Two rows further, she saw another man dressed in black. He was sleeping. Or did he just look like he was sleeping? He was an elderly man. His breathing was deep and even; his mouth hung open and a spicule of saliva glistened on his lower lip.
She continued down the aisle, where she counted four more men in black. It was useless, and what would she say if she confronted one of them? She would demand to know why he was looking in her compartment; he would deny it, and that would be that.
Then she glimpsed the top of a blond man's head; his face was buried behind an issue of Punch. He wore a white shirt and tie. It was Farnsworth, of course. She should have guessed. He must have taken off his black
coat, but the fool gave himself away with his English magazine.
She abruptly turned, and retreated from the car. Farnsworth had been following her around campus for the past month. After she'd noticed him and was sure he was watching her, she'd hired an investigator to find out who he was. When she'd found out his name, it was all she needed to know.
Quietly, she slipped back into the compartment. After checking to see that Jones was still asleep, she settled into her seat again and opened a book on her lap. She looked down at it, but she wasn't reading. Her thoughts drifted from Farnsworth to the two most important men in her life, her father and Alex Mandraki.
The things she did for Alex. She didn't love him, but she felt committed to him. She knew, though, that what ever she did for him, she also did for her father. It was he, after all, who had introduced her to Alex, and the middle-aged colonel's future was closely tied to her father's des tiny as well as her own. What her father didn't know was that she and Alex were planning on rushing forward into that future. And why not? There was no sense waiting for the inevitable.
But first she had to deal with Farnsworth. He was a trivial matter in the larger scheme, but needed to be handled swiftly and deftly. The train was the ideal place for it. After all, she'd confronted him once and told him to leave her alone. But he'd ignored her warning, and now she could no longer afford the annoyance. If she was going to act, she should do it before she was back in Greece, before Alex found out. It was her problem, after all, not his.
She reached up into the storage compartment above her seat, unstrapped a canvas shoulder bag, and rummaged through her trowels and brushes, the tools of her trade. When her fingers brushed the smooth, cold steel of her
favorite hand pick, she smiled. It felt good in hand again. She quickly removed it, and stuffed it in her purse.
Jones was stirring in his sleep as she sat down again. She hooked her foot under his calf, lifted it, let it go.
His head jerked. He glanced around, confused, still drugged with sleep, then saw her and smiled.
"Guess I drifted off. What time is it?"
"Almost time for dinner. You've been asleep for more than an hour. Should we go for a cocktail?"
He laid a hand on the stack of books at his side. "I was hoping to work a little more before dinner, but I suppose it can wait."
Indy had brought along a small library on Greek archae ology. His excitement about the prospect of working at Delphi was tempered somewhat by his insecurity about his abilities. It was a quality she intended to use to her own benefit.
When they reached the dining car, they found an empty table. Jones ordered a beer, and Dorian, who normally drank sparingly, asked for a French seventy-five. She would need it for later.
"What kind of drink is that?" Jones asked.
"Champagne and vodka. It's named after a French cannon used in the war."
"Must have quite a kick."
She laughed. "It does at that." She tapped her fingers on the table, scrutinizing him covertly. He seemed ner vous, as though he had something to say, but wasn't sure where or how to begin.
"Dr. Belecamus?"
She leaned slightly forward. "Please, don't call me Doctor."
"Dorian." He spoke her name as though testing its sound, savoring its taste. But he didn't say anything more. She sensed he wanted to ask why she had chosen him to accompany her, because he didn't accept her explanation that he was her best student. There were many students in other courses who had far more experience academical ly and in the field and they both knew it.
"Go ahead. What is it?"
"It's nothing."
"Look, Indy, we're going to be working together for some time, maybe weeks. So it's important for us to be open with each other."
"Open. Yes." He repeated the words with the slow, measured speech of someone who didn't speak the lan guage. "I guess I was wondering what, exactly, you want me to do in Delphi."
Dorian smiled, reached across the table, and touched his hand. "There'll be plenty to do. Don't worry about that. You'll be working and learning. It should be quite an experience."
Though he nodded, he was still uncomfortable. Her gesture had obviously surprised him, as she had known it would. He was definitely going to be easy, she thought. No trouble at all. As compliant as a kitten.
Her choice had been an excellent one.
"What I'm trying to say is that I know I don't have experience, but I don't want to do just menial work," he went on. "I mean, I'd like the chance to do something significant."
So that was it. He wanted to be in the center of things. She slowly ran her fingers over the back of his hand. He swallowed and shifted in his chair. His skin flushed. He was staring at her hand. "You'll have that opportunity." In more ways than you realize.
Her fingers trailed away from his hand. "In fact, I want you to be the first one to examine the script on the tablet when we bring it up from the crevice. You can put your knowledge of ancient Greek to use."
"Suppose it's not Old Greek, but Linear B?"
Dorian laughed and shook her head. Linear B was the name of the script on tablets found during excavations at
Knossos on Crete in 1899. No one yet had been able to crack the code. "You've been reading too much. The chances of a Linear B tablet being found at Delphi are minute. Don't worry about it."
She finished her drink in several swallows, and noted the surprise on Jones' face. She laughed softly.
"What's wrong? Did you think I don't drink, that I never relax or have any fun?"
Jones sipped his beer. "Sometimes, I'm not quite sure what to think of you."
She smiled at him and gazed into his eyes. "Well, I will tell you what I think about you. You not only have intelligence and potential, but you are a very handsome man. I'll admit that if you were an ugly brute I probably wouldn't have asked you along."
The perplexity in his expression amused her. He's prob ably never heard a woman speak so bluntly before, she thought. "So what do you think of me?" She slipped her foot out of her shoe and poked Indy's leg with her toe. "And be honest."
He seemed flustered. "I've never really met a woman like you. I guess you're part of the new women's revolution."
"No. I'm an exception to it."
He looked more perplexed than ever. He no doubt had expected her to agree with him and say that they were in the twenties now. Women were changing, and were no longer willing to be cinctured in dress or spirit. But she had her own ideas about revolution.
"Women are rebelling, Indy, but only in superficial ways—smoking cigarettes in public, getting their hair bobbed. That's not a revolution."
"Well, it's a start."
"The problem with most women, especially the ones your age, is that they refuse to deal with men openly and intellectually. Instead, they prefer subterfuge, intrigue, and sex."