The Stolen Chalicel (28 page)

Balmoral Hotel

P
ETER
S
CRIPPS OF
the Metropolitan Police was explaining how Cordelia had been abducted. Sinclair, VerPlanck, and Holly were sitting silently—appalled at what they were hearing.

“Let me make sure I am perfectly clear on this,” Sinclair cut in. “You’re saying that the people who abducted Cordelia are
terrorists
!”

“Yes,” Scripps affirmed. “Their leader is an Egyptian named Moustaffa.”

“An Egyptian?”

“Originally. But he has connections all over the Middle East and North Africa. He’s spent time in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Iraq, Syria, and Morocco.”

“Does he have a nationalist or religious agenda?” Gardiner asked, taking up the thread of questioning.

“No.”

“Then what’s his purpose?”

“Moustaffa leads a community of radical activists—anarchists with a hatred of Western governments. They are out to destroy the industrial elite.”

“How many of them are there?”

“The numbers are unclear. They are a loosely affiliated cyber-community. We have been tracking them through the Signals Intelligence Unit.”

“That tells me nothing,” Gardiner complained.

“We track their electronic communications, and believe there are two thousand members. They log on, log off . . . and disappear.”

“What do you know about Moustaffa?” Gardiner asked.

“We have a team assembling a dossier on him right now. Another unit will debrief you when we finish up here.”

“Why not now?” Sinclair demanded.

“I need to ask Mr. VerPlanck some questions about that night at the Met.”

“The
Met
?” VerPlanck asked.

“Yes. The FBI has uncovered a terrorist cell that launched the attack at the gala.”

“Is it Moustaffa’s group?” Gardiner asked, putting two and two together.

“We believe so. And we think they are planning something even bigger.”

“What does that have to do with
me?
” VerPlanck asked.

“The gunmen were hired as waiters by a catering company run by the Manucci family—being in the cargo-shipping business, you may have heard of them.”

“I have,” VerPlanck said. “The Port Authority has been watching the Manucci crime syndicate for years. They have infiltrated the dock workers.”

“Have you had any direct contact with the Manuccis that you think might be relevant?”

Suddenly, the conversation took on the tone of an interrogation. VerPlanck sat up straighter and looked Scripps directly in the eye.

“The Manuccis don’t usually interact with legitimate businesses,” he said starchily.

“Well, I ask you for a very good reason. They’ve been connected to the theft of your cup.”

“What!”

“You lost me,” Sinclair chimed in.

“Mr. VerPlanck, your property was stolen to fund terrorist operations. The Manucci family took a cut, but most of the proceeds went to Moustaffa’s personal account in Gibraltar.”

“So you think a
terror
organization stole the Sardonyx Cup?” VerPlanck asked.

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make much sense. The cup would be too recognizable to sell outright. In terms of monetary gain, it wouldn’t be easy to get rid of it. There were other, more lucrative things to steal in my apartment.”

“For some reason they wanted only the cup,” Scripps pointed out. “By the way, it was very foolish of you to try to recover it on your own.”

“I was only protecting my wife,” VerPlanck said.

“So you
knew
she helped them?” Scripps asked in surprise.

There was a shocked silence in the room. Sinclair, Gardiner, and Holly exchanged worried glances. Had they helped VerPlanck cover up a criminal act!

“That’s not true! She had no connection to any of this!”
His words rushed out in a torrent of denial.

Scripps looked grim and waited for VerPlanck to calm down. Ted pulled out his silk pocket square and mopped his forehead with it, then stuffed it back into his jacket.

“I was only protecting Tipper from bad publicity, nothing more,” VerPlanck explained.

“Your wife was working with Charlie Hannifin,” Scripps repeated.

“No! I assure you, she couldn’t
stand
him! They never exchanged two words.”

He stopped and looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I just realized they sat together the night of the gala. Not by
choice
. Tipper was livid that Hannifin was seated next to her.”

Scripps shook his head sadly.

“We have traced a fifty-thousand-dollar check from the Manuccis to Mrs. VerPlanck.”

VerPlanck stared at Scripps bleakly as he went on.

“She was helping him steal your Cézanne also.”

VerPlanck sat shaking his head in disbelief.

“We found your Cézanne in the warehouse in Queens with Hannifin’s signature on the paperwork. As a director of the Met, he was in the perfect position to ship it without raising comment.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Sinclair cut in. “But I can’t just sit here talking about art when Cordelia’s
life
is in danger!”

“You will be debriefed on Ms. Stapleton in another meeting,” Scripps replied.

Sinclair’s temper suddenly flared.

“Damn your meetings! We’re wasting time!”

“Mr. Sinclair, I understand your frustration. But this investigation is bigger than my section.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gardiner asked.

“We are bringing in the Secret Intelligence Service, the Security Service—MI6 and MI5. They’ll take you and Mr. VerPlanck to a secure location just west of here for a debriefing session.”

“My God, I can’t believe this is happening!”
Sinclair said, hurtling to his feet and pacing the room like a caged animal.

“Please, Mr. Sinclair, bear with us. In cases of this magnitude, we coordinate all our intelligence. I’ve arranged transportation.”

On cue, the door opened and the two police guards stepped back inside.

“Gentlemen, if you would follow us.”

The door closed behind them and only Holly and Gardiner remained. Sinclair, VerPlanck, and Peter Scripps were on their way to the next meeting. Gardiner was hurriedly gathering up his raincoat and briefcase.

“How can I help?” Holly asked as she watched him limp painfully about the room.

Gardiner turned to her with embarrassment.

“I could use your arm for support. My balance is not quite what it once was, and I need to locate Paul Oakley.”

