The Stolen Chalicel (18 page)

Holly stood in the ladies’ room at Bristol and Overton, applying lipstick in the mirror. She figured a little cosmetic help was probably advisable
before meeting John Sinclair. She snapped her purse shut and walked out into the hallway with a flutter of apprehension.

How could she have misinterpreted Sinclair when he asked her to help find the Sardonyx Cup? He had been perfectly straightforward. The misunderstanding was
her
fault! One chance meeting and her common sense had vanished. Did Sinclair really still have that kind of power over her? Apparently so.

She had
always
been attracted to him. But it was more than physical. Sinclair’s intellectual detachment had always intrigued her. He lived most of the time inside his own head and seemed quite oblivious of everyone else. Sometimes he was so aloof he seemed almost indifferent to women. But the cerebral manner served only to mask his intense sexuality. When he decided to turn his attention on you, it was like opening the door of a blast furnace.

Of course, half the archaeological world was in love with him. Every season, countless of her colleagues nursed hopeless crushes. Even she had finally succumbed, despite her best efforts to resist.

They had become lovers in Jordan all those years ago. At first, she had rationalized their affair by telling herself there would be no lasting emotional attachment. But then, of course, there was.

Sinclair was impossible to forget—the expression in his eyes, the way he spoke, and the way he conducted himself. But he was a very dangerous liaison. All his other women had been, quite literally, left in the dust.

For that reason Holly vowed to be smarter than the rest.
She
would be the first to leave the relationship and not linger with him. And when they broke up it had been
her
little farewell speech that
he
had to endure, and not the other way around. So why did she find herself regretting her decision?

Holly turned the corner and caught sight of Sinclair standing and chatting easily with VerPlanck, looking very elegant in a dark gray suit and crimson paisley tie. Their eyes connected, and he immediately crossed the room to give her a quick kiss on each cheek.

“Holly. Nice to see you again so soon,” he said quietly.

As he stepped back she caught a drift of that glorious aftershave he
wore. It brought back a flood of memories of those sweltering digs in Jordan with him working beside her. That herbal scent would mingle with the aroma of dust and sweat.

“I hadn’t planned to come to London, but an emergency meeting turned up at the British Museum.”

Her little excuse was feeble, defensive. Even to her own ears it sounded as if she were overexplaining. Sinclair smiled enigmatically.

“I know I need not introduce you two,” Ted interjected. “But, Holly, may I present Jim Gardiner?”

A heavyset man in a wheelchair maneuvered over.

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Graham,” he said, shaking Holly’s hand from his chair. “I didn’t think we would be so lucky as to have your schedule accommodate our meeting.”

“Nice to meet you also, Mr. Gardiner. It turns out the timing was perfect.”

“Excellent,” said Jim Gardiner, wheeling himself briskly to the head of the conference table. “Shall we begin?”

The Khamsin
Motoryacht, North Atlantic, N 44°38', W 43°56'

L
ADY
X
ANDRA
S
OMMERSET
stood in the wheelhouse of
The Khamsin
looking out at the stormy sea. The yacht was pitching steeply in eight-foot swells coming from west to east, and the captain looked like he was doing the polka as he gripped the wheel.

The method for measuring storms at sea—the Beaufort scale—was at a Force 6, which meant strong winds of twenty knots or more. The weather didn’t bother Xandra; she never suffered from mal de mer, and had actually come to love the constant motion of the waves.

Xandra checked the GPS. They were 1,785 nautical miles from Southampton, England, about 500 miles off the coast of Newfoundland. It would be a long trip—nine days if the storm subsided.

The Khamsin
was built for transatlantic crossings. This time of year the seas weren’t really rough. Iceberg season began in March in this part of the world, so there was almost no chance of hitting ice.

Xandra walked into the salon, threw her black anorak on an upholstered chair, removed a tortoiseshell clip, and shook out her long hair. A steward came in and poured her some Egyptian chamomile tea. She sank onto the couch and sipped it, looking around the room.

The salon was very stark tonight, stripped of anything that could fly around, all the “hatches battened down,” all movable objects stowed. The Sardonyx Cup was safe in her stateroom.

Xandra glanced over at her other precious cargo. Artemidorus was strapped to the banquette with padded bungee cords. Bound up like that, he looked as if he were being kidnapped.

Meadow Lane,
Southampton, Long Island

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK’S BEACH
house was empty except for one exhausted security guard, who was trying to stay awake. The property was a large waterfront estate on Meadow Lane owned by generations of “old money” VerPlancks—in contrast to “new money” Wall Street hedge-fund houses built in the 1980s.

Old money, new money, the guard didn’t care just as long as Mr. VerPlanck continued to tip him four or five Benjamins at the end of the season. It was a great gig. They paid him twenty-five dollars an hour, and half the time he was asleep on the living room couch.

The Hamptons summer season was over. Almost everyone was gone. The housekeeper had already put white sheets on the furniture, and the insurance people were coming tomorrow to take the paintings back to the city.

The guard lifted the protective cover off the couch and lay down, carefully kicking off his shoes. The Cézanne was visible from this position.

A couple of mil. That’s what it was worth. A lot of coin for a few dabs of paint. But any fool could see this canvas was primo. It was a bunch of apples and pears and other stuff on a table. A “still life,” they called it.

The yellows and oranges on the fruit were really cool on the nights he was stoned. Once, he and his friends drank a bottle of red wine and
played their guitars right here on the carpet. Who else could say they partied in the same room with a genuine masterpiece?

