The Stolen Chalicel

by Kitty Pilgrim

  He wanted to live! Roam the globe. Travel. His future was out there! The shimmering beauty of the world lay before him, and until now he had been ignoring it.

  Carter found his Venetian epiphany short-lived; his tour of the city had to be put on hold. Practicality intervened. An hour after his arrival, he received a message to go to the water entrance of the Hotel Bonvecchiati to meet the local customs police.

  As he waited on the stone landing, he noticed the day had suddenly turned damp and chilly. In the space of an hour fog had rolled in, and the canals were now misted and mysterious. He could barely make out the shapes of the buildings on the far side.

  He buttoned his trench coat and thrust his hands into his pockets. Boat traffic had slackened. A lone gondola glided around the corner, appearing silently out of the fog. A man in a traditional striped shirt and straw boater maneuvered the craft with a long pole. The dark hull of the gondola passed by, ominous and ghostly. In the rear, a young couple were embracing on the red velvet settee, oblivious of all but each other. Then they were gone, swallowed up in the mist.

  Somewhere nearby he could hear the putt-putt of a motor. Carter tried to see through the wall of white fog, but with the sound distorted, it was impossible to tell how close the boat was. Suddenly, a police vessel appeared directly in front of him. The pilot cut the engine and maneuvered the craft up to the stone landing.

  “Dr. Carter Wallace?” the officer asked.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Please get in.”

  “Sure,” he said, looking at the bobbing boat.

  He had no idea how to climb into the moving craft. Apparently water transportation was not for the fainthearted. Carter closed his eyes and leaped. He fell on the cushioned seat just as the engine kicked in. The officer tactfully ignored his clumsiness and turned into the canal.

  London

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT at the Grosvenor Street town house. John Sinclair flung down Memoirs of Hadrian. Reading was futile. It had been a long, difficult day. Sleep, or even shutting his eyes, was inconceivable! The town house reminded him of a tomb. All four stories were echoing with emptiness now that Cordelia was gone.

  This was her home, even though they both lived here now. She had inherited the beautiful brick Mayfair mansion a year ago from a distant relative. It had originally belonged to Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather Elliott Stapleton, a famous Victorian explorer. It was a handsome property. Most of the furniture was original, and the decor retained the elegant masculinity of the original owner.

  Sinclair’s whole life was nothing without Cordelia. Even this library, his favorite place on earth, seemed like a prison without her. He had never been so distraught in his life.

  Tonight the fire crackled in the grate, mocking his gloom with its coziness and warmth. His dog, Kyrie, lay dozing before the brass fireplace fender. Restless, Sinclair walked over to the sound system and began mindlessly scrolling through the music.

  He selected Brahms’s Ein Deutsches Requiem—the spiritual tone seemed appropriate. The poignant composition roiled out of the speakers—a beautiful Mass sung in German. Sinclair’s playlist didn’t usually include religious works. Piety didn’t come naturally. He always favored science over theology. But tonight he’d take all the prayers he could get.

  This afternoon, surprisingly, The Khamsin had made contact with Jim Gardiner’s office via satellite phone. A call had come, asking to speak to Sinclair, demanding ransom. As suspected, the yacht was headed to Venice, arriving the day after tomorrow.

  Sinclair had negotiated for Cordelia’s release with Jim Gardiner hovering behind him nervously. British Intelligence couldn’t be involved because of the government’s policy of not directly negotiating with terrorists. However, MI6 agents had gathered around him as he set the terms.

  Everything was fine, Lady X had assured them. The “cargo” was on board. However, there would be a “fee” for transporting Cordelia to Venice. Sinclair had blanched at all the talk of Cordelia as an inanimate object. Fortunately, Lady X agreed to their figure—two million dollars. Safe delivery wouldn’t be a problem, but she had one firm condition: that everyone on The Khamsin would be granted immunity from prosecution.

  Sinclair looked around the room for affirmation. The agents nodded. Done, Sinclair had agreed.

