The Stolen Chalicel (40 page)

“Holly wrote it!” Carter exclaimed. “It’s a message in ancient hieroglyphics.”

“And I suppose you can read it,” the agent said with a smirk.

“Actually, I can.”

They fell silent as Carter examined the book closely, holding it toward the streetlight.

“So what does it say?” the agent asked, his tone considerably chastened.

“Sinai. These are the symbols for the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt.”

Hotel Danieli

J
OHN SINCLAIR’S SUITE
at the Hotel Danieli was the perfection of Venetian splendor—a large wood-carved canopied bed draped with burgundy velvet, and across the room mullioned-glass doors, slightly open to the balcony, with a view of the shimmering lagoon beyond.

Cordelia lay on the bed dazed. None of it had any impact on her. She was still living the nightmare of a hypodermic pressed to her body. She could see the gleaming needle against the fabric of her dress. Death had been so close, merely a half inch away.

“Delia,
please
! Don’t think about it anymore,” Sinclair pleaded. “You’re safe now.”

She turned to Sinclair and wound her arms around him, trying to focus on what was real. His body was warm and strong. She ran her hands over his face and chest, pressing her palms to his heart. She could feel it beating. He was here. The horror was over.

“I
knew
you would find me,” Cordelia said.

“I would never give up, you must know that.”

“Hold me, I’m cold,” she said, pressing into him. He threw a leg over hers and pulled her even tighter. They fit together perfectly, breathing in and out in tandem.

“Delia, tell me what happened. I want to know.”

“He’s a
monster,
” she whispered. “John, you have no idea. He’s
really
evil.”

The horror of Moustaffa’s kiss filled her mind. She involuntarily shuddered in revulsion. Sinclair felt it and sat up, taking her face between his two hands. He searched her eyes.

“Did he hurt you . . . in any way?” Sinclair asked, white-lipped with anger. “
Tell
me.”

“No, John. He tried . . .” Cordelia started and tears formed in her eyes. She ducked her head and brushed them away.

“
Delia, don’t cry!
I’ll kill the son of a—”

“I’m sorry . . . it’s just the stress . . . the relief of being safe now. I’m fine. Really.”

Sinclair sat up and let out a stream of vehement curses in what sounded like Turkish. There was no need for translation.

“He didn’t
do
anything, John,” she assured him. “He threatened to, but he had Lady X on board the whole time. She walks around practically naked. That must have been enough.”

Sinclair was quiet, gazing toward the doors of the terrace, the moonlight illuminating his expression.

“John, what is it?”

“I’m wondering about Holly. Now
she’s
on that boat.”

Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt

W
HEN
M
OUSTAFFA WALKED
into the Four Seasons Hotel, it was delightfully cool. A fountain burbled in the center of the lobby. The tiled floor, whitewashed walls, and rattan furniture created an atmosphere of luxurious informality.

He strode over to the front desk, flung down his bag, and played the part of a spoiled tourist, arrogantly demanding his room be upgraded. Then he booked a masseuse, a private car, a personal dive guide, and reservations for every evening. The hotel staff was in a full-blown tizzy by the time he finished with them.

He strolled out to the terrace restaurant, with its gorgeous vista of the Red Sea. A handful of guests were enjoying lunch, admiring the view. A canopy protected them from the scorching sun, and potted palms surrounded each table. There was a slight breeze and the palm fronds stirred, making a clacking-rustling sound.

Moustaffa sat down and ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice and a salad with grilled shrimp. He hoped to stay here for the next week, posing as a wealthy scuba enthusiast with a full dive schedule every day at the RAS Mohammed National Marine Park. It would be an amusing pastime, and would also serve as a good diversion until Lady Xandra Sommerset arrived.

Xandra was making the voyage by sea. He’d left her with the understanding that she’d join him here in Sharm el-Sheikh the day before the attack. He could not understand why the woman was obsessed with
bringing the cartouche of Artemidorus back to Egypt, and it was irritating that she had been sidetracked from the original plan.

But, then, that was Xandra. She had her enthusiasms, some of them wacky. But her bank account was partially funding Moustaffa’s operation, and her boat was the perfect cover, so he indulged her.

