The Stolen Chalicel (31 page)

“Where’s the other one?” he called back to the crew on the fishing boat.

“He slipped.”

“Slipped?”

“Yeah. Drowned. In the Thames.”

“She isn’t going to like that.”

“Well, what the hell can I do about it?” the man replied. “The stupid bastard jumped overboard and tried to swim. He didn’t get two meters.”

“OK, mate, I’ll tell her. Why don’t you push off now?”

“You don’t have to tell me. This weather’s getting ugly.”

Within seconds the fishing trawler disappeared into the darkness. Cordelia clung to the rail of
The Khamsin
and watched it disappear.

Culzean Castle

S
INCLAIR NOTED THAT
every seat in the Eisenhower sitting room was taken by both CIA and British intelligence officers. Dame Constance looked up when Sinclair returned and waved at an assistant to bring another chair. He was directed to take a place near the front of the room.

Sinclair hoped that now they would tell him more about Cordelia. He craned his neck, looking for the others. Dr. Paul Oakley stood by the door, almost as if he were waiting in the wings. Gardiner and Holly were perched nervously toward the back of the room with Ted VerPlanck.

It was a private meeting.
Very
private. All the civilians signed another sheaf of papers before they began—American documents this time, confidentiality agreements. They had to promise that they would never breathe a word of this meeting to anyone.

Dame Constance asked the Americans to begin the briefing. The attack in New York had given them the jump-start on intelligence. Paul Oakley would follow. There were also American doctors from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention and the National Institutes of Health, but Oakley had rank. He was the world expert on infectious diseases and had full clearance at Porton Down—Britain’s highly secret bioweapons research facility.

As the meeting settled down, a CIA officer signaled for the lights to dim. The first image on the screen was a man’s face. Mid-fifties,
unshaved, a touch of cruelty about the mouth. He could have played the role of any Third World dictator.

“Moustaffa Gemeyal, the ringleader of the terrorist group Common Dream. Born in Cairo in 1959, emigrated to the UK as a teenager,” the CIA agent said. “He communicates with his followers via the Internet. He is what we call a ‘charismatic radicalizer.’ ”

The next slide showed Moustaffa crossing a city street in Cairo.

“Moustaffa’s home base is Egypt. We’ve been monitoring him for the last three years through his Internet communications. His message has always been antigovernment but has become increasingly violent. He was moved to our Terror Watch List about three months ago.”

The next photo was of Moustaffa on the aft deck of a large yacht with a dark-haired woman. The woman’s face was obscured by large sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat. But from the neck down she was clearly visible. The only clothing she wore was a jade green thong.

Moustaffa was standing next to her, his hand resting lightly on her waist as they spoke. They looked like an intimate couple, with their heads together, deep in conversation.

“Lady Xandra Sommerset, British citizen,” the CIA director said. “Worth about two billion dollars, mostly from her late father’s business investments. Mother Egyptian. Moustaffa is her current paramour.”

The next slide clicked. Moustaffa was poised on the swimming platform of the yacht, clad in a scant black swimsuit. He had an impressive, buffed body. The bulge in his Speedo conveyed an obvious virility.

“Moustaffa is a textbook narcissist—an inflated sense of self-importance, a firm belief in his own superiority, and a pathological craving for adulation.”

“It’s hard to believe a woman like Lady Sommerset would put up with that,” observed one of the MI6 officers.

“To the contrary, her psychology dovetails with his perfectly.”

“How so?” the British official demanded.

“U.S. psychologists have analyzed her interviews in the media. They have concluded she has a deep-seated inferiority complex. Chronically low self-esteem.”

“You mean
magazine
profiles. I’m sorry, but that sounds like American psychobabble to me,” the British official snapped.

“You may dismiss it, but psychological profiles are very often accurate predictors of potential action,” the CIA official countered.

“Like what?”

“Her insecurities would make her a perfect pawn for Moustaffa.”

The CIA officer moved to change slides.

“How long have they been together?” the British official persisted.

“Six years. And recently they have been inseparable. For the past three months they have been meeting frequently on her yacht at various places around the world.”

“And his organization?” asked Dame Constance, trying to move the conversation along.

“He has one point two million Internet followers globally who profess allegiance,” the CIA official responded. “They are only loosely affiliated with his movement. There is no official way to join his organization; there is only an online forum for discussion. We monitor the participants.”

“That is enormous reach!” Dame Constance remarked, taken aback.

“He presents himself as a messianic figure, a violent dreamer. But in reality he is a high-functioning sociopath.”

“How many people are directly under his command?” Dame Constance asked.

“We really have no idea how many people he calls on to execute his
illegal
activities. But I think we can safely assume that, for security reasons, his true inner circle is relatively small.”

The CIA official turned to his associate. He held out his hand for a file, took it, and riffled through it.

“Moustaffa makes most of his money in vector military weapons, small arms. But he is known to dabble in toxins—anthrax, microbial and other biological agents.”

“His customers?”

“He sells to anyone with enough cash. The first time we came across his name was in 1995, when we investigated the sarin-gas attack on the Tokyo subway. He was rumored to be a potential supplier.”

“Never proven,” the head of MI6 interjected.

“True, but you might find
this
interesting,” the CIA officer continued.

He punched the video button and a new image appeared—that of a brick mansion with a green roof. Two Soviet-era Ladas were parked out front in the snow-covered driveway.

“This dacha outside of Moscow is the former home of the nineteenth-century vodka merchant Pyotr Smirnoff and now the offices of the Main Directorate of the Council of Ministers.”

