by Meg Cowley
After an eternity, the rain eased and we left the densely populated area of Queens, only to be greeted by the immense expanse of JFK.
“Which cargo area did you say again?” the cabbie asked.
“Area A.” I pulled the paperwork from my satchel to check the details. “Hanger 19b.” I delved in deeper and emerged a few seconds later with my temporary ID from the New York Museum of Life and Antiquities, along with my ID for the British Archaeological Museum. The production of which enabled us to pass through the guard house with the minimal of fuss.
Now we had arrived, I was practically jumping out of my seat to see the cargo. I’d only just heard of the Kailas exhibition in Tibet— no surprise it was kept under tight wraps given the sacred beliefs surrounding the site— but it was being heralded as a complete success, at least within the confines of the museum. My job was to catalogue the finds and agree the best course of action for their future preservation.
Hangar 19b stood secluded at the end of a quiet road. As soon as the car came to a stop, I thanked the cabbie, paid the fare, and scrambled outside. The smell of jet fuel mingled with the oil-slick stench of water from the surrounding Bergen Basin hit me like a wall.
The Taxi driver rolled down his window. “Hey lady,” he shouted over the sound of an aeroplane taking off. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around. You sure this is the right place?”
I took another look at the paperwork in my bag and then at the large building surrounded on all sides by chain link fence. “That’s what the paperwork says.”
The cabbie looked at me as though I was from another planet. Although, being a British woman in New York, that might not have been far from the truth. “I’ll stick around for a bit, make sure you get in safely,” he said after a moment.
I nodded my thanks, then proceeded towards the building. The gate was open, so I slipped inside, moving through the vast, empty courtyard and scanning the area for any sign of movement. The sound of aircraft overwhelmed any other noises, and the eerie darkness of the night was only punctuated by the glare from the taxi headlight reflecting on the rain-kissed tarmac.
I pulled my jacket tighter around me, but was unable to block out the cold air and the incessant thought that somebody would jump out and shoot me at any moment.
Now the rain had stopped, I looked to the sky and wondered if the clouds would part and the stars shine. Given the light pollution over New York, I wondered if the stars ever shone on the city. I sighed, frustrated with man’s obtrusive impact on nature, but then I realised part of the sky-glow was emanating from the far side of the hangar.
Somewhat reassured, I glanced over my shoulder and waved to the cabbie, then edged around the immense metal structure to the main doors. As soon as I did, my viewpoint on the world changed. I was definitely in the right place.
The stark contrast of sights, sounds and smells overwhelmed me. The wide hangar doors stood open and the scene resolved itself into a bustling landscape, where the crank of machinery and yelling of people unloading the cargo mingled in a deafening cacophony. Hundreds of LED battens lit the area with an otherworldly glow, reflecting on the pristine white aluminium of a Boeing 747 freighter.
Unchallenged, I edged inside, craning my head and scanning the area like a meerkat in the hope of spotting someone in charge. I passed a small dolly transporting a crate, stamped with the museum logo, from the nose cargo door to a large box truck.
“Excuse me,” I shouted to the driver, “where can I find the person in charge?”
With a nod of his head, he directed me to the other side of the aircraft. I moved around the hangar staying close to the walls in order to avoid hindering the unloading process. There must have been around thirty guys scurrying around with purpose, way more than I expected.
Relief washed over me when I spotted Ben directing the unloading of more crates from the side cargo door. Ben was the conservation expert in the Eastern Arts division. Although, we hadn't had much of an opportunity to work together before this project, Ben had been working at the British Archaeological Museum for over six months, and was thrilled with our temporary secondment to New York. I must admit his enthusiasm and cheery nature had made the trip more enjoyable than most.
As if on cue, he turned and noticed me. After a moment, a flicker of recognition flashed on his handsome face and he smiled, then ran over to greet me. “I thought you’d never make it,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “The car didn’t show.” Although, now I thought about it, that clearly hadn’t made a difference to Ben. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours. I was worried you were still asleep.”
“Yeah, sorry, my battery’s dead.” Ben ran his hand sheepishly through his blond mop. “I kinda got talking to a few of these guys last night. We got chatting and went to a bar. Not that we’ve been drinking, just a few light beers.”
He squirmed and avoided my eyes, as though I might reprimand him for drinking before work. “I’m sure you were sensible,” I said, laying my hand on his. “I mean, you weren’t driving so...”
Ben shook his head. “Nope, definitely not driving. I got a lift here with the guys. I haven’t managed any sleep, but I think I’m sustaining myself on adrenaline and coffee at the moment. I can’t wait to get these crates back to the museum.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Speaking of which, I’d better get back to helping with the unloading,” Ben said, then jogged back to the plane.
“Hey,” I called. “Have you seen the customs officer? I need to go through the paperwork.”
“I saw him when we first arrived, but not since,” Ben shouted. “Just look for a large, bald guy carrying a clipboard. Looks like he’s got a stick up his butt.”
“Stick up his butt, got it.” I smiled.