The logistics of moving the coffin were a nightmare. Their only option was to smuggle it into the country on her private yacht. The stolen mummy was too large to conceal. And the smell was now so overpowering that it had been an absolute necessity for Moustaffa to disembark
The Khamsin
. Xandra seemed able to bear the stench, and the crew was paid handsomely to ignore it.

Dr. Holly Graham remained on board, helping to keep the remains from deteriorating further. The Egyptologist would have to be dealt with later. But Moustaffa didn’t have time for that kind of detail right now. There were other things to attend to.

The plan was going well. Computer disks with the data for re-creating the plague had been delivered to the lab in Cairo. His men were formulating the biological agent right now, and there were eight days until the start of the international economic conference.

That was plenty of time to get the canisters primed and ready. Installing them would be done the day of the attack. And then his vision would be fulfilled. He would single-handedly destroy the industrial powers of the world.

The Khamsin
Motoryacht

H
OLLY
G
RAHAM STARED
at the crimson sarcophagus in disgust as Lady X hovered behind her. What had this woman done? It was
abominable
! The British Museum would be devastated to see what had happened to its precious mummy.

Holly put her head in her hands. A wave of nausea passed over her. Of course it was because she was so upset. First the abduction. Now with the stench coming off the coffin and the movement of
The Khamsin
. Her stomach was feeling very unstable. She sat on the couch, staring at the carpet, trying to get hold of herself.

“What do you think?” the British aristocrat asked, standing in front of her. Lady X looked very anxious and unsure of herself.

“You have single-handedly destroyed one of the most valuable artifacts in the entire world!” Holly snapped.

“Can you help me preserve it until we get to Egypt?”

“Why Egypt? I don’t understand,” Holly exclaimed.

“I want to bring Artemidorus back to his homeland. Surely you can understand that.”

“But this is a
horrible
way to do it. By letting the mummy decompose!”

“I didn’t mean to. You have to help me,” Xandra pleaded. “Let me explain.”

She abruptly sat down in a chair across from Holly, leaned forward, and put her elbows on her knees in an attitude of friendly confidentiality.
Holly couldn’t help noticing at once how beautiful Xandra was—her long, silken hair, the long, flowing caftan. Her eyes were amazing—topaz in color, tilted up at the corners like a lion’s. How could this elegant woman have perpetrated such a horror?

“Dr. Graham, taking Artemidorus was not my choice. It was
his.
I remember standing at the British Museum looking into his eyes on that portrait panel, and he
spoke
to me! I heard his voice clearly. He called me his ‘Queen.’ ”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, I assure you. He said we should sail
The Khamsin
to his kingdom, where he would make me his queen. We are going back to Egypt
together
.”

Holly stared at the woman. It was clear that Xandra was mentally disturbed. But who would know? The British aristocrat was so polished, her symptoms of insanity were masked by her sophisticated social skills.

“So if it was
his
idea to do this,” Holly asked sarcastically, “what’s he saying now?”

“I’m afraid I killed him. He has stopped speaking to me.”

Holly looked at her in bafflement. This mummy had been dead for two thousand years, and Xandra thought she had killed him.

“I had no idea he would deteriorate this fast!” Lady X was saying. “But I had to do it. He told me to!”

Holly couldn’t help making one more bitter retort.

“Well, that makes
two
corrupt men who are telling you to carry out their personal agendas—Artemidorus
and
Moustaffa.”

“No, please. Don’t blame Moustaffa. This was my decision.”

“I’ll help you with this because Artemidorus was
my
responsibility. No other reason. It’s going to require some supplies.”

Lady X opened her mouth to give a gushing response and then stopped herself. Her manner turned cold again.

“Thank you, Dr. Graham. I’ll get you anything you require.”

Sharm el-Sheikh

C
ARTER
W
ALLACE WAS
on the forward deck of Ted VerPlanck’s gorgeous sailing yacht, the 125-foot
MoonSonnet
. Even at this early hour he could tell the day was going to be hot. The boat was anchored off the coast of the Sinai Peninsula. If he squinted his eyes and looked across the shimmering water, he could make out a strip of land—Sharm el-Sheikh.

