The Stolen Chalicel (46 page)

“They’re on their way,” Oakley assured him.

With the twelve top leaders standing in a basement hallway, every security officer was already there.

Oakley saw the situation clearly. Sinclair was asking for help to open the door. That wouldn’t happen.

If there were any chance that the canister would fire off, the security team would not risk it. Nor would they listen to any pleas of desperation.
Sinclair and Holly would be insignificant casualties. That door would stay
closed.

“Holly,” Sinclair was saying, “get over into the corner. And stand directly under the air shaft!”

She moved quickly across the room and stood where the ventilation system blew fresh, cool air down on her. In the draft, wisps of hair stirred around her face.

Sinclair hung up the phone and went to join her. She looked absolutely white with fear. On impulse he leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“We’ll be OK, Hols,” he said quietly.

“We will?” she asked, glancing up at him. Her eyes were enormous.

“Yes, Oakley says to stay here under the . . .” Sinclair stopped. His head snapped up to look at the wall next to the ceiling.

“What is it, John?”

He stared up at the grating of the ventilation shaft. The opening to the air duct was less than three feet wide, covered by a slatted aluminum grille.

“Do you think you could fit through that space?” he asked, pointing at it.

Holly’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. She considered.

“It looks big enough,” she concluded.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

He dragged a chair over from the conference table to the wall and jumped up on it. He could just reach the bottom of the vent. It was lucky he was so tall. He could probably yank the cover off. But how was it attached?

There was a quarter-inch gap between the grating and the surface of the wall. It was screwed on. And the construction was a solid concrete block. This was not going to be easy to remove.

He tried prying it off. His fingernails just fit under the lip of the metal. He pulled, nearly wrenching his nails out in the process. It hurt like the dickens, but he tried again.

“I can’t get it.” He grunted, trying one more time.

“Try this,” she said.

He looked down and she was handing him a large knife.

“
Where in hell did you get that!”
he gasped, staring at it in disbelief.

“I stole it from the kitchen. It was in my pocket, under my apron. I thought it might come in handy.”

Sinclair grinned down at her.

“Hols, you’re a
fantastic
woman!” he said.

“
John!
Don’t
talk!
Just get us out of here!”

The knife was strong, used for cutting raw meat. He slid it in between the metal and the concrete and torqued it. He did it several times until the knife bent under the pressure of trying to pry off the grid. He got enough space between the grate and the wall to slide his fingers in and gave a tremendous pull.

Finally, with the sound of the screws tearing out of the cement block, the grate came loose. A shower of dust fell onto Holly’s hair. Sinclair handed down first the knife and then the metal frame.

“Get another chair and put it next to the one I am standing on.”

She dragged a chair over and positioned it.

“Climb up here, I’ll push you through the opening.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at the gaping hole in the wall.

“It’s the only way. I don’t know where it goes, but keep sliding along that air shaft as far as you can. Don’t stop. Hopefully the ventilation flow will keep the aerosol spray away from you if this thing goes off.”

“I am not sure . . .”

“Just
do it
! Keep going. Maybe there is an exit. Now come here, I am going to boost you up.”

Sinclair reached down for her. Holly took his hands to balance and then stepped up on the seat of the adjacent chair. It was going to be tough to get her up there. The opening to the air shaft was at least four feet above her head.

Sinclair stooped down and linked his hands to form a stirrup.

“Kick off your shoes and put your foot here. Let me give you a lift.”

“Oh, my God, I can’t! It’s too high!”

“We can do it! I’ll count to three, then up you go. Just grab for the opening.”

“OK, I’ll try,” she said, wobbling on the chair.

“One, two . . . three!”

He pushed her up with all of his strength. She struggled against him to pull herself higher, and suddenly he felt her get a grip on the opening to the shaft. He locked his arms around her legs to lift her higher. Her elbows were in the air shaft now; he could feel her moving her upper body. Sinclair squatted down and placed her feet on his shoulders.

“Hols, push against me, harder! I’ve got you.”

He strained to stand up as her feet bore down on his shoulders. Finally, the pressure eased. She had managed to pull herself in. Her bare feet disappeared into the tunnel. There was considerable banging and thumping as she tried to advance forward.

“Come on, John,” she called back. “There’s room for you now!”

“Keep going,” he yelled.

“Aren’t you coming?” she shouted.

Her voice echoed out of the empty hole near the ceiling.

He looked back at the canister taped to the leg of the chair.

“I can’t,” he called to her. “I won’t fit.”

The MoonSonnet
Motorsailer

T
HE SPEEDBOAT COULD
be heard approaching in the darkness. Ted VerPlanck signaled with a flashlight, making long, deliberate swoops. Finally the craft came in sight, with two men wearing police armor and helmets.

“Delia, can you get those fenders in?” VerPlanck shouted to her.

