The Stolen Chalicel (15 page)

“Can we get a table?”

“Sure.”

Even though the place was empty, she walked to the back booth and sat down. Charlie sat on a banquette with his back to the wall.

In a moment, Simon appeared holding a small round tray with two drinks. He swooped it down with a flourish.

“Here you are. Drink slowly. These are
strong
.”

The liquid was light apricot in color, served in martini glasses.

“What’s this, Simon?”

“I’m calling it the Park Avenue Peach.” He winked at her and walked away.

Charlie looked at his glass with distaste. Tipper picked hers up and took a big, long sip.

“
Damn,
that’s good! You should try it.”

Charlie said nothing.

“Did you have anything to do with the theft at the Met?” Tipper asked in a whisper.

“Absolutely not.”

“What about Ted’s Sardonyx Cup?”

“Not personally. I knew about it.”

“Charlie, I want no part of this scheme of yours!”

Tipper was angry, her voice starting to rise. Charlie said nothing and just slid an envelope across the table.

“What’s that?”

“It’s yours. Keep it. When we talked, the cup had already been stolen.”

She opened the envelope and gasped.

“It’s a check for fifty thousand dollars!”

“That’s right.”

“I never agreed. And here you go and
steal
the damn thing from my apartment.”

“Well, not technically. It was done by professionals.”

“I don’t want any part of this, Charlie.”

“OK, keep the check or don’t. But if you tear it up the money will just go to waste.”

Tipper opened the envelope and looked at the check again.

“It’s signed by Marco International. Who’s that?”

“A shell company in Italy.”

“I can’t even cash this! I’ll get caught. The money will show up in my bank balance.”

“Open an account in Gibraltar.”

“I don’t know how to
do
that, Charlie.”

Charlie stuck his index finger in the drink and tasted it. He made a face.

“Tipper,
everybody
knows how to do that.”

“Well,
I
don’t, and I can’t see myself actually asking Ted to show me how.”

Suddenly that struck them both as funny, and they laughed a little too loudly about it. It broke the tension.

“OK. Look, I can show you. No reason to let this money go to waste, Tipper.”

Suddenly, she was on her guard.

“What, exactly, do you want me to do? Leave the kitchen service entrance open for your friends?”

“Not really.” Charlie leaned in close. “Forget about Ted. You know a lot about art, right?”

“Yes, my college degree was in fine arts.”

“And you know a lot of people in this town. They
all
have important art.”

“Yes, everybody has fabulous paintings. But I don’t want to get involved in stealing art.”

“You don’t have to get involved. We just have a casual conversation from time to time. The same kind we always have.”

“What do you mean?”

“I say, ‘How’s Ted?’ And you say, ‘He’s in France until the end of the month.’ Bingo. Done. That’s it.”

“That’s
it
?” said Tipper. “And you
pay
me?”

She held up the check and scrutinized it as if it might be counterfeit.

“It’s good money, Tipper. You could earn enough to get away from Ted for the rest of your life.”

Tipper drained her glass and reached for his. He hadn’t really touched it.

“So you want me to spy on my friends?”

“
Are
they your friends?
Really?
”

His tone was sympathetic. She didn’t answer.

“Seriously,”
he said. “Nina Barker told Ted that you were cheating on
him. I heard your co-op board had a meeting about asking you to leave because you were dealing drugs.”

“I
never
dealt drugs!”

“I
know
you didn’t,” he assured her, patting her hand.

“So what’s your point?”

“My point is, who in hell has been nice to you lately?”

Tipper looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“You know a lot, don’t you, Charlie.”

Tipper folded up the check and put it back in the envelope. It lay there on the table as she eyed it. “Maybe I’ll keep this. I’ll call you.”

She picked up his drink and drained it, squinting at him over the rim. Then she put down the empty glass and licked her lips.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “You don’t need the money.”

“Actually, I do. I lost a ton in that pharmaceutical scam last year.”

