“How did he die?” she asked.
“Heart attack, at his town house in London.”
She nodded again, mutely. She felt slightly faint, and a little tingly in her fingertips. Was she feeling shock? Certainly it was only because this talk of death conjured up such bad memories. After all, she didn’t really know Peter Stapleton.
Jim Gardiner said nothing. He looked down, leafing through his papers.
“This inheritance doesn’t make sense to me,” she finally said. “I thought there wasn’t any more money.”
He looked up, surprised.
“There wasn’t any money left from your parents,” Gardiner assured her. “This is his personal fortune, which he never felt inclined to share with you. Until now.”
“So this is his will?”
“Yes, in fact you are his sole heir. He probably didn’t have anyone else. Or maybe he wanted to make amends. Who knows?” Jim Gardiner’s tone was still bitter.
“How much did he leave me?”
“Let’s see, Delia, he left you . . .” he said, riffling through a sheaf of documents. He stopped, and paused dramatically, looking at her over his glasses with a bit of a smirk. “It’s actually quite a lot.”
“A lot? Like, how much, a lot?”
“At least twenty million pounds in stocks, investments, plus the town house in London and all its contents. That has to be worth at least eight to ten million pounds more.”
She sat back, stunned. The leather chair creaked.
“That’s a fortune! That would make me rich.”
He said nothing. He sat still, his glasses halfway down his nose.
“What am I going to do with all that?” she asked him.
“Keep it, honey. Keep it. And don’t let me hear one word of gratitude for the son of a bitch. He wasn’t there for you when it counted.”
She looked at him in shock.
“God rest his soul,” he added hastily, and smiled at her over his glasses.
Cordelia walked out into the cacophony of New York City. It was a warm morning, about to get a lot warmer. Traffic was gridlocked, noxious, and loud. After the quiet of Jim Gardiner’s office, she felt disoriented. She should do something, or go somewhere. The prospect of going back to her hotel room and sitting there alone was unappealing.
She glanced at her watch. It was too early to call Susan and Joel and tell them the news. California was three hours behind.
There were streams of people passing by. Some were bellowing into cell phones, shouting above the street noise. She stood in the alcove of the doorway and watched them. They were like schools of fish, yielding to objects in their path. Cordelia laughed a little to herself. Imagine thinking of fish right now. She felt very shaky, and considered getting a cup of coffee, but the caffeine would decidedly make her feel worse.
She tried to get her bearings. Across the street was Saks Fifth Avenue. It might be nice to go there and buy something. Shop a little. A woman walked by in high heels and a black designer suit. Cordelia suddenly felt dowdy in her best sweater, a peach cashmere twinset. She pretty much stuck to a classic grad-student wardrobe. She dressed that way on purpose; it was her safety net, her camouflage in the world of science and academia. She didn’t want to stand out, and these clothes didn’t draw unwanted attention. But it was time to grow up, wasn’t it? Just look at her purse. Who carried a shoulder bag these days? A new handbag would be a start.
She had money now. Life had moved on. This was not the time to be timid. Besides, she would need some clothes for the cruise ship. Cordelia stepped out onto the sidewalk with the rushing crowd.
The Hotel Sussex on the Upper East Side of Manhattan was cozy and quiet, the lobby decorated in beautiful French toile wallpaper. On the reservation desk, a bowl of yellow roses perfumed the air. Cordelia handed her seven shopping bags to the porter and let her aching arms drop.
“I’ll send them right up, miss,” he promised.
“Miss Stapleton,” called the desk manager. “You have a message.”
He handed her a thick-milled envelope. There was her name in black calligraphy on the front, and on the back was engraved the word CUNARD.
In her room she kicked off her shoes and fell on the couch. Her muscles ached, but she was feeling much better. Choosing a new wardrobe had given her confidence. She had redefined a look for herself, picking out a few smart suits and several dresses as well as formal gowns to wear on the ship. She had a half dozen pairs of new shoes to replace the flats she always wore. Cordelia had never shopped like that in her life.
