The Stolen Chalicel (36 page)

At six a.m., Sinclair stood with Malik on the threshold of the town house and watched the traffic on Grosvenor Street. Car headlights were still glowing orange in the darkness. It was damp and cool and felt like it would rain.

A black sedan pulled up, driven by a British security agent. Jim Gardiner was the passenger in the front seat. Sinclair handed his coffee cup to Malik and clasped his hand good-bye.

“Good luck.”

“I’ll bring her back,” Sinclair promised, his throat tight.

Malik nodded very quickly and looked away. Sinclair headed toward the car and opened the back door.
Holly Graham was in the rear seat!

“Hols!
I didn’t know you were coming to Venice with us!”

“MI6 called me. There are some new developments,” Holly explained, sounding almost apologetic.

“No, I didn’t mean . . . I’m glad for your company. You’ve been terrific about all of this.”

He slid into the car beside her. Gardiner turned around to address him.

“Apparently Moustaffa and Lady X want to return Artemidorus. They want Holly to come to Venice and verify it’s the real mummy.”

“They’re giving it
back?
Why would they do that?” Sinclair exclaimed.

“Lady X says she had a change of heart and wants to return it to the Brooklyn Museum.”

“That’s so
strange
!”

“I know. It’s almost as if the mummy is some kind of bonus,” Gardiner said, shaking his head in bafflement. “Moustaffa says he will divulge the location of Artemidorus when we pay the ransom for Delia.”

“How bizarre!” Sinclair exclaimed.

“You have no idea,” Gardiner continued. “Lady X says the ancient spirits are telling her to return it.”

Sinclair laughed mirthlessly.

“Well, that pretty much convinces me that
both
of them are out of their minds.”

Venice

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE LOOKED
around at the piles of stolen art in the warehouse on the Giudecca Canal and tried to calculate the total market value. Tens of millions, easily. The space was stacked with crates of different colors. Along the far wall there was a row of tables with stolen objects, all tagged and numbered like items at a garage sale.

“We found this warehouse a few days ago, thanks to your information,” the policeman told Carter.

The officer was a very trim-looking fellow with lots of stripes and insignia on his form-fitting jacket. How did Italian policemen manage to look so dapper? Carter glanced down at his own rumpled khakis. Some FBI agent
he
would make! He hastily tucked in his oxford shirt.

“The curators have gone through only a few of the crates,” the policeman explained.

“Why is it taking so long?”

“We need the insurance companies to sort out what belongs to whom. If we don’t do this legally, things will be tied up in court for decades.”

Carter shook his head, looking around the warehouse. What a terrible environment for art! The building was on the edge of the industrial district, along the main canal. Like everything in Venice, water vapor permeated the building, the air, even the floor. These objects were at serious risk if they didn’t move them out soon. He was glad Holly wouldn’t witness this kind of destruction. It would upset her terribly.

Carter walked over to the tables. There were five Fayoum mummy portraits among the artifacts. The wooden panels had been laid out so that the ancient faces stared blankly back at him.

Carter unconsciously reached for his cell phone. He should tell Holly about this. Any excuse to hear her voice. But he had no illusions. She wasn’t exactly thinking of
him
day and night.

On second thought, he’d wait until he recovered Artemidorus. Then she would
have
to give him his due. That mummy was her baby. Carter put his cell phone back into his pocket. He’d wait. Besides, unrequited love was so damn pathetic.

“Signor Wallace, could you come here please?” The policeman gestured with both his hands, as if it were very urgent.

Carter walked over to see what was the matter.

“We have found a Venice address on one of the pieces,” the policeman said.

Carter looked at the packing slip. It was printed in English.

X. SOMMERSET 34 CALLE MINELLI VENICE.

“Where is this?” asked Carter.

“It is in the Dorsoduro district, off the Grand Canal. Not far from your hotel.”

Carter recalled his airplane reading. According to guidebooks, the Dorsoduro district had for centuries been favored by foreigners and the upper crust of the city. Even now, many apartments were still owned by wealthy expat British and Americans.

“Well,
that’
s a start,” Carter said. “Why don’t we go there and ask a couple of questions?”

“No, we cannot do that without official permission.”

“So let’s get permission.”

“Today is Friday. And Monday is a holiday. No one will be able to do that until Tuesday,” the policeman said.

“Tuesday!”
said Carter.

“
Sí
. On Tuesday we will ask.”

“OK, if you say so,” said Carter, looking at the paper and memorizing the address. He handed back the packing slip.

There was nothing to stop him from going to Calle Minelli by himself. Maybe the police wanted three days off, but
he
didn’t.

He’d go and stake out the place himself. Nobody would notice. If he loitered with a guidebook, he’d look like every other tourist lounging around this city soaking up atmosphere. Finally, he was getting somewhere!

Holly Graham walked along the side of the canal. It was her first visit to Venice, and she had never seen such a beautiful city. Sinclair and Jim Gardiner had gone off to their briefings about the money drop, but she wasn’t needed. So she’d decided to take a stroll, and was immediately entranced by her discoveries.

The small stone passageways between the canals were a charming labyrinth, with their twists and turns. She kept finding new bridges that arched over the canals. From time to time she would duck into one of the mysterious churches that smelled of candle wax and incense. She was thrilled with the beautiful architecture, lovely religious paintings, and stained-glass windows.

