She hesitated. How could he ask that? He knew that the main reason she came to London was for that meeting.
“Why?” she asked. “What’s turned up?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain. I just need you to do it.”
“Okkkkkaayyyy . . .” she said uncertainly. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“Well, yes, but I’d like to explain in person. Can you meet me at the Connaught?”
“Right now?”
She looked around her gorgeous suite, reluctant to go back out again. It was pouring rain, and getting dressed and meeting him seemed like a lot of effort. But if Sinclair wanted to get together it could only mean one thing: he was still interested.
“Sure,” she replied. “I’d love to.”
“OK. See you at nine-thirty?”
“You’re on.”
Queens, New York
CARTER WALLACE WAS kneeling on the tarpaulin, putting dates on the artifacts. They had inventoried almost half the stolen articles at the Fantastic Fetes catering company.
“Hey, professor!” the detective called over. “Take a look at this, will ya? This paperwork is strange. Everything’s being shipped to the Freilager Zone in Zurich.”
Carter poked his head up.
“Did you say Freilager Zone?”
“Yeah. What’s that? Some kind of art depot?”
“It’s a transshipment point for high-value cargos, metals, gold, that sort of thing.”
The detective came over to him.
“What’s a transshipment point?”
“Anything that comes into the Freilager Zone can be repackaged and reshipped anywhere in the world with anonymity,” Carter explained.
“Seems to me that would be a perfect place for stolen art,” said the detective.
“It could be,” Carter acknowledged. “But most companies use the zone legitimately, to repackage and ship goods.”
“Well, all these crates are headed there,” said the detective. “The paperwork is signed by a Charles Hannifin.”
“Charles Hannifin?” Carter stood up and dusted off his hands. “There must be some mistake. He is one of the directors of the Met.”
Upper East Side, New York
CHARLIE HANNIFIN WAS sitting in the library at his town house on East Ninety-Third Street. The phone was silent, but it wouldn’t be for long. The FBI had called him yesterday at his office to say they had found the stolen goods in Queens. They hadn’t realized that he was also one of the thieves?
They’d know in a day or so—his name was all over the shipping documents. If he didn’t get out of town soon, it would be prison for the rest of his life.
With seventy-five million dollars stashed away, he could afford to set himself up with a new identity anywhere in the world. But where should he go?
Italy was out. The syndicate would certainly demand retribution. And, with this mob, payback could be anything from a fortune to a finger or worse.
Malta might be a good choice. Or Gibraltar. That was where Russian gangsters and other international money launderers went, now that Cyprus had cleaned up its act.
Charlie swung open a painting on the wall to reveal a safe and punched in the access code—10021, the status zip code of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. He grabbed his passport and several rare Egyptian funerary objects, all hotter than the sands of the Sahara.
From the side drawer of his desk he took bubble wrap, plastic tape, a can of spray glitter, and price stickers. Charlie wrote $12, $14.95. $9.95, $30, and $25 on different stickers and stuck a label on each object. A final spritz of sparkle made them look cheap.
Now all he needed to do was blend them with real junk to get them through customs. He rooted around in the closet for a plastic bag filled with typical tourist trash—a small brass Statue of Liberty, a coffee mug with I LOVE NEW YORK on it, a Hard Rock Café T-shirt. All of it went into his black nylon duffel.
Suddenly, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs. The police wouldn’t be here already, would they? The window was open and the fire escape was visible. Without hesitation, he stepped out onto the metal scaffolding.
It took only a minute to climb down the three stories. He stood on the back terrace, surrounded by wrought-iron patio furniture. The kitchen door was open and he could hear Benita singing and banging around with her pots.
“Beautiful day,” he said to her as he walked through.
“Oh, Mr. Hannifin, I had no idea you were in the garden. You gave me quite a start!”
“I’m off to London. If anyone wants me, I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”
“Have a good trip, sir.”
Charlie poked his head out of the ground-floor door. At this hour, the neighborhood was quiet. Kids in school, dads at the office, moms taking yoga classes. He walked quickly outside and hailed an empty taxi.
“JFK Airport, please. And hurry, I’m late.”
The driver grunted and never turned around.
Charlie had been booked on a noon plane to London. He was supposed to meet with one of the directors of the British Museum tomorrow morning at ten. That appointment had been scheduled for the past few weeks.
He should act as if everything were normal. If he abruptly stopped taking calls or started canceling meetings, he’d only tip off the police that he was planning to flee. And he needed another day to plan.
By going overseas he would gain time. The FBI wouldn’t realize he was gone. Even if they came looking for him today, they wouldn’t be able to notify British authorities until tomorrow—the United Kingdom was five hours ahead.
Charlie dialed his assistant at the office. “Hello, Joan. Anyone call this morning?”
“Only someone from the Brooklyn Museum. A Mr. Carter Wallace. I said you were flying to London for your meeting.”
“If anyone else calls, tell them I’ll be back Thursday.”
“Yes, Mr. Hannifin. Have a good flight.”
