearing the lines. In the main salon one of the stewards was waiting.
“Would you like some tea, madame?” he inquired.
“Please.” Xandra tossed her camel-hair coat on the nearest chair.
The interior decor of the yacht was tasteful, with a subtle palette of cream and beige. She stopped to survey the Orientalist painting above the couch—a portrait of a naked young woman entitled Femme Nue, by Jean-Léon Gérôme. Moustaffa had said it reminded him of Xandra. The classic odalisque depicted a young woman with pearly flesh bathing in a Turkish hammam.
The steward returned with a pot of freshly brewed Egyptian chamomile tea. She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up on the couch. This was her favorite place on earth. Unencumbered by any man-made laws, Lady X ruled this universe of twenty-odd people. She alone dictated the schedule of daily life and could go wherever the wind and sea permitted.
Xandra had named her boat after the hot Sahara wind—a seasonal gale that blew in April. The khamsin had raised choking, blinding dust against Napoleon’s army in Egypt and caused Allied and German troops to halt their battles during World War Two.
Today, The Khamsin motoryacht would not raise any attention. It would cruise quietly out of New York Harbor past the Statue of Liberty, under the Verrazano Bridge to Ambrose Channel, and out into the Atlantic Ocean.
From there, they’d follow the coastline of the Eastern Seaboard, along the Great Circle Route—the shortest geographic distance between two points on earth. They’d travel steadily at fifteen knots for ten days until they reached the coast of France, where she would meet Moustaffa.
1010 Fifth Avenue
AT A QUARTER to one, Sinclair, Cordelia, and Ted entered the VerPlancks’ penthouse. The formal entrance hall had a black-and-white marble floor, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a white-jacketed butler standing at attention.
“Thank you,” Cordelia said, handing him her trench coat.
Ted VerPlanck lived the life of a Gilded Age tycoon—his penthouse was every bit as grand as the nineteenth-century showplaces of the Carnegies, Vanderbilts, and Astors.
“Where did you keep the cup?” Sinclair asked, looking around.
“In the living room. I’ll take you in there in a minute, but first I want to show you the atrium.”
“Is that where they broke in?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes. As you can see, the apartment is designed so all the rooms open into an enclosed courtyard. This is the same construction as a peristylum in ancient Roman architecture.”
As he spoke, they entered an enormous interior garden with palm trees and tropical plants. The air was filled with the lush scent of foliage and flowers. It was a private, exotic jungle, right in the middle of the apartment!
“Of course this is not really a Roman courtyard, because the roof has to be enclosed,” VerPlanck explained, almost as if apologizing for its deficiency.
Cordelia walked around, staring in astonishment. The atrium had a tranquil feel. Filtered sunlight came down through a vaulted glass ceiling. A large birdcage held tiny colorful South American parakeets. There was an oblong reflecting pool with a small jet of water burbling gently and lily pads floating on the surface, their waxy leaves accented with spiky pink flowers.
“Oh, how beautiful!” Cordelia said with a gasp.
“It was designed by the famous architect Rosario Candela in 1910.”
“It’s incredible,” Sinclair remarked, looking around.
“I’ll give you a little bit of the layout.” VerPlanck swept his arm toward the front of the building. “On this side of the atrium we have a reception room, the living room, dining room, and library.”
“The entertaining spaces?” Cordelia asked.
“Exactly. The bedrooms and other private rooms are on the other side.”
“So where did the intruders break in?” asked Sinclair.
“Astonishingly, they came in through there,” VerPlanck said, and pointed up at the glass ceiling.
“That must be twenty feet high,” Sinclair observed.
“They lowered themselves down on ropes,” VerPlanck said. “On the way to bed last night, I noticed shards of glass all over the floor.”
Cordelia examined the entry point with interest.
“But the glass isn’t broken,” she observed.
“I had it replaced this morning. We keep extra panels in the basement.”