“I’d be happy to walk with you.”

“I should warn you, this is not a pleasant place. Dr. Oakley is underneath the city at an urban archaeological site.”

“Why does everyone want to talk to Dr. Oakley?”

“Paul often works for British Intelligence on terrorism issues.”

“I see.”

“He’s my partner,” Gardiner explained. “We’ve been together for about a year. That’s why the police called me. I’m here to find him.”

“Oh,
now
I understand why we are in Edinburgh.”

“I was here talking to Peter Scripps about locating Paul when we got word that Cordelia had been kidnapped.”

“I feel
awful
about that,” Holly commiserated.

“This is not really your problem. You were asked only to help find the cup, and here you are in the middle of a terrorist investigation.”

“I know, but Sinclair is an old friend, and I promised to help Mr. VerPlanck. So count me in.”

“Well, your presence is very much appreciated, my dear, even if everyone is too distracted to tell you so.”

“There’s no need to thank me. I’ll do anything I can to help,” Holly said, starting for the door.

Gardiner picked up his cane and turned to her with an apologetic smile.

“Holly, I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts. They say it’s haunted down there.”

Ayrshire, Scotland

S
INCLAIR AND
T
ED
VerPlanck sat in the back of the military helicopter. The
thwump, thwump, thwump
of the rotors cut off all conversation as they lifted off the compound and banked sharply to the left. VerPlanck sat immobile, lost in his own dark thoughts. Sinclair had two questions swirling around in his mind. Where was Cordelia? And where were they going?

The officer at the controls hadn’t revealed their destination, but the compass on the flight panel indicated west-southwest. Sinclair also noticed the pilot’s right sleeve was emblazoned with an embroidered SAS parachute patch. The Special Air Service was an elite counterterrorism force. That insignia was an indication of the level of meeting they were headed toward—this unit didn’t play taxi driver for just anyone.

The aircraft gained altitude and skimmed over the Scottish countryside at 160 miles an hour. Below, the landscape looked like a large pasture dotted with cotton balls of sheep. They flew above the silver ribbons of country road for a while and then banked sharply over open terrain. The landscape became rougher, steeper, with fewer houses.

After twenty minutes of flying time, Sinclair suddenly got a glimpse of cliffs and the blue ocean. From the direction their flight had taken, he presumed it was the west coast, an area he knew well. Every year he drove through here to catch the ferry to the Isle of Man TT motorcycle races.

The pilot pointed down at a gray stone fortress with crenellated towers—just like a fairy-tale castle.

“That’s Culzean,” he shouted over the noise as he prepared to land.

The words meant nothing to Sinclair. He leaned toward the window to look out at the structure. They circled and swooped lower. A gorgeous estate was perched high on the cliffs, surrounded by acres of formal gardens and manicured grounds.

No activity, however. One car was parked in the oval drive and three Land Rovers were in the back. The chopper hovered over the vast lawn, then dropped slowly. The landing gear kissed the grass and settled.

With the rotor blades still whirring, a military officer yanked the door open and motioned for Sinclair and VerPlanck to climb out.

“What
is
this place?” Sinclair shouted to VerPlanck over the sound of the chopper taking off again.

“Culzean Castle.”

“So he said. But who lives here?”

“Nobody. But it once belonged to General Dwight D. Eisenhower. The people of Scotland gave it to him as a private residence.”

“
Really
? I’ve never heard of it,” Sinclair said as they sprinted across the lawn.

“Eisenhower saved the British Empire when he was Supreme Commander of the Allied forces during the Second World War. It was a thank-you present.”

“Did he ever come here?” Sinclair asked, surveying the towers.

“Yes, often. He loved golf. Played here . . . after his presidential terms until his death in 1969.”

“Interesting, but why are we here
now
?” Sinclair asked as they followed the officer toward the castle.

“MI5, MI6. That’s shorthand for the Security Service and the Secret Intelligence Service. Rumor has it they hold high-level meetings here in times of national emergency.”

“Sort of like the COBRA meetings in Downing Street?”

“Yes. Except these are a lot more clandestine. If the heads of security from the United States have to fly in, they take a private jet to the USAF base in Alconbury or Lakenheath and then fly here by helicopter. They’re in and out without being officially in the United Kingdom.”

“How do you know so much about all this? You’re not a
spy,
are you?” Sinclair asked, nearly stopping in his tracks.

“Oh, goodness no!” VerPlanck assured him. “But I’ve crossed paths with intelligence services on both sides of the pond. In the shipping business, we often get access to information that might be valuable.”

They had reached the wooden door of the castle, and two military officers carrying weapons came out to greet them. Sinclair and VerPlanck stepped through the door as another helicopter passed overhead.

“You may be right about this meeting,” Sinclair said. “That’s a military aircraft coming in right now.”

Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh

H
OLLY AND
J
IM
Gardiner walked down a dim tunnel that was lit by bare electric bulbs strung on a wire. Their footsteps echoed in the empty subterranean corridor. The passageway sloped sharply downhill and disappeared into the gloom. It was extremely cold, and Holly shivered in her light raincoat. What a sinister place! Despite her earlier bravado, she was beginning to regret she had agreed to come.

Gardiner had explained that this was the entrance to Underground Edinburgh—a rabbit warren of dark streets beneath the modern city. Until a few years ago, not many people knew the old neighborhoods still existed. The labyrinth of medieval passageways had been sealed and abandoned. City planners had simply built over the top, using the four-hundred-year-old structures as foundations for the new construction.

Archaeologists were now excavating the old boarded-up stone houses below the modern city. Paul Oakley was working with them.