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
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
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