The Stolen Chalicel (32 page)

“Fleas,” Oakley said.

“You’re
kidding,
” the CIA agent burst out.

“No, I’m not. The Japanese army in World War Two reportedly dropped canisters of live fleas to spread the disease in Manchuria.”

“That seems very crude,” the official from MI6 said.

“But effective. Plague was transported primarily by fleas in fourteenth-century Europe. And fleas were also carriers during the Great London Plague of 1665. During that outbreak, each week, seven
thousand
people died.”

“Surely all that is ancient history,” the CIA officer said dismissively.

“Yes and no. The plague epidemic in China in 1894 eventually came to San Francisco via fleas on shipboard rats. As late as 1900, more than a hundred people died of flea-borne plague in California.”

“But Moustaffa is not going to drop
fleas,
” said the MI6 officer.

“Technologically we are beyond that. There are much better ways to spread the disease.”

“Well, we can’t sit here and talk about the theoretical. Of all the possibilities the attack could take, what is your best guess?” asked the CIA officer.

“An aerosol.”

“Is that possible?”

“The only thing that has stopped terrorists from doing that up until now has been lack of technical know-how.”

“And could Moustaffa have figured out how to release bubonic plague?”

“He’d probably opt for
pneumonic
plague. Not bubonic.”

“What’s the difference?”

Paul Oakley reached over and took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

“I thought we’d get to that sooner or later, so I prepared a handout.”

They silently passed the papers from person to person. The photos were horrific. Patients covered with livid purple boils. Sinclair stared at the page, sick with horror. What a terrible way to die!

“If you look at photo A-1, these are classic symptoms of bubonic plague. You will note the buboes that give bubonic plague its name. Those are swollen tender lymph nodes in the armpit or groin,” Oakley instructed.

“So if this is bubonic, what is
pneumonic
plague?” the CIA officer asked.

“With pneumonic plague, there are no swellings. The disease is airborne, spread by droplet infection—transmitted when a person coughs. It spreads very quickly in a population.”

Dame Constance tapped her watch significantly.

Oakley nodded and delivered the final line of his briefing with chilling precision.

“The most important point is that the pneumonic form of the disease is
much
deadlier.”

“How deadly?” asked Dame Constance.

Oakley looked at her, his face taut with anxiety.

“Virtually no one survives.”

The Khamsin
Motoryacht

C
ORDELIA LOOKED IN
the vanity mirror and gasped. What a fright! There were streaks of dirt on her forehead and chin, and her suit was a mass of grease stains. She looked around the elegant bathroom for something to help her clean up.

There were delicate linen guest towels with blue anchors embroidered on them. She soaked one in hot water and lathered up a tiny bar of perfumed soap. First her hands and face. Her legs were filthy, knees encrusted with motor oil from crawling on the floor. She swabbed at the heavy grease until most of it was gone and threw the stained towel in the trash. Time to face the enemy.

Cordelia opened the door to find a young crew member in a white steward’s coat waiting for her. Not at all menacing.

“Your tea is in the salon, miss,” he said in an Australian accent. “Lady Sommerset will see you now.”

Lady Sommerset?
That name was very familiar. Where had she heard it? Cordelia followed him through a narrow hallway to the aft salon of the boat, racking her brain for any shred of information.

A dark-haired woman looked up as they entered. Cordelia recognized her instantly. The famous Lady X! Lady Sommerset was the British socialite who was always in the tabloids. Still youthful in her mid-forties, she had enormous eyes the color of burnished gold. She wore a magenta silk caftan, and her bare feet were tanned and festooned with gold toe rings.

Seeing her beautifully dressed and lounging on the cream-colored banquette, Cordelia felt a flutter of hope. Clearly this elegant woman would release her immediately. It was all a mistake! Those two thugs didn’t know what they were doing.

Lady Sommerset stood to greet her. Cordelia found herself thinking that pictures didn’t do her justice. She was beautiful and moved with an elegant grace.

“My apologies for your uncomfortable transportation.”

“I’d really like to know what’s going on,” Cordelia said.

“We needed Mr. Hannifin. You had the unfortunate luck to be in the wrong place,” Lady Sommerset replied. “I’m afraid I cannot change what fate has delivered to you.”

Her tone was charming, sympathetic, but the message was insane!

“Fate?”
Cordelia gasped. “I was held at
gunpoint
!”

“Well, that’s all over now,” she soothed.

“You don’t understand. I was
drugged.
”

“Well, you won’t be treated like that on
The Khamsin
. The tradition of this ship is hospitality. So please, make yourself comfortable.”

Lady X waved airily for Cordelia to take a seat.

“I insist on being put ashore immediately!”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We need to keep you on board for a while.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Venice. I have a palazzo off the Grand Canal. When we reach the city, I will make arrangements for you to be returned to London.”

“I need to call someone, to let them know where I am.”

Lady X did not answer.

“Please, come sit down,” she invited. “I ordered some tea for you.”

A white-coated steward appeared, and he poured a pale green herbal-smelling concoction into a delicate porcelain cup. Cordelia suddenly realized how terribly thirsty she was. She accepted the tea and put in a spoonful of sugar. The infusion smelled a bit like mowed grass, but it made her feel enormously better. Lady X watched with a polite smile.

“Don’t try to pretend this is a social event,” Cordelia said. “Abduction is a
criminal
act.”

“This is not abduction. You are my guest. I assure you, I meant no harm.”

“No. Of
course
not.”

“Dr. Graham, I will keep this simple,” Lady X replied. “If you do what I ask, I will return you to dry land, unharmed.”