Her choice of words made him smile. He’d make sure it was a very good flight indeed.
The Khamsin Motoryacht, N 47°14', W 27°29'
LADY SOMMERSET DIALED the satellite phone and listened to the distant ring. Moustaffa finally picked up.
“It’s X.”
“Anything new?” he asked.
“Yes, it looks like Charlie Hannifin is going make a run for it. I just called his office.”
“So the operation in Queens is blown? You’re telling me we got nothing?” Moustaffa demanded.
“I’m not sure how, but the police found the warehouse,” Xandra explained. “We had to cut our losses.”
“What about the VerPlanck woman?”
“She’s dead, but they’ll never find her body out in Wyoming. She’ll probably be eaten by coyotes.”
“So where’s Hannifin?” Moustaffa’s volcanic temper was simmering.
“He’s on his way to London. His secretary said he has a meeting at the British Museum tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”
“Get Hannifin. And bring him to the boat. I’m going hang him on the wall like a bad painting.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Yes, but keep him alive until I get there. I want to talk to him.”
“All right, darling,” Lady X purred.
Queens
CARTER WALLACE STOOD in the empty kitchen of Fantastic Fetes and listened to Holly’s phone ring into voice mail. He spoke urgently.
“Holly, it’s Carter. This is important. Are you meeting with Charlie Hannifin in London by any chance? I called the Met and his office told me that he was on his way to the British Museum.”
Carter dropped his voice into a lower tone.
“Stay away from him! Hannifin signed for all the stolen art to go to Zurich. He’s one of the thieves!”
He cleared his throat and continued.
“If you get this message, please give me a call back. And stay away from Hannifin!”
Carter hung up the phone and walked out to join the detectives. The contents of the wareh
ouse were scattered all over the cement floor—paintings, statues, and antiquities. The investigators had to stop unpacking the crates because they were running out of floor space. Everything had to be identified, sorted, and returned to the museums.
The FBI agents told him it was the work of a major crime syndicate—a global operation. Carter knew he shouldn’t talk about the case to anyone, but he was worried. Hannifin and Holly were heading to the same place tomorrow. Carter didn’t like it one bit. Why wasn’t Holly picking up her phone?
London
SINCLAIR WALKED INTO the Connaught Hotel and folded his umbrella. He had selected the hotel’s Coburg Bar because of two advantages: it was nearby, and Holly could find the hotel easily.
He looked around. The stylish bar was decorated in rich, muted shades of persimmon, cinnamon, and amethyst. Large wing chairs surrounded each cocktail table. Holly was the only person in the room, sitting in the corner, her blond hair glowing in the soft light. She was leaning back in her chair, watching the flotilla of umbrellas pass by the window.
Sinclair had a moment of deep doubt. Tonight the place was too quiet. Meeting solo seemed so clandestine. When he called Holly, he had anticipated a room crowded with other people, but the downpour had apparently discouraged social drinking.
“Hi, Hols.”
He slid into the seat across from her, avoiding the social smooch. He purposely positioned his profile away from the street.
“Hi, John. I’m afraid I didn’t wait for you. I already started.”
He looked at the glass. Vodka martini, dirty. Her usual.
“I’ll have a Cragganmore on the rocks,” he told the waiter.
It wasn’t his standard choice, but he often ordered different whiskeys, just to savor the subtle distinctions. One of Sinclair’s friends had joked that his promiscuous reputation was well deserved—he sampled widely, sometimes with women but always with scotch.
“Nice to see you,” Holly said, and saluted him with her stemmed glass.
He watched her lips on the rim. She was still beautiful, almost unchanged. The blond hair fell in waves to her shoulders. Her figure had always been alluring, but over the past few years she had ripened. Beautifully. It was a body to dream about—spin a thousand fantasies.
He forced his eyes back up to her face. She was lounging in the wing chair, her head tilted back, eyes half closed. The expression was calculating.
The waiter came and put down his drink and a dish of olives and walked away.
“I think the two of us should talk,” Sinclair said, reaching for his glass.
“Oh, please, what’s there to say? I know why you asked me here.”
Sinclair’s head shot up. Her gaze was smoldering, her expression rife with dangerous innuendo.
“This is not about us,” he replied levelly. “Is that what you think?”
“Well, if it isn’t about us, then I’m at a loss why you wanted me to come here,” she replied coolly. “Especially at this hour.”
He sat staring at her over the rim of his glass, unable to look away. She met his gaze, clearly telegraphing that she was open to any overture. There was no mistaking it.
“I don’t know how you got that impression,” he said, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe you! Didn’t you feel the attraction in New York?”
“No, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Can you honestly tell me that you felt nothing?”
“No, I . . . well, seeing you again was . . . surprising.”
“Surprising. I see.”
She bent down and straightened the cocktail napkin on the table, lining it up exactly square with the corner. As she leaned over, her blouse gaped, partially revealing deep cleavage. He remembered clearly what it was like to touch her there; the pale skin had always been so delicate and soft. Holly glanced up and caught him looking.