  Lady X had then turned the phone over to Moustaffa to make arrangements for the money drop. The terrorist had taken quite a different tone. He was much more aggressive, upping the price twice. Throughout the conversation, no one had been allowed to speak to Cordelia.

  Sinclair had been sitting with British intelligence agents on both sides of him. Only he could negotiate, but they wrote out suggestions and tips for him on a computer notepad. They communicated wordlessly as the negotiations proceeded. At one point Jim Gardiner appropriated the tablet to type a question to the MI6 officers.

  Should we ask to speak to her?

  The agent typed the instruction to Sinclair:

  Ask for proof of life.

  Sinclair shot him a confused look.

  That is standard procedure in hostage negotiations. Do it.

  Sinclair did as he was instructed. The reaction was violent.

  “I’ll give you proof of life!” Moustaffa had growled.

  He had put the phone down and dragged Cordelia closer to the receiver. They had heard the sound of someone being slapped, hard—the unmistakable smack of an open hand hitting someone’s face. She cried out. It was Cordelia!

  Sinclair had stood powerless, staring at the intercom, clenching and unclenching his hands. By the second blow he had started to curse under his breath, threatening Moustaffa with all kinds of bodily harm. Tears rimmed Gardiner’s eyes as he listened.

  The call concluded with Moustaffa vowing to kill Cordelia if the money didn’t turn up. Sinclair was to proceed to Venice, where he would be notified of when and where to make the drop. He should come alone. Then the line went dead.

  Sinclair had gone wild with fury. The British intelligence officers assured him the slapping was staged and sounded worse than it actually was. Moustaffa would not harm Cordelia seriously. He needed her alive and undamaged if he wanted to walk away with four million dollars of British taxpayers’ money. Leave it to the professionals, they said.

  Then they had sent him home with clear instructions. He would be transported to Venice tomorrow. An entire MI6 team would be on the scene to help him—British Intelligence would set up operations in the Hotel Danieli. The success of the operation was dependent on him being patient, keeping his head. The only thing they required tonight was for him to go home and sleep.

  As if he could!

  Sinclair walked over to the sideboard, seized a cut-crystal tumbler, and shoveled in some ice and poured a double splash of Laphroaig. Just then, his assistant, Malik, walked in. He looked pale with worry as he put a tray on the library table.

  “Margaret made you a fresh pot of coffee and some cheddar scones. She was concerned you didn’t have any dinner.”

  “Thanks, very kind of her,” Sinclair replied.

  “You should try to rest.”

  “You should get some rest yourself.”

  “I know we’ll get a break in the case soon,” Malik said with a newfound authority that came from watching BBC detective shows.

  Sinclair gave him a hint of a smile.

  “I’m sure you are right. The British are very good at this sort of thing.”

  It was pitch dark when Sinclair woke up. For the briefest moment he reached across the bed for her. The sheet was cool and flat. Then he remembered Cordelia was gone. Today, he would fly to Venice to pay the ransom. As he swung his legs out of bed, he vowed that Cordelia would come home or he’d die trying.

  At six a.m., Sinclair stood with Malik on the threshold of the town house and watched the traffic on Grosvenor Street. Car headlights were still glowing orange in the darkness. It was damp and cool and felt like it would rain.

  A black sedan pulled up, dri
ven by a British security agent. Jim Gardiner was the passenger in the front seat. Sinclair handed his coffee cup to Malik and clasped his hand good-bye.

  “Good luck.”

  “I’ll bring her back,” Sinclair promised, his throat tight.

  Malik nodded very quickly and looked away. Sinclair headed toward the car and opened the back door. Holly Graham was in the rear seat!

  “Hols! I didn’t know you were coming to Venice with us!”

  “MI6 called me. There are some new developments,” Holly explained, sounding almost apologetic.

  “No, I didn’t mean . . . I’m glad for your company. You’ve been terrific about all of this.”

  He slid into the car beside her. Gardiner turned around to address him.

