The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “I see.”

  “But this bone is not broken and the brain tissue is intact. Further evidence this person was poor. They skipped a few steps.”

  “I had no idea you could read so much into these things.”

  It was clear he was disappointed. She hated to continue, but it was better to go through the full litany of proof to dispel any doubt.

  “See the skull? Artemidorus has a huge bash in the back of his skull. This mummy doesn’t.”

  “Well, you don’t have to go on. I’m convinced.”

  “But I haven’t told you the clincher,” Holly insisted. “If you notice, the mandible, or jawbone, is narrow and the pelvic inlet tells you everything.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “See, the pelvic bone is broad and round and the sacrum is wide. I don’t even need radiography for the soft-tissue analysis. This is not Artemidorus.”

  “You’re saying . . .”

  “The hip bones are wide and there is no penis. This mummy is a woman.”

  The Khamsin Motoryacht, N 37°32', E 8°36'

  LADY XANDRA SOMMERSET sat in the salon staring at the decaying sarcophagus. She had known that the mummy would deteriorate slightly in the salt air, but this was much worse than anything she had imagined. Half a dozen patches of green fungus had suddenly bloomed like little flowers all over the top of the coffin. Xandra started to wipe them off with a tissue but then stopped. What if she damaged the finish?

  Artemidorus was also emitting a ripe odor that was becoming unbearable in the enclosed salon of the yacht. The beautiful artifact was being destroyed!

  Venice was still a two-day sail away. Once she reached the palazzo, she could put the mummy in a room with regulated temperature and humidity. Her apartment—like many others in the submerged city—was climate-controlled to preserve the furniture and antiques. She’d keep Artemidorus there until it was time to travel to Egypt.

  Xandra jumped up and paced the salon. It was inconceivable that her efforts to return the mummy to Cairo would be in vain. But if Artemidorus kept rotting like this they’d have to dispose of him at sea.

  Something had to be done, and quickly! She had to persuade Dr. Graham to help! So far the woman had refused. Xandra hurried down to the portside forward cabin and rapped on the door.

  “Dr. Graham, I have to talk to you.”

  There was a scuffling around and then Cordelia’s right eye appeared.

  “What do you want?”

  “Please come with me.”

  Cordelia opened the door a few inches. She was dressed in a black tracksuit and sneakers.

  “I need your professional advice,” Xandra said.

  “I already told you, I’m not a curator.”

  “Come with me, or I’ll throw you off the ship.”

  “What!”

  “Either help me or swim—your choice. But it’s sixty meters deep.”

  Cordelia followed Xandra to the salon. Together they surveyed the sarcophagus.

  The coffin was still bound to the banquette with padded ropes. Fungus had cast a grayish film over the cartouche, the glorious crimson color was dull, the portrait panel mottled with mold. It looked like Artemidorus had been afflicted with a disease.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with this,” Cordelia said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you before. I am not Dr. Graham. My name is Cordelia Stapleton. You have kidnapped the wrong person.”

  “But you were at the British Museum,” Xandra insisted.

  “I was meeting Dr. Trentwell about a marine archaeology project in Alexandria, Egypt.”

  “Then where is Dr. Graham?” Xandra sputtered.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Cordelia replied coldly. “But if you contact my partner in London I expect he will be able to tell you. His name is John Sinclair.”

  Lady Xandra Sommerset sat on the banquette and looked at Artemidorus. Tears formed in her eyes. She was destroying the mummy. After all her plans, Artemidorus would not survive the trip to Egypt. She needed professional help, and soon.

  How could she have mistaken Cordelia Stapleton for the famous Egyptologist Dr. Hollis Graham? Now that she had done an Internet search, she could see they looked nothing alike. Cordelia was tall, lithe, with dark hair, while Holly was a petite voluptuous blonde. Why hadn’t she bothered to check this before?

  Now Cordelia had to go. She had witnessed too much and knew too much. There was no way she could walk free.

  Moustaffa appeared in the doorway of the salon. He was wearing a windbreaker and his hair was ruffled after being out on deck.

