The Stolen Chalicel (49 page)

“And vaccines . . . ?” Gardiner asked.

“Those have to be administered in advance. There aren’t any commercially available vaccines.”

“Why not?” Gardiner asked.

“Vaccines are hard to produce. They have to be made from heat-killed and chemically treated strains of bacteria cells. And there really is no demand for them, so it’s not profitable to make a vaccine.”

“So a city would be totally vulnerable if this contagion were released?”

“Pretty much. The U.S. government put in biodefense stockpiles of antitoxins and chemical antidotes after 9/11. But when it comes to vaccines they inoculate only researchers who are working with the plague.”

“Which is why the terrorists chose this,” Gardiner said.

“I’m afraid so. We’ve been working on plague at Porton Down for a few years now. Planning defensive measures in case of an attack. Sinclair is the first victim.”

Oakley looked worn out. His white coat was sagging off his shoulders, and his face was drawn. It was clear he had not had any rest. Gardiner put a hand on his arm and spoke to him urgently.

“Paul, I’m going to ask you a favor,” Gardiner said.

Oakley looked at him, resigned.

“What, Jim?”

“I need to see Sinclair. To ask him to please let Cordelia in. It’s killing her, being shut out like this. If he dies without talking to her . . .”

Paul Oakley sighed.

“I promised I wouldn’t let anyone in. Especially Cordelia. He was clear about it.”

“He won’t mind if it’s me,” Gardiner said. “After my accident, I came back from the
dead.
And he watched me do it.”

Oakley looked off down the corridor, trying to decide.

“All right,” he agreed. “Just for a few minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll have to suit up, of course,” Oakley added. “Come with me.”

He turned and walked into the negative-pressure unit. Gardiner followed him in, limping heavily.

The room was silent, with the occasional beep of a machine taking an automatic reading—not the usual cramped hospital room, more like an operating theater. Plenty of space on either side of the bed to allow people to move around and work. No windows. The strong overhead light hurt the eyes.

The bed had all the appearance of a bier, and Sinclair was in a plastic tent, sealed like a glass coffin. Gardiner got a quick mental flash of an Egyptian king in his cartouche. The tent had the same dignity and finality. The body inside was pale, eyes closed. A shadow of the handsome man Gardiner knew.

Paul approached and checked the readings.

“Well, at least he’s stable,” the doctor remarked.

“Can he hear me?” Gardiner asked.

Just then, Sinclair’s eyes opened. Then widened.

“Jim,” he said weakly.

“How are you doing?” Gardiner asked.

The corner of Sinclair’s mouth inched up as if he were trying to smile.

“Hurts like hell,” he said. “I don’t recommend it.”

“Delia needs to see you,” Gardiner said.

“Can’t,” Sinclair said, shutting his eyes wearily.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Gardiner pressed.

Oakley made a quick chop with his hand. A motion for Gardiner to lay off.

There was no answer. Sinclair’s eyes were still closed. For a moment it seemed he had drifted off. Then his mouth slowly moved. He opened his eyes again.

“Can’t see her. Not like this, Jim. Not like this,” he said.

Sinclair’s eyes dropped lower and then shut. He lapsed into a deep sleep.

Paul Oakley motioned for Gardiner to follow him out into the decontamination area.

“I told you. Stubborn as hell,” Oakley said.

“God, I hate to see him like this,” Gardiner said, pulling off his N95 mask, overcome with emotion.

“Don’t give up yet,” Oakley said. “That kind of mental toughness might be exactly what he needs to pull him through.”

Cordelia sat up, feeling her head spin. She could be anywhere in the world—New York, London, Chicago. Hospital waiting rooms were all the same—the identical furniture, the same sorrow, and the lurking presence of death. Doctors had come and gone in a never-ending stream from the U.S. Navy, and some had flown in from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in the United States.

It had been two days. Gardiner had brought her food, a change of clothes. He had begged her to take a rest. To go to the hotel, grab a quick shower, take a nap. She would have none of it.

“I’m staying here, Jim,” she had insisted.

Finally, Gardiner had left, limping painfully, shaking his head, promising he’d be back in a while. He needed to lie down.

Ted VerPlanck had come and gone several times, always solicitous, always deeply aware of the strain she was under. He’d comforted her as best he could. She could see that it took considerable effort for him to express his feelings. He was not a man who acknowledged his emotions easily.

VerPlanck was better at tangible things: bringing her a paper cup of tea and the cashmere throw he had first offered to her on the deck of
The MoonSonnet.
She was glad to have it. A security blanket. Cream-colored, soft. She had draped its folds around her as she waited.

They had cleared the unit when Sinclair came in. Only the specialists stayed. He was untouchable in a plastic tent. All she wanted to do was put her arms around him.

Down the hall the elevator dinged, and there was the
clack, clack, clack
of footsteps coming. Unfamiliar pace, rapid, determined. Cordelia looked up and her eyes widened in surprise as Holly Graham whipped around the corner.
What was she doing here?

