The Stolen Chalicel (26 page)

“Oh, thank you,” Cordelia said, hanging up her coat. She turned on her heel and quickly went out.

Cordelia had always loved the Enlightenment Gallery. The three-hundred-foot room had the appearance of a great private library, wood-paneled with towering bookcases. The collections were a celebration of the great Age of Discovery, from 1680 to 1820. During that time, there had been groundbreaking accomplishments in every field: the birth of archaeology, the deciphering of ancient manuscripts, the development of a botanical classification system.

In the rush past the glass display cases, she caught a tantalizing glimpse of all kinds of exhibits, including journals from the great voyages of Captain James Cook, Alexander von Humboldt, and Charles Darwin.

At the far end, Cordelia saw Dr. Trentwell walking slowly, gesturing emphatically, accompanied by a funny-looking little man in a rumpled raincoat. On this inclement morning, there were no other museum visitors.

“Ah, Miss Stapleton,” the director said, turning at the sound of her footsteps. “You’ve arrived.”

“Sorry. Traffic was terrible.”

“No worries. My eleven o’clock appointment canceled. May I present Charlie Hannifin. Charlie, Cordelia Stapleton is the chief diver on the marine archaeology project in Alexandria Harbor.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Hannifin said with little enthusiasm.

He offered a limp, sweaty hand as his eyes darted around the room.

“Is there somewhere . . . we can talk?” Hannifin asked the director.

“Certainly, but first I want to show you artifacts from Cook’s voyage around the world in 1768 on HMB
Endeavour
.”

“How interesting!” Cordelia exclaimed, leaning over the case.

“I haven’t much time,” Hannifin said, walking away.

“Oh, certainly,” the director said. “Why don’t we go to my office?”

They started toward the administrative offices in the modern part of the building. As they walked along the corridor, Cordelia noticed a
young man at the far end—he appeared lost, glancing furtively around. He was rough, unshaved, and seemed entirely out of place. Dr. Trentwell approached him.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but this section of the museum is off-limits to visitors.”

The man turned and scrutinized Dr. Trentwell.

“Charlie Hannifin?” he asked.

Hannifin began backing away, and the man turned to stare at him. “
You’re
Hannifin.”

“No. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” the young man said, turning to Dr. Trentwell and Cordelia. “I’ve come for
him
. If you two get out of here, I won’t make trouble for you.”

“What do you mean, ‘make
trouble
’?” the director demanded.

That mere comment unleashed a cyclone of violence. The intruder whirled and slammed Dr. Trentwell violently into the wall, knocking him to the floor.

“Guard!”
Trentwell shouted as he went down. The man came after him, pumping three rapid punches to his stomach. The director curled up in agony.

“Stop it!”
Cordelia cried out.

She had no effect. In a sudden, swift movement, the assailant aimed a martial-arts kick at the fallen curator, and there was a sickening crunch as Dr. Trentwell’s femur buckled. Then the intruder smashed him with the butt of a pistol. Dr. Trentwell slumped unconscious to the floor, his leg twisted at a horrific angle.

The assailant, ignoring Cordelia, swung the dark muzzle back toward Hannifin.

“Don’t,”
Hannifin pleaded. “I didn’t . . . It’s not my fault. . . .” He cowered, his mouth working nervously, his small eyes darting around looking for a way to escape. The gunman walked up to him and put the tip of the weapon against his forehead. The muzzle dented the flesh between his eyebrows.

“No!” Hannifin said, panicked.

The gunman pushed hard, forcing Hannifin’s head against the wall.

“They told me to come after you.”

Was the man going to shoot Hannifin?
A wave of dizziness hit Cordelia and her legs began to shake; her heart was beating violently. She looked at the exit a few steps away and decided to sprint toward it.

“Hold it right there!”

She saw the weapon now pointed directly at her!

“Please, I don’t have anything to do with this,” she begged.

“Too bad, lady. Wrong place. Wrong time.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to argue and thought better of it. She was fully aware her life hung in the balance. There was an agonizing moment when she thought he would shoot her. But finally he slipped the pistol into his pocket and angled the muzzle toward Hannifin. With the tip of his head, he indicated which way they should walk.

“We’re going out the main entrance, nice and casual. If you pull anything, you’re dead.”

Cordelia walked stiffly through the museum courtyard, the gunman following closely behind. From time to time, she could feel the steel weapon poking her back. Charlie Hannifin was directly beside her, moving toward the street. Cordelia’s eyes scanned the area, looking for escape.

The flagstone plaza was more crowded now. The rain had stopped and the sun was starting to break through the clouds. A few people were gathered in groups at the entrance to the museum: a couple of students, a trio of elderly ladies. There was no one she could signal to for help. They were all absorbed in their own activities.

Cordelia’s mouth was dry, her pulse racing. Her best chance for escape was now, in the open. That much she knew.

As she walked across the plaza, she surveyed the possibilities. There weren’t many. An ornate wrought-iron fence surrounded the enclosed courtyard. There was no way to get out except for a single, narrow gateway that led to the sidewalk.

She scanned the bystanders again. No police officers. No young men who could give this man a good fight. Only school kids, moms, elderly couples.