After being ushered from one side or the hangar to another, I felt ten years older when I finally found the customs officer in a small back room. The door was closed when I approached, so I knocked, then entered before waiting for a response. Inside, a large bald guy was talking to a man in a high-end suit.
“That’s everything,” the man said, before they shook hands.
As it was obvious they hadn’t heard me knock, I cleared my throat to announce my presence. Both men turned to look at me with unwelcome eyes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m from the museum. I need to go through the customs paperwork.”
The guy in the suit turned to the officer and nodded. “I’ll be leaving, I’m sure everything’s in order,” he said before exiting the room.
The bald man shot me a hostile glance and moved towards the fridge in the kitchen area of the office.
“Look, I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Are you the customs officer? I need to go through these papers.” I pulled the wad of forms from my bag and reached to hand them to him.
He ignored me, grabbed a soda from the fridge, pulled the tab and took a large swig. “All done,” he said as if it were a burden to acknowledge me.
“What do you mean—” I began, before he cut me off.
“Paperwork’s all done.”
“How can the paperwork be all done when I have it in my hand?”
He took another swig from the can. “You telling me I don’t know how to do my job?”
“No, of course not,” I said, surprised at the tone in his voice. “There just must have been some mistake.”
“Calm down, sweetheart,” he said. “Everything’s complete. There’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.”
I plastered a fake smile on my face and patiently resisted the urge to thrust a stick of my own up his sexist butt. “I appreciate the paperwork may have been completed in my absence, but it’s my job to make sure everything is correct and accounted for. I’m sure you understand.”
“Look, lady, as far as I’m concerned the jobs a good’un. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long night and I’m off shift.” With that he flung his empty
can in the trash, shouldered past me, and left through the door.
I steadied my shaking hands and took a deep breath before following him into the main hangar area. “The job is not done until I see the paperwork,” I said, racing to catch up. “As far as I have seen, the crates are being taken from the plane and directly loaded onto a truck. Where’s the customs inspection? Where’s the evidence to prove the items stated as being in the crates are the actual items in the crates?” Something wasn’t right about this whole set up and I’d be damned if I didn’t act on my suspicions.
He carried on walking. I stopped and almost growled in frustration, then pulled my phone from my bag. “I’d like the name of your superiors, please? We’ll see what they have to say about your shoddy work.”
He turned, squared his shoulders and walked straight up to me. I hadn’t realised how large he was until I strained to look up at his face.
“Maybe, it’s your own boss you need to call, sweetheart?” A glob of spittle landed on my cheek, but I stood my ground, unwilling to bow down to his threatening behaviour.
“Take a look, your precious cargo has gone,” he said, “and the paperwork along with it.” With that, he laughed in my face and walked away.
It was then I realised the sound of machinery and voices had stilled. The cargo doors on the plane were closed, but the box truck still stood in the entranceway. Before I could reach it, the engine rumbled to life. I raced to catch it, but was too late. The truck pulled off into the night, leaving me alone in the hangar.
Great!
Chapter Two
I was dog-tired by the time I finally arrived at the museum, a little after opening time. The cab dropped me off at the steps of the monumental entrance overlooking Central Park. I glanced at the impressive archway and towering white columns of the building, and shielded my eyes from the glaring morning sun.
With a sigh, I mounted the steps, raced past the happy day-trippers, and prayed the shipment had arrived and was all accounted for. I entered through the wide oak doors and headed to the security entrance.
“Good morning,” I said to the guard. “Can you tell me if the Kailas shipment has arrived from the airport yet, please?”
He turned to his computer and started typing in the details.
“Indeed it has,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned and my heart sank at the unexpected presence of the museum Director. “Good morning, Doctor Naidoo,” I said.
“Good morning indeed, Ms Bevan,” Tanya Naidoo said. “I’ve just received word that our shipment has arrived at the loading bay.”
The tension I was holding in my shoulders released. Thank goodness it was here.
“I must admit,” Naidoo continued. “I’m surprised to find you enquiring about the shipment’s arrival and not actually overseeing it.”
“Yes,” I said. “The museum car didn’t arrive, I’m afraid, and there just wasn’t room in the truck, so I took a cab.”
“I see. Then, I must apologize for any inconvenience caused.”
“Not at all, these things happen.”
“Well,” said Naidoo clapping her hands together. Excitement danced in her eyes. “Shall we see what this fabulous find has delivered us?”
I smiled, nodded my thanks to the guard and accompanied Dr Naidoo through the museum.
Columns surrounded us as we clomped our way along the pristine, marble floors. The reverent whispers of visitors and excited voices of children echoed through the long hallway.
“Are you sure you will have everything prepared for the celebration gala?” Naidoo asked conversationally, although the wrinkle in her brow spoke of her worry.
I was all too aware of the approaching gala in four days’ time. Not to mention, the pressure to ensure everything went perfectly. Who the hell plans a celebration for an exhibition when they don’t know what they’ve found yet?
