Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

SEVENTEEN

Margo Green was the first to arrive at the museum's grand old Murchison Conference Room. As she settled into one of the old leather chairs flanking the massive nineteenth-century oak table, she took in the marvelous-but somewhat disconcerting-details: the trophy heads of now endangered species gracing the walls; the brace of elephant tusks flanking the door; the African masks, leopard, zebra, and lion skins. Murchison had done his fieldwork in Africa over a century before, and had enjoyed a career as a great white hunter alongside his more serious profession of anthropology. There was even a pair of elephant's-foot wastebaskets at opposite ends of the room. But this was a museum, and a museum must not throw anything away, no matter how politically incorrect it may have become.

Margo used the few moments of quiet before the rest of the department arrived to look through her notes and organize her thoughts. She felt a rising nervousness she seemed unable to quell. Was she doing the right thing? She'd been here all of six weeks, and now, with her very first issue of Museology,she was injecting herself into the midst of controversy. Why was it so important to her?

But she already knew the answer. Personally, she had to make a stand on something she believed in. And professionally, as editor of Museology,it was the right thing to do. People would expect the journal to comment on the issue. Silence, or a weak, waffling editorial, would be noted by all. It would set the tone of her editorship. No– it was important to show that Museologywould continue to be relevant and topical while not fearing the controversial. This was her opportunity to show the profession that she meant business.

She went back to her notes. Because the item in question was owned by the Anthropology Department, it was the anthro curators who were most concerned. She would not get a second chance to make her case to the whole department, and she wanted to get it right.

Other curators were now drifting in, nodding to her, chatting among themselves, rattling the almost empty coffee urn, which was boiling into tar the remains of the coffee prepared that morning. Someone poured a cup, then replaced it with a clatter and a suppressed expression of disgust. Nora Kelly arrived, greeted Margo cordially, and took her seat on the opposite side of the table. Margo looked around the room.

All ten curators were now here.

The last to arrive was Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department since the untimely death of Dr. Frock six years before. Menzies gave Margo a special smile and nod, then took his seat at the head of the vast table. Because the bulk of Museologyarticles were on anthropological subjects, he had been appointed as her supervisor. And-she suspected-he had also been instrumental in her hiring. Unlike everybody else on staff-who favored lawyerly briefcases-Menzies carried around a classy canvas shoulder bag by John Chapman Company, a top manufacturer of English fishing and shooting gear. At the moment, he was taking some papers out of the bag, squaring and organizing them. Next, he put on his reading glasses, adjusted his tie, and smoothed down his untidy thatch of white hair. Finally, he checked his watch, raised his lively blue eyes to the waiting group, cleared his throat.

"Glad to see you all here," he said, his voice reedy and old-fashioned. "Shall we commence?"

There was a general shuffling of papers.

"Rather than go through the usual business," he said, glancing at Margo, "let's go straight to a subject I know is on all your minds: the problem of the Great Kiva masks."

More shuffling of papers, glances at Margo. She straightened her back, kept her face neutral and composed. Deep in her heart, she believed she was right, and that helped give her the strength and conviction she needed.

"Margo Green, the new editor of Museology,has asked to speak to you all. As you know, the Tano Indians are requesting the return of the Great Kiva masks, a centerpiece of our upcoming show. As chairman of the department, it's my job to make a recommendation to the director on this matter: whether we give up the masks, keep them, or seek some compromise. We are not a democracy, but I can promise you your opinions will carry great weight with me. I might add that the director himself will also be seeking the advice of the board and the museum's attorneys before he makes his final decision, so mine is not the last word." He smiled, turned to Margo. "And now, Margo, would you like to take the floor?"

Margo rose, looked around the room.

"Most of you probably know I'm planning to run an editorial in the next issue of Museology,calling for the return of the Great Kiva masks to the Tanos. A draft of the editorial has circulated, and it's caused some consternation in the administration." She swallowed, trying to conceal the nervous flutter she could hear in her voice.

She went on to speak about the history of the masks and how they were collected, gaining confidence and poise.

