The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  At that remark, Holly looked out the window and got her first glimpse of the countryside—rolling green fields dotted with sheep. Miles and miles of similar landscape went by unchanged until, suddenly, she saw the gray battlements of the old city.

  In the distance, Edinburgh’s castle towers jutted up, massive and solid, the church spires puncturing the clouds. The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to break through. Rays shone down like a benediction from above.

  “Just look at that El Greco sky,” VerPlanck remarked, lightly touching her sleeve.

  The gesture was friendly, almost familiar. He looked out the window and then settled back, a fraction closer to her. Their arms touched.

  Holly felt Sinclair shift in his seat as he watched their interaction. His discomfort was obvious. Maybe Sinclair’s suspicions were right; VerPlanck certainly seemed interested. How awkward! She decided to ignore the gesture.

  “It is a beautiful city,” she commented. “The overcast sky gives everything such an air of mystery.”

  “Yes, this is typical,” VerPlanck explained. “A century ago, they used to refer to Edinburgh as Auld Reekie—‘reekie’ is the Scottish word for smoke.”

  “From the coal fires?”

  “Exactly. The temperature inversion from the hills beyond creates these conditions. The weather seldom clears.”

  Holly was entranced as they drove into the center of the city. There were broad avenues, paved in the mid-nineteenth century, but also small alleyways and cobblestoned streets. Because the old city had been built hundreds of years ago, most passageways were wide enough to accommodate only the breadth of a horse carriage. Some of the ancient byways were mere pedestrian footpaths that ended in steep flights of stairs leading to the next level above.

  “This section is very quaint,” she remarked.

  “And some say haunted,” VerPlanck added. “Supposedly one of the most active paranormal sites in all of Europe. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  A snort of derision came from Sinclair’s side of the car. Holly glared at him. Hunkered in the corner, Sinclair had his arms folded across his chest; his eyes were focused on the middle distance above her head. Sinclair was telegraphing his disapproval of VerPlanck’s inappropriate friendliness. How dare he sit there in judgment like that!

  Holly decided to gall him further by feigning great interest in what VerPlanck was saying about the paranormal.

  “Haunted, you say? How interesting! I generally don’t look for ghosts. And I’ll tell you why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I work with mummies,” she quipped. “Ghosts would be a conflict of interest.”

  They chuckled together at her little joke, as Sinclair sat in stony silence.

  “So, have you been to Edinburgh before?” VerPlanck asked.

  “No.”

  “We’re in the historic district. The hotel where Jim Gardiner asked us to meet him is right up there.”

  The car pulled up to the entrance of the Balmoral Hotel, where a doorman, dressed in a kilt and sporran, greeted them. Holly stepped out onto the wet cobblestones and shivered. The Scottish day was damp and raw. Thank goodness she had brought a raincoat and a cardigan with her this morning.

  The massive Balmoral Hotel—a huge, ornate structure crowned with multiple towers and peaked turrets—loomed before her. The clock tower resembled London’s Big Ben and was striking the half hour as Sinclair and VerPlanck joined her in front of the hotel.

  “Good day to you, sir. Will there be any luggage?”

  “No luggage,” VerPlanck began. “We’re here for a brief meeting.”

  “VerPlanck! Sinclair!” a voice shouted from the hotel steps.

  They all turned at once. Jim Gardiner was struggling toward the car, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He looked distraught.

  “Thank God you’re all here!” Gardiner exclaimed, limping up to them. He was looking directly at VerPlanck.

  “What is it?” Ted asked.

  “Ted, I’m sorry to say I have terrible news.”

  “Go on,” VerPlanck said with great apprehension.

  “I’m afraid it’s your wife.”

  “She’s . . . ?”

  VerPlanck scanned Gardiner’s face and there was a long moment of pained silence.

  “Yes. I’m very sorry, Ted, but Tipper’s body has been found in the woods of Wyoming. She’s dead.”

