The Stolen Chalicel (29 page)

“We’ll have to walk all the way down,” Gardiner apologized to Holly. “Paul’s cell phone doesn’t get a signal this far underground.”

Holly was supporting Jim Gardiner with all her strength. His left leg dragged, deadened from nerve damage. Castle Rock, the city’s original bedrock foundation, was directly underfoot and he was having trouble with the uneven surfaces.

“I apologize for having to lean on you like this. I’m not quite ready for this terrain.”

“You’re doing fine,” Holly replied. “If you don’t mind me asking—what happened to your leg? Was it an accident?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“I’ve heard a lot of crazy things. Try me.”

“A female Russian spy put poison in my coffee at Heathrow Airport. It was a powerful nerve agent, nearly killed me, and left me with a lot of damage. . . . And no, that’s not a movie plot. It really happened.”

“Oh, my God, that’s
awful!
”

“I’m glad it was me. They were actually after Sinclair and Cordelia. It was a close call.”

Holly wondered what Sinclair was doing with Russian spies but didn’t inquire.

“What does your doctor say about recovery?” she asked instead.

“My doctor is Paul Oakley,” Gardiner said with a laugh. “He thinks I might get back to normal, eventually.”

They walked for a few moments in companionable silence as she looked around at the vaulted ceilings. It was eerily quiet in the old abandoned street, except for the faint rumbling of traffic overhead on the Royal Mile, the city’s main thoroughfare.

“Tell me about this place. I’ve never heard of it before.”

“This little lane is Mary King’s Close. We are walking down the actual street that ran between the houses. A ‘close’ is short for ‘enclosure’—or ‘alley.’ It was named after Mary King, a textile merchant who had a shop here in the 1600s.”

“Why was this neighborhood abandoned?”

“Sanitary considerations. This was a poor section of the city . . . a breeding ground for disease. So the city council voted to brick it off and build a more modern city on top. They only discovered that the old structures were still down there a few years ago.”

“What is Dr. Oakley doing here?”

“Studying the plague. He’s a virologist. This entire area was quarantined in 1644, and he’s working with the archaeologists to find out more about the contagion.”

“What could he possibly learn from the ruins?”

“The city of Edinburgh had a disease-control system—a quarantine that was both humane and effective. Because the street was sealed in
1753, urban archaeologists can still enter the homes where the victims lived. This is the only place in the world where they can still do that.”

Holly looked at the gaping doorframes along the street. The hollowed-out shells of the houses were cavelike and frightening.

“And these are the actual houses where the victims lived? How interesting!”

“Actually, I find it a bit horrifying,” Gardiner admitted. “This place is rumored to be filled with paranormal activity.”

“Really?”

“Psychics come here from all around the world to speak to the dead. Some get so overloaded, they have to leave. Supposedly, there is a plague victim, a little girl named Annie, who communicates with people.”

“How incredibly creepy!” Holly said nervously. “I can’t imagine what it was like to live here.”

“Paul told me that people were packed together in the cellars of the buildings, sleeping on lice-infested straw, freezing in winter, constantly breathing in smoke from the coal fires.”

Holly nodded, horrified.

“People who had a little more money, merchants’ families, lived on the upper floors. Only the rich could afford light and air in those days,” Gardiner continued, indicating the upper floors of the old buildings.

The houses on each side of the passageway were seven stories high, covered with vaulted ceilings of stone.

“It must have been terrible.”

“Ripe for plague, that’s for sure. Rats everywhere.”

Holly glanced down at their feet with apprehension, but Gardiner took no notice.

“This street we’re walking on right now was slick with human refuse in the old days,” he went on. “There was no sewage system. People would just throw their slops out the windows from above.”

“They’d just empty their chamber pots out the
window
?” Holly asked, appalled.

“Yes. Apparently they’d yell
‘Gardy-loo’
and then fling the contents of the chamber pot out the window. The expression was a corruption of the French
Gardez l’eau
—which means ‘watch out for the water.’ ”

“No
wonder
they boarded up the street. Did many die from the plague?”

“It was devastating for many families, but not as bad as in other places in Europe. That’s why Paul is trying to find out how so many survived.”

“Any idea?”

“Not yet, but there are clues. Paul is sifting through the physical evidence, going over old city plans, and reading public-health accounts from that time. He hopes to develop a quarantine system for our modern cities.”

“Paul Oakley is trying to figure out how to deal with an outbreak of the plague
today
?” Holly asked. “Is that why we need him now?”

“Yes. They believe terrorists are going to attack a major city with bubonic plague.”

“So
that’s
what this is all about!” Holly gasped.

“MI6 is in the process of briefing Sinclair and VerPlanck about it. We’ll join them right after we collect Paul.”

At the far end of the long passage, the harsh glare of LED lights illuminated a team of workers carefully removing a brick wall. Gardiner and Holly headed toward the activity.

The electric lanterns distorted the shadows of the workmen. Holly imagined ghostly human figures patrolling the parameters of the original tenement houses. She repressed a shudder. Who knew what horrors had occurred here. This was the most morbid place she had ever seen!

“There he is,” Gardiner said, pointing toward a man working at a crude trestle table fashioned out of two sawhorses. He was seated on a wooden crate, writing on the makeshift desk. Oakley was not yet aware of their arrival, so Holly had time to study him. The virologist was thin, youthful, with sandy hair, seemingly in his mid-forties. The glow of the electric lantern picked up the angular shape of his face. From time to time, he blew on his hands to warm them. A white cloud of vapor rose as he did this.

“Paul!” Gardiner called.

The man looked up, startled.

“
Jim!
What are
you
doing down here?”

Oakley jumped up, knocking over the crate with a clatter that echoed in the empty tunnel. The workmen turned and froze in surprise.

