The Stolen Chalicel (33 page)

“Read me the case number. I’ll find the paper file. Nice job.”

“Thanks,” Carter said, rubbing his temples.

“You know, you’re pretty good at this kind of thing,” Viles said, pausing in the doorway. “You should think about working at the bureau.”

“
Me?
Join the FBI?” Carter said, incredulously.

“As a consultant—we need trained archaeologists and art experts to help us identify stolen objects.”

“I had no idea.”

“We’re not just a bunch of guys looking for drug shipments, you know. Of course, you’d have to pass a security check. But since you’ve already found half the missing art from the Met, your clearance would be pretty quick.”

“Thanks. But from the number of files I’ve had to look through today, there’s a lot greater chance of finding something as an archaeologist digging in the sand,” Carter joked.

“You may be right about that,” Viles said with a laugh. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Carter ambled out into an employee break room and fed his spare change into a hot-drinks machine. The vending dispenser whirred, dropped a paper cup, and then dribbled out coffee, powdered creamer, and an avalanche of sugar. After one sip, Carter spit it out and dumped the mess into the trash.

As he walked through the hallway his phone rang. The international area code was 44—London. Of course it was Holly; she was the only person he knew in that city.

“Uh . . . hello, Holly.” He verbally stumbled, sounding like a clod.

“Carter, how are you?”

“I’m good, keeping busy.”

“Listen, I’m calling because you left me a message warning about Charlie Hannifin.”

“Yeah, he’s really . . .”

“How did you know he was involved in something illegal?”

“His name is all over the paperwork,” Carter answered. “You aren’t anywhere near him, are you?”

“No, I’m not. He’s been abducted.”

“What! How?”
Carter asked.

“The British Museum. I was scheduled to have a meeting there. But I canceled it. He was abducted about the time I was supposed to be there.”

“Wow, I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Yes, thanks. Is there anything else you’ve found out about Hannifin?” Holly asked.

Carter considered telling her that he was helping the FBI. It would make him sound smart. But this meeting was probably confidential, and he didn’t like bragging on the phone.

“No. Working on a few angles, but nothing concrete yet,” he said casually.

“Please let me know if you find anything out. I mean
anything
.”

“Sure.”

“Take care, I’ll be in touch.”

He stumbled through a good-bye, making as big a fool of himself as possible, and then hung up.

At least Holly was safe. Now to find the art. That would
really
impress her.

The FBI agent was back at the desk, rummaging through an accordion folio of documents.

“Where’d you go?”

“Saw the coffee machine and tried it.”

“Yeah, I should have warned you about that.”

“Too late,” Carter said with a laugh. “Listen, I just heard Charlie Hannifin is missing in London.”

“No surprise there. I’d go missing if
my
name was all over a shipment of stolen art.”

“Yeah, well, my colleague just told me that Hannifin was kidnapped.”

“
Kidnapped?
We’ll check into it.”

“Did you find the file?” Carter asked.

“Yeah, you were right about this scarab. It’s from a case file with six other pieces.”

He handed Carter the transparencies of Egyptian funerary objects. “Here they are. Recovered two months ago in Italy.”

“Where were they shipped from?” Carter asked. “No, let me guess . . . the Freilager Zone in Zurich.”

“That’s right.”

“And sent where . . . ?” Carter asked.

“We found them in a warehouse in the old quarter in Venice. Art, jewelry, watches. Oh, and a Maserati. We never caught the thieves.”

“Well, I suggest you get on the phone to the Italian police,” said Carter. “If Hannifin was involved in both robberies, maybe these are the same people who hit the Met.”

“It’s worth checking out.”

“Let me know if you turn up a twelve-foot mummy cartouche. Bright red. Face painted on the outside. We’re missing it at the Brooklyn Museum.”

“Will do.”

“Well, I guess that’s it for me,” Carter said, picking up his jacket. “Glad I could help.”

“Wait. If we find another warehouse with stolen goods in Venice, we’re going to need somebody to ID the art. The bureau chief in New York would like you to fill out the application to work with us as a consultant.”

“You’d hire me? Just like that?” Carter asked, agog.

“We’d have to run a security clearance and give you a training course for a day or so. But if you went we’d pay your travel expenses and an hourly rate. It’s pretty good money.”

“You’d pay me to go to
Italy
?”

“If the art turns up, we really can’t spare anyone from this office.”

Carter thought about it for a moment. No use hanging around the Brooklyn Museum when Holly was in London.

“Sure! Why not? I’d have to clear it with my boss, but I’ve always wanted to go to Venice.”

Grosvenor Street, London

J
OHN
S
INCLAIR CLIMBED
the steps of the town house and was greeted at the door by his assistant, Malik. The young man was now frantic with worry. Sinclair was not at liberty to tell him the full story—only that Cordelia had been kidnapped. But each time Sinclair received a call or came back to the house Malik questioned him. Today, he must have been waiting in the hall for Sinclair to come home.

“Anything yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” Sinclair said, turning away so he wouldn’t see Malik’s features droop with disappointment. His assistant’s dedication was a comfort. For the last decade, Malik had mastered every detail of Sinclair’s life with seamless perfection, from chartering planes to keeping his schedule. It had taken a lot to tempt Malik away from the glorious sun of the archaeological dig in Turkey to a rainy English climate. It had been Cordelia who had convinced Malik to move to London. Malik was devoted to her.

“What’s this?” Sinclair asked, taking a large envelope from the hall table.

“That package was delivered this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Malik,” Sinclair said, picking it up with disinterest and climbing with leaden tread up to his library.

He patted Kyrie on the head and poured himself a drink before he examined the large manila envelope. His name had been printed in black felt-tip pen. There were no other distinguishing markings.

