“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
THE 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
SINCLAIR 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.
Sitting there, he made up his mind. If he got the plague, he wouldn’t let anyone see him like that. Not even Cordelia. He wanted her to remember him in the prime of life. Not a half-rotted corpse, dying in a hospital bed. He made that promise to himself as he sat in the corner. Then he tightened his shirt around his nose and mouth, pulling the arms snugly.
The MoonSonnet Motorsailer
CORDELIA COULDN’T STOP crying. Her face was buried in the bulk of Jim Gardiner’s shoulder. Others sat around The MoonSonnet cabin with glum faces.
“There are two teams in Hazmat suits trying to pull Dr. Graham out of the air shaft,” the agent was telling them.
“What are the obstacles?” Gardiner asked.
“There is an intersection of two shafts about two hundred feet in front of her. There is egress about thirty feet beyond that. If she can get to that junction, we can get a rope to her and pull her out.”
They took this information in and digested it. VerPlanck was ashen. His eyes had the glassy stare of shock. He looked at everyone in turn as they spoke but seemed to have no urge to respond.
Carter had the opposite reaction. He was wild. He stood and paced the salon in frustration and anger.
“I can’t believe Sinclair would lock her in!” he ranted. “When he knew there was a canister in
there.”
Cordelia raised her head from Gardiner’s shoulder and glared at him.
“How dare you! Of course he would. He wanted to save everyone else,” she snapped. “He’s not selfish, like other people.”
“But he wasn’t making that decision on his own. Holly was in there with him!”
“He had no choice,” she replied, her voice rising in anger.
“I’m sorry, Cordelia, but I don’t see it like that. It was a thoughtless thing to do,” Carter answered. “Heroic, but unthinking. He should have let the professionals take charge. That’s what I would have done.”
“He’s twice the man you are!”
Her face was red and there were tears coursing down.
“Delia, don’t!” Gardiner shushed her. “No one is at fault.”
VerPlanck rose from his chair and walked to the aft door.
“We’re all upset,” he admonished. “We are all saying things we will regret. Carter, why don’t you step outside on deck with me? I believe we both need some air.”
Carter Wallace stood on deck of The MoonSonnet, breathing hard.
“Thanks,” Carter mumbled. “I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Everything will be forgotten tomorrow. It was only the heat of the moment,” VerPlanck assured him.
“But I still can’t believe Cordelia would take me apart like that!”
“From what I understand, she has been an orphan for most of her life. Sinclair is pretty much the only thing she has in the world,” VerPlanck explained.
“Do you think they’ll get Sinclair out?” Carter asked.
“I’m sure of it. There has to be an override system on the door,” VerPlanck assured him.
“That’s a relief. I hadn’t thought of that,” Carter admitted. “And it sounds like Holly is going to be OK.”
“Yes, you heard the security officials. They’ll pull her out of the air shaft and she’ll be fine.”
Carter closed his eyes and gripped the railing of the boat. Relief washed over him. She was going to make it. When he opened his eyes, VerPlanck was looking at him.
“If you’ll forgive me, it seems you are pretty emotionally involved with Holly,” VerPlanck ventured. “Is there something you would like to talk about?”
Carter turned to him with abject honesty.
“I was pretty infatuated for a while.”
“Was?”
“I’m getting over it. Slowly. Listen, I know what’s going on,” he said to VerPlanck.
“Going on?” VerPlanck repeated.
“You’re crazy about her too.”
“No, not at all,” VerPlanck denied.
“Bullshit.”
VerPlanck looked at Carter in astonishment as a variety of emotions played over his face. At first he appeared to be offended, then, embarrassed, finally he crumpled.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To me it is,” Carter said. “But then I know all the signs.”
“I see.”
“And when this is over . . . this terrorism stuff. When it comes to Holly, I won’t stand in your way.”
“That’s very noble of you,” VerPlanck said.
“No, it’s not. It’s realistic. She doesn’t care for me at all.”
“Well, thank you, Carter, but I can’t really act on my feelings right now,” VerPlanck said. “It wouldn’t be decent. My wife just died, you know.”
“Yeah, I heard. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, so am I,” VerPlanck said.
They both looked out at the dark water for a moment.
“Listen,” Carter spoke up. “You’ll probably punch me in the nose or throw me overboard for saying this, but you shouldn’t worry so much about being decent. Other people weren’t all that decent to you. In fact, it sounds to me like you were the only decent person involved in all of this.”
VerPlanck turned to Carter with troubled eyes, but he didn’t reply.
“So don’t let your decency get in the way with Holly,” Carter urged him. “Women like that don’t come along very often.”
Ted nodded slowly.
“I see your point, Carter. Well, I may take my chances on catching her interest. If you don’t mind.”
“Go for it,” Carter said. “Don’t wait too long.”
“Thank you,” VerPlanck said.
“By the way, while we’re being so honest and open and everything . . . You know she was once in love with Sinclair,” Carter offered.
“Probably still is,” observed VerPlanck.