“Ted always thought that was a fishy investment. I guess a lot of people got burned.”

“Yes, well, I need the money.”

“Sorry to hear that, Charlie.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he said, leaning over and touching her arm confidentially. “But so do you. Need the money, I mean.”

“Why do you say that? I have plenty.”

“You’re used to living very well. What are you going to do after you and Ted are divorced? It won’t be quite the same, now, will it?”

“I’m not divorcing Ted.”

“No. But I hear he is divorcing
you
.”

Tipper glared at him. “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

“No, I’m not. He’s filing papers. You’re going to be left high and dry.”

Tipper put the envelope into her purse and snapped the clasp shut.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know about high, but I’ll never,
ever
be dry.”

The Khamsin
Motoryacht, Off the Coast of Maine

L
ADY
S
OMMERSET WHIRLED
the mahogany Indian clubs in elaborate circles on the top deck of the yacht. The wind whipped around her, stinging her skin with salt spray. Gradually increasing the size of the bowling pin–shaped weights, she followed her daily routine, flexing her knees to keep her stance.

The captain suddenly appeared on deck. “Lady Sommerset, we have removed the cargo from the storage compartment.”

“Thank you.”

“What should we do with it?”

“Put everything in the salon.”

“Very well, madame.”

The captain descended to the lower level. She stopped to breathe in the fresh air. What a glorious, exhilarating day! She gave the ocean a final glance, noting the three-foot swells, then turned and climbed down the ladder to the lower deck.

A large object filled the entire leather banquette in the salon. At first glance, it looked like a person covered in a red quilt. But the trompe l’oeil effect lasted only a second. It was the mummy Artemidorus, his crimson coffin sculpted into the vague shape of a body.

Lady X sat and looked at the magnificent object in triumph. The gold-leaf filigree on the exterior depicted the story of the afterlife. Below the encaustic portrait panel was a falcon collar and a series of
traditional Egyptian scenes. The god Anubis was flanked by the goddess Isis. There was a short Greek inscription across the breast of the bier that read “Farewell Artemidorus.”

A lot of planning had gone into stealing the massive twelve-foot-long mummy case. She had been obsessed with Artemidorus for the last decade, ever since she had seen the lovely young man, immortalized in death, at the British Museum. He had a face to fall in love with.

In the portrait panel, his beautiful black curls were crowned with a laurel of gold leaf, an indication of his high birth. He was a prince—a ruler in ancient Egypt—and by every right he should be buried in his native soil.

She would take care of him now. They would not keep him imprisoned in a museum, probing, X-raying, and scanning him with their medical machines.

A steward came in with a medium-size wooden crate and placed it on the low table in front of her. Another steward entered with a champagne bucket. He opened a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal and inserted it into the shaved ice.

“Is there anything else, madame?”

“No, thank you.”

The steward left and shut the door. Xandra lifted the lid of the wooden box and there, encased in the custom-cut foam, was the Sardonyx Cup. It glowed with the splendor of burnished gold as she carefully lifted it out and put it down on the low table. Then, taking the bottle out of the ice bucket, she poured champagne into the ancient vessel. Carefully, reverently, she grasped the Sardonyx Cup by the base and raised it in a silent toast to Artemidorus.

Central Park, New York

C
HARLIE
H
ANNIFIN SAT
on a bench in Central Park and looked at the stone obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle. It was much older than the Egyptian queen. The pharaoh Thutmose III had built it in 1450 BC in the city of Heliopolis.

The monument now stood in Central Park, right behind the Metropolitan Museum, having traveled to New York in the 1880s, when Egyptian mania was sweeping through American society. Financed by some wealthy enthusiasts, the granite pillar had been brought from Alexandria, Egypt, to New York Harbor by barge. It took thirty-two horses to drag it up the banks of the Hudson River to its current location. On Sunday afternoons, during the Gilded Age, people from all walks of life would drive by in their carriages to view it.

