All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.

—T. E. Lawrence,
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

When the plague visits Egypt, it is generally in the spring; and the disease is most severe in the period of the Khamsin.

—Edward William Lane,
An Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, 1860

THE STOLEN CHALICE

East Seventy-Seventh Street, New York

T
HE BLACK
M
ERCEDES
CLS 550 stopped in front of the Mark Hotel on East Seventy-Seventh Street and the doorman rushed out to open the passenger door. In the fraction of a second it took John Sinclair to step out of the limousine, time collapsed. It had been five years since he last stood in this exact spot, but it seemed like yesterday, with one important difference—life had vastly improved, thanks to Cordelia Stapleton.

He turned to help Cordelia from the car, lacing his fingers through hers, as she surveyed the quiet Upper East Side neighborhood. The canopy of the Mark Hotel was before her, and golden, fan-shaped ginkgo leaves whirled down in the autumn breeze.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here!” she said, her green eyes lighting up with excitement.

“I know I put up some resistance about coming to this gala,” Sinclair admitted, “but now I’m actually looking forward to it.”

The Ancient Civilizations Ball was the most glamorous event of the fall social season. International celebrities and New York society people mingled with the elite of the art and antiquities world. Sinclair’s attendance was sure to generate a buzz. He was a celebrated archaeologist and had discovered more ancient sites than anyone since Howard Carter, the legendary explorer who found King Tut’s tomb.

As Sinclair entered the hotel, the desk manager looked up.

“Welcome back, Mr. Sinclair! So nice to see you again.”

“How are you, Bernie? It’s been entirely too long. I’d like you to meet Cordelia Stapleton.”

“Miss Stapleton, delighted! No need to register, I have your information. What time would you like the hotel car to pick you up this evening?”

“Seven-thirty would be fine,” Sinclair said, checking his watch.

The manager walked with them to the elevator, reached in, and punched the button for the tenth floor. As it ascended, Sinclair watched the lights—3, 4, 5—and then turned to Cordelia.

“I’m so glad you’re here with me, Delia,” he said, using her childhood nickname.

She gave him a look that lingered for another two floors. Then he moved decisively, pulling her toward him. She melted into his chest, pressing her cheek against his white shirt. He bent down and kissed her until the chime of the elevator registered in his brain and she pulled away.

“I’ll get the bags settled and then we can continue our . . . conversation,” Sinclair said as he followed the uniformed bellman into the bedroom of the suite.

Cordelia watched his broad shoulders retreat down the hall and turned to survey the living room—tastefully decorated in shades of pale gold. On the bar, an ice bucket held Veuve Clicquot and Badoit mineral water. Out the window, skyscrapers glowed silver against the evening sky.

“John, you should look at this view!” she called.

All was silent, only the air conditioner was whirring.

“John?”

No answer. She entered the bedroom and found Sinclair asleep, fully clothed. He was a gorgeous sight, stretched out in his elegant Savile Row suit. There was a formal stateliness to his position—flat on his back, arms at his sides—as if he were an ancient pharaoh lying on a bier. His face was still deeply tanned from the expedition to Egypt, a contrast to the white pillowcase. Sinclair had strong features, classically handsome, but with a rugged appearance that spoke of sun and sand, and a life spent outdoors.

Careful not to disturb him, Cordelia tiptoed over to her suitcase. The zipper made a tearing sound and he stirred.

“I drifted off,” he said sleepily.

“Sorry, I need to hang up my dress.”

Sinclair rolled on his side and propped his head up.

“Care to join me?” He patted the bed next to him. “I know a great cure for jet lag. You’ll feel like a new woman.”

His eyes were dancing, and a smile played around his lips.

“I’m so tired, I might not get up again,” she demurred.

“What’s that over there on the desk?” he asked.

Cordelia hung up her gown and then walked over to a huge vase of white lilies wrapped in glistening cellophane. She pulled off the card and read it aloud.

“Dear Delia, Have a great time at the gala. Love, Jim Gardiner.”

“He really
does
spoil you,” Sinclair observed.