“I must admit to being a little nervous myself,” Naidoo confessed, then continued as if she’d been reading my thoughts. “We wouldn’t normally force you to rush such a sensitive job as cataloguing a find, but a large investor in the expedition, and indeed, the museum itself, insisted.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” I said, as much to convince myself as Dr Nadoo.
We moved through the vast museum with purpose. A dusty, chemical smell, and the sound of low growls hits us as we entered the World of Ancient Mammals. I jumped at the screams of school children startled by movement within a roped off display. Their screams soon turned to giggles when they admired the animatronic diorama of woolly mammoths.
Doctor Naidoo steered me towards a service elevator, hidden behind the display of stuffed bison and a giant deer skeleton with humongous antlers.
The elevators opened to the sound of an angry voice carrying along the corridor. “What do you mean, it’s not here?” a man shouted. “I don’t care if you have to tear everything apart, find it.”
“We’ve looked everywhere,” said a British voice, I recognised as Ben. “It’s just not here.”
A loud thump, like the sound of a table being pushed over reached us.
“The whole point of this damned expedition was to find the cintamani stone!”
Dr Naidoo straightened her jacket, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the plastic door sheeting. I ran to keep up, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I was responsible for this shipment. If anything happened to it…
The sight that greeted us in the loading bay was anything but reassuring. The Director took a sharp intake of breath that mirrored my own. The crates were scattered in disarray. Lids were strewn on the floor with packing material and artefacts too precious to comprehend. How could anyone do this?
I fell to the floor at the nearest crate and picked up a discarded bowl. The intricate artwork was reminiscent of others believed to have been created at the time of Songtsän Gampo, the founder of the Tibetan empire. The bowl alone could help prove the dig site at the base of the Kailas Mountain was that of one of the first Buddhist temples in Tibet. I scanned the bowl for any sign of recent breakage, but, to my relief, there were none. I prayed that could be said for the other artefacts spread throughout the bay.
Dr Naidoo stormed past me, her face ashen. “What is the meaning of this?” She grabbed the arm of the nearest worker, a man I recognised from the airport. “Who are you? What are you doing with these crates?”
The man shrugged her off. “I’m just doing my job,” he said.
“Job, what job? Who hired you?” The man ignored her and continued to rummage through a clearly empty crate.
I carefully laid the bowl on a nearby table and joined Naidoo. “These are the same men who collected the shipment from the airport. Are you saying they’re not museum staff?”
“Museum staff? Certainly not. I’ve never seen these men before in my life.”
My heart thumped, and I strained to stop my brow from creasing as I considered the implications. Then I remembered hearing Ben’s voice. I scanned the loading bay looking for his familiar face.
“There,” I said to Naidoo as soon as I spotted him. “Ben Collins, my colleague from the UK.”
“Sebastian Davenport,” Naidoo responded.
“Sorry?”
“Sebastian Davenport. The investor I mentioned.” Dr Naidoo charged across the room. “Mr Davenport,” she shouted at the gentleman dressed in a sharp grey suit, standing next to Ben. “I insist you explain this outrage.”
“Ah, Tanya,” said Mr Davenport. “How good to see you.” With that, he placed a hand on the visibly irate Dr Naidoo’s back and herded her out the door, leaving me alone with Ben.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked.
Ben shrugged. “As soon as we arrived, that guy started barking orders and the men started opening the crates.”
“And you didn’t stop them?”
“He seemed important.”
I shook my head and reached into my bag for the shipment paperwork. Running my finger along th
e list, I scanned the items looking for something to pop out. “What’s this cintamani stone, he mentioned?” I asked. “There’s nothing on my list about a stone.”
“Probably why he couldn’t find it.”
Dr Naidoo returned and stood beside us with slumped shoulders and a look of defeat on her face. “It seems, once again, I must apologise to you Ms Bevan. You too, Mr Collins. I assure you, we normally operate in a much more professional manner.”
“Is there any problem we need to be aware of?” I asked.
“No, no, everything's fine. As I mentioned, Mr Davenport is a large donor to the museum and financed the dig in Tibet. In fact, he was instrumental in locating the ruins and securing the work permits in the first place.” Naidoo sighed. “I have made him aware that such contributions do not give him the right to barge in and open crates like this, and he has assured me that nothing has been damaged or taken.”
I surveyed the loading dock and hoped he was right, but in the mess, how could anyone be sure?
“I trust this will in no way hinder your work for the museum.” Naidoo straightened her jacket along with her shoulders, then, composed once more, she turned to me and smiled. “I’ll leave the cataloguing and preparation of items for Friday’s gala in your capable hands.”
I looked at the damaged crates, the artefacts disregarded on the concrete floor, and the workmen leaving with Mr Davenport. “I’m sure, I’ll manage,” I said, and ignored the pressure building in my head.
~
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About Meg Cowley
Visit Meg’s website.
Meg is a fantasy author and illustrator who loves all things dragons and magic.
She lives in Yorkshire, England with her husband and two cats Jet and Pixie.
Amongst other writing & illustration projects, Meg is currently working on her Morgana Chronicles series.
For writing snippets and to see behind the scenes, visit her blog.
You can connect with Meg on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
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