Holly had assumed Ted would take her to a fussy, overpriced restaurant with crisp linen and bowing waiters. Instead, Dalla Marisa in Cannaregio was a tiny place, tucked into a marble-paved side street. When they walked in from the damp street, it was informal, crowded, warm, and the scent of delicious food was overpowering. Exactly the kind of restaurant Holly might have picked herself.
“Maria sets the menu,” Ted explained. “It’s an osteria, which means the owner is the host. So there’s not a lot of choice. But everything she serves is delicious.”
They took their seats at one of the small tables lined up against the wall. The place was crammed with local people. A teenage boy came over and poured some mineral water into two glasses and set them before them.
“Would you like some wine?” Ted asked her.
“No, I better stick to this.” She indicated the sparkling water. “Considering what’s planned for this evening, I’d better not be drinking wine at lunch.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Ted agreed automatically, but then his eyes narrowed with concern.
“What’s planned?” he whispered.
She leaned over toward him, as if speaking intimately. In the din of the restaurant, no one could hear.
“I have to go with Sinclair for the drop-off. It’s tonight at La Fenice Opera House, during the intermission.”
“How does it work?”
“We give the kidnappers the money, and they’re going to turn over Cordelia and tell me where to pick up Artemidorus.”
“Holly!” VerPlanck said. “That sounds—”
“Dangerous?” She smiled. “Don’t worry, half the audience in the theater will be . . . well, you know.”
VerPlanck nodded as the waiter approached. He spoke rapid Italian to the young man and they concluded quickly. Within minutes plates of antipasti were placed on the table.
“What is all this?” Holly asked.
VerPlanck leaned over and pointed to each dish and explained.
“It’s all seafood. Local. Mussels coated with bread crumbs, cheese, and herbs. Baccalà—salted cod with red peppers. This is marinated fish, branzino. And baby octopus in tomato sauce.”
“That sounds pretty exotic to me,” she said.
“Save room,” he advised, pouring her some mineral water. “There’s a lot more to come.”
That was followed by a creamy pasta dish flavored with Parmesan cheese. Then a main course—fritto misto with shrimp, baby squid, and sole.
The waiter then put down two plates of what appeared to be vanilla pudding.
“What’s this?”
“Dessert,” he said.
“I can’t eat another thing!” she said with a groan.
“You have to have just a bite,” he offered, holding his plate toward her.
She took a spoonful and put it in her mouth. It was the creamiest, most delicate flavor she had ever tasted.
“What on earth is that?”
“Whipped mascarpone flavored with brandy and rum.”
“That’s it! I’m giving up my apartment in New York. I need to eat here every day,” she joked.
Ted laughed delightedly.
“Very few women these days have an appetite. It’s refreshing.”
“That’s not my problem.” Holly laughed. “I love food.”
“Would you do that . . . live outside the United States?”
“Sure,” Holly said. “I used to do a lot more traveling when I worked on expeditions. But now funding for fieldwork has dried up. So I spend a lot of time at the conservation lab. Basically a desk job.”
“Where would you travel?” VerPlanck asked, pouring her another glass of San Pellegrino.
“Anywhere. No, let me amend that. Anywhere near water.”
“Why water?”
“I think I told you, I grew up on the ocean. My dad was a ferryboat captain on a little island called Cuttyhunk.”
“Right. I remember. Buzzards Bay, Massachusetts. I sail there often,” VerPlanck said. “And your mom was a landscape painter. I saw her work at your apartment.”
“Sometimes when she was busy I would keep my father company on the boat. We’d always have New England clam chowder in a thermos, with oyster crackers. If the day was foggy, I’d help pilot the ferry. I love the sea.”
“Given your background, Egyptology seems an unusual career.”
Holly smiled. “Yes, I know.”
“You’re smiling. How’d that happen?”
Holly looked down and shook her head.
“I feel silly telling you all these things.”
His eyes were on her face. For the first time ever, she could see he had momentarily forgotten his troubles and was actually enjoying the day. That pleased her.
