“Don’t try to pretend this is a social event,” Cordelia said. “Abduction is a criminal act.”
“This is not abduction. You are my guest. I assure you, I meant no harm.”
“No. Of course not.”
“Dr. Graham, I will keep this simple,” Lady X replied. “If you do what I ask, I will return you to dry land, unharmed.”
Cordelia started in surprise. Dr. Graham? Did Lady X think she was talking to Holly Graham? Clearly this was a case of mistaken identity.
“You’ve got the wrong person, I am not Dr. Graham,” Cordelia said, putting her cup down.
“These little games will not work, Dr. Graham. We know you were meeting with the British Museum about Artemidorus,” Lady X pointed to the sarcophagus.
“I was not . . . I was meeting . . .” Cordelia broke off, noticing the large crimson cartouche strapped to the banquette. It was held in place with bungee cords to prevent it from toppling with the movement of the ship.
“You stole that?”
“Yes,” Lady Sommerset said with a smile, unruffled. “I’m sure you recognize it. I’m returning it to where it belongs. You have tortured him enough with your medical tests.”
Cordelia looked at the Egyptian coffin. It was clear Lady X was insane. She stole a mummy? How utterly bizarre!
“What happened to Mr. Hannifin?” Cordelia asked. “I want to know.”
“He slipped. Drowned. So tragic.”
“I see.”
She kept silent and drank her tea. This was serious. Slipped? More likely pushed. It was a big ocean. In seas like these, he wasn’t ever going to be found. She’d better watch her step.
“The crew will find you some other clothes,” Lady X said, surveying Cordelia’s stained suit with disapproval.
“Thank you.”
“Please, take your time to finish your tea. When you are ready, you can ring the call bell and someone will show you to your cabin below.”
Cordelia nodded, still staring at the sarcophagus. Lady X noticed her gaze.
“I need you to help me with Artemidorus,” she explained. “I’m sure you are delighted to be reunited with your—”
“You want me to help you steal a mummy?” Cordelia gasped. “That’s why you abducted me?”
“It’s deteriorating and I need your help. I’m sure your concern for the artifact is as great as mine,” Lady X admonished.
“All I know is you’d better let me out of here when we put in to Venice, or there will be serious consequences.”
“There is no reason why this voyage shouldn’t conclude amicably. Now, I wish you a good night.”
With that, Lady Sommerset drifted out of the salon in a sweep of magenta silk. Cordelia heard the door lock behind her.
Federal Plaza, New York
CARTER WALLACE WAS pacing around an empty office in the federal office tower in lower Manhattan. The furniture for the FBI Stolen Art Division was remarkably shabby, presumably the choice of government budget minders. Steel desks, mismatched chairs, a stained carpet, and an exhausted-looking ficus plant in the corner. The workspace made Carter’s basement cubby at the museum seem luxurious.
If the FBI had to put up with this kind of decor, there was one feature to compensate—a million-dollar view. Standing on the twenty-third floor, Carter could see all of Wall Street and the expanse of New York Harbor beyond. The Statue of Liberty looked like a toy, perched on her little island in the middle of the blue water.
The door opened and the head of the Stolen Art Division walked in.
“Dr. Wallace, thanks for getting in touch with us. I’m Joe Viles, supervisory special agent on this case.”
As he shook hands, Carter noted that the guy was classic FBI—close-cropped hair, a gunmetal gray suit—clearly impervious to any style trends.
“Pleased to meet you,” Carter said, taking the seat he was offered. “I remembered something that might be of use. An art theft in London last year.”
“And the significance?” Viles asked, reaching for the computer mouse on the desk.
“The objects were Egyptian, and Charles Hannifin was in London at the time they were stolen. I know, because our director at the Brooklyn Museum met with him over there.”
“I see,” Viles replied, pausing. “Which museum?”
“The Flinders Petrie Museum of Archaeology, London.”
“Let’s look for a notation on the database.” Viles turned to the computer screen and scrolled through a few cases, clicking on image after image.
“Do you remember the time of year?”
“April.”
“Here we are,” the agent said. “April of last year. Globally, over a thousand art objects were stolen in that month alone.”
“How many files are there in total?” Carter asked, shocked.
“Ninety thousand,” Viles replied. “The files that have been stamped CLOSED are solved. The rest are ongoing operations.”
Carter could see as Viles flipped through the images that most of the objects had not been recovered.
“I can’t believe you have to sort through all this.”
“You’re lucky we have these records. Until a few years ago the FBI didn’t follow transshipment of stolen art.”
“Why’d you start? What changed?”
“Art thieves changed. Art theft has become a major criminal activity attracting drug traffickers, money launderers, organized crime.”
“How’d you get involved?” asked Carter.
“Undergraduate degree in fine arts. That got me a job at Starbucks.”
“So then what?” Carter asked.
“After 9/11, I went back for a master’s degree in domestic security studies, and then a law degree.”
“That seems pretty qualified. What’d you need me for?”
“I need your eyes. Look at the files and see what clicks.”