  “Xandra, are you still moping in here?” he asked. “It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s go outside for some lunch.”

  “I couldn’t possibly eat,” Xandra moaned. “Just look at him.”

  Moustaffa glanced over at the cartouche with amusement.

  “We should just toss that thing overboard. It’s disgusting, and the boat is starting to stink.”

  “No!” Xandra burst out. “I want to get this to Egypt. I need a conservator to help me preserve Artemidorus until I can get back to Cairo. Can’t you think of something?”

  “Let me work on that,” Moustaffa said, scratching the stubble of his beard. “What about the girl? What are you planning to do with her?”

  “She’s up on the top deck. I told Sigge to push her off the stern once we are clear of any boat traffic.”

  “How about asking her boyfriend for ransom? We never got paid for the VerPlanck woman in Wyoming. Let’s get something for this one.”

  “I am not in the kidnapping business,” Xandra said crossly. “Art is one thing. People are quite another.”

  “Just this once. It would be silly to pass up the opportunity. I did some digging on Cordelia Stapleton. She just inherited a lot of money, and her boyfriend is loaded.”

  “I don’t know. I’m too worried about this,” Xandra said, gesturing toward the mummy’s coffin.

  “Don’t fret about it, my love. Leave the details to me. I’ll get you a curator and some money for the girl. You can count on it.”

  Cordelia stood on the top deck of The Khamsin, her wrists bound with plastic restraints. It appeared that her future was not good. They didn’t need her. She probably should have lied and pretended to be Holly Graham. But, realistically, how long could she have kept that up? Lady X would have figured out pretty quickly that conservation was not her profession.

  She sat on the gear locker and looked at the ocean. Definitely a bad day to be tossed into the Med. Very choppy. She checked her wrist GPS and it read N 37°32', E 8°36'—they were roughly off the coast of Tunisia. They’d probably push her off with the restraints on. She’d sink like a stone!

  She twisted her bound hands. The plastic cords were unbreakable and cut into her skin. She looked around to find something to help release them.

  Next to her was a rack of Indian clubs—the wooden bowling pin–shaped weights lined up neatly. It was perfect! Even though her hands were bound, she could still hold on to something. She would clobber people as they came up from below.

  Cordelia seized the ten-pound club, awkwardly grasping it around the neck with both bound hands. She stood over the ladder. Sure enough, two minutes later a man’s shaggy head appeared from down below. She swung hard and bashed the man with a thud. He fell, crashing down onto the deck below.

  She stood there, still breathing hard. Adrenaline pulsed through her veins and helped clear her head. But a jolt of fear hit her brain. She was going to die!

  With shaking hands, Cordelia raised the club over the opening again and waited. Nothing. There was only the sound of the bow wake alongside the ship. Why weren’t others coming? Surely somebody must have heard the falling body.

  She heard the unmistakable click of a pistol behind her and turned slowly. A tall, muscular man was smiling at her. His weapon was pointed at her heart.

  “You shouldn’t have done that. He
’s going to have a hell of a headache.”

  She kept her eyes on the pistol. Moustaffa gestured for her to sit on the gear locker. When she was seated, he put the gun in his belt and walked over to her, grabbing the Indian club. He swung it and made a feint, missing her head by a fraction. She flinched in terror.

  He laughed, delighted at her fear.

  “Look at me!” he snarled.

  She looked into his eyes. There was not a shred of sanity in them. He was an animal. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hardly breathe.

  “I admit I came up here to push you off the back of the boat. But it appears the tide has turned. I’m going to make some money off you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ransom,” Moustaffa replied. “How much do you think you’re worth?”

  “Plenty. Call my partner John Sinclair in London. No, wait, call Jim Gardiner. He’s my lawyer. They’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  “How much?” Moustaffa asked, looking her up and down as if assessing her.

  “I don’t know. Just call them. They’ll talk to you.”

  “I’ll do that. In the meantime, stay in your room.”

  “I will.”