"For those of you who aren't familiar with the Tano Indians," she said, "they live on a remote reservation on the New Mexico-Arizona border. Because of their isolation, they still retain their original language, religion, and customs, while living with one foot in the modern world. Less than twenty percent of the tribe identify themselves as Christian. Anthropologists believe they settled in their present area along the Tano River almost a thousand years ago. They speak a unique language, apparently unrelated to any other. I'm telling you these things because it's important to emphasize that these are not Native Americans in genotype alone, trying belatedly to recapture long-lost traditions. The Tano are one of the few tribes who have never lost their traditions."

She paused. People were listening attentively, and while she knew not all agreed with her, at least they were giving her a respectful hearing.

"The tribe is divided into moieties-that is, two religious groups. The Great Kiva Society masks are used onlywhen these moieties come together for religious ceremonies in the Great Kiva-the kiva being the circular underground chamber that serves as their place of worship. They hold these great ceremonies only once every four years. They believe these ceremonies maintain balance and harmony in the tribe, in all people of the earth, and in the natural world. They believe-and I'm not exaggerating here-that the terrible wars and natural disasters of the last hundred years are due to the fact that they don't have the Great Kiva masks and have been unable to perform properly the ceremony restoring balance and beauty to the world."

She went on for another five minutes and then wrapped it up, glad that she'd been able to keep it relatively short.

Menzies thanked her, glanced around the table. "And now, let the debate begin."

There was a shuffling. Then a thin voice piped up, carrying a slightly aggrieved tone. It was Dr. Prine. The slope-shouldered curator rose to his feet. "Being a specialist in Etruscan archaeology, I don't know much about the Tano Indians, but I think the whole business has a bad odor to it. Why are the Tano suddenly so interested in these masks? How do we know the Tano won't just turn around and sell them? They must be worth millions. I'm very suspicious about their motives."

Margo bit her lip. She remembered Prine from her graduate student days: a dim bulb that had only grown dimmer with the passage of years. His life's research, she recalled, was a study of Etruscan liver divination.

"For these reasons and many others," Prine went on, "I'm strongly in favor of keeping the masks. In fact, I can't believe we're seriously considering returning them. We bought them, we own them, and we should keep them." He sat down abruptly.

A short chubby man with a furze of red hair encircling a large bald spot rose next. Margo recognized him as George Ashton, chief curator of the Sacred Images exhibition. Ashton was a capable anthropologist, if temperamental and easily riled. And he looked riled now.

"I agree with Dr. Prine, and I take strong objection to this editorial." He turned to Margo, his eyes almost popping from his round red face, chin doubling and tripling in his excitement. "I consider it highly inappropriate that Dr. Green raised this question at this time. We're less than a week from the opening of the biggest show at the museum in years, costing almost five million dollars. The Great Kiva masks are the centerpiece of the show. If we pull those masks, there's no way the show will open on time. Really, Dr. Green, I find your timing on this matter to be trulyunfortunate." He paused long enough to give Margo a fiery stare, then turned to Menzies. "Hugo, I propose we table this question until after the show has closed. Then we can debate it at leisure. Of course, giving back the masks is unthinkable, but for heaven's sake let's make that decision after the show."

Margo waited. She would respond at the end-if Menzies gave her the opportunity.

Menzies smiled placidly at the indignant curator. "For the record, George, I would note that the timing has nothing to do with Dr. Green-it's in response to the receipt of a letter from the Tano Indians, which was triggered by your own pre-publicity campaign for the show."

"Yes, but does she have to publish this editorial?" Ashton slashed the air with a piece of paper. "She could at least wait until after the show closes.This is going to create a public relations nightmare!"

"We are not in the business of public relations," said Menzies mildly.

Margo cast him a grateful look. She had expected his support, but this was more than just support.

"Public relations are a reality! We can't just sit in our ivory tower and ignore public opinion, can we? I'm trying to open a show under the most trying conditions, and I do not appreciate being undercut like this-not by Dr. Green and certainly not by you, Hugo!"

He sat down, breathing hard.

Menzies said quietly, "Thank you for your opinion, George."

Ashton nodded curtly.

Patricia Wong, a research associate in the Textile Department, stood up. "The issue, it seems to me, is simple. The museum acquired the masks unethically, perhaps even illegally. Margo demonstrates that clearly in her editorial. The Tano asked for them back. If we as a museum have any pretense to ethics, we should return them right away. I respectfully disagree with Dr. Ashton. To keep the masks for the show and display them to all the world and then return them admitting we were wrong to have them-that would look hypocritical, or at best opportunistic."