Gardiner labored up to Oakley and spoke quietly.

“I’ve been contacted by New Scotland Yard. We need your expertise.”

“What are you talking about . . . ?” Oakley replied.

“I hesitate to tell you here. But it has to do with what you have been working on at Porton Down,” Gardiner said.

“
Oh, my God!
Let me get my things. I’m coming.”

Culzean Castle, Ayrshire

S
URVEYING THE
E
ISENHOWER
drawing room, Sinclair could easily picture the ex-president in his later years, reading a book or writing his memoirs. The grand salon was oval in shape, with a fireplace at each end. There was a stately elegance, but the room was also comfortable in the typical English country-house style: deep-seated armchairs surrounded the hearth and a cheerful blaze burned at the grate.

They had just been told that officials from the British Home Office would be arriving in a few minutes, along with the head of MI6. Sinclair knew that the inclusion of MI6 meant the terror threat was international—that organization supplied the British government with foreign intelligence.

But what did all this have to do with Cordelia? No one had said anything about her!

Sinclair walked over to the bay windows and looked out at the coastline. VerPlanck silently joined him. On either side of the castle’s promontory, the rugged cliffs stretched away in both directions. The sea was bashing the rocks, sending up plumes of white spray.

“This is the Firth of Clyde,” VerPlanck remarked. “On a clear day, you can see all the way across to Ireland.”

Sinclair wasn’t interested. He was scanning the sky for incoming helicopters. Above the water, he picked out a speck—an aircraft working its way toward them. Intelligence officials, no doubt.

Just then, he heard the door open behind him. Four uniformed military officers stepped into the room and took up guard positions. A dark-suited man entered, carrying a clipboard.

“Mr. Sinclair, Mr. VerPlanck, before we start you will need to sign the State Secrets Act. All information discussed in this room is considered classified.”

“Fine,” Sinclair said brusquely.

He held his hand out for the form, signed it, and passed the clipboard to VerPlanck.

“Sir James Nicholson of MI6 will join you momentarily,” the official said, checking the signatures. “He will be accompanied by Dame Constance Muston, the security minister in the Home Office.”

As if on cue, the door opened and a man and woman walked in. The head of MI6, Sir James Nicholson, was tall and thin, dressed in a beautiful dark gray silk suit. The scarlet handkerchief in his breast pocket added just the right amount of dash.

Dame Constance Muston of the Home Office was in her mid-sixties, with a figure as trim and erect as a steel blade. She was wearing a black trouser suit with sensible low-heeled shoes. Her only ornamentation was a deep purple amethyst pin on her lapel.

During the introductions her eyes were grave. She indicated for them all to take their seats. Sinclair chose the armchair nearest the fire. The warmth on his shins was welcome in the chilly castle.

In the center of the room a mahogany pedestal table was being set with afternoon tea, sandwiches, and cakes. At the sight of the food, Sinclair realized he had not eaten anything since breakfast. Yet even now, eight hours later, he wasn’t hungry.

Refreshments were served and people talked quietly among themselves. A waiter came over with a plate of sandwiches and Dundee cake. A second waiter poured from a silver teapot and passed cream and sugar.

Sinclair had always admired British sangfroid, but under these circumstances he found afternoon tea was more than he could bear. When a waiter approached, Sinclair refused the teacup with an abrupt wave.

“It’s a damp day, sir,” the waiter said, bending low to speak to him quietly. “You won’t be having any tea?”

“No, thank you,” Sinclair said morosely.

“Perhaps a drop of something stronger to warm up? I could find you some Eisenhower scotch; it was blended especially for your president. Perhaps you’d like to sample a wee dram?”

Sinclair looked up, surprised. What a wreck he must look to elicit that kind of sympathy! But a drink would be welcome.

“Yes. Thank you.”

A decanter appeared. A good measure was splashed into a crystal glass. He took a sip and felt a little more settled.

The meeting was beginning. Security officers gathered around and began taking up the extra chairs. Within moments two dozen people were assembled, although no one was introduced by name.

“I suppose you are wondering why you’ve been asked to come here,” Dame Constance began. “The American officials are joining us shortly. And we are waiting for medical experts as well. We’ll officially begin the meeting when everyone arrives, but first let me express condolences, Mr. VerPlanck. A terrible tragedy.”

“Thank you,” VerPlanck said numbly. He continued to stare into the fire. The silence was interrupted only by the sounds of spoons stirring tea.

“They never explained. How did she . . . die?” VerPlanck asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Her body was found in a cabin in the Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming,” the Home Office minister replied. “The cause of death appears to be complications from exposure.”

“Why was I never contacted by the kidnappers?” VerPlanck asked.

“It appears the demand for ransom was interrupted, and the kidnappers abandoned Mrs. VerPlanck.”

Ted squeezed his eyes shut, apparently trying to control his feelings. He exhaled deeply and looked at the fire for a long moment. Then he got up slowly and walked over to the window. He stood there staring out, surreptitiously wiping his eyes.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Dame Constance continued after a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news for you either. We have
not
found your companion, Cordelia Stapleton.”

“Do you have any leads at all?” Sinclair asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Unfortunately, yes. We have found the man who was abducted with her—a Mr. Charles Hannifin. His body was recovered from the Thames River this afternoon. Drowned.”

She spoke with perfect professional composure and no sign of emotion at all.

Sinclair’s breath caught in his chest.
Charlie Hannifin was dead!

He stared at her, sitting in her straight-backed chair, unruffled, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. She returned Sinclair’s gaze, her eyes intelligent, grave. There were no soothing platitudes or expressions of false hope. Her tone of delivery implied that she believed Cordelia might have suffered the same fate.