“They didn’t touch any of this art?” Sinclair asked, examining the canvases on the walls. “I’m assuming that these are not copies.”
“No, they are originals,” VerPlanck assured him.
Cordelia walked over to a canvas of pastel swirls.
“Haven’t I seen this one before?”
“Yes. It is one of the many water lily studies by Monet,” VerPlanck explained. “And over here is a jungle scene by Henri Rousseau. And there, a Peruvian landscape by Frederic Church.”
“Priceless,” Sinclair observed. “Yet they didn’t touch anything.”
“No, it appears they were after only one item.”
“The cup,” Sinclair said.
“Exactly. Come this way,” VerPlanck encouraged. “I’ll show you where it . . . was.”
The living room was at least sixty feet long. Six enormous windows swathed in rose silk moiré faced Fifth Avenue. The Metropolitan Museum was directly across the street.
“After you left the apartment, no one was home?” Sinclair asked.
“Tipper came in after I left. She was running late. But the butler and housekeeper were both off for the evening. And the cook and cleaning staff come in only during the daytime.”
He walked the length of the living room and stopped at a curved niche in the wall. Inside was a freestanding marble Ionian column—obviously a pedestal for an art object.
No explanation was necessary. This was where the cup had been displayed. They looked at the empty space in silence. VerPlanck sighed.
“I just can’t believe it’s gone.”
There was no mention of the Sardonyx Cup during lunch. Ted VerPlanck spoke of art, archaeology, and his extensive travels. Only after the plates had been cleared of cucumber salad and salmon, and they had finished their lemon tart, did he broach the subject of the cup.
“John, what do you think about the possibility of recovering it?” VerPlanck asked. “. . . and please be honest. I don’t want to have any false hopes.”
“I can’t offer any guarantees, but I would be happy to make some calls and see if it is on the international black market . . .”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind.”
Sinclair waited in silence. The butler poured the demitasse and left before he continued.
“The problem is most of my contacts in the black market are overseas. I often deal with criminal gangs to try to recover artifacts that were stolen directly from archaeological digs.”
“How do you get them back?”
“Cash. Pure and simple. Things can usually be bought back for a fraction of what they are worth.”
“That sounds fine to me,” VerPlanck s
aid.
“Except in New York it’s different. Things surface in the art market through vendors. You need local connections to art dealers and auction houses.”
“I understand, but surely you have those kinds of networks also?”
“Some,” Sinclair assured him, “but I’m based in London. To pursue this properly, you would need someone who lives here in New York.”
“Is there anyone you can suggest?”
There was a long silence. Sinclair gave a calculating glance at Cordelia.
“Yes, there is someone,” he finally said. “The person I am thinking of is often called in to verify ancient artifacts before they are put up for sale—to see if they are authentic.”
“They sound perfect.”
“It would take someone with a Rolodex built up over decades to quietly start the type of inquiry you are looking for.”
Ted took a note card out of his jacket pocket to jot down the name. His pen was poised above the paper.
“I don’t have the private phone number, you understand,” Sinclair explained. “But I can tell you how to get in touch with her at work.”
“Please . . .” said VerPlanck.
He looked up, sensing Sinclair’s reticence.
“Dr. Hollis Graham,” Sinclair finally said, not looking at Cordelia. “She works at the Brooklyn Museum. I’ve already spoken to her. She expects your call.”
North Shore University Hospital, Manhasset, Long Island
THE NORTH SHORE Hospital was known for its state-of-the-art cardiac imaging. Today, the middle-aged man on the scanning bed was beyond any lifesaving measures—he had been dead for two thousand years.
Standing around the gurney were museum conservators wearing masks and gowns. The protective clothing was to prevent them from ingesting any toxic particles that would be released when they moved the mummy. It was a difficult maneuver they were attempting—trying to slide the human remains out of a wooden container and onto the bed of the CT machine.
“Everyone, get ready,” Holly instructed. “When I say ‘three’ . . .”
The Stolen Chalicel Page 8