Hank had worked at the museum for seven years and longed to return to “real work,” though he did little enough to advance himself toward the goal. As he shined the plastic eyeball, he recalled the days of being lauded “for extraordinary contributions to the study of impact events” and, before that, receiving the Principal’s Award for Outstanding Field Recovery for identifying an apparently unrelated pile of bone fragments as being an entire Brachyceratops scapula.
“Hey, Hank,” George’s voice called out with its usual waver of reluctance.
Hank did not turn to answer. “Don’t ask me anything, Georgie. If I don’t finish fixing this mess in the next coupla hours, Meier’s gonna bowl with my head.”
“Um… actually, Doctor Meier wants to see you. Sorry, I tried to tell him.”
“Perfect!” Hank shouted, and threw down his rag.
Three minutes later, Hank and George Miller sat before Dr. Meier’s desk. Hank cleaned his glasses on his shirt and brushed some plaster fragments out of his curly brown beard, oblivious of the pieces in his chaotic mop of hair.
“Gentlemen… ,” Dr. Meier began. “We need to come up with ten million dollars.”
George looked over at Hank, his large, watery eyes tinged with desperation. Hank didn’t flinch. He simply replaced his round glasses and waited for more information. Meier began flipping a gold doubloon over his fingers, clinking it on his ring with each roll.
“Hank, do you remember Matthew Turner? Used to come around from time to time as an intern…”
“Yeah, I think I met him,” Hank said. “I heard he’s a gazillionaire now. Some sort of treasure hunt near Georgia that paid off.”
Dr. Meier smiled and held up the gold coin.
“You are correct, Hank. And as a matter of fact, this is the very coin that he traced to that spot in the Atlantic. This Spanish doubloon, which I have kept on my desk for the past couple of decades… well, it found its way into young Turner’s possession for a brief time. Four months later, a photo of Matthew appears on the cover of the Times, standing on the deck of a fishing boat with a chest of gold and silver that had been lost for hundreds of years.”
Hank nodded. That was about the extent of what he knew, though he hadn’t known that the director’s doubloon had anything to do with it.
“Obviously Matthew has a singular gift for tracing items to their source. And you, Hank, among my staff, know the most about other lost treasure out there in the world, do you not?”
“I do,” Hank replied, tickling his fingertips with his beard. “Now, separating legend from genuine shipwrecks and the like, well, there’re a lot of people out there doing that these days—actual companies, in fact.”
George suddenly realized exactly where Meier was going. “I think I can narrow it down for you, Hank,” he said. “What ‘lost treasure’ is out there that there’s a well-known sample of? Like Doctor Meier’s gold coin, for instance?”
“Ah, right… Well, I’d have to look through the database for an accurate number, but I’d say it’s in the hundreds just for the NYMM. But all this stuff has been tracked numerous times without success. I seriously doubt that…”
As Hank droned on, Dr. Meier and George shared a look.
“Hundreds?”
Dr. Meier knew that Matthew was ignoring his calls. He decided to have Tuni call him from her cell phone to increase the odds of his answering. It worked.
“This is Matt,” he answered after two rings.
“Hello, Mr. Turner, this is Tuni St. James.”
Where did he know that name from? Interesting accent.
“What can I do for you, Tuni?”
The ambient noise told her he was driving. She sat in the leather chair in the corner of the office, with Dr. Meier, George, and Hank hovering over her. Their script, with explicit notes, sat on her lap as she twirled her long hair with a lazy finger.
“I have a proposal for you. I understand you have a talent for tracing lost gold.”
Matt let off the gas a little and held the phone tight to his ear. “Okay…”
“My employers have access to a piece of silver that washed up on a beach a long time ago.” She paused but heard only the soft hum of the moving car. “It’s from a well-documented vessel that sank with chests of silver destined for the Confederate army in 1864. Would you be interested in recovering it?”
“Tuni, is Doctor Meier standing near you?”
She looked up at the director and mouthed, “He knows.”
Meier shrugged. If Matthew wasn’t hooked at this point, there was nothing else they could do. He nodded for her to continue.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he’s standing over me right now, wearing a green and charcoalpatterned sweater vest.”
“Please put him on the phone,” Matt said evenly.
She handed Meier the phone.
“Matthew?”
“Why are you playing games, Doctor?”
“Well, my friend, I realized that I needed a bit more of an incentive for you to help out with this very important situation. It just so happens that the doubloon to which you helped yourself is not unique in its potential. The silver coin Tuni spoke of is very real, sitting in the safe in my office, and would very likely lead you to an estimated twenty-seven million dollars’ worth of its brothers at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
A long silence followed. Meier could hear that Matt had stopped driving. At last, he spoke.
Matt finally said, “You told her about me?”
Meier glanced at Tuni, “Your techniques are safe, Matthew. I thought I made that clear.”
“I hope so, Doctor. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Meier hung up, handed the phone back to Tuni, and smiled.
“He’s coming tomorrow.”
As George and Hank high-fived, Tuni stood up. “Are you done with me, Jon?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” he beamed. “And well done, Tuni. I’ll need you here early tomorrow, though—I’d like you to escort him when he arrives.”
