The Stolen Chalicel (5 page)

Vojtech passed through the Roman Gallery with a tray of stuffed grape leaves. He was invisible. As a waiter, he was merely an hors d’oeuvre opportunity for the guests.

He had an enormous sense of calm after speaking to the others and reviewing the timetable. Two other waiters were going to join him during the dessert course. And together the three of them would execute the plan.

The Metropolitan gala was on the main floor, but the galleries upstairs were closed to the public. Charlie Hannifin climbed the empty service stairs to the American Painting section. The room was empty.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took a strobe out of his
pocket. He needed to land the puck-size device squarely in the center of the gallery to trigger the alarm. If he overshot, he couldn’t retrieve it or he would show up on the heat/motion sensors.

This called for a gentle lob. He took two steps back in the stairwell to give the toss some momentum, swung underhand, and then let it go. The spherical strobe arced through the air, landed, and rolled as slowly as a golf ball on the last green of the Masters Tournament. Right in the middle. Perfect. In ten minutes the alarm would go off.

Charlie peeled off the latex gloves and stuck them in the pocket of his tuxedo—he’d flush them down the toilet later. Right now he needed to get out of here. He quickly bolted down the interior stairwell and stepped out to the main lobby.

Two guards approached. Charlie flashed his gold-and-red security chit, but the board of directors lapel pin gave him the right to be anywhere on the premises.

“Everything all right, sir?” one of them asked.

“The elevator was busy, I had to take the stairs,” Charlie explained.

“It’s filled with cops,” the museum guard informed him.

“I’d rather have
you
guarding the paintings,” Charlie told them.

“Why’s that?”

“Those Nineteenth Precinct boys wouldn’t know a Pissarro from a pepperoni pizza.”

The guards smirked.

“Have a good night,” Charlie said. “Keep up the good work.”

“Yes, sir.”

1010 Fifth Avenue

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK WALKED
through his penthouse securing window fastenings and testing the brass handles on the French doors. It was better to keep the alarm system turned off. In all likelihood, Tipper would rush in to get dressed and would trigger it by accident. Then he’d have to spend half the night on the phone. Why was it that she could never get the hang of the security code?

As he walked through the living room, all the paintings glowed. Later this evening he would indulge in his cherished nocturnal ritual of enjoying each masterpiece as he shut off the lights.

His most prized possession, the famous Sardonyx Cup, was in a small alcove in the living room. He paused briefly to look at it. The cup had been carved from a single piece of the mineral sardonyx. Of all the precious stones, rust-colored sardonyx was the most prized in ancient Egypt—even more valuable than gold or silver; it was believed to have mystical powers that could eliminate evil forces.

Fragile and carved to a thinness that made it nearly transparent, the Sardonyx Cup had started as an Egyptian drinking vessel. Later, in medieval France, it had been turned into a gold chalice.

Over the ages, the Sardonyx Cup had generated a cultlike following. Both princes and popes had held it in their hands. A mere sip of communion wine from the cup at Mass was said to cure any disease.

A legend began. Most early Egyptian artifacts seemed to have
curses attached to them. But this cup was considered a talisman, and bestowed great blessing on its owners.

That was why Ted VerPlanck cherished it. If the cup stayed right here in its niche in the living room, he believed nothing bad would ever happen to him.

Metropolitan Museum of Art

T
HE STEPS LEADING
up to the museum were empty. All the cameramen were inside their TV vans, hunkered over their Subway sandwiches. It was time to chow down and kick back until the gala was over.

The reporter for
Extravaganza Tonight
was still on the sidewalk, rolling up his microphone cord. Disappointing. It looked like Lady X was a no-show, but this wasn’t the first time that the rumor of her attendance had proved to be false.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a lone figure sprinting across Fifth Avenue. It was the billionaire art collector Theodore Stuart VerPlanck. The famous mogul was late. VerPlanck hit the top step without a pause. Damn, that guy kept himself fit! At fifty-two, he had the spring of a twenty-year-old.

So where was the lovely
Mrs.
VerPlanck? Tipper was a lush and a pill popper. Ted defended his wife, insisting that her stint in Betty Ford had cleared up all that. But this reporter wasn’t buying it. He’d bet his press badge that Tipper had fallen off the wagon again.

Ted VerPlanck disappeared into the museum. That was probably the last arrival for the evening. Around midnight the camera crews would reassemble on the steps to catch the people leaving. What a dog’s life. Just once he’d like to drink the bubbly with the swells.

Another black sedan turned the corner onto Fifth and slowly pulled up to the curb. It wasn’t a hired town car but, rather, a chauffeur-driven sedan—a Maybach. This was
someone
.

“Tony, get this one on tape, pronto!” The videographer lifted the camera to his shoulder as he went.