But it wasn’t just the historic objects that took her breath away—the shops were absolutely sumptuous. Store after store was filled with beautifully handcrafted items—elegant gloves, leather goods, blown glass, exquisitely milled paper, and beautifully designed jewelry and gold. She coveted almost everything she saw.

It was good that the weather was holding up for all this walking around. She had heard that Venice could be hot and muggy in the summer. During
acqua alta
—the high-water time of year—tourists had to wear high rubber boots. But today was cool and the pavement was dry.

She wandered for hours, losing all track of time. Finally, her legs aching and her stomach growling, she looked at her watch. Nearly one o’clock! It was time to get back to the hotel and check in with Sinclair and Jim Gardiner. With a guilty jolt she remembered just what kind of pressure they were under, and here she was playing tourist.

The Hotel Danieli was on a main thoroughfare, right next to the famous St. Mark’s Square. The hotel faced the sparkling expanse of the Venetian Lagoon. There was no place more visible or more luxurious to stay. They had chosen the hotel for that exact reason—the Danieli
gave them credibility. Anyone with the means to enjoy this hotel would certainly be able to come up with the multimillion-dollar ransom.

Holly stepped inside the palatial lobby and let her eyes adjust to the dim interior. It was the epitome of Venetian elegance, with thirty-foot ceilings and marble columns. The beautiful reception area had a soaring staircase that wound its way up to banquet rooms above. There were enormous bouquets of ivory roses in elaborate urns at the check-in desk. Comfortable tapestried chairs and low tables were placed throughout the lobby, where coffee and drinks were served.

Holly looked around for Sinclair and Jim Gardiner. Instead, she found Ted VerPlanck sitting near the door, as if waiting for someone. She had no idea he was in Venice! He hadn’t been invited by the intelligence people to help with the ransom operation. She wondered if he had come of his own volition.

VerPlanck looked up when he saw her, and for the first time in days he smiled. Holly was relieved. Perhaps some of his depression was lifting.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said. “When I heard you’d left, I just
had
to come along. I booked a suite here.”

“Sorry, I didn’t have time to call you,” Holly apologized. “It was a last-minute thing. The kidnappers asked that I meet with them to get Artemidorus back.”

“I heard.” Verplanck smiled. “MI6 wasn’t all that happy I showed up.”

“Why not?”

“It seems I am too high-profile. I’ve been told to stay out of sight.”

“And you’re sitting in the
lobby?
” Holly laughed.

“I was waiting for you. The concierge said you went out for a stroll. I was hoping to waylay you for lunch. Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I haven’t. That would be lovely. But maybe I should check and see if anyone needs me.”

“Already did,” VerPlanck said. “The Brits want only Sinclair and Gardiner. I’m odd man out and, according to them, you’re still free to do what you like.”

“So you talked to the intelligence team?”

“Yes. I asked if they wanted my assistance, and they promptly told me no. Too many cooks, they said. So I just checked into the hotel to wait it out.”

“Wait for what?”

“I am anxious about Cordelia, of course, and I also want to see if my Sardonyx Cup turns up. I hear they found a warehouse of stolen art.”

“Well, no matter what the reason, I’m glad you came.”

“So am I. I nearly forgot how beautiful Venice is.”

“This is my first time. I
love
it already.”

“I’d like to take you to one of my favorite restaurants,” VerPlanck said. “The food is absolutely authentic.”

Holly had assumed Ted would take her to a fussy, overpriced restaurant with crisp linen and bowing waiters. Instead, Dalla Marisa in Cannaregio was a tiny place, tucked into a marble-paved side street. When they walked in from the damp street, it was informal, crowded, warm, and the scent of delicious food was overpowering. Exactly the kind of restaurant Holly might have picked herself.

“Maria sets the menu,” Ted explained. “It’s an
osteria,
which means the owner is the host. So there’s not a lot of choice. But everything she serves is delicious.”

They took their seats at one of the small tables lined up against the wall. The place was crammed with local people. A teenage boy came over and poured some mineral water into two glasses and set them before them.

“Would you like some wine?” Ted asked her.

“No, I better stick to this.” She indicated the sparkling water. “Considering what’s planned for this evening, I’d better not be drinking wine at lunch.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Ted agreed automatically, but then his eyes narrowed with concern.

“What’s planned?”
he whispered.

She leaned over toward him, as if speaking intimately. In the din of the restaurant, no one could hear.

“I have to go with Sinclair for the drop-off. It’s tonight at La Fenice Opera House, during the intermission.”

“How does it work?”

“We give the kidnappers the money, and they’re going to turn over Cordelia and tell me where to pick up Artemidorus.”

“Holly!” VerPlanck said. “That sounds—”

“Dangerous?”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, half the audience in the theater will be . . . well, you know.”

VerPlanck nodded as the waiter approached. He spoke rapid Italian to the young man and they concluded quickly. Within minutes plates of antipasti were placed on the table.

“What
is
all this?” Holly asked.

VerPlanck leaned over and pointed to each dish and explained.

“It’s all seafood. Local. Mussels coated with bread crumbs, cheese, and herbs.
Baccalà
—salted cod with red peppers. This is marinated fish,
branzino
. And baby octopus in tomato sauce.”