“Very well,” she replied, and turned on her heel to leave.
“Oh, and I’ll need you to accompany him to Kenya.”
She turned and looked at him coolly. “You’re out of your mind, Jon. How many millions would I get for such a trip?”
To George and Hank, he said, “Please excuse us, gentlemen.”
Matt despised everything about flying. For one thing, he had to remove his gloves and shoes to go through security. And his bags would be intermingled with other people’s luggage. This was no risk to him, as imprints could not be passed, but it was gross. He had to sit in seats previously occupied by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of utter strangers. He also hated New York at any time other than winter. In the winter he could cover up as much as he liked without anyone batting an eye. Walking onto the subway wearing a turtleneck, beanie, and gloves in the middle of summer seemed to incite annoyance, ridicule, or outright suspicion in all good New Yorkers. The short walk from the Forty-second Street station to the New York Metropolitan Museum resulted in no less than twenty concerned looks, four laughs, and three unpleasant comments. As buses, cabs, and delivery trucks zoomed past him, a trip-hammer pounded away at a distant construction site, and the shoulders of strangers grazed against him. Matt realized he despised simply everything about this city, whatever the season.
Tuni greeted him on his way into the lobby. He was looking at the giant skeletal T. rex, held up by several dozen support cables. He remembered when they were putting it up a few years ago. It wasn’t even real—just a bunch of chicken wire, plaster, and plastic resin.
“Right this way, Matthew,” Tuni said. It sounded like “MaTYEW”—he liked it.
He only remembered seeing her at the front desk a couple of times, but then it was just her head and shoulders. He hadn’t realized how tall she was. As she walked a little ahead of him, he noticed he hadn’t fully appreciated a lot of things about her. He also realized that she had kept her hands behind her back when greetin
g him a moment ago. No attempt at a handshake. Very considerate. Did she know?
She opened the door to the museum director’s office, and he saw Dr. Meier stand up behind his desk, a good distance across the room. It all looked the same: impressive books on the walls, antique Persian rugs covering areas of dark hardwood floor. This was the floor he had admired and ordered for his new house. His own was better, though, he noticed.
“Have a seat, Matthew,” said Dr. Meier, his voice ringing with triumphant good cheer.
“In one of these antiques, Doctor?” Matt said with feigned umbrage. “I feel that you just don’t know me at all.”
Meier nodded with a fatuous smile and remained standing.
“It was nice to officially meet you,” Tuni said and walked to the door.
“Yeah, you too.” Matt waited for the door to close. “I say we cut to the chase, Doc. Let’s see the coin.”
“Oh, come, come, Matthew. Why would I just hand it to you? You might get everything you need to know in an instant, and then what could you possibly need us for? You get your quid with no pro quo.”
“Why would I believe that this coin exists at all, let alone that it would lead to anything close to what you suggest? I’ll need to hold it for at least a couple minutes.”
Dr. Meier considered this for a moment, recalling other times he had seen Turner in action. It usually took him a five or more minutes to return anything useful. He also realized that Matthew had undoubtedly thought this through over the past twenty-four hours and would be unlikely to get on a plane to Kenya without a quick sampling.
“Have you brought your passport and whatever else you’ll need for our little Kenya safari?”
“I have enough for a few days. I don’t plan on staying any longer than that, regardless of what happens.”
“More than enough time.” Meier opened a low cabinet in the wall behind his desk and spun quickly through a combination before opening the safe. He rose with palm upturned, holding a large silver coin on a square of red velvet. The coin’s edges were well rounded from wear, and the face on the front was barely visible.
“Where is it from?”
“France. Napoleon the Third’s attempts at ‘mediation’ between the North and South. Fund the Confederates to even the odds; then force both sides to the table—or at least that’s how he spun it. Either way, the silver never made it; the U.S.S. Hudson made sure of that—sent it straight to the bottom.”
“Cool… All right, well…” Matt took a wrinkled bedsheet from his duffel bag, spread it on the hardwood floor, and lay down on it while removing his right glove.
“So just touch it to the back of my hand and then remove it a bit later.”
Meier knelt beside him and smiled. “Five seconds later.”
“Five seconds? C’mon, that’s ridiculous! It takes longer than that just to enter the imprint.”
“Ten seconds,” Meier offered.
Matt rolled his eyes and rested his head back on the sheet, then gave the nod to proceed. Meier pressed the edge of the coin lightly against the back of Matt’s hand and looked at his watch. Ten seconds later, he lifted the coin, and Matt calmly opened his eyes and sat up.
“I want a private jet. I’m not riding a commercial plane all that way.”
“Already arranged by Peter Sharma. So what did you see?”
“None of your business. Just put my coin back in the safe and leave it there till I get back.”
“Very well, but it will have to be returned to me after a week—it isn’t ‘your’ coin. Tuni has all your instructions: where to go, whom to meet, et cetera. She’ll be accompanying you.”
Matt kept his poker face, though this really was quite a pleasant prospect.
Outside the door, Tuni stood waiting, arms crossed. She raised a single, perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So, are we traveling, Matthew?”