“Sure, no problem,” Carter said, pulling his chair up to the desk. The agent lounged nearby, surveying Carter in a friendly fashion.
“I hear you’re the guy who tipped the police off about the Met.”
“Yeah, well . . . It wasn’t much,” Carter mumbled. “And they haven’t recovered a fraction of what was taken that night.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” the agent replied. “This case is huge. If Hannifin is involved in this theft, my superiors will be very interested.”
A few hours later, a beautiful scarab flashed on the computer screen in front of Carter. In the photo, the ancient gold object had the inimitable look of a genuine artifact.
“I think I found something!” Carter called out.
FBI agent Joe Viles appeared in the doorway.
“Really?”
“It was stolen last year in London.”
“Are you sure?”
“The description matches perfectly. ‘Egyptian funerary object, Heart Scarab of Hatnofer, ca. 1466 BCE; Western Thebes, Flinders Petrie Museum, London.’ That’s it!”
“Read me the case number. I’ll find the paper file. Nice job.”
“Thanks,” Carter said, rubbing his temples.
“You know, you’re pretty good at this kind of thing,” Viles said, pausing in the doorway. “You should think about working at the bureau.”
“Me? Join the FBI?” Carter said, incredulously.
“As a consultant—we need trained archaeologists and art experts to help us identify stolen objects.”
“I had no idea.”
“We’re not just a bunch of guys looking for drug shipments, you know. Of course, you’d have to pass a security check. But since you’ve already found half the missing art from the Met, your clearance would be pretty quick.”
“Thanks. But from the number of files I’ve had to look through today, there’s a lot greater chance of finding something as an archaeologist digging in the sand,” Carter joked.
“You may be right about that,” Viles said with a laugh. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Carter ambled out into an
employee break room and fed his spare change into a hot-drinks machine. The vending dispenser whirred, dropped a paper cup, and then dribbled out coffee, powdered creamer, and an avalanche of sugar. After one sip, Carter spit it out and dumped the mess into the trash.
As he walked through the hallway his phone rang. The international area code was 44—London. Of course it was Holly; she was the only person he knew in that city.
“Uh . . . hello, Holly.” He verbally stumbled, sounding like a clod.
“Carter, how are you?”
“I’m good, keeping busy.”
“Listen, I’m calling because you left me a message warning about Charlie Hannifin.”
“Yeah, he’s really . . .”
“How did you know he was involved in something illegal?”
“His name is all over the paperwork,” Carter answered. “You aren’t anywhere near him, are you?”
“No, I’m not. He’s been abducted.”
“What! How?” Carter asked.
“The British Museum. I was scheduled to have a meeting there. But I canceled it. He was abducted about the time I was supposed to be there.”
“Wow, I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Yes, thanks. Is there anything else you’ve found out about Hannifin?” Holly asked.
Carter considered telling her that he was helping the FBI. It would make him sound smart. But this meeting was probably confidential, and he didn’t like bragging on the phone.
“No. Working on a few angles, but nothing concrete yet,” he said casually.
“Please let me know if you find anything out. I mean anything.”
“Sure.”
“Take care, I’ll be in touch.”
He stumbled through a good-bye, making as big a fool of himself as possible, and then hung up.
At least Holly was safe. Now to find the art. That would really impress her.
The FBI agent was back at the desk, rummaging through an accordion folio of documents.
“Where’d you go?”
“Saw the coffee machine and tried it.”
“Yeah, I should have warned you about that.”
“Too late,” Carter said with a laugh. “Listen, I just heard Charlie Hannifin is missing in London.”
“No surprise there. I’d go missing if my name was all over a shipment of stolen art.”
“Yeah, well, my colleague just told me that Hannifin was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? We’ll check into it.”
“Did you find the file?” Carter asked.
“Yeah, you were right about this scarab. It’s from a case file with six other pieces.”
He handed Carter the transparencies of Egyptian funerary objects. “Here they are. Recovered two months ago in Italy.”
“Where were they shipped from?” Carter asked. “No, let me guess . . . the Freilager Zone in Zurich.”
“That’s right.”
“And sent where . . . ?” Carter asked.
“We found them in a warehouse in the old quarter in Venice. Art, jewelry, watches. Oh, and a Maserati. We never caught the thieves.”
“Well, I suggest you get on the phone to the Italian police,” said Carter. “If Hannifin was involved in both robberies, maybe these are the same people who hit the Met.”
“It’s worth checking out.”
“Let me know if you turn up a twelve-foot mummy cartouche. Bright red. Face painted on the outside. We’re missing it at the Brooklyn Museum.”
“Will do.”
“Well, I guess that’s it for me,” Carter said, picking up his jacket. “Glad I could help.”
“Wait. If we find another warehouse with stolen goods in Venice, we’re going to need somebody to ID the art. The bureau chief in New York would like you to fill out the application to work with us as a consultant.”
“You’d hire me? Just like that?” Carter asked, agog.
“We’d have to run a security clearance and give you a training course for a day or so. But if you went we’d pay your travel expenses and an hourly rate. It’s pretty good money.”
“You’d pay me to go to Italy?”
