Chaos (6 page)

I saw Lewis and Clark’s journals. A frozen case of liquor recovered from Ernest Shackleton’s Nimrod Expedition. A hat that belonged to Ponce de León.

But the longer I studied the objects, the more my enthusiasm waned. As a kid, they inspired me. Now, they served as painful reminders of a life gone far off the rails.

I turned toward the back of the Great Hall. For the first time, I noticed a crowd of well-dressed men and women standing in tight groups. They laughed and chatted, oblivious to my presence.

I recognized some of the faces. Dale Hearns, the world-renowned anthropologist. Betsy Reese, the mountaineer. Mitch Lander, the ethnographer and writer.

My palms began to sweat. I hadn’t talked to a single one of them since the incident. The thought of being surrounded by all of them was disconcerting, to say the least.

I saw a large sign behind the crowd. It advertised the lecture for that day, “Treasure Hunters: The Scourge of Archaeology.”

A jolt of annoyance shot through my body.

Can this possibly get any more awkward?

Blocking my face, I forged through the crowd. I felt ashamed of myself and yet annoyed with my shame.

After jostling my way to the back of the room, I turned right and strode down a long hallway. Framed paintings adorned the walls, displaying the annual winners of the prestigious Explorer of the Year award. Once upon a time, I’d imagined that my visage would someday adorn those walls.

A painting came into view and my feet slid to a stop in front of it. Surprise filled me as I stared at the 2010 winner. It depicted a woman standing on a red carpet against a plain brown backdrop. She displayed a pretty face, perfect posture, a beautiful curvy body, and long, luxurious blonde hair. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief and I found myself momentarily transfixed by them. I knew her.

I knew her well.

Ignoring my bubbling emotions, I continued walking down the corridor. At the end, I turned to face the door on the left. A nameplate, mounted at eye level, read, “Dutch Graham – Chairman.”

As I slipped into the room, the stale aroma of musty books greeted my nose. It reminded me of a library. A very old library.

Two-hundred-year-old paintings, part of the Society’s Hudson River School collection, hung crooked on the walls. Antique pieces of furniture, drowning under a sea of papers and books, were strewn haphazardly across the floor.

On the far end of the room sat a large oak desk and a fancy office chair. A man sat in the chair, facing the other direction. His legs angled upward and his feet rested on the fifth shelf of a large bookcase. His right hand glimmered and I caught a glimpse of a magnifying glass clenched in his fingers.

I cleared my throat. “Here’s to us and those like us.”

The man whirled around in his chair. A wicked grin spread across his face. “Damn few of us left,” he replied in a harsh, gritty tone.

“You’re looking good, Dutch.”

“I look like hell and you know it.”

Slowly, Dutch Graham rose from his seat and hobbled around his desk. He was from an earlier generation of explorers, more adventurer than scientist. Ever since we’d met, he’d viewed me as a kindred spirit, a sentiment I shared.

A lifetime of adventure had taken its toll on his body and he carried a myriad of battle scars, including a patch over his right eye and a mechanical left leg. Yet, I sensed that his ageless soul remained full of deviousness, exemplified by his timeless love for women, wine, and poker. It was little wonder that the other members used to call him El Diablo behind his back.

I grabbed Graham and bear-hugged him. “How are you?”

He returned the hug with surprising strength. “Same as always. Thanks for drying off before you barged in here.”

“It’s not my fault. It’s raining outside.”

“Ever heard of an umbrella?”

“Is this how you greet all your old friends?”

“Old friend, my ass. You haven’t visited in years. And if you really were my friend, you wouldn’t have left me alone with these pompous windbags.”

“Someone has to keep them in their places.”

“I’ll say. So, when do I get to meet the wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“Why not? It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”

“I guess I just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

He nodded. “So, how long has it been since I last saw you? Two years?”

“More like three.”

“Where do you live?”

“A bunch of places,” I replied. “I haven’t really settled down.”

He studied me closely. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to see you. But what are you doing here?”

“I’m back in town for a week or so. A guy by the name of Jack Chase hired me to do something for him.”

“That jerk? Why are you working for him?”

“You know him?”