Cordelia started in surprise.
Dr. Graham?
Did Lady X think she was talking to Holly Graham? Clearly this was a case of mistaken identity.

“You’ve got the wrong person, I am
not
Dr. Graham,” Cordelia said, putting her cup down.

“These little games will not work, Dr. Graham. We know you were meeting with the British Museum about Artemidorus,” Lady X pointed to the sarcophagus.

“I was
not
. . . I was meeting . . .” Cordelia broke off, noticing the large crimson cartouche strapped to the banquette. It was held in place with bungee cords to prevent it from toppling with the movement of the ship.

“You
stole
that?”

“Yes,” Lady Sommerset said with a smile, unruffled. “I’m sure you recognize it. I’m returning it to where it belongs. You have tortured him enough with your medical tests.”

Cordelia looked at the Egyptian coffin. It was clear Lady X was insane. She
stole
a
mummy
? How utterly bizarre!

“What happened to Mr. Hannifin?” Cordelia asked. “I want to know.”

“He slipped. Drowned. So tragic.”

“I see.”

She kept silent and drank her tea. This was serious.
Slipped?
More likely
pushed.
It was a big ocean. In seas like these, he wasn’t
ever
going to be found. She’d better watch her step.

“The crew will find you some other clothes,” Lady X said, surveying Cordelia’s stained suit with disapproval.

“Thank you.”

“Please, take your time to finish your tea. When you are ready, you can ring the call bell and someone will show you to your cabin below.”

Cordelia nodded, still staring at the sarcophagus. Lady X noticed her gaze.

“I need you to help me with Artemidorus,” she explained. “I’m sure you are delighted to be reunited with your—”

“You want me to help you steal a
mummy
?” Cordelia gasped. “
That’s
why you abducted me?”

“It’s deteriorating and I need your help. I’m sure your concern for the artifact is as great as mine,” Lady X admonished.

“All I know is you’d better let me out of here when we put in to Venice, or there will be serious consequences.”

“There is no reason why this voyage shouldn’t conclude amicably. Now, I wish you a good night.”

With that, Lady Sommerset drifted out of the salon in a sweep of magenta silk. Cordelia heard the door lock behind her.

Federal Plaza, New York

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE WAS
pacing around an empty office in the federal office tower in lower Manhattan. The furniture for the FBI Stolen Art Division was remarkably shabby, presumably the choice of government budget minders. Steel desks, mismatched chairs, a stained carpet, and an exhausted-looking ficus plant in the corner. The workspace made Carter’s basement cubby at the museum seem luxurious.

If the FBI had to put up with this kind of decor, there was one feature to compensate—a million-dollar view. Standing on the twenty-third floor, Carter could see all of Wall Street and the expanse of New York Harbor beyond. The Statue of Liberty looked like a toy, perched on her little island in the middle of the blue water.

The door opened and the head of the Stolen Art Division walked in.

“Dr. Wallace, thanks for getting in touch with us. I’m Joe Viles, supervisory special agent on this case.”

As he shook hands, Carter noted that the guy was classic FBI—close-cropped hair, a gunmetal gray suit—clearly impervious to any style trends.

“Pleased to meet you,” Carter said, taking the seat he was offered. “I remembered something that might be of use. An art theft in London last year.”

“And the significance?” Viles asked, reaching for the computer mouse on the desk.

“The objects were Egyptian, and Charles Hannifin was in London at
the time they were stolen. I know, because our director at the Brooklyn Museum met with him over there.”

“I
see,
” Viles replied, pausing. “Which museum?”

“The Flinders Petrie Museum of Archaeology, London.”

“Let’s look for a notation on the database.” Viles turned to the computer screen and scrolled through a few cases, clicking on image after image.

“Do you remember the time of year?”

“April.”

“Here we are,” the agent said. “April of last year. Globally, over a thousand art objects were stolen in that month alone.”

“How many files are there in total?” Carter asked, shocked.

“Ninety thousand,” Viles replied. “The files that have been stamped
CLOSED
are solved. The rest are ongoing operations.”

Carter could see as Viles flipped through the images that most of the objects had
not
been recovered.

“I can’t believe you have to sort through all this.”

“You’re lucky we have these records. Until a few years ago the FBI didn’t follow transshipment of stolen art.”

“Why’d you start? What changed?”

“Art thieves changed. Art theft has become a major criminal activity attracting drug traffickers, money launderers, organized crime.”

“How’d
you
get involved?” asked Carter.

“Undergraduate degree in fine arts. That got me a job at Starbucks.”

“So then what?” Carter asked.

“After 9/11, I went back for a master’s degree in domestic security studies, and then a law degree.”

“That seems pretty qualified. What’d you need me for?”

“I need your eyes. Look at the files and see what clicks.”

“Sure, no problem,” Carter said, pulling his chair up to the desk. The agent lounged nearby, surveying Carter in a friendly fashion.

“I hear you’re the guy who tipped the police off about the Met.”

“Yeah, well . . . It wasn’t much,” Carter mumbled. “And they haven’t recovered a fraction of what was taken that night.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” the agent replied. “This case is
huge.
If Hannifin is involved in this theft, my superiors will be very interested.”

A few hours later, a beautiful scarab flashed on the computer screen in front of Carter. In the photo, the ancient gold object had the inimitable look of a genuine artifact.

“I think I found something!” Carter called out.

FBI agent Joe Viles appeared in the doorway.

“Really?”

“It was stolen last year in London.”

“Are you sure?”

“The description matches perfectly. ‘Egyptian funerary object, Heart Scarab of Hatnofer, ca. 1466 BCE; Western Thebes, Flinders Petrie Museum, London.’
That’s it!
”