The famous resort—sometimes referred to as the Riviera of the Red Sea—was less than an hour’s plane ride away from Cairo. Beaches lined with luxurious hotels catered to a clientele from the Middle East as well as Europe.

Carter shifted on the cushioned seat of the yacht and looked at the sliver of land. It was irrational, but he felt that if he kept it in sight nothing bad would happen to Holly.

A lot had happened in the last few days. After that fateful night at the opera, Holly had been spirited out of Venice aboard Lady X’s yacht.
The Khamsin
had motored away like a ghost into the fog. But as it left the Venetian Lagoon British Intelligence had quietly trailed it.

MI6 chief of operation thought the best thing to do was to track Moustaffa by sea. The British agency had rented a racy-looking fifty-meter Benetti and installed some paid actors to pose as the owners of the vessel. Carter was agog. Leave it to the Brits! The CIA could never get away with chartering a yacht! They’d be up on Capitol Hill within a week, explaining their extravagance to the American taxpayers.

Carter’s biggest surprise had been when MI6 had asked him to come along. Clearly, the trick of reading hieroglyphics had impressed them, along with his newly issued FBI credentials.

The spy ship was a marvel. Belowdecks there were nine Royal Navy antiterrorist specialists, and the hold was equipped with more listening capacity than a cave full of bats. They stealthily trailed
The Khamsin
through the Adriatic and the Mediterranean. From time to time, their surveillance equipment had picked up Holly’s voice, especially if she were near the windows of the salon.

For the first few days, Carter would hover over the audio specialist, begging him for a chance to listen in. After a while, whenever he showed up the technician would simply hand over the earphones.

Just listening to Holly made him sleep better at night. There was no apparent danger. She seemed to be speaking in normal tones—the conversation was mundane, her American accent easily distinguishable from Lady X’s rounded English vowels.

The spy ship had to keep its distance from
The Khamsin,
but whenever he could Carter trained his binoculars on the yacht. Occasionally, he got a glimpse of Holly on deck, standing at the railing, looking out over the water.

Moustaffa was no longer on board. That much they knew. He had disembarked onto a fishing boat at Dumyat, thirty miles west of Port Said. British Intelligence was disappointed to have lost him momentarily, but Carter was relieved. Moustaffa’s departure removed the only real threat to Holly’s safety. Now she was alone on the ship with her mummy, Artemidorus, and the crazy Englishwoman who stole it.

Lady X was a real piece of work. Not bad-looking, but a certifiable nut job. By now Carter had realized that Xandra was the woman in the
kalasiris
tunic he had observed that night of the New York gala—the lady who forgot her panties.

It seemed that buck naked was her usual M.O. The British aristocrat was frequently spotted sunning on deck completely starkers! Carter noticed that the British surveillance team was on special alert whenever there was no cloud cover and Lady X was catching some rays.

Holly had plenty of people following her besides Carter. After the botched hostage exchange in Venice, all of Holly’s other friends—Ted
VerPlanck, Jim Gardiner, Cordelia, and Sinclair had decided to track her also, boarding Ted VerPlanck’s boat
The MoonSonnet
in Piraeus, Greece, where it had been docked for the winter season.

The two ships leapfrogged each other through the Ionian and Mediterranean seas all the way to the Suez Canal, heading to the same place—the Red Sea. It had been no surprise to anyone when Lady X’s gleaming white superyacht put in to the marina in Sharm el-Sheikh.

The MoonSonnet
didn’t follow. VerPlanck anchored well out of sight. At the suggestion of British Intelligence, Carter had switched from the MI6 boat to VerPlanck’s yacht. The luxurious vessel could sleep twelve people, and was now a base of operations for the civilians.

And there was the added advantage of VerPlanck’s private security team. He always had three or four ex-military men on board, ever vigilant against Somali pirate attacks and other predators around the world.

Carter came out of his reverie when he heard footsteps behind him on the deck. He turned to find Cordelia Stapleton looking toward land. She appeared as worried as he was. Both of them were in the same boat, so to speak, because her boyfriend, Sinclair, was also in Sharm el-Sheikh helping with the operation.