“The Stormhaven Library?” Hatch said with a smile. “You have my sympathy.”
“Actually, I found the place rather useful. It had just the kind of local history I’ll need.”
“For what?”
St. John gave his folders a pat. “Why, my monograph on Sir William Macallan, of course. We’ve opened up a whole new page in
Stuart history here. And, you know, his intelligence work alone will merit at least two papers for the
Journal of the International Cryptographic Association—
”
The
basso profundo
blast of an air horn shivered the windows of the square, and Hatch looked in time to see a sleek white yacht turn into the
channel and approach the pier. “They’re early,” St. John said. He balanced the folders awkwardly as he held out his hand.
“Thank you again, Malin.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Hatch replied, returning the limp shake. “Best of luck to you, Christopher.” He watched
the historian teeter down the hill toward the dock. Then he stepped into the Jaguar, closed the door, and cranked the motor.
He pulled out into the square and pointed the car’s nose south, toward Coastal Route 1A and Massachusetts. He drove slowly,
enjoying the salt air, the play of sun and shade across his face as he passed beneath the ancient oaks that lined the quiet
streets.
He approached the Stormhaven Post Office and pulled over to the curb. There, balanced on the endpost of a white picket fence,
sat Isobel Bonterre. She was wearing a thin leather jacket and a short ivory skirt. A large duffel lay on the sidewalk beside
her. She turned toward him, stuck out a thumb, and crossed one leg over the other, exposing a shocking length of skin in the
process.
“Ça va,
sailor?” she called out.
“I’m fine. But I’d watch out if I were you.” He nodded toward her tanned thighs. “They still burn scarlet women around here,
you know.”
She laughed out loud. “Let them try! Your town fathers are fat, fat to the last man. I could outrun them all. Even in these
heels.” She lifted herself from the post, walked over, and kneeled by the car, resting her elbows on the passenger window.
“What took you so long?”
“Blame Doris the Realtor. She wanted to enjoy every last hard-earned minute of the sale.”
“It made no difference.” Bonterre pretended to pout. “I was busy anyway. Very busy, trying to decide what to do with my share
of the treasure.”
Hatch smiled. They both knew that nothing had been salvaged from the island; that the treasure could never, ever be reclaimed.
She sighed extravagantly. “Anyway, are you at last ready to drive me out of this
ville horrible?
I am looking forward to noise, dirt, panhandlers, daily newspapers, and Harvard Square.”
“Then get in.” Hatch reached over and opened the door.
But she remained leaning on the windowframe, staring at him quizzically. “You will allow me to buy dinner, yes?”
“Of course.”
“And then we shall finally see how you Yankee doctors say good night to young ladies.”
Hatch grinned. “I thought we already answered that.”
“Ah, but this evening shall be different. This evening will not be spent in Stormhaven. And this evening,
I
am buying.” With a smile, she dug her hand into the sleeve of her blouse and pulled out a massive gold doubloon.
Hatch stared in amazement at the oversized coin that filled her palm. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Bonterre’s smile widened. “From your medical hut,
naturellement.
I found it there when I was rooting around for the Radmeter. The first—and last—of the Ragged Island treasure.”
“Hand it over.”
“Désolée,
my friend,” Bonterre laughed, holding it away from his reaching fingers. “But finders are keepers. Remember, it was I who
dug it up in the first place. Do not worry yourself. It should buy us a great many dinners.” She threw her duffel in the back
seat, then leaned toward him again. “Now, back to tonight. I shall give you a choice. Head or tail?” And she flipped the thick
coin into the air. It caught the sun as it turned, flashing brilliantly against the post office windows.
“You mean, heads or tails,” Hatch corrected.
“No,” Bonterre said as she slapped the coin against her forearm. “Head, or tail? Those are the correct terms,
non?
” She lifted her fingers and peeked at the coin, eyes widening salaciously.
“Get in here before they burn
both
of us at the stake,” Hatch laughed, dragging her inside the car.
