The Stolen Chalicel (44 page)

He closed his eyes and thanked all the powers of the universe that Cordelia was safe. As bad as this was, it was nothing compared to the agony he had been going through while she was missing. VerPlanck had been such a godsend. To have Cordelia secure and guarded on
The MoonSonnet
was all he could ask for.

The MoonSonnet
Motorsailer, Sharm el-Sheikh

I
N THE DINING
room of
The MoonSonnet,
Cordelia picked at her grilled fish and periodically looked at her watch. She could barely swallow.

Everyone on VerPlanck’s ship was aware of what was happening. The bridge of the boat had been set up with state-of-the-art communications equipment. From there they could speak with the security control room on shore. Cordelia had even talked to Sinclair a few times during the day, but all the conversations had been brief. There had been too much to do.

Tonight, Ted VerPlanck was tactfully ignoring everyone’s emotional state. Conversation was forced but determinedly cheerful, avoiding any mention of what was going on at the conference center.

Carter was telling VerPlanck about a new find in the Valley of the Kings. Jim Gardiner was eating heartily, his usual response to stress. But Cordelia was inconsolable, tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Delia,” Gardiner said, putting down his fork. “It’s going to be OK. This will be over and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

Cordelia laughed and wiped her eyes.

“Sinclair is never going to change,” she said, smiling. “He will most
certainly
find another way to get into trouble. I’m sure of it.”

“Well, honey, I’ll have a talk with him,” Gardiner replied. “I’ll tell him he needs to find a hobby or something else to keep him out of harm’s way.”

“What do you think he should do?”

“I think it’s time he took up something safe . . . like golf.”

“Not
golf
!” VerPlanck said, looking over at Gardiner in mock horror. “Surely we haven’t come to
that.
”

Sharm el-Sheikh Conference Center

A
FTER-DINNER SPEECHES WERE
about to begin. The fruit plates were being cleared. The chief organizer of the conference was extolling Egypt for its gracious hospitality. Participants were profusely thanked—individually, collectively, and nationally. Sinclair listened with half an ear and shifted in his seat. Nothing had happened.

Suddenly, the kitchen doors opened and there was a commotion at the back of the room. He immediately thought of the attack at the Met. Was
this
the moment?

He scanned the room. Nothing amiss. Moustaffa was standing in the middle of the tables, watching the parade of dessert trolleys being pushed into the ballroom.

The pièce de résistance of the dinner was to be cherries jubilee. A bit of culinary theater. Standing at each table, a waiter would ignite the cherries, brown sugar, and liqueur and sauté it over an open flame on a flambé cart. The juices and brandy would blend, and then the succulent sauce would be spooned over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Certainly it could all have been prepared in the kitchen. But this kind of tableside flourish made the dinner special.

Holly had been assigned to help pass the plates at Table 4. She stood directly behind Sinclair. He turned and spoke to her, as everyone watched the waiters enter the room.

“Still nothing?” he asked.

“I can’t imagine when . . .” she started and then her eyes widened. A thought occurred to her.

“John, do you happen to know if they checked the flambé equipment on the dessert trolleys?”

“No, why?” he asked, puzzled.

“There are twenty-five trolleys, one for every two tables,” she explained.

“Yes?”

“John, inside each cart there is an eight-ounce canister of butane
—”

“Oh, my God!”
Sinclair said, turning to her with panic in his eyes.

“Do you think . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

He looked over at Moustaffa. The bastard was looking at him and laughing. All around him the waiters were rolling their carts into place. The look on Moustaffa’s face was triumphant. Slowly, the terrorist turned and walked back to the kitchen.
He left the room!
Sinclair took Holly’s hand.

“You’re right. This is it! Holly, come with me right now!”

The waiters were now in place, and everyone watched them expectantly. The flaming cherries would be spectacular—a lovely touch of elegance to the dinner. Each waiter stood next to his dessert trolley holding a long-necked lighter, ready to fire up the butane burners to flambé the cherries.

The president of the United States leaned over to speak to the Japanese prime minister.

“I can’t remember the last time I had this dessert, but it’s really special,” he remarked. “I do hope you like cherries.”

“I certainly do. And I understand that your first president, George Washington, also liked cherries very much.”

Sinclair raced out into the hallway. Four security men were standing around the empty corridor, waiting for the dinner to end.

“You have to clear the room!
. . .” Sinclair shouted, his lapel mike transmitting to the security center.
“It’s the butane canisters. The weapon is in the dessert carts! Moustaffa just left through the kitchen!”

The security men in the corridor all raced toward the door of the ballroom. One turned back.

“Sinclair, go to the safe room! Make sure they are ready and the hallway is clear!”

Every single officer in the third-floor control room leaped to his feet. They were looking at one another in confusion.

“No! He’s wrong!”
the head of operations shouted. “We checked the dessert carts. The canisters were
fine
!”

“Clear the room! That
has
to be it!” his second in command snapped. “Moustaffa said the attack would come at the end of dinner.”

“I don’t . . .
no
! Keep everyone in place,” the head of operations insisted.

“If we don’t clear that ballroom, they could die!”

The two men stared at each other in horror. They had directly conflicting opinions. A wrong decision would be fatal. The head of operations caved in.

“You’re right,” he said. “Let’s get everyone below. We’ll err on the side of caution.”

The chief of operations turned to the security officers.

“Evacuate the dais! Do it now!”

Moustaffa sat at the industrial table in the kitchen with four pistols pointed at his head. Security teams had forced him into a secure position and were keeping him pinned there until further orders. Despite his capture, Moustaffa was smiling.

This plan was proceeding perfectly. In about three minutes the security team would evacuate the dais and move the dignitaries via elevator to the underground passage. All twelve of them would go inside the safe room and shut the door.

Inside the room would be airtight, sealed, with ventilation only through a closed circulatory system. The lock would be set for a predetermined thirty-minute period. No one inside or outside the vault could override the mandatory seal. They’d be trapped.
There, in that bunker, the weapon would trigger, with all twelve of the world leaders inside!

Paul Oakley heard Sinclair’s voice on the speakers in the command center.
How could this be
? They had searched the entire kitchen. And the butane canisters had
not
been overlooked. Each cylinder was attached
underneath
the burners of the flambé carts. The security team had disassembled the apparatus and had examined each one extensively.

But Sinclair had to be right. It must be some other system in the trolley. Something they didn’t notice. Another device, perhaps on automatic detonate, related to the butane burner? Once it had been lit, some kind of seal would melt and the bioweapon would be released. The mechanics of it eluded him, but the thought of it was
awful.

The commanding officer got on the IFB microphone and spoke directly into the earpieces of the agents in the dining room.