These days the ancient pillar stood on Central Park Drive, in the middle of the modern city. Joggers now used the obelisk as a mile marker as they ran their laps around the park. Gasoline fumes and decades of pollution had pitted the hieroglyphics, and the carvings were rapidly becoming indecipherable.

Charlie had come to appreciate Cleopatra’s Needle for reasons other than historic ones. It was his favorite rendezvous spot, located directly behind the Met. The benches nearby were always empty—a perfect place for a clandestine cell phone call.

Charlie dialed a number that connected to a satellite phone somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

“Lady Sommerset, please. Tell her Charlie Hannifin is on the line.”

There was a long pause. Charlie studied the inscriptions, added to the pillar by Ramses II to commemorate his military victories. A brass plaque below gave the translation:

The golden Horus, content with victory,

Who smiteth the rulers of nations

Hundreds of thousands

In as much as father Ra

Hath ordered unto him

Victory against every land.

There was a crackle on the line.

“Hold for Lady Sommerset, please,” a male voice said.

“Charlie, how are you?”

“Just fine. We are sending that last art shipment out to Italy in two days.”

“Where is it going after that?”

“China.”

“Beijing or Shanghai?”

“The art scene in Beijing is still pretty provincial. But we are getting a lot of interest in Shanghai and Hong Kong.”

“They
are
the ones with the money, aren’t they?” Lady Sommerset laughed.

“Tons of it. This one will net fifty million.”

“Pounds or dollars?”

“Renminbi.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I’m
joking,
” Charlie continued. “Euros.”

“Very funny. I’ll let Moustaffa know.”

“Please give him my regards.”

“I will,” Xandra replied. “I certainly will.”

Cairo, Egypt

M
OUSTAFFA FILED HIS
daily blog, closed down his computer, and shut off the light. Hundreds of his acolytes had already commented on the post “The Triumph of the Common Man”—his call to topple the Anglo-America oppressor who ruled their “democracies” with lies and deceit.

Moustaffa’s apocalyptic vision was almost complete. He would be meeting Lady Xandra Sommerset off the coast of France. Together they would begin a carefully orchestrated attack to topple half the governments of the industrialized world.

Moustaffa closed the apartment door and walked out onto the landing of the building. The smell of spicy food wafted up the stairwell as he clomped down three flights and out the front door. Two young teenagers lounged on the steps in dirty T-shirts with the logos of Nike and Puma. They eyed him and slunk away into the crowd.

Brooklyn Museum

H
OLLY
G
RAHAM CLOSED
down her office computer. She had finished up the CAT scan at the hospital and filed all the paperwork. The poor unwrapped mummy from Thebes was on his way to a more dignified end. The conservation staff would sew him up and award him a place of honor in the museum galleries.

It had been a brutally long day, starting with the discovery of the theft of Artemidorus. Now it seemed part of the blame would be placed on her. The online tabloids noted she had been “in charge” of Artemidorus, implying she had been negligent!

A snapshot of Holly leaving the hospital earlier in the afternoon was posted next to the article “The Case of the Missing Mummy.” She was identified as “the Marilyn Monroe of the mummy world.”

The FBI had been more respectful. After talking to the Art Recovery Division on the phone for almost an hour, she had confidence they would find Artemidorus. After all, a twelve-foot cartouche would be pretty hard to transport without someone noticing.

The museum was sending her to London tomorrow, to talk to her colleagues at the British Museum. The theft of their precious artifact called for face-to-face diplomacy, and she was the ambassador.

Holly closed up her office and stepped outside for the brief walk to the number 2/3 train station on Eastern Parkway. After being cooped up all day, it was nice to be outdoors. The fresh air helped her lingering fatigue.

What a lovely time of year! The temperature was nippy and there was the scent of wet leaves and damp earth. Streetlights were casting a golden light on the sidewalk in front of the museum.

Suddenly she heard footsteps running behind her and turned, half expecting to see Carter. But it was Ted VerPlanck!

“Dr. Graham! Terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, I thought you were someone else.”