“My mother used to go to a private island called Naushon to paint,” she explained. “It’s owned by the Forbes family. And there are several large mansions on the island. My mother was commissioned to paint the owner of the house. I used to go with her.”
“That must have been an adventure.”
“We’d go over in the morning by boat. The gentleman was very elderly, close to ninety-five years old. His family wanted a portrait of their patriarch. As my mother worked, he used to show me his books. His collection.”
“Was he an amateur Egyptologist?” VerPlanck guessed.
“More than that. He knew Flinders Petrie. And Harold Carter, who found King Tut’s tomb in 1922.”
“Fascinating!” VerPlanck exclaimed.
“I read every book in the library, and when he died, he left me many of his notes and manuscripts.”
“So from then on . . .” VerPlanck prompted.
“Well, in undergraduate school I dabbled in Greek and Roman history. That’s how I ended up specializing in Roman-era Egyptian artifacts.”
“You are a very interesting woman,” VerPlanck gushed. “I could talk to you all day.”
Holly took a sip of her cappuccino.
“You flatter me, Mr. VerPlanck,” she said, her smile fleeting. “But I’m afraid we haven’t got all day. I have to get ready for the opera.”
The Khamsin, Venice Yacht Club
LADY X SAT cross-legged on the bed in the master cabin of The Khamsin.
“Turn around,” she commanded.
Cordelia pivoted in front of her, moving woodenly. She was wearing a low-cut yellow satin evening dress.
“I don’t think so,” Lady X said, scrutinizing her critically. “I don’t think it’s quite your color.”
Cordelia said nothing.
Lady X walked over to the closet and selected a red evening gown.
“The opera in Venice is very dressy. I think this would look better on you.”
Hotel Danieli, Venice
THE FIVE-STAR HOTEL was filled with British and American security people. On the third floor, the sign on a banquet room door read PRIVATE EVENT. Inside, a half-dozen MI6 agents were setting up listening devices for tonight’s operation.
CIA officers were posing as hotel guests in the lobby, although a sharp observer would have noticed that their level of physical fitness was superior to that of a typical tourist.
The plan was for Sinclair and Holly to exchange four million dollars for Cordelia during the second intermission of Aida. Sinclair had spent the day learning the ins and outs of hostage negotiation and transfer.
Moustaffa had requested Holly come along also so he could give her the details about returning the stolen mummy. It was dangerous, but there had been no choice. British Intelligence had reassured Sinclair they would watch out for Holly’s safety. Her presence had an added benefit—she would be good cover for Sinclair during the money drop. A man alone at the opera would generate attention, whereas a couple would not.
Holly had left the Hotel Danieli on the arm of John Sinclair. She had looked as regal as a queen, wearing high heels, a beautiful cerise satin dress, and a black opera cloak.
VerPlanck had been instructed by MI6, in no uncertain terms, to
stay out of the lobby. He was forced to watch the departure from the private balcony of his suite.
Holly and Sinclair crossed the plaza in front of the hotel to the gondola dock. Holly took Sinclair’s hand for balance as she stepped into the waiting boat. From the knowing way Sinclair reached out for her, Ted could surmise a history between the two of them. She had smiled as they settled together on the settee. Sinclair said something and she nodded. They clearly had a past. If VerPlanck had to venture a guess, he’d say Sinclair hadn’t lost interest.
The gondolier began to maneuver the craft out into the lagoon, and VerPlanck watched the long, dark silhouette of the boat bob slowly down the Grand Canal, then glide into a side passageway. Even though VerPlanck could no longer see them, he stood on his balcony and looked out at the sky.
It was just starting to turn to dusk, the air was getting cooler, and the typical evening mist was descending over the canals. The beautiful dreamy fog made Venice a romantic place for lovers and poets . . . and himself.
Holly was constantly in his thoughts. And that shocked him. How could he even consider another woman? It was indecent! After all, Tipper had been dead less than a week. The cremation had been yesterday, and a memorial service was scheduled for when he returned to New York.