"Hear, hear," said another curator.

"Thank you, Dr. Wong," said Menzies as the woman sat back down.

And now Nora Kelly was standing up, sweeping cinnamon hair from her face, slender and tall. She looked around, poised and confident. Margo felt a swelling of irritation.

"There are two questions before us," she began, her voice low and reasonable. "The first is whether Margo has the right to publish the editorial. I think we all agree that the editorial independence of Museologymust be preserved, even if some of us don't like the opinions expressed."

There was a general murmuring of agreement, except from Ashton, who crossed his arms and snorted audibly.

"And I am one of those who does not agree with this editorial."

Here it comes,thought Margo.

"It's more than a question of mere ownership. I mean, who owns Michelangelo's David?If the Italians wanted to break it up to make marble bathroom tiles, would that be acceptable? If the Egyptians decided to level the Great Pyramid for a parking lot, would that be okay? Do they own it? If the Greeks wanted to sell the Parthenon to a Las Vegas casino, would that be their right?"

She paused.

"The answer to these questions must be no. These things are owned by all of humanity. They are the highest expressions of the human spirit, and their value transcends all questions of ownership. So it is with the Great Kiva masks. Yes, the museum acquired them unethically. But they are so extraordinary, so important, and so magnificent that they cannot be returned to the Tano to disappear forever into a dark kiva. So I say: publish the editorial. Let's have the debate. But for God's sake, don't give back the masks." She paused again, thanked them for listening, and sat down.

Margo felt a redness creeping into her face. As much as she hated to admit it, Nora Kelly was formidable.

Menzies looked around, but it appeared that no one had any more comments. He turned to Margo. "Anything further to add? Now is the time to speak."

She sprang to her feet. "Yes. I'd like to rebut Dr. Kelly."

"Please."

"Dr. Kelly has conveniently overlooked one critical point: the masks are religious objects, unlike everything else she cited."

Nora was immediately on her feet. "The Parthenon isn't a temple? The Davidisn't a figure from the Bible? The Great Pyramid isn't a sacred tomb?"

"For heaven's sakes, they're not religious objects now. No one goes to the Parthenon to sacrifice rams anymore!"

"Exactly my point. Those objects have transcendedtheir original limited religious function. Now they belong to all of us, regardless of religion. Just so with the Great Kiva masks. The Tano may have created them for religious purposes, but now they belong to the world."

Margo felt the flush spread through her body. "Dr. Kelly, may I suggest that your logic is better suited to an undergraduate classroom in philosophy than a meeting of anthropologists in the greatest natural history museum in the world?"

A silence followed. Menzies slowly turned toward Margo, fixed her with his blue eyes, over which his eyebrows were drawn down in displeasure. "Dr. Green, passion in science is a marvelous quality. But we must insist upon civilityas well."

Margo swallowed. "Yes, Dr. Menzies." Her face flamed. How had she allowed herself to lose her temper? She didn't even dare glance over at Nora Kelly. Here she was, not only creating controversy but making enemies in her own department.

There was a general nervous clearing of throats, a few whispers.

"Very well," Menzies said, his voice back to its soothing note. "I've gotten the drift of opinion from both sides, and it appears we are more or less evenly divided. At least among those with opinions. I have made my decision."

He paused, casting his eye around the group.

"I will be bringing two recommendations to the director. The first is that the editorial be published. Margo is to be commended for initiating the debate with a well-reasoned editorial, which upholds the best traditions of Museologyjournal."

He took a breath. "My second recommendation is that the masks be returned to the Tano. Forthwith."

There was a stunned silence. Margo could hardly believe it– Menzies had come down one hundred percent on her side. She had won. She sneaked a glance at Nora, saw the woman's face now reddening as well.

"The ethics of our profession are clear," Menzies went on. "Those ethics state, and I quote: 'The first responsibility of an anthropologist is to the people under study.' It pains me more than I can say to see the museum lose those masks. But I have to agree with Drs. Green and Wong: if we are to set an ethical example, we must return them. Yes, the timing is certainly awkward, and it creates an enormous problem with the exhibition. I'm sorry, George. It can't be helped."

