Tipper looked at him with narrowed eyes.
“You know a lot, don’t you, Charlie.”
Tipper folded up the check and put it back in the envelope. It lay there on the table as she eyed it. “Maybe I’ll keep this. I’ll call you.”
She picked up his drink and drained it, squinting at him over the rim. Then she put down the empty glass and licked her lips.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You don’t need the money.”
“Actually, I do. I lost a ton in that pharmaceutical scam last year.”
“Ted always thought that was a fishy investment. I guess a lot of people got burned.”
“Yes, well, I need the money.”
“Sorry to hear that, Charlie.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he said, leaning over and touching her arm confidentially. “But so do you. Need the money, I mean.”
“Why do you say that? I have plenty.”
“You’re used to living very well. What are you going to do after you and Ted are divorced? It won’t be quite the same, now, will it?”
“I’m not divorcing Ted.”
“No. But I hear he is divorcing you.”
Tipper glared at him. “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”
“No, I’m not. He’s filing papers. You’re going to be left high and dry.”
Tipper put the envelope into her purse and snapped the clasp shut.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know about high, but I’ll never, ever be dry.”
The Khamsin Motoryacht, Off the Coast of Maine
LADY SOMMERSET WHIRLED the mahogany Indian clubs in elaborate circles on the top deck of the yacht. The wind whipped around her, stinging her skin with salt spray. Gradually increasing the size of the bowling pin–shaped weights, she followed her daily routine, flexing her knees to keep her stance.
The captain suddenly appeared on deck. “Lady Sommerset, we have removed the cargo from the storage compartment.”
“Thank you.”
“What should we do with it?”
“Put everything in the salon.”
“Very well, madame.”
The captain descended to the lower level. She stopped to breathe in the fresh air. What a glorious, exhilarating day! She gave the ocean a final glance, noting the three-foot swells, then turned and climbed down the ladder to the lower deck.
A large object filled the entire leather banquette in the salon. At first glance, it looked like a person covered in a red quilt. But the trompe l’oeil effect lasted only a second. It was the mummy Artemidorus, his crimson coffin sculpted into the vague shape of a body.
Lady X sat and looked at the magnificent object in triumph. The gold-leaf filigree on the exterior depicted the story of the afterlife. Below the encaustic portrait panel was a falcon collar and a series of traditional Egyptian scenes. The god Anubis was flanked by the goddess Isis. There was a short Greek inscription across the breast of the bier that read “Farewell Artemidorus.”
A lot of planning had gone into stealing the massive twelve-foot-long mummy case. She had been obsessed with Artemidorus for the last decade, ever since she had seen the lovely young man, immortalized in death, at the British Museum. He had a face to fall in love with.
In the portrait panel, his beautiful black curls were crowned with a laurel of gold leaf, an indication of his high birth. He was a prince—a ruler in ancient Egypt—and by every right he should be buried in his native soil.
She would take care of him now. They would not keep him imprisoned in a museum, probing, X-raying, and scanning him with their medical machines.
A steward came in with a medium-size wooden crate and placed it on the low table in front of her. Another steward entered with a champagne bucket. He opened a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and inserted it into the shaved ice.
“Is there anything else, madame?”
“No, thank you.”
The steward left and shut the door. Xandra lifted the lid of the wooden box and there, encased in the custom-cut foam, was the Sardonyx Cup. It glowed with the splendor of burnished gold as she carefully lifted it out and put it down on the low table. Then, taking the bottle out of the ice bucket, she poured champagne into the ancient vessel. Carefully, reverently, she grasped the Sardonyx Cup by the base and raised it in a silent toast to Artemidorus.
Central Park, New York
CHARLIE HANNIFIN SAT on a bench in Central Park and looked at the stone obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle. It was much older than the Egyptian queen. The pharaoh Thutmose III had built it in 1450 BC in the city of Heliopolis.
The monument now stood in Central Park, right behind the Metropolitan Museum, having traveled to New York in the 1880s, when Egyptian mania was sweeping through American society. Financed by some wealthy enthusiasts, the granite pillar had been brought from Alexandria, Egypt, to New York Harbor by barge. It took thirty-two horses to drag it up the banks of the Hudson River to its current location. On Sunday afternoons, during the Gilded Age, people from all walks of life would drive by in their carriages to view it.
These days the ancient pillar stood on Central Park Drive, in the middle of the modern city. Joggers now used the obelisk as a mile marker as they ran their laps around the park. Gasoline fumes and decades of pollution had pitted the hieroglyphics, and the carvings were rapidly becoming indecipherable.
Charlie had come to appreciate Cleopatra’s Needle for reasons other than historic ones. It was his favorite rendezvous spot, located directly behind the Met. The benches nearby were always empty—a perfect place for a clandestine cell phone call.
Charlie dialed a number that connected to a satellite phone somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.
“Lady Sommerset, please. Tell her Charlie Hannifin is on the line.”
