The Stolen Chalicel (9 page)

But making love to Holly had been like entering into a pact with the powers of darkness. He didn’t have a coherent thought during the entire time of their affair.

It had been nearly a decade since she left him sitting in a bar in Aqaba, nursing a gin and tonic and a broken heart. And to this day he could still picture that farewell drink.

He never forgot her. Over the years, he had a recurring fantasy of bumping into her. Sometimes he pictured an exotic dig, or perhaps a far-flung airport in a remote country. But dancing at the Temple of Dendur!

“Hello, Hols,” he finally said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. “How’ve you been?”

She looked up at him and smiled.

Vojtech pushed his dessert cart, laden with little chocolate sphinxes filled with vanilla ice cream. Tartufo, they called it. They looked like little toy zoo animals, staring at him impassively. Most of the tables had been served already, and the other waiters had returned to the kitchen. These were the last cartloads, for the people at the back of the room.

He stood in the prep area, hidden behind a temporary screen. On the other side of the partition, a thousand people were laughing, talking, and dancing. The atrium was filled with excited voices. In another moment there would be screams.

Vojtech removed the black nylon bag from underneath the white
drape of the rolling cart. The duffel had been under there all evening. But who bothers to lift a tablecloth when a thousand melting ice-cream desserts had to be served?

Now, standing behind the screen, he started to sweat. This was the moment of action. Vojtech heard the elevator doors open behind him. Two other gunmen rolled their carts in. They were stone-faced and determined.

Vojtech stuck his head around the partition.

“Now!”
he said.

Instantly they pulled out their automatic weapons and crouched down, ready to storm the dining room. Vojtech grabbed his bag, fumbled with the zipper, and pulled out his gun. His hands were shaking. A drop of sweat dripped off his nose and made a dark mark on the nylon bag. It was time to move!

Behind him, he heard the service elevator doors open again.

“Hey, you! What are you doing there?”

Vojtech kept going.

“Freeze! Secret Service! Everybody put your hands in the air!”

Vojtech ignored the command and began to raise his weapon. Again a voice behind him was telling him to halt. He looked over and saw that the two other gunmen were obeying—lying on the floor in submission, their assault weapons cast aside.

But Vojtech lurched forward. He was not going to give up so easily! Three more steps and he would be in the main dining room.

An instant later he heard the zing of a silencer and he was hit in the knee. As he fell, he glanced underneath the bottom of the screen and saw the majestic temple and all the partygoers dancing in front of it. That was his last second of life. A Secret Service agent blew his head off from behind.

Cordelia drifted back to the table to find it littered with abandoned plates of melted ice cream. Sinclair had disappeared and everyone was dancing, so she picked up her wineglass and looked around the room, catching an arresting face or a beautiful dress. So many interesting people!

A distinguished man with a beard was winding his way through the tables, greeting everyone. She idly followed his progress through the room. He looked very elegant and carried himself with great formality.

As she watched him, she gradually became aware of a disturbance near the entrance of the gallery. There were small pops, like the sound of champagne corks. Three men in dark suits hastily approached the First Lady and surrounded her chair. The president’s wife stood up, picked up her evening bag, and walked briskly to the side door.

Cordelia watched her go, perplexed. Surely the guest of honor wasn’t leaving so soon? Just then there was the crackle of the intercom and a male voice spoke carefully and with authority.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have encountered a security breach. There is no cause for alarm. But we must evacuate the room. Please collect your belongings and exit through the rear door.”

There was a collective “Ahh” from the room and the people around her started to mutter in disappointment.

Cordelia looked around to find Sinclair.

“You should go outside quickly,” a voice right next to her said. She turned and saw the tall bearded man she had noticed earlier.

“I’ve lost my partner . . . he seems to be gone . . .” she said as her voice faded.

“You won’t be able to find him with this crowd. Come with me.”

“But I don’t know you. . . .”

“I’m Ted VerPlanck. I’m the cochair of the gala.”

Cordelia recognized the name instantly. He was one of the most famous antiquities collectors in the world and a client of her legal adviser, Jim Gardiner. Still, she hesitated.

The room was starting to get very disorganized. People were jostling in the narrow spaces between the tables. The music had stopped, and the glass-enclosed museum gallery rang with the shrill calls of people trying to locate each other.