“Not personally. But he runs an outfit called ShadowFire. Let’s just say they’re no stranger to controversy.”

“He told me it was a security consulting company.”

Graham snorted. “That’s just corporate speak for a PMC. You know, a private military corporation. They’re in the news every other week, fighting in one place, buying weapons in another. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them.”

“I don’t read much news these days.”

“Well, watch your back. Chase is a snake, plain and simple.”

“I see you’re still judging people you haven’t met.”

He grinned and clapped me on the back. “Some things never change.”

I returned the grin. “I was hoping to treat you to a couple of slices, give us a chance to catch up for a bit. If you want, I can come back later, after the lecture.”

“Are you kidding? I hate those things. The other board members tell me I’m supposed to go but they don’t really care. Frankly, I think I’m an embarrassment to them. No big deal. They share a shot glass worth of brains between the whole lot of them. No, I’m up for some food. Let’s blow this joint.”

Graham limped through the door and started walking down the hallway. I followed him out and then fell into step with him.

As we passed by the lecture hall, I happened to glance inside. My eyes were immediately drawn to a young woman with long blonde hair. She stood behind the podium, surrounded by fawning sycophants. An overhead fixture cast a soft glow upon her, lighting her up like an angel. A black dress and black boots covered her slim, curvy body. Her facial features were attractive and well proportioned, highlighted by a cute nose and big blue eyes.

It was Diane Blair, the girl from the painting.

She looked so different, yet so similar. I felt emotions stirring inside of me, emotions I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I glanced at Graham. “Change of plans. Let’s go to the lecture.”

“I thought you wanted to skip the lecture.”

“I do. But the lecturer, well, that’s another matter altogether.”

Chapter 7

“Not only do treasure hunters steal artifacts,” Diane announced. “They steal history as well.”

She spoke in a cool, clear tone. I hadn’t heard her voice in three years. Yet, it sounded so familiar to my ears.

She stood behind a podium at the front of the Lindbergh Auditorium. Although it was a bit on the small side, the Auditorium put more than a few Broadway theatres to shame. Once upon a time, I’d found it magical and awe-inspiring. But now, I viewed it with a measure of distaste instead.

The walls and ceiling that surrounded the stage were painted gold and inlaid with dizzying designs and flamboyant stones. The stage itself, framed by rows of billowing burgundy curtains, practically screamed for attention.

Glass and wood cases, similar to those in the Great Hall, sat at various positions around the stage. The exhibits themselves – a pipe, a tattered book, and dull rocks – seemed innocuous enough until one realized that they came from Christopher Columbus’s voyage to the Americas, the Pancho Villa expedition, and the Apollo 11 moon landing, respectively.

I wondered how those famous explorers would feel about their personal belongings being showcased in such a pompous manner. Somehow, I doubted they’d approve.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. A couple dozen rows of soft velvet stadium seats stretched between Diane and me. Most of them were filled with haughty, hobnobbing scientists.

It was an impressive turnout, especially considering the traffic issues. I wasn’t terribly surprised though. As 2010 Explorer of the Year, Diane was apparently quite the hot ticket.

And the fact that she’s beautiful doesn’t hurt either.

I looked at Diane. The rows of seats were like a gulf between us, a gulf that grew with every word she said to the audience. She stood on the respectable side of exploration, shoulder-to-shoulder with archaeologists, scientists and other academics. I used to stand with her. But these days, I increasingly found myself on the other side, in solidarity with the treasure hunters, the smugglers, and the black market dealers.

Still, I wanted to talk to her. I wasn’t sure if she’d feel the same, not after the way I’d left her all those years ago. But I needed to try anyway. I checked the clock and decided to keep a low profile until the break. Then I’d find a way to get some alone time with her.

Of course, it was one thing to plan a conversation, another thing to actually follow through with it.

“We face an uphill battle,” Diane said. “Interpol estimates that the black market antiquities trade is a four billion dollar business on an annual basis. Advances in ground-penetrating radar and other forms of technology have made it easier for treasure hunters to operate. Also, on-line auction sites now provide dealers with a safe and secure method of distribution. The authorities are stretched to the limit and fight an increasingly sophisticated enemy, driven solely by unfettered greed.”

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.”