The romance of the seafaring lifestyle was growing on Carter. Waking up to the gentle sound of the waves and the fresh breeze. All this was a luxury he had never experienced.
The staff treated him with incredible courtesy. But they really won him over when he went down to the galley late one night and asked for a beer and some potato chips. They had offered him a choice of sixteen varieties.
Despite the luxury and comfort, Carter was nervous. It was hard not to get impatient, especially when he learned that Holly was in the conference center. And here he was, stuck with the old guys—VerPlanck, Gardiner. And, of course, Cordelia, who was still recovering from her ordeal and spent a considerable amount of time resting belowdecks.
MI6 had asked Carter to keep an eye on everyone aboard The MoonSonnet. It was a big job, they assured him. So insulting! Now that the operation was under way, they were treating him like a kid.
“You’ve worked with her a long time, haven’t you?” VerPlanck asked, breaking into his thoughts.
The older man was attempting to sound casual, but his voice had a certain tension. It was clear he was talking about Holly again.
Carter had begun to notice the early symptoms of infatuation. Day and night, VerPlanck spoke of no one else but Holly.
“Yes, we’ve known each other quite a few years,” Carter admitted. “She’s the reason I wanted to help catch the art thieves.”
“Then how could you possibly think she was involved in the thefts?” VerPlanck queried.
Carter blushed. That had been a gross miscalculation on his part, one that he was ashamed of, in hindsight.
“When she turned up with Sinclair, I distrusted her on every level.”
“Why?”
“She was smoking,” Carter said.
Ted looked perplexed.
“So?”
“The Holly I knew didn’t smoke. She even gave me crap about smoking myself. So she was either a liar or someone who had a lot to hide.”
“I see.”
“Then she suddenly turns up with Sinclair. And, just a few weeks before, she pretended they hadn’t met for years.”
“So you were . . . suspicious?”
“No. Jealous,” Carter admitted.
“You were jealous?” VerPlanck asked, surprised.
“Yes, she’s a beautiful woman,” Carter said, giving him the knowing eye. “I’m sure you noticed.”
“Yes, so I have come to realize,” VerPlanck said smoothly. “You care for her?”
“Yes, I do. And, unfortunately for me, the rest of the world does too.”
“Has lots of admirers, does she?” VerPlanck asked.
“You could say that,” Carter affirmed.
“Are you and Holly . . .” VerPlanck asked, fading off for loss of words.
“No,” Carter admitted, standing up. He put his glass down on the side table. He turned back to VerPlanck.
“Thanks for the drink. I need to go below to check on something.”
“I hope I haven’t offended you,” VerPlanck returned.
“No, it’s fine,” Carter assured him. “I’m feeling a bit useless all of a sudden.”
“Certainly not. You’ve done so much.”
“The truth of it is, right now in Holly’s life I’m just a bystander.”
Cordelia walked out onto the top deck of The MoonSonnet and looked at her watch. The day had dragged and it was seven o’clock at night. A picture-postcard sunset was beginning to form. She intended to watch the sliver of land until it faded from view. Sinclair was out there, and at great risk.
“No news is good news,” VerPlanck remarked, standing behind her.
“Hello,” she replied, turning to him. “I can’t help but wonder what’s going on.”
“Let me get you a glass of wine,” he offered. “We can keep each other company, and you can tell me about your work in Alexandria, exploring the underwater ruins.”
Cordelia sat down on the cushioned banquette.
“Thank you. I’m sure all this waiting is hard for you too,” she said.
Ted handed her the glass of wine, chilled to perfection.
“There’s a blanket behind you if you are cold,” he said. “It might get cool as the sun goes down.”
“I was terribly sorry to hear about your wife,” Cordelia said, reaching for the cashmere throw.
VerPlanck turned and looked out to sea, away from the shoreline.
“I’m still very depressed about what happened,” he said. “I can’t pretend to understand it. I truly loved her. In the end, she ended up hurting herself.”
“I’m very sorry,” Cordelia said.
“To be honest, it’s been years since we had any real connection. In a strange way, I feel like she has been gone for a long time.”
“I’m sure that has been lonely for you,” Cordelia said. “I know how that can be. I’m familiar with solitude. I was orphaned at the age of twelve.”
VerPlanck smiled at her.
“John Sinclair is a lucky man,” he said. “And you, young lady, have the whole world in your hand.”
“Let’s hope so,” Cordelia said. “I can’t help but feel that we should have heard something by now.”
Sharm el-Sheikh
TEN CARS IDLED in the dusk of the Egyptian night. The U.S. president’s motorcade was ready to leave the Four Seasons Hotel. President Thomas Walker was a punctual man, ex-military, and a person who many people felt had the qualities of a historic predecessor—President Eisenhower.
To many conservative voters, Walker had all the requirements of the modern age—top honors from West Point and tours in both theaters of war, Iraq and Afghanistan. After a stint as CEO for a major tech firm, he had swept into office as the new hope for the country.
True to his habits, Walker emerged from the hotel with brisk strides and a bounce in his step. After the daylong conferences he had hit the gym and was on his second wind.
Right on the dot of seven, the motorcade pulled away from the portico of the hotel and headed toward the conference center. President Walker had never been late for a high-level dinner since the day he was elected. A terrorist threat was not going to delay him tonight.
As Holly stood in the dining room of the conference center and looked across the sea of empty tables, she had a sudden flashback of the Metropolitan gala. Had that been only a little more than a few weeks ago? How things had changed!
Here she was, at another formal dinner a world away. No beautiful white evening gown this time. A waitress uniform waiting for a terrorist to strike. How had all that happened?
