The Stolen Chalicel (50 page)

VerPlanck had been very appreciative of Carter bowing out of Holly’s life, and the billionaire made sure the consolation prize was sweet.
The MoonSonnet
was Carter’s to use as he liked for a whole month!

The crew got him anything he wanted: club sandwiches, beer, even steak. And the freedom of it! He charted the course every day with the captain as they sat in the wheelhouse drinking their morning coffee. This was more fun than he had ever had in his entire life. Right now, they were planning on docking for a few days in Istanbul.

But lending the boat wasn’t the end of the man’s generosity. VerPlanck was going to fund a dig for Carter in the Valley of the Kings. And when Carter returned to New York they’d talk about his heading a new VerPlanck Center for Ancient Civilizations.

What an amazing guy! He really had turned out to be a prince. But the best part was Holly had found her match.

Carter laughed to himself. It had been silly of him to think he could ever capture the attention of a woman like Holly. She was like an Egyptian queen. Regal, unapproachable. Not in his league. It was a good thing schoolboy crushes were not fatal. No use mooning over things he couldn’t have. He had a lot of life to live!

NAMRU-3

T
ED
V
ER
P
LANCK WALKED
through the silent corridors of NAMRU-3 carrying a wooden box with a brass handle. He held it as gingerly as if it were the most precious object on earth. To him, it was.

The Egyptian authorities had recovered the chalice in the hold of
The Khamsin
that morning. The moment the security guard placed the crate in his hands, VerPlanck knew what he was going to do. Since medieval times, the Sardonyx Cup was thought to have miraculous healing powers. Now he would put those powers to the test.

It wouldn’t be easy. VerPlanck knew that he would have a hard time convincing some of the world’s best doctors that an ancient cup could be used for a cure. He would ask that the cup be placed next to Sinclair’s hospital bed. Medical science was failing; it was time for a higher power.

Ted firmly believed in the legend of the Sardonyx Cup’s miraculous healings. Many evenings, as he had sat on his living room couch, he had felt a special aura around the pedestal—he could feel a benign force every time he came within a few feet of the cup.

VerPlanck moved through the hospital corridor with a sense of purpose, praying he wasn’t too late. The only person he encountered was Cordelia, stretched out full length on a waiting room couch—fast asleep. She lay with one arm flung over her head, her face pale. VerPlanck lightened his tread so he would not wake her.

Around the next corner, the hallway was empty. This was the sixth
floor, where severe contagion was treated. Only people with special clearance were allowed. By rights, he really shouldn’t be here. On the left was the heavy glass window of the ICU, and through it he could see nurses and doctors standing around a large plastic tent.

Although the room was soundproof, VerPlanck had little doubt about what they were saying. Their postures were defeated, their gestures hopeless.

VerPlanck rapped on the outer pane of glass and six pairs of startled eyes looked at the unannounced visitor above their respirator masks. Oakley gestured for VerPlanck to wait.

Ted took a few steps away and rested the crate on a counter.

Oakley came out of a negative-pressure air-lock door, drying his hands with a paper towel.

“Mr. VerPlanck, what are you doing here? And what’s that?”

“The Sardonyx Cup.”

There was a shocked pause, and Oakley’s eyes hardened.

“Absolutely
not
! I certainly don’t have your faith in miracles, and I don’t think Sinclair buys into that sort of thing either.”

“I’m not suggesting he does.”

“Then
why
did you bring it?” Oakley replied, exasperated.

“I hired Sinclair to get this back for me. I want him to know he succeeded.”

“He’s not conscious.”

“Even so, he might wake up.”

Oakley’s eyes flicked to the crate and back to VerPlanck’s face. His expression softened.

“Sinclair always says that he’s a ‘man of science.’ He really wouldn’t like any kind of mumbo-jumbo. Especially now.”

“Please. I want to do
something
.”

Oakley sighed and looked down at the ugly linoleum floor as he thought about it.

“OK. You win. I’m pretty much at the end of my options.”

“Put it anywhere he can see it,” VerPlanck advised.

“For the record, I think you’re wasting your time. He’s getting weaker.”

“How long does he have?”

Oakley was silent.

“Surely you have some idea?” VerPlanck insisted.

Oakley’s lips were pressed into a firm, professional line. He spoke with clinical detachment.

“If I had to guess, I’d say the odds are he’ll be dead within the hour.”

Sinclair opened his eyes. The room was empty. There was only the
shuussss shussss shusss
of compressed air pumping into the plastic biocontainment unit. His eyes focused on random things in the room, his gaze drifting aimlessly until it fell on something that didn’t quite fit.

The Sardonyx Cup!

The patina of the beautiful object glowed in stark contrast to the modern steel instrument cabinets. Sinclair blinked, clearing his vision. No, it was not a drug-induced mirage—the richness of the amber-colored stone, the muted gleam of ancient gold was real!