“He always did,” she agreed, walking toward the bathroom. “I think there’s time for a nice soak before we go out.”

The bath was palatial—a large, footed tub and his-and-her marble sinks.

“Ohhh . . . they have my favorite ginseng bubble bath!” she called back to him, seizing the Molton Brown bottle.

“Is that tub big enough for two?” she heard him ask from the bedroom.

“Of course.”

She turned on the tap, undressed, pinned up her hair, and slipped in, feeling the warm water slide over her limbs. Sinclair appeared in the doorway, holding the bottle of champagne and two flute glasses. His tie was pulled loose and his shoes were off.

“May I join you?”

Long Island City, Queens, New York

T
HE WORKING-CLASS NEIGHBORHOOD
was a few miles away from the gleaming luxury of Manhattan. Decades ago this had been a respectable place to live. Now the family row houses were dilapidated and streaked with grime, and vacant lots were interspersed with industrial warehouses.

Vojtech threw his cigarette to the curb, picked up his bag, and walked over to the dented steel door of Fantastic Fetes.

“You’re late!” the catering manager yelled at him. “You were supposed to be in the van five minutes ago!”

The manager’s florid neck undulated with rage.

Vojtech felt the cold metal grip of his pistol in his canvas coat. As he pulled the weapon out, it caught on the pocket. He tugged the barrel free and pointed it at the catering manager.

His hand shook a bit. But the boss didn’t see that—his eyes were on the gun, bulging with fear.

Vojtech squeezed the trigger. The recoil was as satisfying as sexual release. The bullet entered the man’s open mouth at an angle, severing the carotid artery. A pinkish mist flecked the wall where the bullet had passed through his throat. Then blood spurted out, spraying sticky red.

Vojtech watched fascinated at the way the blood pooled on the steel counter and ran off in rivulets to the floor. Bright red. A faint copper scent permeated the room.

“Didn’t you hear me?” the man shouted at him again. “Don’t just stand there staring at me. Get going . . .”

Vojtech quelled his fantasy. The pistol was not in his hand or pocket. It was still in his duffel bag on the floor.

“Sorry.” Vojtech ducked his head.

“Cut the bullshit! Find your jacket and get your ass into the truck. They’re waiting for you.”

Vojtech shuffled out, carrying his nylon bag. He went to the laundry room and selected a medium-size waiter’s jacket and a white shirt encased in dry cleaner’s plastic. Fantastic Fetes always insisted on sartorial perfection. The only items Vojtech had to supply were dark pants and black shoes. He carried them in his duffel along with the pistol.

He picked up his bag and went out to the parking lot to join the other waiters, sitting down between Juan and Jose. On the opposite bench were Vlad, Chongli, and Miguel. They all glared at him. Jumpy as cats—none of them were legal.

The truck took off as soon as he climbed in. He checked his watch. In forty-five minutes they’d be standing in the catering kitchen at the Metropolitan Museum, and everything would be in place for the attack.

1010 Fifth Avenue, New York

I
N HIS PENTHOUSE
apartment, Theodore Stuart VerPlanck parted the drapes and looked across the street at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The neoclassical facade was lit up, the pale columns glowing against the darkening sky. A red carpet flowed down the broad steps. Huge silk banners rippled in the wind for tonight’s gala:
ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS—ART—WAR—CULTURE
.

He watched a convoy of television satellite trucks and news vans pull up to the curb. The entrance to the museum would soon be cluttered with camera crews preparing to report on “the event of the season.” As co-chairman of the gala, VerPlanck had spent considerable time and energy making sure tonight would be a success.

The First Lady of the United States was the guest of honor. But the tabloids were more interested in Lady Xandra Sommerset, or Lady X, as they called her—a British royal and an international party girl.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

VerPlanck dropped the heavy damask curtain back into place and turned to see his butler hovering in the doorway.

“No, thank you. I’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Very good, sir. I’ve already locked the doors to the terrace.”

“Have a pleasant evening, Clark.”

The butler noiselessly shut the library door. VerPlanck looked out the window again. A long line of black limos had formed on Fifth Avenue, discharging passengers in front of the Met. The gala was starting.

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