The Stolen Chalicel (35 page)

“What about the authorities that border the Med?” asked Holly. “Can’t
they
do something?”

“The yacht is skirting a half-dozen countries. Unfortunately, most of them couldn’t organize a chase by sea.”

“But this is a
kidnapping
!” Holly argued.

“Spain, France, Italy, Monaco, Croatia, Greece, and Turkey all working together—even if they cooperated, it would take too much time.”

Sinclair stared at him, distraught. “We need to do
something
!”

“We are. Here is the plan. The vessel will turn up at a checkpoint very soon.”

“What do you mean, a checkpoint?”

“A maritime ‘big ship report’ area. They keep strict records of boats that transit certain areas. The Strait of Gibraltar, for example. A boat the size of
The Khamsin
would be required to notify the authorities they are passing through.”

“That’s a start,” said Gardiner.

“No. There’s a problem with that,” VerPlanck spoke up.

“What do you mean?”

“
The Khamsin
could wait until nighttime and sneak through the
radar scan by staying close to another large vessel. The radar signature would read as only one boat, not two.”

“True, but we have another lead,” the MI6 chief went on to say. “We know that Lady Xandra usually takes her yacht to Venice this time of year.”

“So you think she’s heading there?”

“She had a standing reservation at the marina on the Giudecca Canal. If
The Khamsin
docks there, we will be notified immediately.”

“You’ve spoken to the port authorities?”

“Yes.”

“And if she makes an appearance, then what?” asked Sinclair.

“Then we’ll make a deal, Mr. Sinclair. And that’s where we will need your assistance. As government officials, we can’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Grand Canal, Venice, Italy

V
ENICE WAS GLORIOUS
! Carter let the breeze ruffle his hair as his water taxi traversed the Grand Canal. He hung out the back of the boat, enthralled with the beautiful maritime city. Instead of the snarl of modern traffic, there was a ballet of vaporetti, ferryboats, gondolas, and other small craft bobbing in the morning sun.

He had learned a lot about Venice from reading the guidebooks on the plane. The ancient city was called “La Serenissima,” or “The Most Serene”—because its citizens had preferred trade to war. Now that he was here, Carter could see it
was
serene in the truest sense of the word.

The soft beauty was enchanting. As his boat passed by the old palaces, with their graceful balconies and sheltered terraces, Carter suddenly understood why Venice had inspired countless masterpieces. He couldn’t resist trying to capture it himself, taking photos of the sea entrance, St. Mark’s Square, and the iconic winged lion atop the tall granite pillar.

The water taxi turned into a smaller canal, and suddenly it was cool and dim. Old buildings flanked him on both sides, their walls coated with green moss at the water line. Iron-grilled doorways appeared at intervals, where stone steps led into the palazzi and hotels.

They passed under a swan-necked bridge, and Carter conjured up a romantic tryst: two lovers, kissing in the night. Of course, his next thought was of Holly. He was willing to admit she was a fantasy. Fleeting rapidly. But he wasn’t giving up entirely.

He slumped back in his seat and realized that Holly was the reason why he was here. Motivated by a desire to become her hero, he was desperately trying to find the stolen art. But whatever unrealistic expectation had driven him, this was the best thing that had happened to him in years!

Looking at a gondolier passing by, he was struck with one of those rare moments of crystalline clarity.
This
was a defining moment. He had spent too much time among the dusty artifacts of a dead civilization. But now, due to an unexpected turn of events, he had found his way again. Venice had unleashed a pent-up hunger that had
nothing
to do with Holly.

He wanted to live! Roam the globe. Travel. His future was
out there
! The shimmering beauty of the world lay before him, and until now he had been ignoring it.

Carter found his Venetian epiphany short-lived; his tour of the city had to be put on hold. Practicality intervened. An hour after his arrival, he received a message to go to the water entrance of the Hotel Bonvecchiati to meet the local customs police.

As he waited on the stone landing, he noticed the day had suddenly turned damp and chilly. In the space of an hour fog had rolled in, and the canals were now misted and mysterious. He could barely make out the shapes of the buildings on the far side.

He buttoned his trench coat and thrust his hands into his pockets. Boat traffic had slackened. A lone gondola glided around the corner, appearing silently out of the fog. A man in a traditional striped shirt and straw boater maneuvered the craft with a long pole. The dark hull of the gondola passed by, ominous and ghostly. In the rear, a young couple were embracing on the red velvet settee, oblivious of all but each other. Then they were gone, swallowed up in the mist.

Somewhere nearby he could hear the
putt-putt
of a motor. Carter tried to see through the wall of white fog, but with the sound distorted, it was impossible to tell how close the boat was. Suddenly, a police vessel appeared directly in front of him. The pilot cut the engine and maneuvered the craft up to the stone landing.

“Dr. Carter Wallace?” the officer asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Please get in.”

“Sure,” he said, looking at the bobbing boat.

He had no idea how to climb into the moving craft. Apparently water transportation was not for the fainthearted. Carter closed his eyes and leaped. He fell on the cushioned seat just as the engine kicked in. The officer tactfully ignored his clumsiness and turned into the canal.

