“It’s this way,” said one of the faux policemen. “Straight ahead to case number 98.”
“This it?”
“Yes. See, every piece has an exhibition number. We need case 98—items 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, and 127.”
“This stuff is small, so why not grab a couple more? You know, for us.”
“No, let’s stick to the plan. We don’t have time.”
“OK, I was just saying . . . we’re here already, why not grab a couple extra?”
“Shut up and give me the circuit cutter.”
The man unbuttoned his voluminous shirt and took out a canvas roll fitted with small implements. Within seconds they had hooked up the electrical loop that would keep the current intact. They carefully cut the glass and removed the items. As they worked they could hear people talking and laughing out in the corridor.
Each figurine was wrapped and secured to the men’s bodies with surgical tape. When they buttoned their shirts, they had gained thirty pounds.
“You’re suddenly looking kinda fat,” his partner said, surveying him.
“Yeah, I know. When I put on weight, you know who I blame?”
“Who?”
“My mummy.”
They both laughed as they walked out of the gallery.
John Sinclair passed two portly NYPD officers in the hallway. The security was pretty tight this evening. He even had to show his pass to go to the men’s room!
As he reentered the hall, the beauty of the temple struck him all over again. The red roses and white Casablanca lilies had released their scent, and now the whole room smelled like an August afternoon.
Sinclair wound his way through the gilt ballroom chairs to his table. Passage was difficult. The gala committee had sold so many tickets it was almost impossible to walk between the tables. A big-band orchestra was starting to play, and everyone was getting up—some to dance, others to table-hop.
Charlie Hannifin leaned over to speak to Tipper. She was helping herself to more wine, clinking the bottle hard against the glass. Charlie took it from her and poured.
“I have an art deal to talk to you about.”
“Art? You know I don’t give a damn about art.”
People at the next table looked over at her. She put down her goblet. It was time to stop drinking. Dessert had been served—a dark chocolate tartufo in the shape of a sphinx, decorated with gold leaf.
She speared the confection with a fork. The frozen chocolate shell shattered and shards of dark chocolate shot out all over the tablecloth. Tipper picked up a fragment and popped it into her mouth, licking her fingers clean.
Charlie was looking at her in consternation.
“You may not care about art in general, but you will care about this kind of art.”
“What makes you think so?”
Tipper scouted around for another piece of chocolate and found one near the centerpiece of roses.
“I hear you are divorcing Ted.”
Tipper turned and stared at Charlie. “Who the hell told you that?”
“It was on the gossip page—Page Six in the New York Post, last Tuesday.”
She shrugged and picked up another piece near Charlie’s plate. “So what does the divorce have to do with anything?”
“Ted’s collection is worth a fortune. It could mean a lot to you.”
“Nope. Art is outside any settlement. It’s all spelled out in the prenup.”
“You have a prenuptial agreement?” Charlie asked in shock.
“Sure do.”
“I thought you and Ted got married right after college. Who had a prenup back then?”
“We broke up about five years ago. During reconciliation Ted wanted a midlife prenup.”
“You mean when you ran off to Reykjavík with that bandleader?” Charlie asked unpleasantly.
“He isn’t a bandleader. He is a rock star. And it wasn’t Reykjavík, it was Glastonbury.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Glastonbury is in England. It’s perfectly respectable. Even Ted goes to England.”
“Yeah, but not for rock festivals.”
“Jesus, Charlie. Blades is one of the most successful commercial entertainment groups in the world.”
“I stand corrected,” Charlie said, smirking.
“What does all this have to do with art?”
“What would you say if I told you that you could get ten percent of the value of some of Ted’s art?” Charlie said.
“How would that work?”
Tipper took another shard of dark chocolate off the table.
“Art can be stolen.”
“You are going to steal Ted’s art?” she whispered, turning to stare at him.
“No, but there are people who would pay big money to know when and where Ted’s art collection could be”—Charlie paused to search for a word—“accessible.”
She looked at him in disbelief.
“Why should I tell people how to steal from Ted?”
“Because they would pay you millions in commission.”
Tipper let the chocolate dissolve in her mouth as she thought about it. Last year there had been rumors that Charlie Hannifin had lost his fortune in a stock swindle. Well, apparently they were true; Charlie Hannifin was so broke he was thinking about stealing art from his friends.
Sinclair came up to the table and saw Cordelia talking animatedly to the guest across from her. She pushed her dark hair back, exposing her beautiful shoulders. Tan from the expedition in Egypt, she looked fit and athletic.
Without question, Cordelia was one of the most beautiful women in the room. And that strapless dress was magnificent. Sinclair leaned over and spoke in her ear.
“You look so beautiful. I can’t wait for this party to be over.”
She smiled up at him, radiant.
“John, you’ve flown more than five thousand miles to come here, and now you want to leave? We could have stayed in Egypt.”