Holly was dressed in a coral-colored V-neck sweater, a blue jacket, and buff-colored slacks. Her figure was elegantly curvaceous. She walked with purpose. And she looked very worried.

“Hello, Cordelia,” she said quite naturally, as if they spoke often. “I thought you might need something to eat.”

She proffered a plastic bag.

“Oh, thank you.”

“It’s Egyptian beef and rice. Quite good.”

Cordelia accepted it politely.

“What time is it?”

“Three o’clock,” Holly told her.

“Three o’clock?”

Cordelia tried without success to understand that information. She had no idea if it was day or night.

“Three in the afternoon,” Holly supplied, aware of her confusion. “Why don’t you try to eat?”

Cordelia opened the bag and the rich scents wafted up.

“This smells really delicious!” she said.

“It’s one of my favorites. The rice has almonds, golden raisins, cardamom, cinnamon. And beef with spices.”

Cordelia took the lid off the container and found a plastic fork at the bottom of the bag.

“Is there anything to drink?” Cordelia inquired.

“There’s a container of orange juice in there also.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia said, fishing for it. “I realize I never thanked you for that night, at the opera. It was very brave, what you did.”

Cordelia found her words came with ease, and she meant them. Holly waved her hand, brushing away the gratitude, and quickly changed the subject.

“Hey, I meant to tell you,” she said brightly. “The British have Artemidorus now. They say the damage can be repaired.”

“That’s great! What about the cup?”

“They just found it in a secret compartment of
The Khamsin.
”

“Ted VerPlanck must be pleased to recover it,” Cordelia replied.

“Ted really believes the cup has special powers. He’s determined to share it, for the benefit of others.”

“Oh, that’s nice of him,” Cordelia replied.

“He is planning to donate the cup to the National Gallery in Washington so that the public can see it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Cordelia said. “After all the trouble he went to recovering it.”

“He’s quite a generous man,” Holly said, and Cordelia could see a glimmer of feeling behind the words.

Cordelia thought that Holly and VerPlanck would end up together. Not right now, but someday. They were so perfectly matched—elegant, understated.

“Have they let you in to see Sinclair yet?” Holly asked.

“No,” Cordelia admitted.

“Well, he’s a tough guy,” Holly said. “Likes to fight his battles on his own.”

“Really?” Cordelia asked. “Was he like that when you knew him?”

“Oh,
please,
” she said with a laugh, ignoring the nuances of the question. “He was always on his own, aloof.”

“You think he still is?”

“Well, he
was,
until he found you. It’s wonderful, Cordelia.”

“We’ve been together in London for a few months now. But when I met him he was living in a really remote part of Ephesus. I think he communicated regularly only with his dog.”

“He’s a lone wolf. That’s for sure.”

Cordelia put her fork down and moved the aluminum-foil container to the side table. Her appetite had vanished.

Lone wolf. The image was so strong. Didn’t they always go off on their own to die? Is that what was happening?

Holly leaned over and put her hand on Cordelia’s arm.

“It’s OK,” she said. “Sinclair’s the strongest man I have ever met. I think he’ll pull through, and so does Ted.”

Out on the street, it was warm. Holly peeled off her jacket and slung it over her shoulder. The military hospital had been freezing.

VerPlanck had urged Holly to visit the hospital, saying that Sinclair was hanging by a thread. By his account, Cordelia was having a very rough time, so Holly had gone to see her.

Everyone seemed to think Cordelia was perfect for Sinclair. It was time to clear the air. Wasn’t that the phrase Sinclair had used that night when they had drinks?

Of course Cordelia had been surprised, but she was gracious and thanked Holly for her bravery the night of the opera. Silly girl. Holly had done it for Sinclair. Oh well, let Cordelia have her illusions.

Everyone was predicting Sinclair’s imminent death. But there was no doubt in her mind that he would make it. He could not be felled by something so ancient as the Black Death. Sinclair was too strong. His spirit was indomitable.

Ted VerPlanck’s dark car was idling across the street. With the smoked windows, it was hard to tell if Ted could see her or not. He had promised to take her to the Kom el-Shoqafa catacombs in the Karmouz district of Alexandria. It was a fourth-century royal mausoleum styled in the same pattern as the Christian catacombs in Rome.

Ted had been doing everything he could to cheer her up, convinced she must have PTSD from her experience. Of course, that was partially true. But Ted VerPlanck had already helped with the recovery.

VerPlanck opened the car door and stepped out.

“How’s Cordelia?”

“Not great,” Holly said.

“Wait here for me for a moment,” Ted said. “I’ll be right back.”

The MoonSonnet
Motorsailer, N 40°03', E 26°17'

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE STOOD
on the deck of
The MoonSonnet
and felt the wind in his face. They were in the Dardanelles, heading to the Sea of Marmara and into the Bosphorus. First they’d stop off in Turkey, and then in a few days they’d be in the
Black Sea
!