He broke the metal clasp and slid the contents out. At first glance it appeared to be a photo. He turned it over. A Post-it, stuck to the back, had a phone number.

Sinclair examined the photo closely and saw it was the print of a medical X-ray. Suddenly, he got a chill down his neck. It was a CAT scan of a mummy!

Holly had been right about making an offer on Artemidorus; their little fishing expedition had worked! Here was a response from a black market dealer. Sinclair reached for the phone and dialed Holly’s room at the Ritz. She answered, sounding tired.

“Hols?” he said. “It’s Sinclair. Can you come over to the house right away? I think we may have found your mummy.”

At eight o’clock in the evening Holly Graham arrived. She walked up the front steps of the town house thinking that this was the last place she
ever
expected to be invited to. With Cordelia missing, Holly felt like she was trespassing.

The houseman opened the door and beckoned her to come with him. He was young and slight and spoke with a Turkish accent.

“Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you in the library.”

She followed Malik up two flights of stairs. Her feet on the carpet made no sound. She passed by beautifully appointed rooms filled with antique furniture. This was a real Edwardian mansion!

Malik stopped in the doorway of a huge library that was lined floor to ceiling with mahogany bookshelves. There were leather chairs in front of the fireplace, and a dog lounged before the brass grate.

“Your visitor is here, sir,” Malik said, stepping aside to let Holly pass.

Sinclair turned, gaunt with fatigue, a distinctive green volume of classical literature from the Loeb collection open in his hand. He tossed the book onto the library table and reached for an envelope.

“Hols, thanks for coming.”

“No problem. It’s the least I can do.”

“Take a look at this, would you? It was delivered this afternoon.”

Sinclair thrust the envelope at Holly. “It’s a response to my offer to buy Artemidorus on the black market.”

Holly slid the X-ray out, walked over to the map table, and twisted the goosenecked lamp to shine directly on the paper.

“What do you think? Is it genuine?”

She looked up at him. His appearance was awful—eyes pink-rimmed from lack of sleep and face drawn. Day-old stubble aged him by ten years.

“Give me a moment, John.”

She sat down and studied the scan in the bright light. There were a myriad of details that suggested it was
not
Artemidorus.

“No luck, John. It’s not him,” she declared, putting the glossy photo back on the table.

Sinclair looked crushed. He slumped into the chair next to her.

“Sure?”

“Yes, I’m certain. I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” he urged desperately. “Please, take another look.”

“I don’t
need
to, John.”

She understood his desperation—any progress on finding the art thieves might lead to Cordelia. But she wasn’t going to lie to him.

“OK, just tell me how you know.”

She picked it up again, very conscious of him sitting close to her. Their hands were almost touching as they held the paper.

“Artemidorus had very long femurs.”

“Yes?”

“Normally, you measure the length of the femur in centimeters, multiply by 2.6, and then add 65, and that gives you how tall a person is in centimeters,” she explained, pointing to the mummy’s thighbones on the paper.

“And?”

“Artemidorus is well above six feet. But, just looking at this photo, I can tell you this mummy is barely five feet tall.”

“I see.”

She pointed to four white masses in the middle of the body. “Do you see these objects in the abdomen?”

“Yes?”

“They put the vital organs back in after they were mummified and wrapped in linen.”

“What’s the significance?”

“Artemidorus doesn’t have his organs. He was rich and could pay for the alabaster canopic jars for his organs.”

“Hmmm . . .” said Sinclair. “What else?”

“The brain. Embalmers would insert a long metal hook through the sinus cavity and pull the brain tissue out. They would have to break the front sinus bone to do it.”

“I see.”

“But this bone is not broken and the brain tissue is intact. Further evidence this person was poor. They skipped a few steps.”

“I had no idea you could read so much into these things.”

It was clear he was disappointed. She hated to continue, but it was better to go through the full litany of proof to dispel any doubt.

“See the skull? Artemidorus has a huge bash in the back of his skull. This mummy doesn’t.”

“Well, you don’t have to go on. I’m convinced.”

“But I haven’t told you the clincher,” Holly insisted. “If you notice, the mandible, or jawbone, is narrow and the pelvic inlet tells you everything.”

“What am I looking for?”

“See, the pelvic bone is broad and round and the sacrum is wide. I don’t even need radiography for the soft-tissue analysis. This is
not
Artemidorus.”

“You’re saying . . .”

“The hip bones are wide and there is no penis. This mummy is a
woman
.”

The Khamsin
Motoryacht, N 37°32', E 8°36'

L
ADY
X
ANDRA
S
OMMERSET
sat in the salon staring at the decaying sarcophagus. She had known that the mummy would deteriorate slightly in the salt air, but this was much worse than anything she had imagined. Half a dozen patches of green fungus had suddenly bloomed like little flowers all over the top of the coffin. Xandra started to wipe them off with a tissue but then stopped. What if she damaged the finish?

Artemidorus was also emitting a ripe odor that was becoming unbearable in the enclosed salon of the yacht. The beautiful artifact was being destroyed!

Venice was still a two-day sail away. Once she reached the palazzo, she could put the mummy in a room with regulated temperature and humidity. Her apartment—like many others in the submerged city—was climate-controlled to preserve the furniture and antiques. She’d keep Artemidorus there until it was time to travel to Egypt.

Xandra jumped up and paced the salon. It was inconceivable that her efforts to return the mummy to Cairo would be in vain. But if Artemidorus kept rotting like this they’d have to dispose of him at sea.

Something had to be done, and quickly! She
had
to persuade Dr. Graham to help! So far the woman had refused. Xandra hurried down to the portside forward cabin and rapped on the door.