London

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT
at the Grosvenor Street town house. John Sinclair flung down
Memoirs of Hadrian
. Reading was futile. It had been a long, difficult day. Sleep, or even shutting his eyes, was inconceivable! The town house reminded him of a tomb. All four stories were echoing with emptiness now that Cordelia was gone.

This was her home, even though they both lived here now. She had inherited the beautiful brick Mayfair mansion a year ago from a distant relative. It had originally belonged to Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather Elliott Stapleton, a famous Victorian explorer. It was a handsome property. Most of the furniture was original, and the decor retained the elegant masculinity of the original owner.

Sinclair’s whole life was nothing without Cordelia. Even this library, his favorite place on earth, seemed like a prison without her. He had never been so distraught in his life.

Tonight the fire crackled in the grate, mocking his gloom with its coziness and warmth. His dog, Kyrie, lay dozing before the brass fireplace fender. Restless, Sinclair walked over to the sound system and began mindlessly scrolling through the music.

He selected Brahms’s
Ein Deutsches Requiem
—the spiritual tone seemed appropriate. The poignant composition roiled out of the speakers—a beautiful Mass sung in German. Sinclair’s playlist didn’t usually include religious works. Piety didn’t come naturally. He always
favored science over theology. But tonight he’d take all the prayers he could get.

This afternoon, surprisingly,
The Khamsin
had made contact with Jim Gardiner’s office via satellite phone. A call had come, asking to speak to Sinclair, demanding ransom. As suspected, the yacht was headed to Venice, arriving the day after tomorrow.

Sinclair had negotiated for Cordelia’s release with Jim Gardiner hovering behind him nervously. British Intelligence couldn’t be involved because of the government’s policy of not directly negotiating with terrorists. However, MI6 agents had gathered around him as he set the terms.

Everything was fine, Lady X had assured them. The “cargo” was on board. However, there would be a “fee” for transporting Cordelia to Venice. Sinclair had blanched at all the talk of Cordelia as an inanimate object. Fortunately, Lady X agreed to their figure—two million dollars. Safe delivery wouldn’t be a problem, but she had one firm condition: that everyone on
The Khamsin
would be granted immunity from prosecution.

Sinclair looked around the room for affirmation. The agents nodded. Done, Sinclair had agreed.

Lady X had then turned the phone over to Moustaffa to make arrangements for the money drop. The terrorist had taken quite a different tone. He was much more aggressive, upping the price twice. Throughout the conversation, no one had been allowed to speak to Cordelia.

Sinclair had been sitting with British intelligence agents on both sides of him. Only he could negotiate, but they wrote out suggestions and tips for him on a computer notepad. They communicated wordlessly as the negotiations proceeded. At one point Jim Gardiner appropriated the tablet to type a question to the MI6 officers.

Should we ask to speak to her?

The agent typed the instruction to Sinclair:

Ask for proof of life.

Sinclair shot him a confused look.

That is standard procedure in hostage negotiations. Do it.

Sinclair did as he was instructed. The reaction was violent.

“I’ll give you proof of life!” Moustaffa had growled.

He had put the phone down and dragged Cordelia closer to the receiver. They had heard the sound of someone being slapped, hard—the unmistakable smack of an open hand hitting someone’s face. She cried out.
It was Cordelia!

Sinclair had stood powerless, staring at the intercom, clenching and unclenching his hands. By the second blow he had started to curse under his breath, threatening Moustaffa with all kinds of bodily harm. Tears rimmed Gardiner’s eyes as he listened.

The call concluded with Moustaffa vowing to kill Cordelia if the money didn’t turn up. Sinclair was to proceed to Venice, where he would be notified of when and where to make the drop. He should come alone. Then the line went dead.

Sinclair had gone wild with fury. The British intelligence officers assured him the slapping was staged and sounded worse than it actually was. Moustaffa would not harm Cordelia seriously. He needed her alive and undamaged if he wanted to walk away with four million dollars of British taxpayers’ money. Leave it to the professionals, they said.

Then they had sent him home with clear instructions. He would be transported to Venice tomorrow. An entire MI6 team would be on the scene to help him—British Intelligence would set up operations in the Hotel Danieli. The success of the operation was dependent on him being patient, keeping his head. The only thing they required tonight was for him to go home and sleep.

As if he
could
!

Sinclair walked over to the sideboard, seized a cut-crystal tumbler, and shoveled in some ice and poured a double splash of Laphroaig. Just then, his assistant, Malik, walked in. He looked pale with worry as he put a tray on the library table.

“Margaret made you a fresh pot of coffee and some cheddar scones. She was concerned you didn’t have any dinner.”

“Thanks, very kind of her,” Sinclair replied.

“You should try to rest.”

“You should get some rest yourself.”

“I know we’ll get a break in the case soon,” Malik said with a newfound authority that came from watching BBC detective shows.

Sinclair gave him a hint of a smile.

“I’m sure you are right. The British are very good at this sort of thing.”

It was pitch dark when Sinclair woke up. For the briefest moment he reached across the bed for her. The sheet was cool and flat. Then he remembered Cordelia was gone. Today, he would fly to Venice to pay the ransom. As he swung his legs out of bed, he vowed that Cordelia would come home or he’d die trying.