Sure enough, a long, tanned leg emerged from the car, wearing a high-heeled gold sandal. Then a beautiful mane of hair appeared, followed by a bloodred dress. The reporter gasped in amazement when he realized who was getting out.

“Holy shit! It’s Lady X!”

This was the money shot—and brother, did she look like a million bucks tonight.

Lady X was fascinating. Her beauty came from her Egyptian mother. Her vast fortune came from her father—a British businessman who had the Midas touch with fish and chips. The Chippy’s logo, a jolly walrus, was an instantly recognizable road sign all over the United Kingdom, Australia, and New Zealand. But in every fancy school she attended, Xandra had been made well aware that
nothing
was more common than fish and chips.

Then, in a social coup, Xandra had married Lord Sommerset, a cousin to the queen. His first wife had died while producing an heir. With the succession assured, the elderly Lord Sommerset was free to marry whomever he chose.

Xandra became his adored second wife. They were a surprisingly happy couple. British aristocracy was forced to turn a blind eye to what they considered to be Xandra’s mongrel pedigree. Secure in her position in society, Lady X was free to flaunt the conventions of the upper classes. She did so with a vengeance.

The tabloids loved her. She became their bankable celebrity. Every newspaper sold out if they put Xandra on the cover. Tonight, if rumors were correct, Xandra would be seated across from the First Lady of the United States.

“Lady X, this way please,” the reporter called.

She turned to look and slowly blinked her enormous amber eyes.

At the south side of the museum, two uniformed NYPD officers walked up to the employees’ entrance. They were each carrying New York deli cups and paper bags with bagels. They flashed their badges through the window and the guard buzzed them in.

“Thanks a lot. We went out for coffee.”

“Yeah, I packed a sandwich,” said the security guard. “This thing won’t be over until midnight.”

“Well, hang in there.”

The four Secret Service agents didn’t deign to join in the chatter. Their eyes were glued to the glass-paneled door, as if waiting for an ambush.

The two cops drifted away, not speaking until they were out of earshot.

“Well, that was easy.”

“The more hectic things are, the easier it is.”

“How so?”

“On a night like this, nobody looks at two cops in plain sight. We’re part of the scenery.”

Security Chief Tom McCarthy stared at the monitor. It was eight-thirty and the fire alarm was going off in the Portrait Gallery of the American Wing.

“Come with me,” he said to his computer guy. Yanni was not much backup, but nobody else was available.

McCarthy walked rapidly through the grand lobby and heaved his bulk up the grand staircase to the European and American Painting galleries. This area was off-limits and surveillance was by electronic camera only.

Sprinting through the labyrinth of corridors, McCarthy knew every hallway, every exhibit. He barreled into Room 14. The silent red bulbs of the fire alarm were flashing, tingeing the priceless paintings with a rosy tone.

But nothing was amiss. All the canvases on the walls were intact: the stately colonial portraits by Gilbert Stuart, the somber James McNeil Whistler figures, and the tender mother and child studies by Mary Cassatt.

At the far end was John Singer Sargent’s majestic life-size
Portrait of Madame X,
posed with her head angled away in profile. The artist had managed to capture her aristocratic hauteur. Only now her posture suggested she was irritated by the disruption in the gallery.

McCarthy stopped in astonishment. There was a light strobe on the floor, which must have set off the alarm. At the slightest sign of an increase in temperature, the sprinklers were supposed to come on. But they hadn’t. So clearly someone had wanted to trigger the alarm
without
damaging the paintings.

He lifted his radio to call the security control room.

“Turn off circuit six alarm, please.”

Yanni looked concerned.

“I wouldn’t do that, sir. That camera circuit covers five of the rooms along this corridor.”

“I am
aware
of that,” McCarthy said as he brushed him off. “This is a diversion, designed to get us worked up about something here while they hit another part of the museum.”

“I understand, sir, but it would leave you without
any
security in this section.”

Yanni stood there shaking his head at him for emphasis. His eyes were intensified by thick glasses and he looked like a bobble-head doll.

“They wouldn’t call attention to this gallery if they were going to steal something here. They would strike somewhere else,” he explained again.

“Oh, I see. That makes sense. You’re probably right,” Yanni agreed hastily.

“Of
course
I’m right. I didn’t spend thirty years in the department for nothing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, get back downstairs. The First Lady is arriving in twenty minutes.”

1010 Fifth Avenue

M
RS.
T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK
stood in front of her dressing-room mirror. Her evening gown was a crimson Carolina Herrera in heavy dupioni silk. The Harry Winston necklace was made of rubies and diamonds. She was back from the rehab clinic, and this town had better watch out!

A phrase ran through her head, advice her father had always given her.

“Never,
never
let anyone give you guff,” he would say.