The afternoon had passed quietly. She actually found the mindless kitchen work soothing, and all the people around her were reassuring. Anything to protect her from that fiend Moustaffa.
She shuddered to think of him. The evening she had been taken hostage, as she had boarded The Khamsin, he had groped her obscenely. The crew had been helping her climb up on the boat and had pretended not to see. The whole time he was on the yacht, Moustaffa leered at her constantly and made obscene gestures whenever Lady X turned away. Holly had locked her door every night and lain awake in fear of a midnight visit.
Suddenly, she longed for home—the little sunlit apartment in Brooklyn. She wanted her life back and missed working at the museum, gossiping with her colleagues. Where had Carter Wallace been all this time? The last she heard from him was when he called her to warn about Charlie Hannifin.
Funny, Carter was such a lumbering bear of a guy, she never realized how clever he was. Half the breakthroughs in this case had been because Carter had noticed the van on the night of the gala. He helped find the stolen art in Queens, always one step ahead of the professional investigators.
Of course, Carter had been right. Hannifin was a crook and had been involved in art thefts for a long time. She would thank him when she saw him again, and hoped this would be over soon. They would apprehend Moustaffa tonight. And then they could all get on with their lives.
She picke
d up an embossed card next to the plate and looked at the menu. The food had been carefully chosen with an eye to dietary restrictions, factoring in the tastes and cultural diversity of all the participants.
The first course was spinach and goat cheese salad, followed by lamb—a common dish in the Middle East. Then there was an intermediary vegetarian course—a timbale of eggplant and other vegetables—then fruit, cheeses, and a sweet dessert of cherries jubilee.
Not that she’d be getting any of it. The kitchen help had already been fed. Earlier this afternoon, she had sat at a long table with the rest of the staff, eating without any apprehension, figuring the lamb stew was safe. After all, Moustaffa was wolfing down exactly the same thing only a few yards away from her.
But this dinner was another matter. They’d keep their eyes on Moustaffa to make sure the food wasn’t tampered with. Intelligence officers had replaced half of the catering staff, switching them with trained operatives.
Moustaffa seemed to realize that special agents were positioned all around him. He had looked at the new waiters with amusement and didn’t seem to care. But Holly was glad a British special service officer was stationed next to her, clad in a white waiter’s jacket. And there were at least two dozen more just like him, moving about the room.
Her nerves made her giddy. Holly found herself thinking that on a culinary level this event had the potential to turn into an absolute farce. Some of these officers were not very handy with the plates. She imagined there’d be plenty of spilled wine and dropped entrées.
They still hadn’t found the WMD canisters. Paul Oakley had said that weaponized plague, while possibly a powder, would most likely be in the form of an aerosol. Every likely hiding place had been searched and investigated. But nothing had been found.
Precautions had been taken and the top dignitaries were informed of the threat. There was a contingency plan—to remove VIPs to a so-called safe room in the basement of the hotel if an alarm was raised. Only twelve people would fit inside—just enough space for the heads of state.
Although the room was small, it was very secure. The belowground bunker even had its own air supply and communications lines. Until now, it had never been used. Hopefully, tonight that wouldn’t change.
Most of the dignitaries had risen to the occasion. When informed of the threat, everyone had agreed to stay. They dealt with this all the time and refused to cave in to terrorist threats.
The surveillance apparatus was state-of-the-art. Every eye would be on the dining room. There were pinpoint microphones among the flower arrangements. Agents would listen in on the conversations from one floor above.
The world leaders would dine facing the ballroom, sitting on a raised dais. Moustaffa would be serving the tables at the back as they waited for him to make his move. But even at that distance, the security teams were jumpy. He had said that he would strike tonight.
Paul Oakley looked at the monitors and wondered where in hell the canisters could be. Every inch of the hotel had been searched. Every box in the kitchen had been examined. The cocktail hour was over and the luminaries were taking their places. If he had to bet, an attack would come this evening. After all, twelve of the most powerful men in the world were all here. When would Moustaffa ever get an opportunity like this again?
Oakley closed his eyes to shut out the men sitting on the platform. It was almost inconceivable to envision them contracting plague. They were all so powerful. Yet they could be felled with one single aerosol spray.
Paul couldn’t help but think about plague. The swelling of the armpits and buboes in the groin, the crushing fatigue, labored breathing, coughing fits, searing pain in the lungs. Then, after a few days, the epidermis would begin decomposing, the body putrefying even while the victims were still alive. The burning, needlelike pains all over the body would turn into the characteristic dark patches of the Black Death.
They had to avert the disaster! There was a vaccine. But it had never been tested. And inoculating the heads of state like guinea pigs had not been an option. So there they sat, eating their spinach salad, tempting fate.
President Walker was making his way to the microphone to give opening remarks about peace and prosperity in the region. John Sinclair kept one eye on the U.S. president and another on the audience. They never found the canisters. Oakley estimated there had to be up to a dozen to contaminate a room of this size. They had to be somewhere. But so far, nothing.
Moustaffa told Holly he was planning the attack tonight. As an additional taunt, he had even revealed the timing. It would happen just as the dinner was ending, he had said. So confident! He was so sure of success. And they couldn’t seem to stop him.
Sinclair looked across the ballroom and gritted his teeth. Moustaffa was standing twenty yards away. If Sinclair had his way, he’d just kill him now and be done with it. But if the plague canister was an automatic trigger, they’d all die. So there was no choice but to watch and wait.
Sinclair gave Holly an encouraging glance as she passed by. She smiled back. Funny how fate had thrown them together again. No question, Hols was a wonderful woman. And, truth be told, part of him still had great affection for her. But she couldn’t hold a candle to Cordelia.
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
IN 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
AFTER-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 woul
d 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.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 29