  “Apparently Moustaffa and Lady X want to return Artemidorus. They want Holly to come to Venice and verify it’s the real mummy.”

  “They’re giving it back? Why would they do that?” Sinclair exclaimed.

  “Lady X says she had a change of heart and wants to return it to the Brooklyn Museum.”

  “That’s so strange!”

  “I know. It’s almost as if the mummy is some kind of bonus,” Gardiner said, shaking his head in bafflement. “Moustaffa says he will divulge the location of Artemidorus when we pay the ransom for Delia.”

  “How bizarre!” Sinclair exclaimed.

  “You have no idea,” Gardiner continued. “Lady X says the ancient spirits are telling her to return it.”

  Sinclair laughed mirthlessly.

  “Well, that pretty much convinces me that both of them are out of their minds.”

  Venice

  CARTER WALLACE LOOKED around at the piles of stolen art in the warehouse on the Giudecca Canal and tried to calculate the total market value. Tens of millions, easily. The space was stacked with crates of different colors. Along the far wall there was a row of tables with stolen objects, all tagged and numbered like items at a garage sale.

  “We found this warehouse a few days ago, thanks to your information,” the policeman told Carter.

  The officer was a very trim-looking fellow with lots of stripes and insignia on his form-fitting jacket. How did Italian policemen manage to look so dapper? Carter glanced down at his own rumpled khakis. Some FBI agent he would make! He hastily tucked in his oxford shirt.

  “The curators have gone through only a few of the crates,” the policeman explained.

  “Why is it taking so long?”

  “We need the insurance companies to sort out what belongs to whom. If we don’t do this legally, things will be tied up in court for decades.”

  Carter shook his head, looking around the warehouse. What a terrible environment for art! The building was on the edge of the industrial district, along the main canal. Like everything in Venice, water vapor permeated the building, the air, even the floor. These objects were at serious risk if they didn’t move them out soon. He was glad Holly wouldn’t witness this kind of destruction. It would upset her terribly.

  Carter walked over to the tables. There were five Fayoum mummy portraits among the artifacts. The wooden panels had been laid out so that the ancient faces stared blankly back at him.

  Carter unconsciously reached for his cell phone. He should tell Holly about this. Any excuse to hear her voice. But he had no illusions. She wasn’t exactly thinking of him day and night.

  On second thought, he’d wait until he recovered Artemidorus. Then she would have to give him his due. That mummy was her baby. Carter put his cell phone back into his pocket. He’d wait. Besides, unrequited love was so damn pathetic.

  “Signor Wallace, could you come here please?” The policeman gestured with both his hands, as if it were very urgent.

  Carter walked over to see what was the matter.

  “We have found a Venice address on one of the pieces,” the policeman said.

  Carter looked at the packing slip. It was printed in English.

  X. SOMMERSET 34 CALLE MINELLI VENICE.

  “Where is this?” asked Carter.

  “It is in the Dorsoduro district, off the Grand Canal. Not far from your hotel.”

  Carter recalled his airplane reading. According to guidebooks, the Dorsoduro district had for centuries been favored by foreigners and the upper crust of the city. Even now, many apartments were still owned by wealthy expat British and Americans.

  “Well, that’s a start,” Carter said. “Why don’t we go there and ask a couple of questions?”

  “No, we cannot do that without official permission.”

  “So let’s get permission.”

  “Today is Friday. And Monday is a holiday. No one will be able to do that until Tuesday,” the policeman said.

  “Tuesday!” said Carter.

  “Sí. On Tuesday we will ask.”

  “OK, if you say so,” said Carter, looking at the paper and memorizing the address. He handed back the packing slip.

  There was nothing to stop him from going to Calle Minelli by himself. Maybe the police wanted three days off, but he didn’t.

  He’d go and stake out the place himself. Nobody would notice. If he loitered with a guidebook, he’d look like every other tourist lounging around this city soaking up atmosphere. Finally, he was getting somewhere!