  “No!” Ted VerPlanck cried out. He put out a hand as if he were about to fall, buckled, weaved, and nearly went down. Sinclair stepped forward quickly to offer support. VerPlanck stood with a glazed expression, clinging to Sinclair’s arm.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Holly murmured.

  VerPlanck turned at the sound of her voice. His eyes were filled with pain. Then, with stoic effort, he let go of Sinclair and managed to stand erect. He took a few breaths, attempting to recover, and then addressed Gardiner.

  “Thank you, Jim, for telling me.”

  In that awful moment, Holly looked at the men surrounding her. VerPlanck’s face was as pale as marble under the trimmed beard; Jim Gardiner was gaunt with distress. Only Sinclair seemed composed and strong. Nobody said a word. Then, unexpectedly, Gardiner spoke up again.

  “I’m afraid there’s also been some news about Cordelia. . . .”

  “What about Delia?” Sinclair demanded.

  Gardiner’s eyes were terrified as he looked at him.

  “Cordelia has been kidnapped!”

  Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh, Scotland

  HOLLY, SINCLAIR, VERPLANCK, and Jim Gardiner were seated around a long table in a conference room on the fifth floor of the hotel. They were in lockdown. Two plainclothes policemen guarded the door, staring straight ahead.

  Holly took everything in without speaking. Ted VerPlanck was crumpled in a chair, his hands flat on the polished wood as if clinging to a life raft. After a while he glanced over at her, as if suddenly remembering she was there. For a single moment, his eyes held hers. Holly quietly returned his gaze, mustering up the most reassuring look she could manage.

  Sinclair’s appearance was absolutely ghastly. He sat ramrod straight, staring at nothing. He was clearly in shock, a sheen of perspiration was on his forehead and his breathing was shallow.

  It hurt her to see him like that; she would do anything to take that pained look off his face. Until now she had no idea of her role in this affair, but now she was certain. What she needed to do was help Sinclair get Cordelia back.

  They had learned very little about what had happened to Cordelia. Sinclair had reacted to Gardiner’s news with outrage.

  “What do you mean she was kidnapped? Why are we here?” he had burst out wildly.

  Gardiner had put a hand on Sinclair’s arm and had urged calm.

  “We’re meeting with Peter Scripps of the London Metropolitan Police—Counter Terrorism Command, SO15.”

  “Counterterrorism!” Sinclair’s eyes had been frantic as he searched Gardiner’s face.

  “That’s a general term. They handle any kind of threat in London.”

  “Is that where Delia is? In London?” Sinclair had asked. “With terrorists!”

  Gardiner had not been able to answer. They would have to wait. For more than a half hour they had been sitting, listening to a grandfather clock ticking, each audible second like a flail on the skin. It was pure agony, not knowing what had happened.

  Holly looked around the room, conscious of trying not to stare at the two men. The Balmoral decor was very baronial, with Macbethesque dark-oak paneling and an enormous stone fireplace—which would have looked perfect in a medieval laird’s privy-council chamber. The lead-paned casements were draped with scarlet-colored tartan. She had a view of the spires of Edinburgh Castle. The old fortress was a beautiful sight, with its massive stone battlements silhouetted against the stormy sky.

  Suddenly they heard raised voices, the door opened, and an official strode in with great energy. He introduced himself as Peter Scripps,
head of the Metropolitan Police.

  Holly looked him over as he shook hands with Jim Gardiner. Scripps was a beefy man, medium height, powerfully built, with the physique of a former sportsman. In his mid-fifties, his girth told of a regular diet of meat pies and a pint or two in the evening. He carried black leather gloves and wore an abused-looking Burberry raincoat that he struggled out of and tossed onto the chair. As he shook hands all around, his grip was strong.

  “Mr. VerPlanck,” he said, clasping Ted’s hand in both of his own. “May I say how sorry I am to hear of your loss.”

  VerPlanck nodded, speechless. Holly liked Scripps instantly for the kindness in his eyes.

  “I’m afraid we must press on,” Scripps said, turning to everyone else. “We have a kidnapping in progress, and we are also dealing with a serious national emergency.”

