The Stolen Chalicel (7 page)

None of these people had any idea that soon
their
blood would be
on the floor. This evening would end in a massacre. Vojtech stood there planning everything. No one noticed him. The guests laughed and drank their champagne.

The two policemen ambled along the corridor checking the passageway. This was where the guests would walk to go in to dinner, through the Egyptian wing, past the various galleries—the Old Kingdom, Middle Kingdom, Ptolemaic period—right up to the archaeological splendor of the Temple of Dendur.

A velvet rope blocked a closed gallery.

“What’s in there?” asked the cop.

“It’s the Tut exhibit on the New Kingdom, Eighteenth Dynasty,” a museum security guard replied.

“Anybody in there?”

“No need. Everyone is supposed to walk straight through.”

“Undo the rope. I want one last sweep before they start coming this way.”

The guard unhooked the cordon without hesitation.

Cordelia walked down the corridor of the Egyptian wing with Sinclair.

“This is all very romantic, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, looking down at her.

“Absolutely.”

She had an intense flashback to when she met him almost a year ago. It had been an evening like this in Monaco. He had cut an impressive figure, every inch the handsome explorer. Their whirlwind romance had been filled with danger and adventure, and a lot of heartache too.

Because of their rocky start, they had spent time apart and then tried a long-distance romance, but in the end they had decided they couldn’t be without each other. Sinclair had moved to London five months ago to be with Cordelia. And then they had left to go on expedition in Egypt. His excitement about ancient culture was contagious.

“I can’t believe how great Dendur looks!” Sinclair said, pausing at the threshold of the gallery.

Cordelia came up to stand next to him. It was an unbelievable sight—an ancient Egyptian temple in the middle of Manhattan! The enormous glass wing of the museum was still fairly empty, the lights dimmed. The massive limestone edifice was elevated above a shallow reflecting pool designed to mimic the Nile River.

“Ohhh, it’s beautiful!”
Cordelia gasped.

“Stunning is the word.”

“How old is it?” she asked, knowing Sinclair would have the facts at his command.

“Commissioned in 15 BC by the Roman emperor Augustus for Egypt. The Met moved it here in the 1960s, or it would have been flooded when the Aswan Dam was built.”

“I’m glad we have it to ourselves for a moment.”

Fifty empty tables were placed around the temple, draped with red tablecloths, set with crystal and china. Small candles glowed—shimmering points of light, like a votive rack in a dim cathedral.

Sinclair walked through the dining area, found their places, and held out her chair. As she sat down, several other people arrived, still carrying their champagne flutes. This was going to be a gorgeous evening!

Tipper VerPlanck swept into the museum, her stiletto heels echoing in the empty lobby, the train of her satin dress dusting the marble floor. A young woman with a clipboard came rushing up and handed her a plastic card.

“Mrs. VerPlanck, delighted you could make it. I’ll escort you to the table.”

“What’s this?” Tipper asked, confused about the plastic security chit.

“Your entrance card. If you would please follow me.”

Tipper tucked it into her purse and glided after the young woman. The museum guards eyed her as she walked through the Egyptian Gallery. Standing in the entrance to the atrium, she could see the dinner had started. Waiters were threading their way through the tables, trays held high.

The murmur of conversation filled the large space. The Egyptian temple stood floodlit and exotic, flanked by soaring columns of red and white flowers. The grandeur of the setting was impressive—New York at its very best.

“You are at table two,” the young woman said.

Tipper paused on the verge of entering. It was going to take a lot of nerve to appear in front of this crowd again. She had endured such a string of public humiliations lately, albeit self-inflicted.

She steeled herself for the plunge, then swooped into the room, head held high. As she approached table 2, she saw Ted engrossed in conversation with the curator of the Greco-Roman collection.

Tipper’s chair was empty, and the wineglass was turned over as a signal to the waiter not to serve the place setting. But, inexplicably, next to her empty seat was that little wretch of a man, Charlie Hannifin! Why on
earth
was she sitting next to
him
?

Ted stood up as he saw her approaching, a smile stitched into place.

“Delighted you made it,” he said.

His tone was disapproving. But something in his eyes asked for reassurance.

“Traffic was horrific. You have
no
idea.”

“I’m sure it was. The police lines have been set up outside the museum for hours.”

“Is she here?” Tipper asked, looking around the hall.

“Who?”

“The First Lady.”

“Yes. She’s here.”

Tipper looked around.

“Why isn’t she at
our
table?”

Ted pressed his lips together in resolute silence, clearly not wanting to discuss it publicly. He stepped over and held her chair with great formality before taking his place again. Tipper sat down, fussing with the arrangement of her skirts.

“So, where
is
she?” she finally asked sotto voce.

Ted moved his eyes toward the next table. The First Lady was directly across from them, her back turned.

Tipper’s spirits plunged. A wave of disappointment washed over
her.
Ted
was co-chairman of the gala! As his wife, she had the right to sit at the head table.

She took a deep breath and felt the hate rise in her heart. Ted was a dunce. A dull, plodding dummy. He had traded away the best social card of all!

“We should be there,” Tipper hissed. “
You’re
the co-chairman of the gala.”

“The committee was concerned about putting us at the table.”

“Why!”

“You were in the clinic at the time, and I didn’t know if you would be able to attend.”

“I can’t believe you let them do this to me!”

Ted’s eyes filled with pity. And that’s when she really lost her temper. How
dare
he look at her like that! She was not some pathetic creature! She was Tipper VerPlanck, one of the most important women in this entire city!

She straightened her spine. She wasn’t going to take guff from anyone. Including her husband.

“
Why,
Ted?” she said, her voice pure ice.

“I’m sorry, Tipper, this is your first event since you were away. I thought it was for the best.”

“You thought wrong.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

Tipper clamped her mouth shut in a firm line. She
hated
this horrible dinner.

“
Embarrassed?
I’ll show you embarrassed!”

“Tipper, what . . . ?”

She shot him a scathing look, picked up her inverted wineglass, and held it high.

“Waiter!” she called, and wiggled the glass.

The waiter nodded and came over with a wine bottle. He started to pour. Tipper watched the liquid fill the goblet.

“Leave it,” Tipper told him, looking Ted in the eye. “Leave the bottle.”

Two cops walked along the hallway, intent on following their instructions. The plan was to steal seven objects from case number 98—funerary statues, about six inches high. Small, yet incredibly rare and valuable.

The thieves had exactly six minutes until the security camera would flash an image of the gallery back to the control room. But there was little chance of discovery if all went according to schedule. Charlie Hannifin had set up five diversionary strobes to confuse and distract the Met chief of security. It was causing havoc. Museum guards and federal security teams had been rushing about all evening.

“It’s this way,” said one of the faux policemen. “Straight ahead to case number 98.”

“This it?”

“Yes. See, every piece has an exhibition number. We need case 98—items 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, and 127.”

“This stuff is small, so why not grab a couple more? You know, for us.”

“No, let’s stick to the plan. We don’t have time.”

“OK, I was just saying . . . we’re here already, why not grab a couple extra?”

“Shut up and give me the circuit cutter.”

The man unbuttoned his voluminous shirt and took out a canvas roll fitted with small implements. Within seconds they had hooked up the electrical loop that would keep the current intact. They carefully cut the glass and removed the items. As they worked they could hear people talking and laughing out in the corridor.

Each figurine was wrapped and secured to the men’s bodies with surgical tape. When they buttoned their shirts, they had gained thirty pounds.

“You’re suddenly looking kinda fat,” his partner said, surveying him.

“Yeah, I know. When I put on weight, you know who I blame?”

“Who?”

“My mummy.”

They both laughed as they walked out of the gallery.