But Ted found it hard to think about Tipper. He was angry, sad, and rather perplexed. After the years he stood by her, how could she have turned against him? He was grieving, of course, but truth be told, he couldn’t forgive her. The shock of what she had done hurt him to the quick.
He turned and again looked in the direction of the Grand Canal. La Fenice Opera House was a short distance away. The moment lost its overtones of sad reminiscence and took on a stark reality. Moustaffa and his henchmen had murdered his wife, and now Holly was all dressed up and on her way to meet the killer.
A very dangerous operation had begun!
La Fenice Opera House, Venice
SINCLAIR GLANCED OVER and saw that Holly’s face was frozen with apprehension. In all the years he had known her, she had never been this nervous. Rather the opposite—she had always been the quintessential cool blonde. But tonight she was trembling as she negotiated the stone steps of the opera house in her high heels. He gave her arm a squeeze and got a tight smile in return.
Of course, she looked fantastic. A dramatic opera cloak in black velvet, a bright fuchsia silk dress underneath. Her sandals were delicate, flimsy things. For some reason, the sight of her bare feet in the strappy shoes made Sinclair anxious. She looked so vulnerable.
He wished MI6 hadn’t insisted on Holly coming with him. Supposedly, Moustaffa wanted to return the mummy. But Sinclair wasn’t buying it. Something was wrong. But he had no choice. Moustaffa called the shots, and the deal for Cordelia had to go through.
They had taken precautions. Holly had been fitted with a tracking device in her left earring. Her right earring had a button that could be turned to activate a distress signal. A small natural gesture on her part—fiddling with her earring—would bring intelligence officers to her aid immediately.
The security people had warned Sinclair that anything could happen, even gunfire. He wasn’t armed. Never liked weapons. And he certainly wasn’t trained to use them. Sinclair figured this kind of operation usually called for a bulletproof vest. But that wasn’t possible when wearing a formal suit. So he dressed normally and prepared himself for the worst.
But there was backup. Agents were scattered throughout the audience of the theater. He and Holly stood on the top step to make sure that anyone who needed to see them would get a good look. Sinclair carried the blue plastic bag from Libreria Toletta bookshop in Dorsoduro. Inside was an art volume on Renaissance architecture, with an expensive bookmark—a bearer bond for four million dollars. That was the preferred method of payment, it seemed, for those who collected filthy lucre.
Holly slipped off her cloak and folded it over her arm so the bright pink dress would be visible to everyone. She took a cigarette out of her evening clutch and held it to her lips. Sinclair lit it for her and then pocketed the lighter. The gesture telegraphed to the agents that they were “good to go.”
Back in the hotel, when it came to deciding who would be the one to light up, Sinclair had asked Holly to do it. His notoriously bad lungs were already constricted from stress. Smoking would only make it worse, and he couldn’t risk another panic-induced incident. So Holly stood next to him and smoked as they waited for the signal.
Once all the agents were in place, he and Holly could proceed inside. Six backup agents were supposed to be stationed in the plaza. Sinclair noted the Italian man sitting in the café across the street. A middle-aged gentleman was walking his dog, puffing on a cigar. A scruffy college student with a backpack sat on the steps. He wasn’t sure, but any of them could be MI6 operatives.
Sinclair could hear water lapping nearby in the canal, but the heavy fog muffled all other sound. They waited on the steps until other theatergoers started to arrive, laughing and chatting about the evening’s performance.
Sinclair could just make out the primary agent, whom he had met earlier in the day. He was smoking a cigarette, leaning on the stone parapet of a bridge. That man would shadow them all night, staying close by during the performance. As if on cue, the man dropped the smoldering butt into the canal, looked over at Sinclair, then walked up the steps past them into the opera house. That was the signal.
“Shall we?” he suggested to Holly. She threw the cigarette away and gave him a tense little nod. As an afterthought, she remembered to smile.
“Don’t worry, Hols,” he said to her in a low voice. “It’s going to be fine.”