It wasn’t too hard in the dressing rooms, when the admiring salespeople told her she looked gorgeous and she should buy, buy, buy. She had even gone up to the café on the eighth floor and picked her way through a salad, alone. But that’s when her confidence had waned, when she sat watching mothers and daughters lunching together.
“Are you alone, miss?” the waiter had asked, as he handed her the oversized menu. “Or will someone be joining you?”
“Nobody’s joining me,” she said, refusing to say the words “I am alone.”
She had eaten her salad without really tasting it. Just chewing seemed too much of an effort. She had forced herself to stay. Cordelia knew deep in her heart that it was important to leave the comfort of work, and the ship, and to try to do things that were normal and healthy. Maybe someday in the future she would actually enjoy a life outside work. Maybe there would come a time when she would not have to do everything alone.
Cordelia started to open the envelope the concierge had given her. The paper of the envelope was so thick she could barely slide the letter out.
Dear Miss Stapleton,
We congratulate you on accepting the Herodotus Foundation Award in Monaco on September 5. We would like to extend our official invitation to have you join our cruise on the Queen Victoria as it travels on its maiden year. The itinerary “Legends of the Mediterranean” will take you to Livorno and Naples, Italy; Valletta, Malta; Aghios Nikolaos and Piraeus, Greece; Izmir, Turkey; and Civitavecchia, Italy, near Rome. The ship departs Monaco September 7th at 5:00 p.m.
We are happy to offer you a suite, all expenses paid, for the duration of your stay with us. As discussed, Cunard would also like to offer you the opportunity to lecture on your recently published paper, “Oceans, Our Most Precious Resource.” We hope you will join us.
Best regards,
Greta Havens
Executive Manager, Queen Victoria. Cunard.
Cordelia dropped the letter onto the coffee table. There was a sharp rap on the door. The porter. She had almost forgotten about him.
“Your packages, miss.”
Hôtel de Paris, Monaco
John Sinclair escaped from the glare of the Place du Casino into the old-world elegance of the Hôtel de Paris. The grand lobby was hushed, cool, and dim. Sinclair stopped to let his eyes adjust, taking in the sumptuous dark-wood paneling, the sheen of the Persian carpets and crystal chandeliers, silk-upholstered armchairs sheltered by potted palms.
He looked around for his colleague and didn’t see him at first. Charles Bonnard was almost horizontal in a chair, a touch-screen phone inches from his face. Sinclair walked over, noticing that Charles was conspicuously overdressed as usual: cream silk slacks, Italian driving shoes, and a blue blazer of such fine wool it draped off his body.
“Look at you,” said Sinclair. “I hope you didn’t dress up for me.”
“Hey, Sinclair, how are you doing?” Charles never lifted his eyes from the phone.
“Charles. Put the damn thing down. You’re addicted to it.”
“Sorry. You want a drink?” Charles sat up. He flagged the waiter.
“Iced tea,” Sinclair ordered. “Lemon, no sugar.”
“Late night, was it?”
Sinclair didn’t answer, looking away.
“How’s Ephesus?” Charles tried.
Sinclair shifted his eyes back to Charles and brightened.
“Great. We’re really
making some good progress.”
Charles studied him closely. Sinclair looked exhausted. Blue bruises under his eyes. Puffy eyelids from drinking, and his skin was sallow and dry. Clearly he was hungover.
“Bad late night? Or good late night?”
“Argghhh,” Sinclair exhaled, with the ghost of a smile. “Let’s just say it wasn’t all that good.”
“Do you want to talk about it? Or should we stick to business?” Charles ventured.
“Business. Definitely business.”
“I hereby call this meeting to order,” Charles said.
But Sinclair derailed all formality.
“Before we go into all that, I should tell you about Shari. You introduced us, after all.”
“Shari? What’s she up to?”
“Hector Corillo—the number-one driver for Team McAllister.”
“The race-car driver?”