  Sinclair’s attention was riveted on Scripps’s face.

  “What can you tell us?”

  Scripps turned to the policemen guarding the door.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  The officers stepped outside, and Scripps immediately pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  “What can you tell us about Cordelia Stapleton?” Gardiner asked anxiously as he sat down and put his cane on the floor.

  “We know Miss Stapleton and Mr. Charles Hannifin were abducted from the British Museum about two hours ago,” Scripps said, and checked his watch. “Just before eleven o’clock this morning.”

  “Charles Hannifin?” VerPlanck exclaimed. “He’s on the board at the Met!”

  “Yes. He appears to be the primary target,” Scripps said. “Cordelia Stapleton was taken along with him.”

  “How do we know that?” Sinclair asked.

  “Witnesses. The director of the Egyptian collection was left unconscious, with several broken bones. On the way to hospital he came to and gave us his testimony.”

  “Did anyone else witness the abduction?” Gardiner asked.

  “Yes. There were bystanders—a Japanese tour group. We have a translation, and so far the statements concur.”

  “All this happened in London two hours ago,” Sinclair interrupted. “I don’t understand the timing. We were already on our way here.”

  Scripps nodded briskly, as if he had anticipated the question.

  “I contacted your associate Jim Gardiner to ask him to come to Edinburgh. I needed help locating a medical expert.”

  Scripps hesitated a moment before he spoke again.

  “We were initially investigating an art-theft ring, but now, with this kidnapping, I’m afraid the situation is a lot more complicated than we first thought.”

  Somewhere in the English Channel

  CORDELIA OPENED HER eyes. There was nothing but blackness. She blinked once to be sure. Yes, her eyes were open and she wasn’t dreaming. She was awake and alive and somewhere in the pitch dark.

  And it was bitter cold. She was lying on a block of ice. But it couldn’t be ice. It was so frigid it made her body ache. She put her hand down, felt the hard surface, and discovered it was metal!

  Trying to sit up, she found movement was difficult. As she shifted her position, pain shot through her head. Then there was a swift and disorienting spell of dizziness.

  “John,” she said.

  Her mouth formed the word, but no sound came out. In the darkness, she saw Sinclair as clearly as if he were standing in front of her. He had a slightly worried expression. It was the same look he had when he was waiting for her to surface from an underwater dive. When she came up, she’d always signal to him—give him the thumbs-up. And then relief would wash over his face.

  “I’m here,” she said to him now.

  The words rasped out and echoed around her. But he wasn’t here. Where was she? Somewhere empty and dark. Cordelia tried to stand up, but it felt like weights were pinning her to the floor. Her head was throbbing.

  Hold still. Wait a minute more and rest. Then try again. She sat there and experimentally wiggled her feet. Why was she barefoot? Her shoes must have fallen off. She really needed to get out of here.

  One, two, three, go. Attempting to lift herself up, she felt her head spin again. It was strange to be dizzy in the pitch black. How could the room reel when she couldn’t see anything?

  But she could sure smell something—the overwhelming stench of fish. Not a fresh catch. Rotten, pungent. An irrepressible flash of nausea came over her and the bile rose in her mouth, and she knew she was about to be sick.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and vomited onto the floor so violently her ribs hurt. Not quite done, she heaved again. Awful, acrid taste. The stinging liquid went up into her nose. Her eyes watered.

  “Agghhhkkk . . .” she said, moving away from the odor of the bile. There was a faint chemical smell to it. She must have been drugged but had no real recollection of what had happened. The last memory she had was of climbing into the van behind Charlie Hannifin.

  There was a faint glow near the floor and she looked down at the light on her wrist, her luminescent diving watch. She checked the time and discovered she had been unconscious for about twelve hours. Emptying her stomach seemed to clear her mind a bit. But her entire body ached, and she had no desire to move. So she stayed propped up on her elbow.

  Staring at the compass function on the dial, she read her GPS position. The numbers swam before her eyes. Right now, it was too difficult to calculate location in her fuzzy brain. She really should concentrate on the other signals around her.