  “And let me make something perfectly clear,” Moustaffa said. “Your friend John Sinclair had better come up with the money or you will pay.”

  Moustaffa reached for her chin and pulled her face up to his. He was vulgar-looking—thick lips, bad skin. Strong arms. She thought he could crush her neck with one hand.

  She squirmed, but his mouth came down over hers, his tongue probing in a disgusting, dirty violation. She clamped her jaw shut and wrenched her head away, but his grip was like iron. After a minute, he finally let go of her, laughing.

  “If your boyfriend doesn’t come up with the money, you are going to pay me, personally.”

  “No, he will. I promise!”

  “If he doesn’t, I am going to take you down below and get my money’s worth. You’ll beg me to kill you by the time I’m done with you.”

  Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), London

  THE HEADQUARTERS OF the British spy agency was a monolithic pile of modern architecture near Vauxhall Bridge in London. Many people in the intelligence community referred to the building as Legoland, because of its boxy appearance. But, once inside, Sinclair thought MI6 headquarters more closely resembled a Babylonian ziggurat. Only the high priests could enter the inner sanctums of those sacred ancient temples; they alone were the keepers of dark secrets.

  It had been an agonizing forty-eight hours since the high-level meeting in Scotland. Intelligence agencies in Europe had been scouring the globe for Cordelia, with little success. Then, suddenly, Sinclair, Holly, Jim Gardiner, and Ted VerPlanck had been summoned—a clear indication that something new had been discovered.

  As they took their seats around the conference table, Sinclair noticed that VerPlanck pulled out a chair for Holly, and they sat side by side. Gardiner, looking ashen and quite ill, struggled to the far side of the room, as if to avoid any unpleasant news. Sinclair sat solo, braced for the worst.

  “I have called you here because of a breakthrough in the case,” Sir James Nicholson began.

  “What is it?” Sinclair blurted, unable to control his anxiety.

  “Everything is starting to come together,” the spy chief said, signaling for the lights to dim. He clicked onto two mug shots.

  “First, from American Intelligence: the FBI made two arrests in Wyoming. We believe these are the men who abducted Mrs. VerPlanck.”

  “About time someone found them!” VerPlanck said bitterly. “I certainly hope they will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law!”

  Nicholson didn’t pause but clicked again. Another image filled the screen—a beautiful dark-haired woman in a red dress, running down the steps of the Metropolitan Museum.

  “Lady Xandra Sommerset at the gala in New York,” he explained.

  “So she’s involved?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes. She was the mastermind behind the art robberies in New York last week, including the theft of the Sardonyx Cup and the mummy case from the Brooklyn Museum.”

  “And how is that connected to Cordelia?” Sinclair asked. “Or is it?”

  Another click displayed an incredible yacht of enormous proportions.

  “This is The Khamsin, Lady Sommerset’s yacht. Registration Valletta, Malta. Now assumed to be in the Mediterranean.”

  Sir James looked directly at Sinclair as he spoke. “We know Cordelia Stapleton is on board.”

  “She is!” Sinclair cried out. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We apprehended the men who transported Ms. Stapleton to The Khamsin.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “After we learned that Charles Hannifin drowned in the Thames, our people went down to the dockyards and found the two men who operated the fishing boat that transported Ms. Stapleton to the yacht. Once they understood the serious charges against them, they told us everything.”

  “Could you verify their accounts?” Gardiner asked in his lawyerly way. “How do you know Cordelia was on that fishing boat?”

  “We went over it carefully. DNA swabs reflect Ms. Stapleton’s presence in the hold of the ship.”

  “DNA samples? You mean blood?”

  “No, apparently she was sick.”

  “Are you sure it was she?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes, we’re absolutely certain. We cross-referenced her medical records from her employer—Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The samples matched.”

  “So she was transferred from a fishing vessel to the yacht. Where is that boat now?” Sinclair asked tensely.

  “Last port of call for The Khamsin was Alicante, Spain, where it took on a full load of fuel.”

  “How far could they go with that?” asked Gardiner.

