He looked over at Holly. She was staring blankly at the performance announcement, her eyes fixed. To most people, she would appear calm, but he knew better.
“Let’s get rid of our coats, shall we?” he asked.
They joined a line of people. Sinclair handed his topcoat and Holly’s cape to the coat check woman; then, with great trepidation, he passed over the blue plastic shopping bag containing the book and the ransom money.
“Would you please put this bag on a separate claim ticket?” he asked.
The coat attendant took the bag from him and put it in the rack above. His eyes involuntarily followed the plastic bag. It was a four-million-dollar package. She handed him the red plastic disk. Number 27.
It went into his right-hand pocket. The plan was simple. All he had to do was slip the claim ticket to Lady X. At the end of the first act, Lady X would collect the book from the coat check and leave the building. At a nearby location, she and Moustaffa would make sure that the money was the agreed-upon amount and in the proper form.
Then, during the second intermission, Moustaffa would bring Cordelia to the opera house. He would rendezvous with Sinclair and Holly in the upstairs supper salon. If all went well, Cordelia would be released.
Sinclair took Holly’s hand and noticed that her fingers were warmer. He bent over and whispered in her ear.
“Wish me luck.”
Her blue eyes looked up into his. They were frightened.
“Good luck, John,” she said. She couldn’t even manage a smile.
“Come on, Hols, we can’t stand here all night. Let’s go face the music.”
He gave her a wink and drew her up the red-carpeted steps to the main floor of the theater. The seats were beginning to fill up. He looked down at the tickets in his hand. Orchestra level, as Lady X had instructed. Programs in hand, he looked around at the famous opera hall.
La Fenice was a legend. Its name translated as “The Phoenix”—a mythical bird that rose up from the ashes. Twice in the theater’s long, glorious history, the building had burned to the ground. Each time, it had been rebuilt to the original design, most recently in 2003. Standing here tonight, the opera house was as splendid as ever.
Tier after tier of boxes rose all the way to the ceiling—gold and pastel rococo ornamentation on the walls and rose velvet chairs. It was a noble setting in every sense. One could imagine aristocratic Venetian ladies, dressed in silks and satins, gossiping behind their lace fans.
Sinclair took his eyes off the architecture and scanned the sea of empty orchestra seats.
“No sign of her.”
“She’ll come,” Holly replied. “I know she will.”
Hotel Danieli
A HALF-MOON HAD RISEN above the lagoon, creating a shimmering magic. The fog had dissipated along the quay. Gondolas, secured for the night, were bowing and dipping in the dark water.
No one in the third-floor banquet room was looking out the window. Inside, three MI6 officers were hunkered over a video monitor. They were able to see the interior of the opera house through a pin camera in their agent’s lapel. As he walked around, they could see who was entering the theater. Sinclair and Holly were visible on the left-hand side of the screen.
“I see them, but where’s Cordelia?” Jim Gardiner asked, crowding in behind the intelligence agents. “Shouldn’t she be there by now?”
“No, sir,” an agent replied politely. “Ms. Stapleton is supposed to arrive after the second act, during intermission. So I’d say you have about an hour and twenty minutes to wait.”
Gardiner started to walk up and down the room nervously. He was well aware that pacing drew attention to his limp, but he needed to keep his nerves in check. From time to time, he glanced over at VerPlanck and gave him a forced smile.
The American tycoon sat on the far side of the room, hands on his knees, looking wan and nervous. Finally, Gardiner went over to him and sat down on a cut-velvet settee.
“This is killing me,” Gardiner groused. “I wish they’d get on with it.”
His irritated tone hid the emotion that was churning inside. He often used gruffness to counter his tender heart. As a business lawyer, it wouldn’t do to let people know he was the biggest softie in the world. Especially VerPlanck, who was a client.
“You and Cordelia are very close, aren’t you?” VerPlanck asked.
“Yes.” Gardiner nodded. “I was the family estate lawyer.”
“Orphaned, was she?”
“Yes, that poor kid lost both parents when she was twelve. She had nothing but a bank account. And even that wasn’t really very much.”
“So you were her guardian?” VerPlanck ascertained.
“Oh, more than that,” Gardiner said with a sigh. “Cordelia and I, well, we’ve been through thick and thin together.”
“I’m sure you made quite a difference in her life.”
“I would have adopted her, if they had allowed it. But laws were different back then. Same-sex couples were not even allowed to think about it.”
“Pity,” VerPlanck said.
“Nah.” Gardiner shook his head. “Didn’t matter. I loved her. What do I care what they call it on paper.”
“She’s a lucky girl,” VerPlanck said. “To have someone like you.”
“Well, now she’s a lucky girl to have found someone like Sinclair,” Gardiner amended. “That man would lay down his life for her.”
“Then she is twice blessed,” VerPlanck said, and continued to stare at the monitor. A bright pink dress glowed on the screen. Holly was walking through the lobby and into the theater.
La Fenice Opera House
SINCLAIR STOOD IN the aisle, next to row number E, seat 1. The seats were filling up, people stepping around him, as he lingered.
“John?” Holly asked, her blue eyes questioning. “What next?”