“If the art turns up, we really can’t spare anyone from this office.”
Carter thought about it for a moment. No use hanging around the Brooklyn Museum when Holly was in London.
“Sure! Why not? I’d have to clear it with my boss, but I’ve always wanted to go to Venice.”
Grosvenor Street, London
JOHN SINCLAIR CLIMBED the steps of the town house and was greeted at the door by his assistant, Malik. The young man was now frantic with worry. Sinclair was not at liberty to tell him the full story—only that Cordelia had been kidnapped. But each time Sinclair received a call or came back to the house Malik questioned him. Today, he must have been waiting in the hall for Sinclair to come home.
“Anything yet?”
“I’m afraid not,” Sinclair said, turning away so he wouldn’t see Malik’s features droop with disappointment. His assistant’s dedication was a comfort. For the last decade, Malik had mastered every detail of Sinclair’s life with seamless perfection, from chartering planes to keeping his schedule. It had taken a lot to tempt Malik away from the glorious sun of the archaeological dig in Turkey to a rainy English climate. It had been Cordelia who had convinced Malik to move to London. Malik was devoted to her.
“What’s this?” Sinclair asked, taking a large envelope from the hall table.
“That package was delivered this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Malik,” Sinclair said, picking it up with disinterest and climbing with leaden tread up to his library.
He patted Kyrie on the head and poured himself a drink before he examined the large manila envelope. His name had been printed in black felt-tip pen. There were no other distinguishing markings.
He broke the metal clasp and slid the contents out. At first glance it appeared to be a photo. He turned it over. A Post-it, stuck to the back, had a phone number.
Sinclair examined the photo closely and saw it was the print of a medical X-ray. Suddenly, he got a chill down his neck. It was a CAT scan of a mummy!
Holly had been right about making an offer on Artemidorus; their little fishing expedition had worked! Here was a response from a black market dealer. Sinclair reached for the phone and dialed Holly’s room at the Ritz. She answered, sounding tired.
“Hols?” he said. “It’s Sinclair. Can you come over to the house right away? I think we may have found your mummy.”
At eight o’clock in the evening Holly Graham arrived. She walked up the front steps of the town house thinking that this was the last place she ever expected to be invited to. With Cordelia missing, Holly felt like she was trespassing.
The houseman opened the door and beckoned her to come with him. He was young and slight and spoke with a Turkish accent.
“Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you in the library.”
She followed Malik up two flights of stairs. Her feet on the carpet made no sound. She passed by beautifully appointed rooms filled with antique furniture. This was a real Edwardian mansion!
Malik stopped in the doorway of a huge library that was lined floor to ceiling with mahogany bookshelves. There were leather chairs in front of the fireplace, and a dog lounged before the brass grate.
“Your visitor is here, sir,” Malik said, stepping aside to let Holly pass.
Sinclair turned, gaunt with fatigue, a distinctive green volume of classical literature from the Loeb collection open in his hand. He tossed the book onto the library table and reached for an envelope.
“Hols, thanks for coming.”
“No problem. It’s the least I can do.”
“Take a look at this, would you? It was delivered this afternoon.”
Sinclair thrust the envelope at Holly. “It’s a response to my offer to buy Artemidorus on the black market.”
Holly slid the X-ray out, walked over to the map table, and twisted the goosenecked lamp to shine direct
ly on the paper.
“What do you think? Is it genuine?”
She looked up at him. His appearance was awful—eyes pink-rimmed from lack of sleep and face drawn. Day-old stubble aged him by ten years.
“Give me a moment, John.”
She sat down and studied the scan in the bright light. There were a myriad of details that suggested it was not Artemidorus.
“No luck, John. It’s not him,” she declared, putting the glossy photo back on the table.
Sinclair looked crushed. He slumped into the chair next to her.
“Sure?”
“Yes, I’m certain. I’m sorry.”
“Wait,” he urged desperately. “Please, take another look.”
“I don’t need to, John.”
She understood his desperation—any progress on finding the art thieves might lead to Cordelia. But she wasn’t going to lie to him.
“OK, just tell me how you know.”
She picked it up again, very conscious of him sitting close to her. Their hands were almost touching as they held the paper.
“Artemidorus had very long femurs.”
“Yes?”
“Normally, you measure the length of the femur in centimeters, multiply by 2.6, and then add 65, and that gives you how tall a person is in centimeters,” she explained, pointing to the mummy’s thighbones on the paper.
“And?”
“Artemidorus is well above six feet. But, just looking at this photo, I can tell you this mummy is barely five feet tall.”
“I see.”
She pointed to four white masses in the middle of the body. “Do you see these objects in the abdomen?”
“Yes?”
“They put the vital organs back in after they were mummified and wrapped in linen.”
“What’s the significance?”
“Artemidorus doesn’t have his organs. He was rich and could pay for the alabaster canopic jars for his organs.”
“Hmmm . . .” said Sinclair. “What else?”
“The brain. Embalmers would insert a long metal hook through the sinus cavity and pull the brain tissue out. They would have to break the front sinus bone to do it.”
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