His next thought was of Cordelia. She was safe! He had managed to keep her safe, and that’s all that mattered. Where was she? When could he see her?

Suddenly, he realized he felt much better. The pain was no longer with him. His skin no longer felt like it was on fire. There were only petty annoyances now: a dry throat, the ache where the IV needle had punctured a vein. He could catalog a list of minor discomforts, but the grinding agony was gone.

Sinclair looked over at the door, but there was no one in sight. The machines kept up their deathly rhythm, thumping and wheezing, each computer-driven instrument tasked with keeping him alive. But suddenly he wanted the thing off, this goddamn plastic coffin. He wanted to sit up.

He tried to knock the tent away, but nothing happened. He was too weak. It was all he could do to slide his finger onto the bell. He felt for the oblong square and depressed the buzzer.

As he called the nurse, he realized he was going to make it. Life had stopped draining out of him and was filling him up again. He could feel his limbs and feet. His hands felt a twinge of energy. His lungs could draw air without effort.

He was going to live!

Jim Gardiner heard the phone ringing as he lay on the bed in the darkened hotel room. As he woke, his first thought was of Cordelia. She needed him.

Sinclair had died and he must go and hold her, as he had done so many times in the past—after the death of her parents and when he had come to see her at school. During graduations, weddings, funerals, every other event of her young life, he had been there. Wiping her tears, telling her to keep going, it would all be fine. Now it was time to do it again.

He sighed. He was so tired, so weak from this cursed illness. But he sat up, reaching for the ringing phone. Every joint creaked. He figured he could get dressed and get down there in about a half hour. It wouldn’t take long. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Hello,” he said.

“Jim, it’s Paul!” Oakley was shouting. “He made it!”

“What?” Gardiner asked, still befuddled by sleep.

“Sinclair!” Oakley said. “He’s awake and talking. Cordelia is with him now. They’re together.”

“
Oh, thank God,
” Gardiner said. “
Thank God!”

Acknowledgments

I
WOULD LIKE TO EXPRESS
appreciation to all who have supported me in writing this novel. My deepest love and gratitude goes to Maurice Tempelsman for all the advice, direction, insight, and encouragement, as well unflagging enthusiasm for my new career.

Much love to my wonderful sons, William and Beau Croxton, for all their help on this and every other project I undertake.

Many thanks to my family—Campion, Susan, Nan, and Ted Overbagh—for their advice and encouragement.

I feel privileged to be associated with the excellent team at Scribner. Many thanks for superb professionalism on every aspect of publication: Roz Lippel, for great insight in the editing and shaping of this book; Brian Belfiglio and Lauren Lavelle, for publicity; Kara Watson and Greg Mortimer, for online advice; the art team of Rex Bonomelli; and copy editor Katie Rizzo.

I would like to express deep gratitude to my agent, Mort Janklow, for encouragement and excellent advice along my new path as a fiction writer—and for mentoring me in such a thrilling new career. Much appreciation to the firm of Nancy Seltzer & Associates: Nancy Seltzer, Aron Gerson, Kim Correro, Tamara Trione, and Minda Gowen, for expert help with the difficult job of publicity.

I am deeply grateful for the help and guidance of the visual team for this series—they are beyond compare. Photographer Carol Seitz and stylist Kim Wayman always can be counted on for exceptional talent in
producing and styling author and online photos. My heartfelt thanks also to photographer William Croxton, who put in grueling hours on still photography and video production while on location in Egypt and Scotland, as well as the oversight and production of edited documentary videos. Much appreciation to Buttons editing company in New York for their professional help in producing videos for the book: Rich Macar and Paul Levin.

In terms of research, many people have been generous with their time and have allowed me access to wonderful new places of interest for my readers.

I would like to express deep appreciation to the Naval Medical Research Unit—NAMRU-3—for their help and hospitality while visiting Cairo to research infectious disease treatment: Captain Robin Wilkening, Dr. David Rockabrand, and Captain Joseph Surette.

I would like to thank the Brooklyn Museum curators in researching this book: Dr. Edward Bleiberg, curator of Egyptian, Classical, and Ancient Near Eastern Art, and Lisa Bruno, conservator of objects, for all their excellent information on ancient mummies and for allowing me to accompany their team for a CT mummy scan.

Many thanks to Paul Pomfret, property manager of Culzean Castle, and all the curators and staff for their hospitality during my multiple visits to Scotland to research the history of the Eisenhower Apartment.

Thanks to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., for research and information about the real Sardonyx Cup.

Heartfelt thanks for the nautical and navigational help of Captain Joe Russell and Captain Ben Batsch. If
The Khamsin
is off course, the fault is entirely mine.

And last, special thanks to my wonderful supportive friends and colleagues who have cheered me on.