"But the loss to anthropology, to the world-" Nora began.

"I have said what I have to say," said Menzies, just a shade of tartness entering his voice. "This meeting is adjourned."

EIGHTEEN

Bill Smithback rounded a corner, stopped, then breathed a sigh of relief. There, at the far end of the corridor, lay the door to Fenton Davies's office, open and unvexed by the lingering shade of Bryce Harriman. In fact, come to think of it, Smithback hadn't seen much of Harriman at all today. As he walked toward Davies's office, a fresh spring in his step, he rubbed his hands together, feeling a delicious shudder of schadenfreude at Harriman's bad luck. To think Harriman had been so eager to get his mitts on the Dangler story. Well, he was welcome to it. In retrospect, it wasn't really much of a Timesstory, anyway: far too undignified, tending toward the burlesque. Still, Harriman-what with his recent stint at the Post-would probably find it right up his alley.

Smithback chuckled as he walked.

He, on the other hand, had scored a major coup by landing the Duchamp murder. It was everything a big story should be: unusual, compelling, galvanic. It was the number one topic of conversation around watercoolers all over the city: the gentle, kindly artist who– for no apparent reason-had been bound, a hangman's noose fitted around his neck, then forced out of a twenty-fourth-story window and sent crashing through the roof of one of Manhattan's fancy French restaurants. All this in broad daylight in front of hundreds of witnesses.

Smithback slowed a little as he approached Davies's office. True, those many witnesses were proving hard as hell to track down. And so far, he'd had to content himself with the police department's official line and what discreet conjectures he'd drummed out of those usually in the know, who were proving disconcertingly out of the know in this case. But the story would break open. Nora was right when she said he always came through in the end. How well she understood him. It was just a matter of working every angle, maintaining traction.

No doubt that was why Davies had summoned him: the editor was eager for more. No sweat, he'd tell Davies he was chasing down some choice leads from his confidential sources. He'd get his ass back up to Broadway and 65th. Today there wouldn't be any cops around to cramp his style. Then he'd go haunt the precinct house, talk to an old pal there, see what crumbs he could pick up. No, he corrected himself: crumbswasn't the right word. Other reporters picked up crumbs, while Smithback found the cake-and ate it, too.

Chuckling at his own metaphorical wit, he paused at the secretarial station outside Davies's office. Vacant. Late lunch,Smithback thought. Striding forward, feeling and looking every inch the ace reporter, he breezed up, raising his hand to knock on the open door.

Davies was sitting, Buddha-like, behind his cluttered desk. He was short and perfectly bald, with fastidious little hands that always seemed to be doing something: smoothing his tie or playing with a pencil or tracing the lines of his eyebrows. He favored blue shirts with white collars and tightly knotted paisley ties. With his high, soft voice and effeminate mannerisms, Davies might look to the uninitiated like a pushover. But Smithback had learned that this was not the case. You didn't get to be an editor at the Timeswithout at least a few pints of barracuda blood coursing through your veins. But his delivery was so mild it sometimes took a moment to realize you'd just been disemboweled. He played his cards close to his vest, listened more than he spoke, and one rarely knew what he was really thinking. He didn't fraternize with his reporters, didn't hang out with theother editors, and seemed to prefer his own company. There was only one extra chair in his office, and it was never occupied.

Except that today it was occupied by Bryce Harriman.

Smithback froze in the doorway, hand still raised in midknock.

"Ah, Bill." Davies nodded. "Good timing. Please come in."

Smithback took a step forward, then another. He struggled to keep his eyes from meeting Harriman's.

"Planning to file a follow-up on the Duchamp murder?" Davies asked.

Smithback nodded. He felt dazed, as if somebody had just sucker-punched him in the gut. He hoped to hell it didn't show.

Davies ran his fingertips along the edge of his desk. "What's the angle going to be?"

Smithback was ready with his answer. This was Davies's favorite question, and it was a rhetorical one: his way of letting reporters know he didn't want any grass growing under their feet.