“Holly . . . I . . .”
“What do you want, John?”
He cautiously looked around the room. The bartender was over in the corner reading a tabloid with Prince Harry on the cover. Sinclair took a deep breath.
“It’s something else entirely. But first of all I should tell you that I consider it over between us, Hols.”
“Who are you trying to convince, me or you?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well, thanks for clearing that up. I’m glad you invited me here to tell me I no longer have a place in your life.”
He didn’t reply. In any other circumstance, his natural inclination would be to soften the rejection. But tonight that would be a mistake.
“Fine,” she threw out. “If we’re honest, it never was all that great anyway. . . .”
She shot him a quick look to gauge his reaction. It was a classic sympathy ploy, and it worked. He felt regret over the furrow of disappointment between her eyebrows.
“It was plenty good, Hols, don’t kid yourself,” he amended.
“It was?”
“It was. But it’s over.”
“So, then, what do you want to talk about?”
He didn’t reply. How in hell was he going to explain sitting here like this?
She sighed heavily and looked around the room, then began a new topic. “John, how well do you know Ted VerPlanck?”
“Why?”
“Just curious. I’m working for him,” she said, and dramatically rolled her eyes as if he were being dense.
For some reason her sarcastic little gesture triggered his suspicion. His radar went up. Why was she asking about VerPlanck? Was she interested? He hadn’t come here so she could pump him for information.
“Curious about VerPlanck as your employer?”
“Correct.”
“Didn’t you find out about him when you were flying in on his private jet?” he asked, reaching for an olive. He chewed it slowly while she came up with an answer.
“We didn’t talk much.”
“I don’t know, Hols. You two looked pretty cozy when you came into the meeting together. You sure nothing is going on?”
“John, I can’t believe you! The man is married.”
“I noticed,” Sinclair said. “Did you?”
“You’re being ridiculous. Stop!”
“No, you’re the one who’s being ridiculous!” he snapped.
The flash of irritation coursed through him. She had pretty much put him through a full range of emotions—lust, regret, sympathy, and anger—and he had been with her for only two minutes. Typical. No woman could get under his skin like Holly. He sat there watching the ice melt in his glass, trying to compose himself.
“You asked me to change my appointment at the museum,” she said. “The least you could do is explain why.”
“I just needed you to go on a different day. It’s no big deal.”
“You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not your concern.”
“It has something to do with Cordelia, doesn’t it?”
“No.”
“Second thoughts about her?”
“No, Holly, I’m in love.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Holly coyly took a sip of her martini.
“So why are you here with me?”
“Hols, listen. The reason why I asked you to change your appointment tomorrow is because I wanted to protect Cordelia.”
“You’re going to have to explain that.”
“I’m trying to explain. Delia had an appointment for us to go to the British Museum tomorrow an hour before you were supposed to show up.”
She threw her head back and laughed on a triumphant note.
“Now I get it. Worried about awkward moments in the hall, are we?”
“Well . . .” he demurred.
“Well, so what if we run into each other? We’re all adults.”
“She doesn’t know you are in town,” Sincl
air admitted. “I didn’t tell her.”
“Uh-huh . . . So you wanted me to change my appointment so she won’t find out.”
“Delia was upset when she saw us together in New York. She sensed something between us.”
“Well, no worries. There’s nothing between us. You just said so.”
“Holly, please.”
“Don’t worry, John. I won’t spoil things for you. I’ll keep out of the picture. Relax, I’m here only until the end of the week.”
“Good. We should be able to wrap up these meetings with VerPlanck quickly.”
“Right.”
Sinclair could see she wasn’t happy. He looked at her with regret. “I’m sorry, Hols. I don’t mean to make this difficult.”
“Me neither,” she said. “I hate to admit it, darling, but you still get to me.”
“The way I act?” He laughed, draining his glass. “I can’t think why.”
“Well, don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way,” she repeated unnecessarily.
He immediately signaled for the check. “Now that we’ve cleared the air a bit, I’d better get out of here.”
“Right. It’s late.” She picked up her purse and smiled ironically. “Too late.”
Holly stood with Sinclair under the Connaught Hotel canopy while the doorman flagged a cab. Torrents of cold English rain were drumming on the canvas awning overhead, making quite a din.
She stood close to him. In the cool night she could feel his body heat. He hadn’t worn a raincoat, just a blazer. His shirt collar was open. She could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. His skin was tan and smooth, and she remembered how it felt under her fingertips.
“Thanks for everything, Hols. I mean it.”
She looked up at him. His eyes were deep blue. The lines of his face so familiar, the lips she had kissed a hundred times. To reach for him would seem perfectly normal. She stopped herself.
“Hey, I’m glad we had the opportunity to get on each other’s nerves again,” she managed. “Just like old times.”
“Exactly.” Sinclair laughed. Their eyes met, and the moment extended for an agonizing second.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 16