In a moment, the Jaguar’s eager engine brought them to the outskirts of town. It was the work of two minutes more to reach
the bluffs behind Burnt Head. Just as the car topped the brow of the hill, Hatch had one last glimpse of Stormhaven, a picture
postcard of memory, caught in his rearview mirror: the harbor, the boats swaying at anchor, the white clapboard houses winking
on the hill.
And then, in a flash of reflected sunlight, they were all gone.
D
OUGLAS
P
RESTON
and L
INCOLN
CHILD
are coauthors of the bestselling novels
Relic, Mount Dragon, Reliquary, Riptide, Thunderhead, The Ice Limit, The Cabinet of Curiosities, Still Life with Crows, Brimstone,
Dance of Death, The Book of the Dead,
and
The Wheel of Darkness.
Douglas Preston, a regular contributor to
The New Yorker,
worked for the American Museum of Natural History. He is an expert horseman who has ridden thousands of miles across the
West. Lincoln Child is a former book editor and systems analyst who has published numerous anthologies of ghost stories and
supernatural tales and is passionate about motorcycles and exotic parrots. The authors encourage readers to visit and send
them e-mail from their Web site,
www.prestonchild.com
.
More chilling suspense
in the
New York Times
bestselling thriller featuring
Agent Pendergast!
•
Please turn this page
for a preview of
available in mass market.
D
R.
F
REDERICK
W
ATSON
Collopy stood behind the great nineteenth-century leather-topped desk of his corner office in the museum’s southeast tower.
It was morning. The huge desk was bare, save for a copy of the
New York Times.
The newspaper had not been opened. It did not need to be opened: already, Collopy could see everything he needed to see,
on the front page, above the fold, in the largest type that the staid
Times
dared use.
The cat was out of the bag, and it could not be put back in.
Collopy considered himself heir to the greatest position in American science: director of the New York Museum of Natural History.
His mind had drifted from the subject of the article to the names of his distinguished forebears: Bickmore, Scott, Throckmorton,
Gilcrease. His goal, his one ambition, was to add his name to that august registry—and not fall into ignominy like his two
immediate predecessors, the late and not-much-lamented Winston Wright or the inept Olivia Merriam.
And yet there, on the front page of the
Times,
was a headline that might just be his epitaph. He had weathered several bad patches recently, eruptions of scandal that would
have felled a lesser man. But he had handled them coolly and decisively—and he would do the same here.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
The bearded figure of Hugo Menzies, dressed elegantly and with slightly less than the usual degree of academic rumpledness,
entered the room. He silently took a chair as Josephine Rocco, the head of public relations, entered behind him, along with
the museum’s lawyer, the ironically named Beryl Darling of Wilfred, Spragg, and Darling.
Collopy remained standing, watching the three as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.
“I’ve called you here in emergency session, for obvious reasons.” He glanced down at the paper. “I assume you’ve seen the
Times?
”
His audience nodded in silent assent.
“We made a mistake in trying to cover this up, even briefly. When I took this position as director of the museum, I told myself
I would run this place differently, that I wouldn’t operate in the secretive and sometimes paranoid manner of the last few
administrations. I believed the museum to be a great institution, one strong enough to survive the vicissitudes of scandal
and controversy that plague most public institutions.”
He paused.
“In trying to play down the destruction of our diamond collection, in seeking to cover it up, I made a mistake. I violated
my own principles.”
“An apology to us is all well and good,” said Darling, in her usual crisp voice, “but why didn’t you consult me before you
made that hasty and ill-considered decision? You must have realized you couldn’t get away with it. This has done serious damage
to the museum and made my job that much more difficult.”
Collopy reminded himself this was precisely the reason the museum hired Darling and paid her $400 an hour: she always spoke
the unvarnished truth.
He raised a hand. “Point taken. The truth is, this is a development I never, ever in my worst nightmares could have anticipated—finding
that the museum’s diamond collection had been reduced to…” His voice cracked; he couldn’t finish.
There was an uneasy shifting in the room.