The image changed to an aerial shot.

“About twenty years ago, the same building was the headquarters of Biopreparat, the Kremlin’s biological weapons program—what was then known as ‘germ warfare.’ ”

“How is that related to Moustaffa?” the head of MI6 asked.

“Take a look,” the CIA director said dramatically.

The next photo, a close-up, showed a much younger looking Moustaffa getting out of a car in front of the building. He had longer hair and was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans.

“
Great
photo!” the representative of MI6 said. “Thank God for the Cold War. You people were really on your game.”

“Thank you,” the CIA officer said proudly.

“So even then Moustaffa was involved. . . .” Dame Constance pressed forward.

“As a young entrepreneur, he helped procure clandestine substances for the Soviets,” the CIA agent continued. “They had forty sites in Russia and Kazakhstan to develop various toxins, bacteria, and viruses. Everyone needed supplies, and Moustaffa was the point man.”

“His motivation?” she asked.

“Money. Moustaffa’s clients paid him huge sums. He was in it for the cash.”

“And now?”

“Same. His art-theft scheme has generated hundreds of millions of dollars over the last five years.”

“So why the political angle?” asked the head of MI6. “What is the messianic message all about?”

“We’re not sure. Perhaps he believes his own antigovernment propaganda. People with a narcissistic personality disorder often start believing their own fantasies.”

“Interesting point,” said Dame Constance. “But forgive me for not being convinced. What are the goals of his organization?”

“Moustaffa has various rants. All predictable. He specializes in conspiracy theories about big government. His group—Common Dream—is dedicated to overthrowing Western governments.”

“With an attack?” asked Dame Constance.

“Yes, we have been monitoring the web traffic and believe he will strike soon.”

“How soon?” she asked quietly.

The CIA officer paused dramatically.

“At the Sharm el-Sheikh World Economic Forum next week.”

There was absolute silence. Fingers stopped typing. The sound of pen on paper was suddenly arrested. Sinclair looked around at the faces in the room. For the first time since they began, expressions were bleak.

“As you are aware, the summit will host twelve heads of state, from European and Asian countries, as well as the U.S. president and the UK prime minister.”

“How many people in total?” asked Dame Constance.

“We estimate fifteen hundred participants, maybe two thousand. Not counting the media. Bankers, business figures, and government ministers—and also this,” the CIA officer added as he clicked on an image.

It was a work of art—a highly detailed medieval triptych. The painting was entirely out of context, as if a random slide had been inserted in error. There was a murmur of confusion and shifting in the seats.

“This is not a mistake; take a closer look,” the CIA officer urged.

Sinclair leaned forward to examine the image of a medieval apocalyptic painting. Every inch of the surface was covered with people. Some were writhing in agony, others fleeing an advancing army of skeletons. A scene of utter devastation, with cities burning and ships dashed on the shore. The sky was purple and black.

“I assure you this is relevant. You are looking at Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s
Triumph of Death
. Oil painting on panel from 1562 depicting an outbreak of the bubonic plague.”

“Significance?” Dame Constance spat out with irritation.

“Stolen from the Museo del Prado in Madrid last week.”

“And
. .
. ?”
she said impatiently.

“The work was shipped to the U.S. State Department—the
original,
I might add. The date of the Sharm el-Sheikh conference had been spray-painted on the front.”

There was silence.

“Sent by Common Dream,” the CIA officer concluded. “We can only assume it is some kind of warning from Moustaffa.”

No one moved.

“This will be a
joint
operation,” said Dame Constance. Everyone nodded.

“Gentlemen, please open a new case file. I propose the code name Operation Dream Catcher.”

The shuffling of papers and clicking of keyboards went on for several minutes. The news had mobilized everyone. The CIA director stepped to the front of the room again and called everyone to order.

“Measures must be taken to counter this threat. But I think it advisable to know what’s at stake if we do
not
succeed in thwarting the biological attack.”

There was a murmur of apprehension, and everyone settled down immediately.

“Dr. Oakley, we can begin. You have five minutes,” the CIA director said. “And, if you don’t mind, keep this in layman’s terms as much as possible.”

“Understood.”

Paul Oakley stepped up to address the group. He looked very young in his khakis and sweater. And, unlike the intelligence officer, his briefing didn’t start with a fancy slide show. He simply stated the facts. The calmness of his voice made the information even more chilling.

“Bubonic plague is the most lethal disease known to man. It is highly virulent and killed a quarter of the population of Europe in the fourteenth century.”

“Could we move directly on to weaponization of the plague?” Dame Constance asked impatiently. “We don’t have much time.”

“Certainly,” Oakley agreed, unruffled. “The United States worked
with
Yersinia pestis
as a biowarfare agent in the 1950s and 1960s. It was never deployed and the program was terminated.”

Sinclair tried to concentrate, but his mind kept going back to Cordelia. Where was she now, and what was she doing?

“The Soviets had more success,” Oakley continued. “They developed a powdered form of the bacterium that could be sprinkled like talcum powder.”

“Did they use it?”

“There are stories of the Soviets trying to assassinate Marshal Tito of Yugoslavia with the powder. Nothing was ever confirmed.”

“Did they test it?”

“Yes, aerosols were tested on animals. It works. With an airborne exposure, an average person uses ten liters of air a minute, and a monkey a little less than half that. If a standard dose kills monkeys, it would also kill humans.”

“Besides aerosols, are there any other methods of disseminating the disease?” asked Dame Constance.