There was a long pause. Charlie studied the inscriptions, added to the pillar by Ramses II to commemorate his military victories. A brass plaque below gave the translation:
The golden Horus, content with victory,
Who smiteth the rulers of nations
Hundreds of thousands
In as much as father Ra
Hath ordered unto him
Victory against every land.
There was a crackle on the line.
“Hold for Lady Sommerset, please,” a male voice said.
“Charlie, how are you?”
“Just fine. We are sending that last art shipment out to Italy in two days.”
“Where is it going after that?”
“China.”
“Beijing or Shanghai?”
“The art scene in Beijing is still pretty provincial. But we are getting a lot of interest in Shanghai and Hong Kong.”
“They are the ones with the money, aren’t they?” Lady Sommerset laughed.
“Tons of it. This one will net fifty million.”
“Pounds or dollars?”
“Renminbi.”
There was silence on the other end.
“I’m joking,” Charlie continued. “Euros.”
“Very funny. I’ll let Moustaffa know.”
“Please give him my regards.”
“I will,” Xandra replied. “I certainly will.”
Cairo, Egypt
MOUSTAFFA FILED HIS daily blog, closed down his computer, and shut off the light. Hundreds of his acolytes had already commented on the post “The Triumph of the Common Man”—his call to topple the Anglo-America oppressor who ruled their “democracies” with lies and deceit.
Moustaffa’s apocalyptic vision was almost complete. He would be meeting Lady Xandra Sommerset off the coast of France. Together they would begin a carefully orchestrated attack to topple half the governments of the industrialized world.
Moustaffa closed the apartment door and walked out onto the landing of the building. The smell of spicy food wafted up the stairwell as he clomped down three flights and out the front door. Two young teenagers lounged on the steps in dirty T-shirts with the logos of Nike
and Puma. They eyed him and slunk away into the crowd.
Brooklyn Museum
HOLLY GRAHAM CLOSED down her office computer. She had finished up the CAT scan at the hospital and filed all the paperwork. The poor unwrapped mummy from Thebes was on his way to a more dignified end. The conservation staff would sew him up and award him a place of honor in the museum galleries.
It had been a brutally long day, starting with the discovery of the theft of Artemidorus. Now it seemed part of the blame would be placed on her. The online tabloids noted she had been “in charge” of Artemidorus, implying she had been negligent!
A snapshot of Holly leaving the hospital earlier in the afternoon was posted next to the article “The Case of the Missing Mummy.” She was identified as “the Marilyn Monroe of the mummy world.”
The FBI had been more respectful. After talking to the Art Recovery Division on the phone for almost an hour, she had confidence they would find Artemidorus. After all, a twelve-foot cartouche would be pretty hard to transport without someone noticing.
The museum was sending her to London tomorrow, to talk to her colleagues at the British Museum. The theft of their precious artifact called for face-to-face diplomacy, and she was the ambassador.
Holly closed up her office and stepped outside for the brief walk to the number 2/3 train station on Eastern Parkway. After being cooped up all day, it was nice to be outdoors. The fresh air helped her lingering fatigue.
What a lovely time of year! The temperature was nippy and there was the scent of wet leaves and damp earth. Streetlights were casting a golden light on the sidewalk in front of the museum.
Suddenly she heard footsteps running behind her and turned, half expecting to see Carter. But it was Ted VerPlanck!
“Dr. Graham! Terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, I thought you were someone else.”
Again she was struck by the handsome man—distinguished in a “senior diplomat” sort of way. He wore a cashmere topcoat and carried a pair of shearling gloves.
“I wanted to talk to you, if it is not too much to ask.”
“Certainly.”
“I am ready to tell you why I can’t go to the police.”
“All right.”
“It’s my wife—she is not well. She is . . . went through rehab just recently.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My wife and I were at the gala last night.”
“So was I.”
“Well, then, you saw the press lining the steps.”
“Yes . . . ?”
“My wife was not in good . . . well . . . she had been drinking.”
Holly felt sorry for him. Despite the cool night, his forehead was beaded with fine drops of perspiration. He shifted from foot to foot in anxiety.
“If news of this theft goes public, they’ll dig up those pictures and she’ll be subjected to another trial-by-tabloid about her so-called relapse.”
“Well . . . I’m sure—”
“She had only a couple of glasses of wine, you understand,” Ted cut in, “but I think Tipper’s system is very delicate and it hit her hard.”
Holly nodded, uncertain what to say.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” VerPlanck asked. “We could talk further in the car.”
“I’m just going home on the subway.”
“Please let me give you a ride.”
Before she could answer, he punched a number on his cell phone.
“Gavin, would you please bring the car to the front of the museum?”
Within a moment, a dark blue Bentley Mulsanne pulled up and the driver came around to open the rear door. There really was no choice. Holly got in.
British Air, First-Class Lounge, Kennedy Airport, New York
LET’S EAT HERE so we can sleep on the flight,” Sinclair suggested to Cordelia.
She silently perused the menu, so he went ahead and ordered. “I’ll have the sole, and a green salad to start.”