Sinclair nodded, his face drawn.
“Did you break it off with her?” Charles asked.
“She did it.”
Sinclair sounded depressed. He looked around the lobby, and took a long sip of his iced tea. He looked down at his glass as if surprised at its contents, and then took another long swig.
Charles fussed with his monogrammed cuff links.
“You knew,” Sinclair accused.
“Yes, I knew.” Charles stopped with the cuff link and slid a magazine out from under him.
“You were literally sitting on the story!” exclaimed Sinclair.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
He handed over the rolled-up magazine. Sinclair unfolded the Paris Match. Shari and Corillo were entwined on the cover.
“ ‘The Fast Life,’ “ translated Sinclair. “I guess I’m the last to know.”
“Well, unless it’s carved on the marble in Ephesus, you’re not likely to read it.”
Sinclair thumbed through the article, his brow furrowed, and handed the magazine back to Charles. Then he looked away, watching people walk through the lobby.
“Listen, we have to talk about tonight,” Charles finally said.
“So what’s the deal?” Sinclair’s voice was dispirited.
“The usual.” Charles struck up a brisk tone, rummaging through his brown crocodile folio.
“Six p.m. cocktails. Seven p.m. sit down for dinner. The program starts after the main course is over, and runs through dessert and coffee. Dancing afterward.”
Sinclair winced. “I don’t suppose you could take care of it, could you, Charles? I’m really not up to it.”
“Sinclair, I can’t. It’s your foundation. It’s your award. You have to come.”
Sinclair took a deep breath and blew it out in exasperation. There was a long moment as he decided.
“OK,” he said resignedly. “Who does the opening remarks? The prince?”
“Exactly,” Charles said, reading his notes, “His Serene Highness Prince Albert the Second will award the Monaco Prize to the Ocean Surface Topography Mission for their climate-change work. And right after the main course, during dessert, you’re up.”
“Damned if I can remember who we are giving it to. I got the letter, but I don’t remember where I put it.”
“It’s in some pile of bones on your desk in Ephesus, no doubt.”
“Probably.”
“We gave the award to Elliott Stapleton. American. Polar explorer and scientist. He was on expedition with Prince Albert’s great-great-grandfather Albert the First—he made quite a few expeditions, from about 1898 to about 1910.”
Charles was again referring to his notes. “Accepting is . . . here we go, Cordelia Stapleton. Great-great-granddaughter. A big deal in her own right. Oceanographer at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts.”
“Hometown girl,” said Sinclair approvingly.
“Yup. Quite a babe, from what I hear.”
“Oh, sure she is,” said Sinclair. “A real nature girl, I bet. Wears L.L.Bean. Swims five miles a day, dates ichthyologists. Do you have the speech?”
Charles handed over the cream envelope with the Herodotus Foundation logo.
“Don’t be bitter, Sinclair. Get even. Plenty of fish in the sea.”
Sinclair looked over at Charles skeptically.
“Are you aware that last year Shari was voted the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“What do they know? You’re going to believe People magazine? Besides, those glamour girls are a dime a dozen.”
Sinclair ignored the remark. “Why’s it heavy?” he asked, weighing the embossed envelope in his palm.
“The people at Monaco’s Oceanographic Institute are returning Stapleton’s diary from 1908. Somehow it ended up in their archives here in Monaco, with a bunch of other documents from the expeditions.”
“Why do we have it?”
“They want us to give it back to the great-great-granddaughter when you present the award. Somebody over at the institute called me and dropped it off yesterday at the office. It’s all in the speech.”
“OK, sounds good.” Sinclair finally said with some energy, “What’s her name again?”
Charles looked at his notes. “Cordelia.”
Port Hercule Marina, Monaco
In the Monaco marina, yachts were lined up one next to the other, and music from the deck parties floated up into the night. It was an array of wealth and luxury that was almost beyond comprehension. Only the most fabulous of the Mediterranean yachts converged at Monaco.