She flipped the bulky cylindrical cushions over the rail to hang down the side of the boat. The two crafts would tie together, and the fenders would prevent the hulls from scraping against each other. Cordelia readied herself to catch the lines as the security team tossed them.

“What’s going on?” Jim Gardiner called as they got within hailing distance. “The radio went silent.”

“We turned it off,” the officer said as they pulled alongside and cut the engine.

“Why? What’s going on?” Carter asked.

“We had an emergency. They’ve evacuated the entire hall. Hang on, we’ll explain.”

Sharm el-Sheikh Conference Center

S
INCLAIR WALKED OVER
to the hotline and picked it up.

“Paul?”

“Yes, John, I’m here.”

“I got Holly up into the ventilation shaft. See if someone can pull her out of there from the other end, will you?”

“Oh, that’s
brilliant
! I’ll get on it right away.” The relief in Oakley’s voice was heartening. Sinclair hated to burst his bubble.

“Paul, you still there?” Sinclair said.

“Yes, John?”

“The bad news is I can’t fit. My shoulders are too big. Is there anything else I can do?”

There was a long, agonized silence. Finally, Oakley replied.

“Take your shirt off and tie it over your nose and mouth. If the canister goes off, shut your eyes and keep them shut.”

His tone was flat. Sinclair listened to him and his heart sank. Oakley clearly had no hope that anything would help.

“We’ll get you out, John,” Oakley said with false cheer. “Cover your nose and mouth and sit under the ventilation shaft.”

“OK, will do,” Sinclair said. He hung up the phone and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Holly found she couldn’t really crawl. She was worming her way along, using her forearms to push herself forward. There was not much elbow
room in the tight space, so she also had to use her feet to push along inch by inch. She was able to get some grip on the metal surface with the tips of her bare toes. It was slow, but she could shimmy herself along.

It was hard work. And hot! Her skin stuck to the steel walls of the ventilation shaft, rubbing painfully as she tried to move. She could feel abrasion burns on her elbows and knees.

She remembered how, as a child, the hot metal of the playground slide would grab and tear at her skin exactly like this. Funny, how childhood recollections pop up so suddenly. The memory made her sad. How short life is! And how
precious
.

Every inch she crawled, she moved farther away from Sinclair. He was trapped. It wasn’t fair.

Tears streamed down her face as she struggled forward. An awful dull ache filled her chest. Surely this was what a broken heart felt like.

She pictured Sinclair’s face. He would be urging her to keep going if he were here. Her heart swelled with affection for him. He wanted her to live. He wanted her to stay alive and tried so hard to save her, even though he was doomed. It was up to her to honor his final wish.

And for some reason that was enough to make her keep going. The crying stopped. She found the strength to crawl forward again.

Holly heard voices and saw a light. It wasn’t the blinding light of a near-dying experience. It was the beam of a flashlight playing off the wall of the shaft about thirty feet ahead.

She started to sob. There were people calling to her. She was absolutely weeping.

“Dr. Graham,” a male voice called to her. “Can you hear us?”

Dr. Graham? How
formal
. When she got out of here, she would certainly tell them to please call her Holly. She started to crawl forward.

“I’m here,” she gasped as she moved faster. They sounded quite close.

“Dr. Graham, are you there?” they asked again.

“Yes!”
she shouted.
“Yes, I’m here!”

“We’re going to toss a rope into the shaft and snake it down to you. Wrap it around your chest under your arms and we’ll pull you out!”

“OK.” She started to cry again with relief.

Sinclair sat directly under the ventilation shaft and looked at the metal canister taped to the chair. It wasn’t very big. Hard to believe it was deadly. There was a pressure gauge and some other contraption on top.

Oakley had said to stay away from the canister. The device could have an automatic trigger and might detonate if it was tampered with.

No use trying to disarm it. All he had was a bent kitchen knife. And he had no idea what to do. Fixing his motorcycle was about as mechanical as he got. The only thing to do was move away and hope for the best.

The sounds from the shaft overhead were getting faint. He had heard the crying. Holly must be at the end of her rope. He had never known her to break down before.

He had hollered for her to keep going. He hoped she heard. Suddenly, the sobbing stopped and he could hear her crawling again. Hols was a tough woman. She would make it.

Himself, he was not so sure. Someone damn well better get this door open soon. He closed his eyes and waited. Pointless, really. He was kidding himself. They weren’t coming for him. They were probably evacuating the building, making sure everyone else was safe. Heads of state outrank mere archaeologists. Anyone could tell you that.

He couldn’t help but recall the medical pictures Oakley had passed around in the Eisenhower Apartment at Culzean Castle. The swelling under the armpits and the groin. A litany of horrific symptoms. What really bothered him was that the skin would actually start to decompose while the person was alive! Turn black, start to putrefy. Without a doubt, the Black Death was one of the most evil diseases in the world.