My eyes narrowed. One of the common fallacies of archaeology, one that I used to believe, was that archaeologists were selfless public servants. According to this line of thought, they eschew financial rewards and other baubles in order to unearth and understand history.
But archaeologists were just people and as such, subject to the same impulses as everyone else. Every treasure hunter I’d ever known exhibited greed. But so did every archaeologist as well. It was just a different type of greed. Greed for grant money. Greed for fame. Greed for professional respect. And most of all, greed for the power to control history.
Her eyes traced the crowd. Instinctively, I slouched into my seat, avoiding her gaze.
“…and people like us,” she said as I returned my full attention to her speech. “The road is a long one. Wealthy collectors in particular must be convinced not to purchase artifacts with uncertain or fabricated provenances. Governments must be convinced to treat artifact smuggling as a serious crime, with punishments that deter would-be offenders. And finally, the media and groups such as ours must educate the public on the line between archaeologists who seek to preserve heritage and treasure hunters who seek to destroy it.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a furtive look in my direction. Twisting my head to the side, I saw a woman whispering to the man next to her. Then they both looked at me. Gritting my teeth, I sank even lower into my seat, until I was practically lying in it.
“…in Egypt,” Diane’s unwavering voice continued. “It was one of the most resilient rings of black market smugglers that…”
The whispers in the room grew and the stares from the audience became increasingly frequent. I glanced over my shoulder, marking the door’s position. It was time to leave before Diane noticed the disturbance. I’d go outside, melt into the shadows, and wait for the break. Placing my palms on the armrests, I started to stand up.
“Ms. Blair?”
I froze as the voice rang out above the crowd. I couldn’t believe it. But there was no mistaking that arrogant, cocky tone.
She stopped in mid-sentence and peered into the audience. “Yes?”
Standish stood up and slowly turned to the side, forming an awkward triangle between him, Diane, and me. “It’s my understanding that there’s a treasure hunter in the audience today. His name is Cyclone Reed. I wonder if he’d be so kind as to provide us with his point of view on the subject?”
The audience shifted their positions to look at me. I sensed their dirty looks, their scornful expressions. My ears heated up until they were piping hot, like a forger’s fire. Part of me wanted to look at Diane. The other part of me wanted to hop over a few rows of seats and coldcock Standish.
How the hell did he get back to Manhattan so quickly anyway? And why?
Slowly, I rose in my seat and looked at Diane. She stared back at me with a shocked face. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt parched. There was no escaping the situation. I had to tough it out. “I’m not the only treasure hunter around here.” I turned toward Standish. “Speaking of which, have you appropriated anyone else’s dig sites lately?”
He raised an eyebrow. “There’s no need to wage false accusations.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I just wanted to hear your opinion on the subject. I’m not trying to bruise your ego.”
“Maybe not, but I sure as hell enjoyed bruising your jaw.”
His forehead cinched and his fingers curled into fists.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the large wall clock. The hands seemed to fly by, moving way too fast. Everything was spinning out of control.
I glanced at the stage. Diane’s eyes clouded over and in an instant I felt three years of her anger and pain. I’d expected a little shock, a little surprise. Maybe even a little disgruntlement. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw in her eyes.
She hates me.
After a long moment, she turned toward the audience. “I’m sorry for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. However, this is as good a time as any to take a break. Please enjoy the refreshments outside and we’ll reconvene in here in ten minutes. Thank you.”
A murmur rose from the audience as Diane stepped away from the podium and strolled confidently through the doors to the Great Hall. With a quick nod to Graham, I tried to follow her.
But Standish blocked my path. “It’s good to see you again so soon, Cyclone. I thought I’d have to wait months to pummel your face, but it looks like I got lucky.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Make me.”
He was bigger than me, meaner too. I’d gotten the drop on him in Colombia, but this time I lacked the advantage of surprise.
I looked to the stage. Diane was gone. It took me only a second to make up my mind. Swinging to the side, I vaulted over a couple of rows.
“You’re a coward, Cyclone,” he called out. “You’re a damn coward.”
Ignoring him, I darted down the stairs and through the double doors. As I slid into the Great Hall, I saw Diane walking toward the exit. I tried to run after her, but the crowd gathered around me, peppering me with questions.
“Diane,” I shouted. “Wait.”
I pushed through the members, splitting the crowd. Precious seconds passed. Finally, I managed to break free.
“Hold on just a second.” The new voice caught me off guard.
Twisting to the side, I saw Walker. His face betrayed his aggravation.
I shoved him out of the way and moved forward. But the crowd expanded, trapping me inside. Straining my neck, I managed to get one final glimpse of the exit.
But she was already gone.
Chapter 8
The small skyscraper at the corner of 52nd Street and 2nd Avenue didn’t project importance. Even the light coating of raindrops that covered its exterior couldn’t shine its dull granite blocks, its curiously short columns, and its large, unadorned windows. But despite its unimpressive looks, the building somehow managed to command respect.
Walker stopped the Town Car in front of the façade. Twisting around, he stared at me. We hadn’t exchanged a single word for almost two hours. Not that I cared. I didn’t feel much like talking.
“Do I need to escort you inside?”
I shrugged. “Sorry Jim, I didn’t mean to waste your time.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Mr. Chase.”
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, rain poured down from above, stinging my face. Quickly, I maneuvered past some large planters and strode into the building.
At first glance, the lobby looked simple and elegant. The walls consisted of large granite blocks. Tall glass windows provided the space with a sense of openness. A stone fountain gurgled pleasantly from the middle of the room, pouring streams of water into a waiting pool below. The pool itself was brightly lit and I could see colorful fish swimming around inside.
But the lobby carried a darker side as well. Multiple cameras, whirring softly, scanned the room. Men and women, sporting hard, lined faces, milled about the area.
Looking around, I spotted a small circular desk. I hoofed my way across the marble floor and stopped in front of it.
A young woman looked up at me with a broad, confident smile. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Jack Chase.”
Her smile slipped away. Behind her, I saw two heavies straighten up and glance in my direction. Apparently, it wasn’t everyday that someone off the street came looking for the boss.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I see. Well, if you leave your name and number with me, I’ll be sure —”