"I was planning a local-interest angle," he said. "You know, the effect of the killing on the building, the neighborhood, friends and family of the victim. And, of course, I was planning a follow-up story on the progress of the investigation. The detective in charge, Hayward, is the youngest homicide captain in the force and a woman to boot."

Davies nodded slowly, allowing a meditative hmmmmto escape his lips. As usual, the response communicated nothing about what he was really thinking.

Smithback, his nervousness heightened, elaborated. "You know the drill: unnatural death comes to the Upper West Side, matrons afraid to walk their poodles at night. I'll weave in a sketch of the victim, his work, that sort of thing. Might even do a sidebar on Captain Hayward."

Davies nodded again, picked up a pen, rolled it slowly between his palms.

"You know, something that could run on the first page of the Metro Section," Smithback said gamely, still pitching.

Davies put down the pen. "Bill, this is bigger than a Metro story, the biggest homicide in Manhattan since the Cutforth murder, which Bryce here covered when he was at the Post."

Bryce here.Smithback kept his face pleasant.

"It's a story with a lot of angles. Not only do we have the sensational manner of death, but we also have-as you point out-the posh location. Then we have the man himself. An artist. And the female homicide detective." He paused. "Aren't you biting off a little more than you can chew-for a single story, that is?"

"I could make it two, even three. No problem."

"No doubt you could, but then the stretched-out time frame becomes problematic."

Smithback licked his lips. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was standing and Harriman was sitting.

Davies went on. "I personally had no idea that Duchamp was, in his own quiet way, a painter of some renown. He wasn't trendy or popular with the SoHo crowd. More of a Sutton Place style of artist, a Fairfield Porter. Bryce and I were just talking about it last night."

"Bryce," Smithback repeated. The name tasted like bile in his mouth. "Last night?"

Davies waved his hand with studied nonchalance. "Over drinks at the Metropolitan Club."

Smithback felt himself stiffen. So that was how the smarmy prick had managed it. He'd taken Davies for drinks at his father's fancy club. And Davies, it seemed, like any number of editors Smithback had known, was a sucker for that kind of thing. Editors were the worst social climbers, always hanging around the fringes of the rich and famous, hoping to catch a few scraps that dropped from the table. Smithback could just imagine Davies being ushered into the cloistered fastness of the Metropolitan Club; shown to a luxurious chair in some gilded salon; served drinks by deferential men in uniform; all the while exchanging hushed greetings with various Rockefellers, De Menils, Vanderbilts-that was just the thing to turn Davies's Maplewood, New Jersey, head all the way around.

Now, at last, he glanced again in Harriman's direction. The scumbag was sitting there, one leg tucked primly over the other, looking as nonchalant as if he did this every day. He didn't bother returning Smithback's look. He didn't need to.

"We haven't just lost a citizen here," Davies went on. "We've lost an artist. And New York is a poorer place for his loss. See, Bill, you just never know who lives in that apartment next door. It could be a hot dog vendor or a sanitation worker. Or it could be a fine artist whose paintings hang in half the apartments in River House."

Smithback nodded again, frozen smile on his lips.

Davies smoothed his tie. "It's a great angle. My friend Bryce here will handle it."

Oh, God.For a bleak and terrible moment, Smithback thought he was about to be reassigned to the Dangler.

"He'll cover the society aspect of the story. He knows several of Duchamp's important former clients, he's got the family connections. They'll talk to him, whereas…"

His voice trailed off, but Smithback got the message: whereas they won't talk to you.

"In short, Bryce can give us the silk-stocking view that Timesreaders appreciate. I'm glad to see you have a handle on the cop and street angle. You keep that up."

The cop and street angle.Smithback felt his jaw muscles flex involuntarily.

"It goes without saying that you'll both share information and leads. I'd suggest regular meetings, keeping in touch. This story is certainly big enough for the both of you, and it doesn't look like it's going away any time soon."

Silence descended briefly over the office.

"Was there anything else, Bill?" Davies asked mildly.

"What? Oh, no. Nothing."

"Then don't let me keep you."

"No, of course not," Smithback said. He was practically stammering now with shock, mortification, and fury. "Thanks." And as he turned to leave the office, Harriman finally glanced in his direction. There was a smug half-smile on his shit-eating face. It was a smile that seemed to say: See you around, partner.

And watch your back.