  “We are working up possible routes. In terms of range, I expect Mr. VerPlanck can answer that for us,” Sir James said.

  Ted VerPlanck looked up at the ceiling and thought about it for a moment.

  “Based on the standard for that model, a full load of fuel would last about five thousand nautical miles. The yacht could go pretty much anywhere . . . the Med, Adriatic, Ionian. Even down the coast of Africa.”

  “So how do we find her?” Sinclair cut in.

  “It won’t be easy. The Khamsin is moving through international waters, flying a Maltese flag of convenience,” Sir James explained.

  “What about the authorities that border the Med?” asked Holly. “Can’t they do something?”

  “The yacht is skirting a half-dozen countries. Unfortunately, most of them couldn’t organize a chase by sea.”

  “But this is a kidnapping!” Holly argued.

  “Spain, France, Italy, Monaco, Croatia, Greece, and Turkey all working together—even if they cooperated, it would take too much time.”

  Sinclair stared at him, distraught. “We need to do something!”

  “We are. Here is the plan. The vessel will turn up at a checkpoint very soon.”

  “What do you mean, a checkpoint?”

  “A maritime ‘big ship report’ area. They keep strict records of boats that transit certain areas. The Strait of Gibraltar, for example. A boat the size of The Khamsin would be required to notify the authorities they are passing through.”

  “That’s a start,” said Gardiner.

  “No. There’s a problem with that,” VerPlanck spoke up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Khamsin could wait until nighttime and sneak through the radar scan by staying close to another large vessel. The radar signature would read as only one boat, not two.”

  “True, but we have another lead,” the MI6 chief went on to say. “We know that Lady Xandra usually takes her yacht to Venice this time of year.”

  “So you think she’s heading there?”

  “She had a standing reservation at the marina on the Giudecca Canal. If The Khamsin docks there, we
will be notified immediately.”

  “You’ve spoken to the port authorities?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if she makes an appearance, then what?” asked Sinclair.

  “Then we’ll make a deal, Mr. Sinclair. And that’s where we will need your assistance. As government officials, we can’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  Grand Canal, Venice, Italy

  VENICE WAS GLORIOUS! Carter let the breeze ruffle his hair as his water taxi traversed the Grand Canal. He hung out the back of the boat, enthralled with the beautiful maritime city. Instead of the snarl of modern traffic, there was a ballet of vaporetti, ferryboats, gondolas, and other small craft bobbing in the morning sun.

  He had learned a lot about Venice from reading the guidebooks on the plane. The ancient city was called “La Serenissima,” or “The Most Serene”—because its citizens had preferred trade to war. Now that he was here, Carter could see it was serene in the truest sense of the word.

  The soft beauty was enchanting. As his boat passed by the old palaces, with their graceful balconies and sheltered terraces, Carter suddenly understood why Venice had inspired countless masterpieces. He couldn’t resist trying to capture it himself, taking photos of the sea entrance, St. Mark’s Square, and the iconic winged lion atop the tall granite pillar.

  The water taxi turned into a smaller canal, and suddenly it was cool and dim. Old buildings flanked him on both sides, their walls coated with green moss at the water line. Iron-grilled doorways appeared at intervals, where stone steps led into the palazzi and hotels.

  They passed under a swan-necked bridge, and Carter conjured up a romantic tryst: two lovers, kissing in the night. Of course, his next thought was of Holly. He was willing to admit she was a fantasy. Fleeting rapidly. But he wasn’t giving up entirely.

  He slumped back in his seat and realized that Holly was the reason why he was here. Motivated by a desire to become her hero, he was desperately trying to find the stolen art. But whatever unrealistic expectation had driven him, this was the best thing that had happened to him in years!

  Looking at a gondolier passing by, he was struck with one of those rare moments of crystalline clarity. This was a defining moment. He had spent too much time among the dusty artifacts of a dead civilization. But now, due to an unexpected turn of events, he had found his way again. Venice had unleashed a pent-up hunger that had nothing to do with Holly.