The Stolen Chalicel (39 page)

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

C
ARTER 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.

He settled on his haunches. The evening had turned cool, bordering on cold, but he wasn’t uncomfortable so far. He stayed immobile, shifting when necessary to keep his legs from cramping. There was only the sound of lapping water and the acrid scent of pigeon droppings.

He didn’t mind being here for a while; there was a lot to think about. Foremost, the idea that Holly was involved in the art-theft ring! Holly had certainly fallen off her pedestal if she was involved in this!

Carter crouched in the alcove nursing his disappointment for what seemed like hours. Just as he was beginning to think his vigil was futile, there was the distant purr of an engine. A gleaming wooden motorboat emerged from the broader canal. The pilot pulled the craft up to the stone landing and cut the motor. It bobbed silently as the passengers stood up.

In the gloom, Carter saw two people and a driver. A man and a woman balanced on the rocking boat as they prepared to make the leap to the stone landing. The man went first. Carter caught a glimpse
of him, dark-haired, powerfully built. He held his hand out for the woman.

She was wearing a dark cape, the hood up, her face not visible. She refused his help and managed to descend expertly, her high heels clattering onto the stone as she recovered her footing. They ascended the steps of the water landing and went into the heavy iron door of the palazzo. The boat idled in the canal, sending a drift of gasoline fumes in his direction.

On impulse, Carter advanced out of his hiding place with no plan other than to get closer. He started toward the nearest bridge to cross over to the house.

Suddenly, someone hit him with a swift punch to the lung!
The blow took him totally by surprise, and hurt a
lot
! His arms were grabbed from behind and twisted until he thought his shoulders would dislocate out of their sockets. Then he was wrestled to the ground. The knee in his back nearly broke his spine. A hand grabbed his hair and pressed his cheek to the ground. As he opened his mouth to gasp in pain, he could smell pigeon droppings on the flagstones.

“Who are you?” he asked. The man’s accent was British.

“American, Brooklyn Museum,” he wheezed.

“Get up,” another man said, toeing him in the ribs with his boot. “And keep quiet.”

“Hey, what’s the idea?” Carter whispered as he scrambled up.

“We’re British Security, watching the house,” the man said. “What’s your story?”

“I’m a curator from the Brooklyn Museum, hired by the FBI to recover the art,” Carter gasped. “I was waiting for Dr. Hollis Graham.”

Just then the rev of a motor caught their attention. The wooden speedboat pulled away from the water landing and turned into the canal. The fan of the wake grew wider as the boat moved away. In the back were the same two figures, the man and the woman.

His heart sank with disappointment. They were getting away! He strained to get a better look at the woman. As the boat picked up speed, her dark cape wafted open and the hood blew back. Carter caught sight of blond hair and the bright pink dress.

“That’s Holly!”
he cried out.

“Are you sure?” they asked.

“Of
course
I’m sure. We’ve worked together every day for five years. It’s her.”

“We’ll radio ahead and let the others know,” the agents assured him. “They’ll intercept them out in the lagoon.”

“I can’t
believe
you beat me up and let
them
get away!”

“Don’t worry,” one of them replied. “We have people following the boat.”

“Hey!”
the other agent called out from the bridge. “There’s something on the boat landing. I’ll go get it.”

Carter walked over to take a look. The agent negotiated his way down the moss-covered steps. He picked up the blue plastic bag from the stone and carried it back up, dripping.

“That’s the bag Sinclair was carrying when they went to the opera!” Carter burst out.

“You don’t miss much, do you?” the agent said. Together the two men opened the bag and pulled out an art book.

“Is it still there?” one agent said.

One of them shook the volume upside down. Nothing fell out. He paged through, just to be sure.

“They took it,” he declared.

“What are you looking for?” Carter asked.

“The money,” the second agent said, flipping through the book quickly.

“What’s this?” Carter asked, pointing to an inscription on the flyleaf, written in black felt-tip pen.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you put it there?” Carter asked.

“No, it was a brand-new book,” the agent replied.

They all looked at the inscription. The ink was starting to run on the wet page.