Tonight was going to be tough. Last night, his band had played the late set at the Captain’s Table in Bridgehampton. Now he could feel his eyelids burning and slowly shutting. He’d take a quick nap. If anyone tried to steal the painting, they’d have to lean right over him.

He drifted off the second his head hit the couch. In what seemed like a minute later, a pounding noise startled him awake. What time was it, anyway? Two a.m.! He checked the painting. It was fine.

The guard leaped up so fast his head spun. Struggling to jam his feet into his shoes, he hobbled out to the kitchen. Two large policemen were standing outside, pounding on the door. A flashlight shone through the glass, blinding him.

“Open up, we have an emergency,” a voice said.

“What is going on?” he asked as he punched in the security code.

“Disturbance on the grounds. We think someone broke into the house. We need to get in, now.”

He disabled the alarm and pulled the door wide.

“I didn’t hear anything. I’ve been here all night.”

“We saw someone go through an upstairs window. Anybody else home?”

“It’s just me. The family is gone for the winter.”

They smiled at him. He suddenly realized they didn’t look like any cops he knew. Certainly not the out-of-shape patrol officers from Southampton. These guys looked like they were on steroids.

“I’ve never seen you before.”

There was no point in mentioning that he knew the local constabulary from a teenage DUI conviction.

“We’re new. Backup.”

“Backup for what?”

“Special detail for this weekend.”

“What’s going on
this
weekend? Oh, yeah. Is it that rap star Rob Dinero?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the living room?” one of the officers asked.

“Right in here. I’m supposed to be watching this painting. The insurance guys are coming to get it tomorrow.”

The three of them walked into the living room. Even in the semidarkness, the orange and yellow glowed. It was beautiful.

“That’s it, there?” asked one of the policemen, standing in front of the painting.

“Yup. It’s worth 1.4 million smackeroos.”

Suddenly, he felt his arms being wrenched behind him and the cold steel of handcuffs snapped around his wrists.

“What are you . . . ?”

“Shut up, kid,” said the cop.

“Am I under arrest?”

They didn’t answer.

“What is going on? Am I under arrest?”

“You’re not under arrest. We need the painting.”

“You can’t steal
that,
I’m guarding it.”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have let us in.”

The two men lifted the Cézanne off the wall, set it down, and knocked the canvas out of its wooden frame. One of them rolled up the canvas while the other leaned the wooden slats against an upholstered chair.

“We won’t hurt you if you tell the police you didn’t see us clearly,” one thief said.

“I didn’t see you. They don’t pay me enough to get hurt.”

Flight UA 6534,
Denver to Jackson Hole, Wyoming

T
IPPER
V
ER
P
LANCK FELT
the stress drop away as the United Airbus A320 headed west. It was actually a relief to fly commercial. Ted had taken the family jet to England, but it felt good to set off on her own just like a normal person. The anonymity of boarding the connecting flight in Denver with 124 other passengers was refreshing.

Just as she was landing in Jackson Hole, her cell phone rang. She checked the number. It was Charlie Hannifin. The only reason to take the call was that he had promised her a $100,000 commission for stealing the Cézanne.

“Hello, Charlie.”

“Hi, Tipper. How is your trip to Wyoming?”

“I just landed. I’m staying at Jane and Arthur Monroe’s ranch.”

“Give them my best,” Charlie said. “I just got back from the Hamptons.”

“Nobody’s out there this time of year.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

“Yes. The weather was
picture perfect
.”

Tipper rolled her eyes. He probably thought he was being clever.

“Well, it’s great talking to you, Charlie, but I have to go.”

“Take care, Tipper. Thanks. You’re a real friend.”

Tipper shuddered as she hung up the phone. Charlie Hannifin was
not
her friend.

She looked out the plane window as they taxied to the terminal. It was a beautiful clear day. The ragged peaks were already frosted with the first high-altitude snowfall of the season.

Jackson Hole was located in a small valley tucked into the Grand Teton Mountains. This was where the superwealthy went to pretend they were simple folk. Jane and Arthur Monroe owned one of the most lavish ranches around.

They were old friends. Jane was the kind of woman who would sit up all night and gossip. Arthur’s main interests were a cold beer and whatever sport was in season. Over the years, Tipper habitually found refuge with them whenever she was feeling low. Jane understood the demons of addiction; she herself had become hooked on painkillers after her face-lift a few years ago.

Grateful for their friendship, Tipper lavished presents on them—invitations to New York or the ski house in Klosters. Last year for Christmas she had given them carbon offsets for their jet. This holiday season, she was planning to invite them to her Oscar party; Conrad was certain to be nominated.

Tipper drove to Buffalo Ranch in her rented SUV. As she approached, the beauty of the place struck her, as it always did. The Grand Teton Mountains provided a backdrop for the sprawling wood-framed house. It had been constructed to resemble a rustic log cabin, except its size was enormous—twenty thousand square feet! Flanking the ranch house on either side were traditional Wyoming jack fences, which set off acres of meadows where horses grazed.

Jane must have been watching from the window, because as Tipper pulled up she came out to the car, wearing a fuzzy green mohair shawl.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s so good to see you!”

She pulled Tipper into a big warm hug.

“I missed you too,” Tipper said, a lump forming in her throat. “I don’t know why I didn’t come sooner.”

“Well, all that counts is you are here
now
.”

She looped an arm around Tipper and started back toward the house. Jane looked fabulous—her hair was shorter and blond, her skin clear and healthy.

“What’s this I’m hearing about you and a new
amour
?” she asked.

“Oh, you mean Conrad. I’m so glad we can talk about him. I can’t breathe a word in New York because of Ted.”