Each had its own style. In the early evening, as the sunlight faded and the interior lights were turned on in the main salons, the activities of the inhabitants were clearly visible from the dock. On some boats, the interiors were festive, people having cocktails, sitting on the couches or standing out on deck. Other boats were the picture of domesticity, children sprawled before the television, with sodas and pretzels, their parents relaxing with a glass of wine before dinner. Still others were dark, silent, their wealthy occupants pursuing other pleasures in other parts of the world.
On the enormous megayacht the Udachny, five people sat in tense silence. The room was sleek, luxurious, and well designed. A discriminating yacht owner might quibble that there was a little too much gold in the details of the décor, but despite the glitz, the artwork on board was above reproach. A bronze Rodin nude posed in a recessed alcove by the bar, and a Jackson Pollock hung on the wall.
The only nonhuman occupant of the yacht—a Russian Blue cat—walked across the bar, leapt to a chair, and finally made a deft spring into its master’s lap. During its tour of the salon, the animal avoided touching the floor.
Evgeny, the yacht owner, wondered why the cat did that even when the seventy-one-meter Benetti was docked. It probably hated the vibration of the twin marine diesel engines. The cat always spooked when they were running. Evgeny pulled its ears in a rough kind of massage, and the cat settled down.
He looked at the two couples across from him. There were two Russians: Vlad and Anna. Sitting across from them were two Americans: Bob and Marlene. Vlad returned his gaze belligerently, while his wife, Anna, sat staring at Evgeny with compressed lips and darting, nervous eyes. Evgeny scanned her up and down. She was an expensive-looking woman, all plastic and designer—like most expat Russian women these days. But she looked like she knew the score and would keep her husband in line. Vlad was only about thirty-five or so, and too much of a hotshot for his own good. Too vulgar, too flashy. Oligarch wannabe, with none of the talent. But Anna, she could kill. He stared at her ripe breasts, half exposed like fruit. She saw him looking and didn’t flinch. Yes, she would do what was necessary if given the chance.
The Americans, Bob and Marlene, were sitting together, with absolutely bovine expressions, seemingly upholstered into the white leather sofa, in pools of their own flesh. Only Americans could get big like that. It must be the corn diet. Evgeny liked fat people. Appetites like that could be counted on. They were weak and greedy—the best possible combination. Bo
b and Marlene would be no problem.
It was a weird crew: two high-rolling Russians and two fat Americans. Strange bedfellows, but it might work. They were all in it for the money. No high principles to get in the way. Vlad and Anna could do the legwork; the Americans could get cozy with the young woman. Disarm her with their friendliness. A young American girl on her own might be drawn to them.
Evgeny picked up the phone and dialed a number, then punched the speakerphone button.
“We’re all here,” he said. “What have you got?”
Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene all leaned forward, as if they could discern who was on the other end of the line. But there would be no names used. Russian politicians like to keep their hands clean. And a wild card was always good in every game. It kept people on their toes. No one in Moscow could be identified if things went wrong, and that would make for an easier mop-up in the end. Evgeny would be the eraser on the chalkboard, so to speak.
The voice on the phone was factual, calm, the accent thick.
“We got the journal. They found it in the old storeroom of the Arctic
Coal Mining Company up in Svalbard. We read every word of it and only found a few references to the land deed. There is not enough information for us to go on.”
Vlad looked sideways at Anna. Staring at the phone, she didn’t move. The voice continued.
“There is a guy digging around up in Svalbard, in the old graves. He appears to be a scientist looking for medical specimens. But he also might be looking for the deed. We are following him to see if he turns up anything.”
“So what do you want us to do?” asked Evgeny.
“We’ll keep an eye on the guy up in Svalbard. You need to keep track of the journal.”
“Where is the journal now?” asked Evgeny.
“We planted the journal in the archives of the Oceanographic Institute of Monaco. And, good little researchers that they are, they found it already,” said the voice from Moscow.
“Then what?” asked Evgeny.
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