Suddenly, she noticed a group of Japanese tourists gathering near the gate. About thirty people were huddled close together to hear their guide. If she could get into the middle of the crowd, she might have some protection. The gunman would never risk firing into a cluster of innocent tourists. With any luck he’d just take Hannifin and leave her behind.

She walked slowly by the group, then pivoted and darted into the middle. It was more difficult than she thought. They were packed closely together, listening intently. Cordelia shoved frantically, pushing against their wet raincoats to work her way into the center of the group.

A young Japanese woman cried out, shocked at Cordelia’s behavior. But then, with a short bow, she stepped aside to let Cordelia through. Almost on cue, the entire group parted, waiting for her to pass by.

Cordelia looked about in dismay. They had made a clear path right through the center. The gunman was on the other side, waiting for her. The outline of the muzzle protruded through the fabric of his pocket.

“Don’t get funny now, or people will get hurt.”

He laughed and shrugged at the tourists, as if it were a joke. They smiled back, unaware.

A wave of disappointment and frustration washed over Cordelia. There was really no choice but to fall back in step beside Charlie Hannifin. Together they resumed their forced march to the gate.

She looked over at Hannifin. He was sweating, breathing through his open mouth, staring straight ahead. He gave no indication he had even noticed what had just happened. His eyes were fixated on something across the street. She followed his gaze.

That’s when she noticed the van. Motor running, lone driver. As they approached, an automatic panel door slid open.

Her opportunities for escape were dwindling. Now they were outside the courtyard, on the sidewalk. Pedestrians were walking by, businessmen on their way to appointments. Surely someone could help her! Should she risk calling out?

As if he had read her thoughts, the gunman prodded her back. She’d be dead before the word “help” left her lips. They crossed the street and Charlie Hannifin began to climb in the van.

“Wait,” Cordelia pleaded, turning toward her captor. “Please, you don’t want—”

“Get in!”
the gunman said, pressing the weapon into her ribs. There was determination in his eyes. She closed her mouth and followed Charlie Hannifin.

Biggin Hill Airport, London

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK’S
G
ULFSTREAM
G650 was waiting on the tarmac, wing tips elegantly curved upward as if it were alive and ready to take flight. Jim Gardiner had told them to come to Edinburgh as quickly as possible. The trip from London would take less than an hour in the private jet. Holly climbed the steps and the stewardess greeted her warmly.

“Welcome back, Dr. Graham. Why don’t you take your usual seat.”

Sinclair, bending his long frame to fit through the door, heard the remark and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. He started to make a crack but held back. VerPlanck was directly behind him. All three of them immediately sat down and buckled their seat belts, and the plane began to move.

Everyone seemed pensive during the flight. VerPlanck sipped ice water and steadily worked his way through a folder of documents, and Sinclair barricaded himself behind the salmon-colored pages of the
Financial Times,
drinking tomato juice with a wedge of lemon. Holly nursed her coffee, wondering how on earth she could have gotten mixed up in all of this!

Both men were quiet, thinking their own private thoughts. She’d have liked to talk about it further, but she was stuck with not
one
but
two
strong silent types.

In what seemed like twenty minutes, they were landing at a private
airport outside Edinburgh. A stretch limo, sent by Jim Gardiner, started moving toward the plane as soon as they landed.

Once seated inside the car, Holly summoned up the nerve to broach the topic.

“I can’t even
guess
what this is all about,” she ventured as a conversation opener.

“Jim called me late last night and left a message for me,” Sinclair revealed.

“Really!” VerPlanck said. “Did you call him back?”

“No, I was asleep and got the voice mail only this morning. The message said something important had turned up and I should go directly to his office to meet you and Holly.”

“He left me a handwritten message at the hotel desk,” VerPlanck explained. “I received it when I came down this morning. But there wasn’t much information. Holly’s seen it already.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cream-colored Ritz Hotel stationery, unfolded it, and handed it over. Sinclair’s blue eyes scanned it worriedly:

Dear Ted,

New developments. Very serious. Please come to Edinburgh as soon as possible. Sinclair and Dr. Graham should come with you. I will be at the Balmoral Hotel in the Walter Scott Suite.

—J. Gardiner

“I can’t help wondering why Edinburgh. What an
unusual
place to meet,” Holly remarked.

“It is,” VerPlanck agreed. “Why Scotland?”

At that remark, Holly looked out the window and got her first glimpse of the countryside—rolling green fields dotted with sheep. Miles and miles of similar landscape went by unchanged until, suddenly, she saw the gray battlements of the old city.

In the distance, Edinburgh’s castle towers jutted up, massive and solid, the church spires puncturing the clouds. The rain had stopped and the sun was trying to break through. Rays shone down like a benediction from above.

“Just
look
at that El Greco sky,” VerPlanck remarked, lightly touching her sleeve.

The gesture was friendly, almost familiar. He looked out the window and then settled back, a fraction closer to her. Their arms touched.

Holly felt Sinclair shift in his seat as he watched their interaction. His discomfort was obvious. Maybe Sinclair’s suspicions were right; VerPlanck certainly
seemed
interested. How awkward! She decided to ignore the gesture.

“It is a
beautiful
city,” she commented. “The overcast sky gives everything such an air of mystery.”