  Holly Graham walked along the side of the canal. It was her first visit to Venice, and she had never seen such a beautiful city. Sinclair and Jim Gardiner had gone off to their briefings about the money drop, but she wasn’t needed. So she’d decided to take a stroll, and was immediately entranced by her discoveries.

  The small stone passageways between the canals were a charming labyrinth, with their twists and turns. She kept finding new bridges that arched over the canals. From time to time she would duck into one of the mysterious churches that smelled of candle wax and incense. She was thrilled with the beautiful architecture, lovely religious paintings, and stained-glass windows.

  But it wasn’t just the historic objects that took her breath away—the shops were absolutely sumptuous. Store after store was filled with beautifully handcrafted items—elegant gloves, leather goods, blown glass, exquisitely milled paper, and beautifully designed jewelry and gold. She coveted almost everything she saw.

  It was good that the weather was holding up for all this walking around. She had heard that Venice could be hot and muggy in the summer. During acqua alta—the high-water time of year—tourists had to wear high rubber boots. But today was cool and the pavement was dry.

  She wandered for hours, losing all track of time. Finally, her legs aching and her stomach growling, she looked at her watch. Nearly one o’clock! It was time to get back to the hotel and check in with Sinclair and Jim Gardiner. With a guilty jolt she remembered just what kind of pressure they were under, and here she was playing tourist.

  The Hotel Danieli was on a main thoroughfare, right next to the famous St. Mark’s Square. The hotel faced the sparkling expanse of the Venetian Lagoon. There was no place more visible or more luxurious to stay. They had chosen the hotel for that exact reason—the Danieli gave them credibility. Anyone with the means to enjoy this hotel would certainly be able to come up with the multimillion-dollar ransom.

  Holly stepped inside the palatial lobby and let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. It was the epitome of Venetian elegance, with thirty-foot ceilings and marble columns. The beautiful reception area had a soaring staircase that wound its way up to banquet rooms above. There were enormous bouquets of ivory roses in elaborate urns at the check-in desk. Comfortable tapestried chairs and low tables were placed throughout the lobby, where coffee and drinks were served.

  Holly looked around for Sinclair and Jim Gardiner. Instead, she found Ted VerPlanck sitting near the door, as if waiting for someone. She had no idea he was in Venice! He hadn’t been invited by the intelligence people to help with the ransom operation. She wondered if he had come of his own volition.

  VerPlanck looked up when he saw her, and for the first time in days he smiled. Holly
was relieved. Perhaps some of his depression was lifting.

  “Sorry to startle you,” he said. “When I heard you’d left, I just had to come along. I booked a suite here.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t have time to call you,” Holly apologized. “It was a last-minute thing. The kidnappers asked that I meet with them to get Artemidorus back.”

  “I heard.” Verplanck smiled. “MI6 wasn’t all that happy I showed up.”

  “Why not?”

  “It seems I am too high-profile. I’ve been told to stay out of sight.”

  “And you’re sitting in the lobby?” Holly laughed.

  “I was waiting for you. The concierge said you went out for a stroll. I was hoping to waylay you for lunch. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, I haven’t. That would be lovely. But maybe I should check and see if anyone needs me.”

  “Already did,” VerPlanck said. “The Brits want only Sinclair and Gardiner. I’m odd man out and, according to them, you’re still free to do what you like.”

  “So you talked to the intelligence team?”

  “Yes. I asked if they wanted my assistance, and they promptly told me no. Too many cooks, they said. So I just checked into the hotel to wait it out.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “I am anxious about Cordelia, of course, and I also want to see if my Sardonyx Cup turns up. I hear they found a warehouse of stolen art.”

  “Well, no matter what the reason, I’m glad you came.”

  “So am I. I nearly forgot how beautiful Venice is.”

  “This is my first time. I love it already.”

  “I’d like to take you to one of my favorite restaurants,” VerPlanck said. “The food is absolutely authentic.”