He took her hand to give her courage and noticed her fingers were ice-cold.
Ristorante al Teatro, Venice
CARTER WALLACE KEPT his eyes glued to the couple standing on the top step of the opera house. From where he was in the outdoor café, the woman was clearly visible. Even from here she looked fabulous!
Funny how he hadn’t noticed her when she walked by earlier. His eye had been drawn to Sinclair. He kept thinking, “Hey, I know that guy from somewhere.” Then the vision of Sinclair dancing with Holly at the Temple of Dendur came back to him. After he realized it really was Sinclair, he looked back at the woman to check her out. Pretty blonde. It figured—Sinclair seemed to favor the type. But he hadn’t recognized her—her back was turned to him, her face hidden.
Carter kept staring at her. The pretty satin sandals clacked on the stone of the opera steps as she climbed up. Something resonated when she moved. It was the way she lifted her hand to check her hair. He realized it was Holly! He lurched out of his chair, about to call out. Then he shrank back.
What could he say? His brain was forming a hundred questions: Holly and Sinclair together in Venice? What on earth were they doing here?
Of course, he didn’t have the right to ask questions. She owed him nothing and could date whomever she chose. So he sat in the damp café feeling cheated and wondering all kinds of crazy things.
Holly and Sinclair stood on the top step, apparently getting some air before the opera performance. Her pink dress was vibrant. You could see her a mile away. A beautiful figure glowing against the dreary night.
The color irritated him. Why was she done up like a fashion model? And she was smoking! Now, that really galled him. She had given him such a hard time in New York when he had a cigarette! He still remembered the disapproving look on her face. What a little hypocrite!
His mind tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Was she seriously involved with Sinclair? For how long? Was it a chance encounter when they met at the gala in New York, or had they planned the meeting all along?
Carter needed to get the full story. But his brain kept focusing on all the irrelevant details: her dress, her smoking.
Finally, he had to face the truth. It was obvious. Holly and Sinclair were involved in the art-theft ring!
Once the suspicion formed, the shock of it was intens
e. Why the hell else would they be in Venice? This was where the stolen art was being shipped. And most of the objects were Egyptian, Holly’s specialty. She would know what to steal and where to sell everything for the best profit. She was a thief! Nothing else made any sense.
Carter looked back at the theater steps, and she was gone. Latecomers were rushing into the opera house. He had missed the opportunity to confront her.
Well, that was probably for the best. What would he say? Should he call the authorities? Did he have the guts?
He drained his café espresso to the dregs. The unmelted sugar on the bottom of the cup dripped onto his tongue. He placed the cup in the saucer and thought about it some more. It wouldn’t be fair to blow the whistle on Holly. Not yet. He had to be sure before he accused her of anything. And there was only one way to find out the truth.
Carter threw a ten-euro note on the café table and got up, his chair scraping the pavement. A man walking by gave him a hard stare. Carter ignored him. He was going to go to the palazzo in the Dorsoduro district—Calle Minelli, the address that was listed on the packing slip. If Holly showed up there, he would know the truth.
La Fenice Opera House
THE CROWD WAS milling around the pink marble entrance hall with excitement. Crystal chandeliers glowed, programs were handed out, and everyone was beautifully dressed in their evening clothes. Couples were greeting one another with air kisses and exclamations of delight. There were very few tourists in the off-season and everyone was speaking Italian.
Sinclair found himself thinking that under other circumstances this performance would have been great fun. He loved opera. But tonight the cacophony of social interaction was getting on his nerves.
He and Holly should probably loiter in the lobby until they saw Lady X. But time was dragging and she wasn’t there yet.
He steered Holly over to read the huge poster—Aida, by Giuseppe Verdi. Leave it to Lady Xandra Sommerset for the dramatic gesture—an opera with a storyline that involved ancient Egypt. Aida originally opened in Cairo in 1871, to great acclaim. But it was right here, at La Fenice, that it made an official debut a few years later—and became an international hit.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 25