“We could have,” he admitted. “But I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you with the Temple of Dendur behind you.”
“It’s so beautiful,” Cordelia said with a sigh. “It almost looks like a movie set—except it’s real!”
He sat down and held her hand as they watched people dancing.
“You know, Delia . . . I’ve been thinking . . .” Sinclair started. But just then one of the other dinner guests leaned across the table and spoke.
“Pardon me, Miss Stapleton, but may I have this dance?”
Cordelia looked up, startled. She clearly didn’t want to leave, but she smiled graciously.
“Yes, of course,” she acquiesced. “Excuse me, John. I’ll be right back.”
Carter Wallace patiently bided his time through five dinner courses: squash soup with walnuts, seafood pâté, chicken breast stuffed with pomegranate and figs, Belgian endive salad with goat cheese. Finally, the waiters came around with dark chocolate tartufo and coffee. Holly was nibbling on a piece of crystallized ginger when he decided to speak up.
He felt his face grow flush and a trickle of sweat creep down his back. She could laugh or refuse. He went for it.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to dance.”
She looked at him, seeming to take his measure.
“Carter, I would be delighted.”
Her tone was cheerfully condescending, as if she were indulging the six-year-old ring bearer at a wedding. As she rose, he gallantly offered her his arm, but it was so crowded he had to abandon ceremony, and they threaded their way single file through the tables.
The orchestra was set up right in front of the temple—a stunning backdrop to the dance floor. When he reached the middle, they fell into step.
Wow! Dancing with Holly Graham! He never thought he would see the day. She seemed quite cool about it all, looking off over his shoulder, so he gazed out the glass wall at the beautiful night sky above Central Park. They kept silent for quite some time until he decided to venture a
comment.
“I haven’t stepped on your toes yet.”
She smiled up at him. “No, you haven’t. In fact, you’re a very good dancer.”
John Sinclair sipped his wine and watched Cordelia’s progress on the dance floor. She was in the arms of a particularly short fellow who looked completely enthralled.
As he was observing, another couple moved in front of Cordelia, eclipsing his view—a stocky young man and a blond woman. The man said something, smiling down, completely smitten.
His heart stopped. It couldn’t be her, could it?
He stared at the lovely back and knew that if she would just turn a fraction he would know for sure. She was wearing a white Grecian-style dress. Fantastic figure—her curves were deeply voluptuous yet graceful. Suddenly, the woman turned. It was Holly Graham!
Sinclair felt as if he had been hit with an electric shock. It made sense that she would be here—Holly was one of the top people at the Brooklyn Museum.
On impulse, Sinclair headed to the dance floor, launched up the three stone steps, and wove through the crowd. When he got nearer, he circled around behind and tapped her escort on the shoulder.
“Sorry to cut in, but this lady is an old friend.”
Carter Wallace turned and stared at Sinclair.
“John!” Holly exclaimed. “How nice to see you!”
The young fellow stood like a dolt, scowling at him and still clinging to Holly’s hand. Sinclair smiled pleasantly at him.
“I’ll bring her back, I promise.”
“Carter, excuse me for a moment,” she said gently. “John is an old friend.”
The fellow crumbled visibly, finally letting go.
“Of course,” he mumbled.
Sinclair deftly steered Holly to the middle of the dance floor, then took her in his arms.
Holly Graham. Imagine! He held her a bit closer than he needed to, but it seemed perfectly appropriate. They had history together.
Physically, they didn’t match; she was nearly a foot shorter than he was, her head barely up to his shoulder. Holly was so small, so delicate, but that only added to her allure. He danced silently for a while, falling into a dreamy reminiscence.
How long had it been since they first met at Wadi Rum? He remembered the day well. It had been beastly hot—110 degrees. But she had looked very fresh standing there in her white shirt and khaki shorts—a little blond doll—impossibly perfect. Her skin had been flawless, not a drop of sweat or a stain on her clothes despite the long journey by Land Rover to the middle of nowhere.
Someone had introduced her as Dr. Graham. Holly had shaken his hand politely, but under the shade of a broad-brimmed Tilley hat her blue eyes had been dismissive. I’ve seen plenty of guys like you, her look had said. I’m not easily impressed.
Of course, that aloofness had made her immediately irresistible. Sinclair had vowed on the spot to trump her professionally and then seduce her, in that order. An arrogant assumption, except it didn’t work out that way.
Holly was absolutely brilliant. She ran rings around him in the field. And when it came to seduction she reeled him in like a hooked trout.
During that archaeological season in Jordan, he had fallen completely under her spell. The more he lusted, the more she put on the ice-princess hauteur. At the dig during the day, his pulse would rapid-fire whenever she approached. And at night, as he lay on his cot, she became the woman of his fevered dreams.
Finally, she had spoken to him, asking him to come to her tent when the others were sleeping. He nearly fell to his knees in gratitude.
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.”
The Stolen Chalicel Page 5