Collopy swallowed, then began again. “We must take action. We’ve got to respond, and respond now. That is why I’ve asked you
to this meeting.”
As he paused for their responses, Collopy could hear, coming faintly from Museum Drive below, the shouts and calls of a growing
crowd of protestors, along with police sirens and bullhorns.
Rocco spoke up. “The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. It’s nine now, and I think we’ve probably got until ten,
maybe eleven at the latest, to make some kind of official statement. In all my years in public relations I’ve never encountered
anything quite like this, and I’m really at a loss as to how to spin it.”
Menzies shifted in his chair and smoothed his white hair. “May I?”
Collopy nodded. “Hugo.”
Menzies cleared his throat, his intense blue eyes darting to the window and back to Collopy. “The first thing we have to realize,
Frederick, is that this catastrophe is beyond, ah, ‘spinning.’ Listen to the crowd out there—the fact that we even
considered
covering up such a huge loss has the people up in arms. No; we’ve got to take the hit, honestly and squarely. Admit our wrong.
No more dissembling.” He glanced at Rocco. “That’s my first point and I hope we’re all in agreement on it.”
Rocco nodded. “And your second?”
He leaned forward slightly. “It’s not enough to respond. We need to go on the offensive.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to do something glorious. We need to make a fabulous announcement, something that will remind New York City and the
world that despite all this we’re still a great museum. Mount a scientific expedition, launch a grand new exhibition, embark
on some extraordinary research project.”
“Won’t that look like a rather transparent diversion?” asked Rocco.
“Perhaps to some. But the criticism will last only a day or two, and then we’ll be free to build interest and good publicity.”
“What kind of project?” Collopy asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
Rocco nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would work. This opening or event could be combined with a gala party, strictly A-list, the
social ‘must’ of the season. That will mute museum bashing among the press and politicians, who will naturally want to be
invited.”
“This sounds promising,” Collopy said.
After a moment, Darling spoke. “It’s a fine theory. All we lack is the expedition, exhibition, or event.” She glanced around
cynically. “It takes a year or more to install a major exhibition—far too long to have the desired effect.”
At that moment, Collopy’s intercom buzzed. He stabbed it with irritation. “Mrs. Surd, we’re not to be disturbed.”
“I know, Dr. Collopy, but… well, this is highly unusual.”
“Not now.”
“It requires an immediate response.”
Collopy sighed. “Can’t it wait ten minutes, for heaven’s sake?”
“It’s a bank wire transfer donation of ten million euros for—”
“A gift of ten million euros? Bring it in.”
Mrs. Surd, efficient and plump, entered carrying a paper.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Collopy snatched the paper. “Who’s it from and where do I sign?”
“It’s from a Comte Thierry de Cahors. He’s giving the museum ten million euros to renovate and reopen the Tomb of Senef.”
“The Tomb of Senef? What the devil is that?” He tossed the paper on the desk. “I’ll deal with this later.”
“But it says here, sir, that the funds are waiting in trans-Atlantic escrow and must either be refused or accepted within
the hour.”
Collopy resisted an impulse to wring his hands. “We’re awash in bloody restricted funds like this! What we need are
general
funds to pay the bills. Fax this Count Whoever and see if you can’t persuade him to make this an unrestricted donation. Use
my name with the usual courtesies. We don’t need the money for whatever particular windmill he’s tilting at.”
“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”
She turned away and Collopy glanced over the group. “Now, I believe Beryl had the floor.”
The lawyer opened her mouth to speak, but Menzies held out a suppressing hand. “Mrs. Surd? Please wait a few minutes before
contacting the Count of Cahors.”
Mrs. Surd hesitated, glancing at Collopy for confirmation. The director was a bit taken aback, but nodded a confirmation to
her. She left, closing the door behind her.
“All right, Hugo, what’s this about?” Collopy asked.
“I’m trying to remember the details. The Tomb of Senef—it rings a bell. And, now that I recall, so does the Count of Cahors.”