“Nah. Not after he exposed her to bubonic plague. That would pretty much finish it for most women.”
“One would hope so,” VerPlanck said, smiling. “But in my experience women are funny.”
Cordelia and Gardiner sat alone in the salon of The MoonSonnet. She was still fuming.
“I can’t believe Carter had the nerve to criticize John like that!”
“Give him a break, Delia,” Gardiner soothed her. “Can’t you see he’s half out of his mind over Holly?”
“Yeah, but she’s going to live,” Cordelia cried. “And John is going to . . .”
She couldn’t finish the sentence and sat there, defeated.
“No!” Gardiner said firmly. “No, he’s not. You just wait and see.”
Sharm el-Sheikh Conference Center
SINCLAIR LOOKED AT his watch. He couldn’t help but calculate his odds. It was a quarter after ten. The formal dinner was supposed to be over at ten sharp.
How clever of Moustaffa to have outwitted them all. The master manipulator had cranked up their nerves to the breaking point and then had herded them to their deaths like cattle to a slaughter.
Sinclair thanked his stars that the attack had been stopped in the end. Or maybe not. Here he was sitting on the floor, waiting to be doused with a spray of weaponized plague. How smart was that?
The phone began to ring. Sinclair stayed where he was and listened to it. The phone was on the table right above the canister. Too close. He shouldn’t go over to pick it up. Twenty minutes had gone by since they shut the door. An automatic trigger would activate pretty soon.
The phone kept ringing shrilly in the enclosed space. It sounded urgent. He second-guessed himself and considered the possibilities.
What if they had figured out a way to dismantle the canister? Or wanted to tell him how to open the door? It could be any number of things.
He looked over at the canister again. The timing was too close. He shouldn’t approach it. Surely it had been set to go off any minute now.
The phone kept on ringing, shattering his nerves. He wanted to answer it, just to stop it. And if they were trying to reach him, there might be a way out. He made a decision. He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” he said.
Just below him he heard a hiss. He looked down at the canister. It was spraying a fine mist of particles into the air, like a can of hairspray with the button permanently depressed.
“Agghhh . . .” he gasped as he threw the phone down and headed to the corner. He didn’t rush. There was no need. He was a dead man already.
Paul Oakley hung up the phone and turned to the chief of security.
“I didn’t get a chance to tell him the door code,” he said in a leaden tone. “It was too late.”
“The canister?”
“Yes, it detonated,” Oakley confirmed. “Just now.”
“Oh, hell!” the man said. “We’re going to Plan B. Send in the guys with Hazmat suits. Seal the building.”
“What about Sinclair?” Oakley asked.
“Get Sinclair out of there and into a biocontainment unit. We’re taking him to Cairo—the U.S. Naval Medical Research Unit, NAMRU-3. It’s the only place we can take him, unless you want to airlift him to Europe. NAMRU-3 is equipped for the highest bio-security level, BSL-4, to handle the deadliest diseases.”
“We’re talking about weaponized plague. Are they any good at that sort of thing?” Oakley as
ked worriedly.
“They’re the best. If U.S. troops are hit with bioweapons during battle, the NAMRU team has the expertise to diagnose what pathogen was used, right in the field. They have been investigating outbreaks of disease in this part of the world since World War Two. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention also has doctors at the lab in Cairo working with them. This is where you get the real hard-core stuff—Ebola, Lassa fever, SARS, avian flu. We couldn’t do better, if you want to save him.”
“NAMRU-3 sounds perfect. But Sinclair doesn’t have much time,” Oakley said. “I’d like to go along with him to fill them in on what happened.”
“You’re already cleared. I have a helicopter standing by.”
“How did you get that kind of transportation so quickly?”
“It’s been on standby all night. In the worst-case scenario, it was supposed to be used by the president of the United States.”
Sinclair sat in the corner and yanked the shirt away from his face. This was ridiculous. The spray had hit him foursquare in the eyes and he had been lethally contaminated. Leaving his shirt tied over his nose and mouth now wouldn’t accomplish much. He put the white oxford shirt back on and buttoned it up. Might as well meet his fate fully clothed.
That aerosol was clearly a death sentence. He knew that from Oakley’s lecture. And if there was any doubt, it really struck home when the door to the safe room opened. Six medics walked in wearing biocontainment suits with their own air supply. They clomped over to him with the slow gait of astronauts. And when they talked their voices sounded robotic, transmitted through the microphones in their headgear.
“Hey, buddy,” one of the spacemen said to him. “Hang on. We’ll get you fixed up.”
The condescending cheerfulness of the medical worker told Sinclair the whole story. They were speaking to him the way people spoke to terminally ill patients in the hospital.
“Let’s get you into this.” The medic indicated the gurney with a biocontainment tent. Clear plastic and stiff, it lay in jumbled folds, ready to be assembled. They pulled the tent off and Sinclair climbed onto the rolling stretcher. He lay there feeling foolish. After all, he still felt fine.
The Stolen Chalicel Page 31