There was that “Mattyew” again—he loved it.
“We are. I hope you’re getting paid something extra for this. I mean, aren’t you just the admin or whatever?”
She gave him a frosty look. “I am the operations assistant. And my only added reward is to be the pleasure of your youthful company.” They began walking to the staff garage.
“Youthful? You can’t be much older than me!”
“I am six years your senior, young man,” she said over her shoulder.
“Wow. To see what you’ve seen in all that time…” He inhaled the light perfume trailing behind her. Subtle.
“Throw your bag in the boot,” she said as the trunk of a white BMW 328i popped open on their approach.
Her car was a few years old, but immaculate as if it had just come off the showroom floor. Even her suitcase, already stowed in the trunk, appeared brand-new. As they drove, he listened to the hypnotic beat music on the stereo and stared out the window at the passing buildings and people. It was nice. He felt as if he were in a bubble of safe and clean.
8
PETER SHARMA HUNG UP THE PHONE and clapped his hands together. Maggie Gwynne, the director of paleontology, looked up from her desk with a start.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Meier has the expert on the jet. He’ll be in Nairobi tomorrow morning.”
“Well, that’s good news.” She made a little frown. “Now, remind me—why do we trust this expert’s opinion more than the potassium-argon results?”
“He has… um, special insights into this sort of investigation. Do you recall the Tarkhan papyrus? He was the one who pointed the field team to the adjacent tomb’s location, where the remaining sheets were found.”
“And how, pray tell, did he manage that?” she said after taking a noisier-than-intended slurp of tea.
“Can’t say. But he’s the only one who can confirm its age.”
Peter Sharma stood up and stretched his thin legs. Maggie, who was married, liked his lanky physique, though the butt was a bit flat. She also enjoyed the softness of his well-proportioned face and pale green eyes. Of course, the most attractive thing about him was his brain. He was the first Indian director, and the youngest by far, in the Museum Group’s history. There didn’t appear to be anything he didn’t know. If only he were twenty years older…
Peter picked up his phone again and dialed Garrett Rheese’s satellite number.
“Sharma?” came the abrupt answer.
“Dr. Rheese, I have good news. You’ll have the expert on-site tomorrow morning.”
“Smashing.” Rheese said drily. “And how long must I wait for this expert before we can pack it up here and move on to my next site?”
“There was a pause. Then Sharma said in a puzzled tone, “Actually, Doctor, I had rather assumed you’d want to remain at the site—see what further excavation might turn up.”
“No, I’m fairly resolved that there is nothing more to find here. I don’t care to have this anomaly, however intriguing, holding up my original schedule.”
Peter was shocked at the man’s willingness to leave the site of such a pivotal discovery. There could be only one reason.
“Doctor, are you concerned about the artifact’s authenticity? We’ve got quite a sizable team preparing to research this. Is there something I should know?”
“Heavens no, of course not! I mean… perhaps we should await your expert’s output and then discuss it further afterwards—sound good?”
“Right,” Peter replied. “Your guest and his escort will be arriving at Nairobi Airport tomorrow morning. A chopper has been arranged from there to you.”
Peter didn’t like the sudden backtracking. Perhaps Rheese had staged this whole thing and was now afraid its high profile would blow up in his face. He was now more anxious than ever to hear what Matt might soon discover. Little did Rheese know, if the object was a hoax, the “expert” would know it instantly—and exactly who was involved.
He leaned back in his chair and pinched his smooth, dimpled chin. “Maggie,” he said, “I’m going to Kenya.”
“Very well�
�shall I inform Doctor Rheese?”
“Absolutely not.”
9
MATT PULLED THE CRUMPLED SHEET FROM his duffel bag and laid it over the leather seat in the Gulfstream jet’s passenger cabin, tucking it into the creases and around the armrests. Tuni watched with interest from the adjacent seat. When he was done, he stood up, handed his bag to the pleasant flight attendant, and looked at the seat with satisfaction. He glanced at Tuni and caught her watching.
“Sorry, this probably looks obsessive and freakish—which it no doubt is—but I never get to do this on commercial flights, and it’s really sort of a necessity for me if I want to sleep on the plane.”
Tuni just smiled curtly and returned to her magazine as the pilot popped his head out of the cockpit to address them.
“You two ready to go? We’re all set when you are.”
Matt sat down, then remembered the seat belt.
“Shoot,” he said. “Do I still have to wear my seat belt?”
The pilot smiled earnestly. “Just during takeoff and landing, sir. I’ll let you know as soon as we’re at altitude; then you can do whatever you like. Sound good?”
“Perfect—thanks.”
Matt pulled his shirt down low and clasped the seat belt over it, then looked all around the cabin, feeling a little tingle of excitement. He saw the flight attendant take her seat at the rear and flash him a nice smile.
The pilot leaned over from his seat in the cockpit and said, “We’re going to have to close this door during takeoff, but we’ll open it right back up.”
“Hey, just one question, sir,” Matt interrupted before the door closed. “How much does one of these babies cost?”
The Dig Page 5