“We may as well sit down,” he decided. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the outside seat.”
They settled in and started looking through the program. It was a pointless exercise. The words on the page were not registering in his brain, and all his senses were hyper-aware, waiting for something to happen. He could tell that Holly was strung as taut as a violin string. Where was Lady X?
Four people approached his row. They had seats in the middle. He stepped out to let the couples by, glancing at each of the women as they brushed past him. Neither of them even remotely resembled Lady X.
The theater was almost full. Five minutes until the curtain. His nerves were so raw that sitting still was an effort. He fought with himself not to check his watch again.
Then he heard a commotion from behind. Cries of “Xandra darling!” rang out. He turned quickly to look. Lady X had just arrived and was greeting her friends in Italian at the back of the theater.
Of course! How could he be so dim? She was an international celebrity; there would be no low-key arrival for her. Dressed in a silver fox cape over a jade green dress, she was flamboyantly elegant. Absolutely stealing the show. People in the parterre boxes were pointing at her and observing her through their opera glasses.
Her progress was slow as she made her way down the aisle to the front section. Sinclair turned his eyes back to his program, but he could hear her coming up behind him. Then she stopped right next to his seat. He continued to read, wondering what was required next. Surely she would be the one to make the overture to him.
As he kept his eyes lowered, he could smell her heavy perfume, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her pointed black stilettos in the aisle right next to him. So he casually looked up, as if just noticing her standing there. She was staring straight at him.
“Oh, is this my row?” she asked. “I’m not sure . . . If it is, I believe you are in my seat.”
“I’m . . . excuse me,” Sinclair said, getting to his feet and going along with the charade. He pulled his stub out of his pocket and showed it to her.
She made a scene over searching for her ticket. Lady X wore snug gray
leather gloves to her elbow, which made her fingers clumsy as she searched through the contents of her minuscule evening bag. An usher rushed over to intervene.
“Madame, may I assist?”
“Here it is. I’m afraid I forgot my reading glasses. Is this my row?” she said, handing her ticket to the usher
“Madame, you are in row F, seat 1,” the man explained, pointing to the seat directly behind Sinclair.
“Oh, how silly of me,” Lady X apologized. “I couldn’t read it properly. I don’t ever seem to be able to remember my glasses. . . .”
“Perfectly all right,” Sinclair said. He was trying figure out what was required of him. He needed to slip the plastic coat check disk to her. But he couldn’t just hand it to her, could he?
He needn’t have worried about the mechanics. Lady X was well ahead of him. She put the opera ticket stub into her satin bag and let the tiny purse slip out of her hands. It hit the floor and spilled the contents into the aisle.
“Oh, dear . . . how clumsy of me,” she said, smiling at Sinclair. He looked down. A lipstick, lace handkerchief, pocket mirror, and small leather billfold were scattered on the red carpet. She didn’t move to pick any of it up. He understood immediately.
“Allow me,” he said, bending down and gathering up her articles and restoring her bag to her with a slight bow. Now, inside her satin clutch, was disk 27 from the coat check.
They both took their seats, Lady X sitting directly behind him. He didn’t turn around again but stared straight ahead.
Was that all there was to it? His heart was beating so hard he could almost hear it. He kept his eyes on the red velvet curtain.
“Did she get it?” Holly asked under her breath.
He gave her a silent nod as the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the familiar overture.
An hour later, Sinclair was still worrying and the opera was dragging on. He had barely registered a note. After the first act, Lady X had left. Now, during the second act, her seat had remained empty. All was going as planned. Lady X had presumably picked up the book with the ransom and was long gone.
During the next intermission, Moustaffa was supposed to meet them and return Cordelia. Intermissions for opera and ballet in Europe were slightly longer than in the States, much more of a social event. There was enough time for people to eat small plates of food and drink champagne between acts. La Fenice had several elaborate supper rooms on the upper floor.
Act 2 was almost over. Onstage, a stream of elaborately costumed people were parading through the Great Gate of Thebes in the Triumphal March. The famous melody was lovely—so much so, Sinclair often found himself humming it in the shower when he was in a particularly good mood. Now he barely heard a note. Finally, the velvet curtain dropped. The lights came up and the conversation started to buzz.
He couldn’t help but turn around. The seat where Lady X had been sitting was empty.
The pink marble supper rooms of La Fenice were packed. There were four separate large salons, with tall cocktail tables scattered throughout, where people could eat standing up. When Sinclair and Holly got to the second floor, customers were lined up ten deep at the service counter to buy the small sandwiches and pastries, champagne and espresso.
“Would you like something to drink?” Sinclair asked Holly.
“No. Let’s just circulate.”
They began a slow amble through the rooms, trying to make themselves visible. The noise was deafening as people chatted and laughed. It was almost impossible to see anyone who wasn’t immediately in front of you.
The instructions from Moustaffa were to come here and wait. Cordelia would be returned. But now that Sinclair saw the layout, he didn’t know which of the rooms they were supposed to stand in. He and Holly walked through once and then returned to pass through again.
“I don’t see her,” she said. “Did they tell you what Cordelia would be wearing?”