“The same, please,” Cordelia said, handing the menu back to the waiter. When he walked away, she turned to Sinclair.
“John, darling, I was very surprised you want Holly Graham to help you find the Sardonyx Cup.”
The “darling” made it clear she was annoyed. Sinclair shifted and took a sip of his drink.
“She often consults with the FBI Stolen Art Bureau to identify missing objects,” he replied.
“So her name just sprang to mind?”
“Look, I almost didn’t mention her. But then I assumed you couldn’t possibly be that petty.”
“You think I’m being petty?” she asked.
“Holly and I won’t be working together.”
“Oh, really?”
“I’ll be in London. And she’ll be based here in New York.”
“So you think it’s silly of me to be making a fuss?”
Cordelia accepted her Perrier, and Sinclair kept quiet until the waiter walked away. Then he leaned forward and spoke to her quietly.
“Look, Delia, Holly and I were very serious—once upon a time. But it’s been over for years.”
“Mmmhmmmm . . .” she said, pulling the paper end off her straw and taking a sip of Perrier.
“Delia! I can’t believe you are carrying on about something that ended years ago!”
“You’re so defensive, John. Why is that?”
“Because you are being ridiculous! When I tell you it’s over, it’s really over.”
“Not for her.”
“What makes you think that?”
Cordelia gave him the look she always used for proving her points. “The night of the gala, she was absolutely clinging to your arm.”
Flight A 31 overnight to London was ready for takeoff. Sinclair turned off his reading light and looked over at Cordelia. She was curled up, her hand tucked under her cheek.
A painful thump squeezed his heart. Thank God she had not been hurt at the gala.
It would be good to get home to London and settle into a normal life. There had been too much change, and Cordelia was emotionally fragile.
The nonsense about Holly being in love with him was a prime example. Cordelia was imagining things. A few days of a predictable schedule, lots of free time, and some TLC on his part would do her a world of good. He made a vow to let her know just how much he loved her. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Brooklyn, New York
HOLLY GRAHAM SET her briefcase down on the backseat of the Bentley and tried to appear relaxed. Ted VerPlanck leaned forward to give directions to the driver and then sat back in the leather seat.
She looked out her side window as they drove toward Brooklyn Heights. Traffic passed by on Atlantic Avenue in a soundless panorama. It didn’t take long for VerPlanck to bring up the Sardonyx Cup again.
“I don’t know what else to say to persuade you to help me.”
“I don’t think there is anything to say. I’m sorry.”
She kept her eyes turned toward the window. What more did the man need to realize she wasn’t interested in helping him?
“It’s not like you’d be working alone. You’d be consulting closely with John Sinclair.”
Holly’s heart skipped a beat, but she stayed composed. Funny, Sinclair never mentioned they’d be working together.
“I know him well,” she admitted. “He has a lot of important connections in the antiquities world.”
“He says the same about you.”
Why did Sinclair want to work with her again? Maybe this cup business was a ruse to get back together.
“I’m tempted,” she conceded. “Sinclair and I have often worked on projects in the past.”
“Do you want to think it over for a few days?”
Holly looked at VerPlanck. He really had no idea what he was asking. This was a huge job. It could take months, even years. The cup could be anywhere, floating in the underground market for purloined art. But if Sinclair was convinced the cup could be found, it would be w
onderful to try to find it.
“Well, I can’t really decide on the spur of the moment. And, in any case, I’m heading out to . . . London, for a meeting.”
“How long will you be there?”
“A few days. I’ve been consulting with the British Museum about some of their Egyptian collection. The Met wasn’t the only museum that was hit last night. We lost a Roman-era mummy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. So it seems you’ll be busy for a while, then?”
“Yes, I’m afraid my work is even more complicated, under the present circumstances.”
“Listen, speaking of mummies. I’m sorry I rushed off at the hospital earlier today. I’m afraid I don’t have the . . . talent to deal with that sort of thing.”
“It does take some getting used to,” Holly said, smiling.
There was a moment of silence, and then VerPlanck spoke.
“Forgive me if you think this is out of line—and you can refuse if it makes you feel uncomfortable—but I was planning to fly to London tonight. Why not come with me tonight to meet my lawyer, Jim Gardiner?”
“Why?”
“You might be more comfortable about all of this if you talk to him.”
Holly looked at him in surprise.
“My flight is tomorrow.”
“I could fly you there tonight.”
“You have a plane!” said Holly.
“Yes, I keep it at Teterboro Airport, in New Jersey. We could be in London by morning. You could meet with Jim Gardiner and still make your appointment at the British Museum the next day.”
“I’m . . . I’m not packed.”
“I can wait.”
She was booked on the overnight flight in an economy seat. The last-minute booking had put her in the worst row on the plane, opposite the restroom. If she accepted VerPlanck’s offer, it certainly would be more comfortable. And it might be better to get away from the newspaper reporters. The last thing she wanted to do was have them calling her all day tomorrow.
“We are here, sir,” the chauffeur announced.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 10