“Everyone exit the museum,”
a booming voice announced through a megaphone.

The man extended his hand to her.

“I’ll show you the way. Follow me.”

He guided her along as they moved through the tables. They made their way to the rear of the atrium and around to the back of the temple. There, hidden from view, was a set of double doors.

“Only a few people know about this exit,” he explained.

They stepped through and the heavy doors shut behind them. Then there was only a deep silence.

“Thank you, Mr. VerPlanck.”

“Think nothing of it. I would like to go out into the lobby if you don’t mind,” he said.

Cordelia nodded, allowing him to take the lead, following his tuxedoed back through a labyrinth of empty galleries until he finally halted in a large two-story-high hall.

“I’ll just stop here for a moment,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead.

His jacket fell open and Cordelia could see that his pleated tuxedo shirt was sticking to his torso, damp with sweat.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“Yes,” he assured her, rebuttoning his jacket. “I’m a bit flustered, that’s all. The evening has just turned into a public relations disaster.”

“Do you think anyone was hurt?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I’d better get outside,” Cordelia replied anxiously. “I need to find my escort.”

John Sinclair pushed his way against the flow of people, to the table where Cordelia had been sitting.
She was gone!
All around, people were pressing past him.

“Cordelia!”
Sinclair called out.

“John!”

He heard his name being shouted and whirled around. It was Holly, standing where he had left her a moment ago, her white dress a beacon in the crowd. Sinclair had told her to wait, but now she was being buffeted by masses of people.

“Holly, I’ll come get you!”
he called and made his way back to her.

Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of a bullhorn.

“Move away from the main entrance. Go to the back of the room and exit behind the temple.”

The announcement seemed to redirect the crowd. People moved quickly, purposefully. Policemen were channeling the guests toward the exits. One officer stepped up to Sinclair and Holly, his radio squawking.

“Move along, sir,” he said firmly. “Follow instructions to exit the museum.”

“Officer, my girlfriend is missing,” Sinclair argued.

The policeman looked at Holly holding on to Sinclair’s arm.

“Please move on, sir.”

“She probably left already,” Holly assured him.

They joined the large phalanx of guests—hundreds in an endless stream—now oddly silent as they hurried through the winding galleries. Finally they reached the main foyer.

The cavernous space was filled with a huge crowd. Many people were milling about, searching for their friends. Others were standing around speculating about what had happened.

“I thought I heard five or six gunshots,” a man was saying. “At least, that’s what I thought they sounded like.”

“No, you must be mistaken. If there had been gunfire, we would know about it.”

“I think something went wrong with the alarm system. That’s what I heard some guards talking about.”

“I was sitting near the First Lady,” an elderly woman said. “Her security detail got her out right away.”

NYPD officers were walking through the main hall, urging people to go home. The gala was over, they explained. The security breach had been detected and stopped. Everyone was safe.

Sinclair pushed through the crowd. There must be several hundred people in the lobby. Even with his towering height, it was impossible to find Cordelia. Almost every woman in the place was wearing the same color, and the entrance hall had turned into a sea of red gowns!

He elbowed his way gently, Holly hanging on to him. Finally, he turned to her.

“I can’t manage this if we stay together. Do you mind if I leave you here?”

Holly looked down and seemed to realize that she was still holding his arm. She released it hastily.

“Yes, go ahead. I’ll be OK.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?”

“John darling, I’m
fine
. You should go look for your date.”

“No need,” a voice said behind him. “His
date
is here.”

Sinclair whirled around and stood face-to-face with Cordelia.

Ted VerPlanck strained through the crowd trying to locate Tipper. There was a slim possibility she had gone outside or had even gone home. As he walked out on the steps, the autumn air was suddenly refreshing. He looked across Fifth Avenue at his apartment, but the oblong windows of the living room were still dark. No one was there.

Ted VerPlanck lingered a moment to observe the scene on the street. Police cars were parked at angles up on the sidewalk. Fifth Avenue echoed with wailing sirens. Photographers and reporters were running up and down the red-carpeted steps, snapping pictures. The camera crews had turned on their floodlights and were beaming live video back to their studios via satellite trucks.