“No,” Sinclair said.
His answer was brusque, but unintentionally so. Pressure was building. Security agents had briefed him extensively on the exact moment of exchange. They had drilled him on proper technique. Countless lives had been lost when a hostage exchange was botched. Above all, they said, be firm and businesslike. No heroics. There would be law-enforcement people nearby, but it was up to Sinclair to make sure Cordelia was returned in a calm and orderly manner.
Suddenly, he got a quick glimpse of a slim woman on the other side of the archway in the next salon. Holly saw her at the same time and silently touched his arm to alert him.
The woman’s build was the same as Cordelia’s. She was wearing red. She turned toward him. His heart stopped. It was Cordelia!
Their eyes connected. He could detect no sign of relief in her face; it was a mask of terror. Then she started walking toward him slowly, as if in a dream.
Something was wrong! She was moving woodenly, with no expression. A dark, powerfully built man was walking with her. It appeared she was being propelled along through the crowd. As they drew nearer, Sinclair could see the captor’s arm encircling her waist with a grip of control.
A chill went down Sinclair’s spine. The man was Moustaffa! Older than the pictures. More dangerous-looking. Intelligent and cunning eyes.
Sinclair took a moment to assess him. The man’s Italian clothes were elegant, but his features had been coarsened by drugs and alcohol.
Sinclair was shocked to see the expression on his face was one of elation, amusement. There was an awful realization that, to Moustaffa, this was all a game—a power contest. Human life meant nothing.
When they met in the middle of the room, the four of them stood in a small closed circle—tense, hostile, but pretending to be socially engaged. A conversation between acts of an opera. To the outside world, everything would have looked friendly. It was anything but.
Cordelia’s eyes locked onto Sinclair’s and stayed there. She was silently pleading for help.
“Delia,” he asked quietly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said.
The halting way she spoke told him everything. She was terrified. What had they done?
“Would you please get your hands off her,” he said with superhuman restraint.
He was starting to sweat. The roaring in his ears was his blood pressure climbing. He forced himself to stay calm, but it took every ounce of willpower.
“Don’t worry. You can have her back,” Moustaffa said, not moving. “This is an exchange.”
“We have complied with the terms perfectly,” Sinclair countered. “You have your money. Now let her go.”
“We just raised the price a little.”
Moustaffa smiled nastily; his teeth were artificially bonded and white against his dark tan. At his jawline there were a few pockmarks from adolescent acne.
Sinclair’s eyes were drawn to something in his hand. The object glinted in the light as Moustaffa turned it in his fingers. It was a hypodermic needle, held loosely against the fabric of Cordelia’s dress!
“Your pretty friend might begin to feel very unwell by the end of the evening if you don’t listen carefully.”
Sinclair was frozen by the sight of the needle. The tip was centimeters from Delia’s body. A mere slip would be all it would take. His lungs constricted in fear.
“What do you want?” he asked quietly.
“You can have her, but only in exchange for Dr. Graham,” Moustaffa said.
Holly, standing right next to him, inhaled sharply. Although she didn’t move, her fear was palpable. Holly had been told to let Sinclair lead the discussion and was clearly waiting for him to respond.
“Out of the question!”
“Well, then, Ms. Stapleton is going to die. I’m afraid there is no antidote to this virus.”
“No!”
This was monstrous! He couldn’t decide between Cordelia and Holly!
“It takes about twenty-four hours,” Moustaffa was explaining. “Plenty of time for you to say good-bye.
But it won’t be a pleasant parting.”
Sinclair couldn’t take his eyes off the uncapped needle, inches from Cordelia’s side. A quick jab and it would be over. He considered using brute force, simply trying to overpower Moustaffa. But the man looked capable of fending him off long enough to do his dirty work. The needle was much too close to risk anything at all. The moment lengthened as Sinclair struggled for an option.
In his peripheral vision Sinclair could see that an agent was hovering behind their group. The man looked over for an indication of what was happening. Sinclair shook his head. Stay back, he telegraphed with his eyes. The agent nodded and stepped to the side, pretending to read a program.
“Make your choice, Mr. Sinclair. You have ten seconds,” Moustaffa repeated. “And your security people over there will not do you any good. Once she’s infected, it’s over.”
“Wait! Just wait!” Sinclair demanded. “What on earth do you need Holly for?”
“Am I to take that as your answer?” Moustaffa said, putting his index finger on the plunger of the syringe.
“It’s inhuman!” Sinclair exclaimed. “To make me decide . . . I can’t . . .”
Sinclair felt Holly brush by him and stand directly in front of Moustaffa. She looked the killer in the eye.
“There is no need to ask Mr. Sinclair for permission for me to accompany you,” she said coolly. “I can speak for myself. I accept your proposition. Now, please release Miss Stapleton!”
Venice
CARTER LURKED IN the alcove of a church in Calle del Cristo, a small stone alleyway in the quiet part of the city. He was hidden in shadow, squatting down with his back against the damp stone wall. It was a good place to hide. No one would discover him there, and the view was perfect. The old palazzo was across the canal, clearly visible. The windows were dark, framed by red velvet. It appeared no one was home.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 26