Do not go to that place,thought Frederick Watson Collopy. He would handle it. Even the worst disasters could be turned around with the right—what was the trendy word?— spin.Yes. That’s what was needed here. A very delicate and artfully applied spin. The Museum would not,he thought, react inits usual knee-jerk way.The Museum would not decry the investigation; it would not protest the rifling of its archives; it would not denounce the unaccountable activities of this FBI agent; it would not deny responsibility, evade, or cover up. Nor would the Museum come to the aid of its biggest supporter, Fairhaven. At least, not on the surface. And yet, much could be done in camera,so to speak. A quiet word could be strategically placed here and there, reassurances given or taken away, money moved hither and yon. Gently. Very gently.
He depressed a button on his intercom, and spoke in a mild voice. “Mrs. Surd, would you be so good as to tell Mr. Brisbane I should like to see him at his convenience?”
“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”
“Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Surd.”
He released the button and settled back. Then he carefully folded up the New York Timesand placed it out of sight, in the “To Be Filed” box at the corner of his desk. And, for the first time since leaving his bedroom that morning, he smiled.
ELEVEN
NORA KELLY KNEW what the call was about. She had seen the article in the morning paper, of course. It was the talk of the Museum, perhaps of all New York. She knew what kind of effect it would have on a man like Brisbane. She had been waiting all day for him to call her, and now, at ten minutes to five, the summons had finally come. He had waited until ten minutes to five. Letting her stew, no doubt. She wondered if that meant he would give her ten minutes to clear out of the Museum. It wouldn’t surprise her.
The nameplate was missing from Brisbane’s door. She knocked and the secretary called her in.
“Have a seat, please,” said a haggard older woman who was clearly in a bad mood.
Nora sat. Goddamned Bill,she thought. What could he have been thinking? Admittedly, the guy was impulsive—he tended to act before engaging his cerebral cortex—but this was too much. She’d have his guts for garters, as her father used to say. She’d cut off his balls, fix them to a thong, and wear them around her waist like a bola. This job was socritical to her—yet here he was, practically typing out the pink slip himself. How couldhe have done this to her?
The secretary’s phone buzzed. “You may go in,” the older woman said.
Nora entered the inner office. Brisbane stood in front of a mirror placed at one side of his desk, tying a bow tie around his neck. He wore black pants with a satin stripe and a starched shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons. A tuxedo jacket was draped over his chair. Nora paused inside the door, waiting, but Brisbane said nothing nor in any way acknowledged her presence. She watched him deftly whip one end of the tie over the other, snug the end through.
Then he spoke: “Over the past few hours, I’ve learned a great deal about you, Dr. Kelly.”
Nora remained silent.
“About a disastrous field expedition in the Southwestern desert, for example, in which your leadership and even scientific abilities were called into question. And about a certain William Smithback. I didn’t know you were quite so friendlywith this William Smithback of the Times.”
There was another pause while he tugged on the ends of the tie. As he worked he craned his neck. It rose out of his collar, as pale and scrawny as a chicken’s.
“I understand, Dr. Kelly, that you brought non-Museum personnel into the Archives, in direct violation of the rules of this Museum.”
He tightened and adjusted. Nora said nothing.
“Furthermore, you’ve been doing outside work on Museum time, assisting this FBI agent. Again, a clear violation of the rules.”
Nora knew it would be futile to remind Brisbane that he himself, however grudgingly, had authorized the work.
“Finally, it’s a violation of Museum rules to have contact with the press, without clearing it through our public relations office first. There are good reasons for all these rules, Dr. Kelly. These are not mere bureaucratic regulations. They relate to the Museum’s security, to the integrity of its collections and archives, and especially its reputation. Do you understand me?”
Nora looked at Brisbane, but could find no words.
“Your conduct has caused a great deal of anxiety here.”
“Look,” she said. “If you’re going to fire me, get it over with.”
Brisbane looked at her at last, his pink face forming an expression of mock surprise. “Who said anything about firing? Not only will we not fire you, but you are forbiddento resign.”
Nora looked at him in surprise.
“Dr. Kelly, you will remain with the Museum. After all, you’re the hero of the hour. Dr. Collopy and I are united on this. We wouldn’t dream of letting you go—not after that self-serving, self-aggrandizing newspaper piece. You’re bulletproof. For now.”
Nora listened, her surprise slowly turning to anger.
Brisbane patted the bow tie, examined himself one last time in the mirror, and turned. “All your privileges are suspended. No access to the central collections or the Archives.”
“Am I allowed to use the girls’ room?”
“No contact with anyone on the outside involving Museum business. And especially no contact with that FBI agent or that journalist, Smithback.”
No need to worry about Smithback,Nora thought, furious now.
“We know all about Smithback. There’s a file on him downstairs that’s a foot thick. As you probably know, he wrote a book about the Museum a few years back. That was before my time and I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard it wasn’t exactly Nobel Prize material. He’s been persona non grata around here ever since.”
He looked at her directly, his eyes cold and unwavering. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual. Going to the new Primate Hall opening tonight?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Start planning. After all, you’re our employee of the week. People are going to want to see you up and about, looking chipper. In fact, the Museum will be issuing a press release about our own heroic Dr. Kelly, pointing out in the process how civic-minded the Museum is, how we have a long history of doing pro bonowork for the city. Of course, you will deflect any further questions about this business by saying that allyour work is completelyconfidential.” Brisbane lifted the jacket from the chair and daintily shrugged himself into it, flicking a stray thread from his shoulders, touching his perfect hair. “I’m sure you can find a halfway decent dress among your things. Just be glad it isn’t one of the fancy-dress balls the Museum’s so fond of these days.”
“What if I say no? What if I don’t get with your little program?”
Brisbane shot his cuffs and turned to her again. Then his eyes flicked to the door, and Nora’s gaze followed.
Standing in the doorway, hands folded before him, was Dr. Collopy himself. The director cut a fearsome, almost sinister figure as he silently walked the halls of the Museum, his thin frame dressed in formal severity, his profile that of an Anglican deacon’s, his posture rigid and forbidding. Collopy, who came from a long background of gentleman scientists and inventors, had an enigmatic demeanor and a quiet voice that never seemed to be raised. To top it off, the man owned a brownstone on West End Avenue in which he lived with a gorgeous new wife, forty years his junior. Their relationship was the subject of endless comment and obscene speculation.