  Water! The scent of it came to her—the saline tang of the ocean.

  Cordelia could always sense water. Some people say you cannot smell water, but she knew that was wrong. Wild animals are able to detect the presence of water in drinking holes.

  The next thing Cordelia noticed was the floor. It wasn’t a floor at all. It was the bottom of a ship! After her years of shipboard life, the clues added up quickly.

  They were under way, moving rapidly. The rumble of diesel engines sounded about a steady 1,200 rpms. She could feel waves shifting the vessel. Judging from the way the craft was lightly pitching—bow to stern—the chop was not heavy.

  Each dip of the deck revealed more information. She could tell by the way the craft was moving that her position was close to the bow. It was a midsize ship, not more than sixty feet long. That was an easy guess, because the research vessel she had worked on was about the same size. Larger ships moved differently—slower and with less of a seesaw motion.

  Also, the boat was in open water. Ocean waves were different from those in an enclosed body of water. So, in terms of location, if they had started in London they must have moved down the Thames. Judging from the elapsed time, they were out past the English Channel.

  All that gave her a lot of information. Not bad, for working in the dark.

  Balmoral Hotel

  PETER SCRIPPS OF the Metropolitan Police was explaining how Cordelia had been abducted. Sinclair, VerPlanck, and Holly were sitting silently—appalled at what they were hearing.

  “Let me make sure I am perfectly clear on this,” Sinclair cut in. “You’re saying that the people who abducted Cordelia are terrorists!”

  “Yes,” Scripps affirmed. “Their leader is an Egyptian named Moustaffa.”

  “An Egyptian?”

  “Originally. But he has connections all over the Middle East and North Africa. He’s spent time in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Syria, and Morocco.”

  “Does he have a nationalist or religious agenda?” Gardiner asked, taking up the thread of questioning.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s his purpose?”

  “Moustaffa leads a community of radical activists—anarchists with a hatred of Western governments. They are out to destroy the industrial elite.”

  “How many of them are there?”

  “The numbers are unclear. They are a loosely affiliated cyber-community. We have been tracking them through the Sig
nals Intelligence Unit.”

  “That tells me nothing,” Gardiner complained.

  “We track their electronic communications, and believe there are two thousand members. They log on, log off . . . and disappear.”

  “What do you know about Moustaffa?” Gardiner asked.

  “We have a team assembling a dossier on him right now. Another unit will debrief you when we finish up here.”

  “Why not now?” Sinclair demanded.

  “I need to ask Mr. VerPlanck some questions about that night at the Met.”

  “The Met?” VerPlanck asked.

  “Yes. The FBI has uncovered a terrorist cell that launched the attack at the gala.”

  “Is it Moustaffa’s group?” Gardiner asked, putting two and two together.

  “We believe so. And we think they are planning something even bigger.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” VerPlanck asked.

  “The gunmen were hired as waiters by a catering company run by the Manucci family—being in the cargo-shipping business, you may have heard of them.”

  “I have,” VerPlanck said. “The Port Authority has been watching the Manucci crime syndicate for years. They have infiltrated the dock workers.”

  “Have you had any direct contact with the Manuccis that you think might be relevant?”

  Suddenly, the conversation took on the tone of an interrogation. VerPlanck sat up straighter and looked Scripps directly in the eye.

  “The Manuccis don’t usually interact with legitimate businesses,” he said starchily.

  “Well, I ask you for a very good reason. They’ve been connected to the theft of your cup.”

  “What!”

  “You lost me,” Sinclair chimed in.

  “Mr. VerPlanck, your property was stolen to fund terrorist operations. The Manucci family took a cut, but most of the proceeds went to Moustaffa’s personal account in Gibraltar.”

  “So you think a terror organization stole the Sardonyx Cup?” VerPlanck asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense. The cup would be too recognizable to sell outright. In terms of monetary gain, it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of it. There were other, more lucrative things to steal in my apartment.”