the roof sign unreadable from that angle. Blaine and Calder got out, and the driver unloaded their bags and set them on the sidewalk.
“ Your rooms are reserved,” Teague said. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” He waved at the driver and the cab pulled away.
“ Nice guy your boss sent us,” Calder said. “I saw what could be the bottom of a knife sheath hanging from his belt.”
“ The expedition should be short,” Blaine said. “We swim in, take a few measurements, grab some samples, and go home.”
“ You hope,” Calder said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
Blaine mustered a thin smile. “Leastways we agree on something.”
#
Next day, the high-ceilinged restaurant reminded Calder of a Russian teahouse—bare and functional. Which wasn’t surprising, he thought, since until a few years ago the country had spent a century under the heavy thumbs of first the czars and then the Soviets.
Diners sat at tables scattered under chandeliers that had been electrified. About three quarters were men, mostly bearded, some dressed in western clothes and others wearing traditional long jackets and embroidered black caps. Calder saw daggers in curved sheaths. Most of the female diners were obvious Westerners. The few Tajik women wore trousers under colorful long dresses, and printed head scarves.
Teague led him and Blaine to a row of coat trees where they hung their parkas beside quilted jackets. Their hosts, a man in his fifties and a woman of indeterminate age, sat by a tall window overlooking the boulevard.
“ Dr. Ian Calder and Dr. Caitlin Blaine,” Teague said. “Meet Evgenii Delyanov, Tajik minister of nature conservation, and Gulnaz Fitrat, director of antiquities.”
Delyanov was a stocky graying man with a vigorous air. Shaking hands, Calder felt the soft palm of a bureaucrat. Fitrat, a short woman with a closed Turkic face, bowed slightly to Blaine and placed her right hand over her heart. Blaine returned the greeting awkwardly. Delyanov waved her and Calder into the two vacant seats, while Teague muttered to the occupants of an adjacent table as he appropriated a chair.
Delyanov waved at the appetizers that had been set out—green tea, unleavened bread that Calder’s phrase book had called non, and slices of white melon.
“ So. You are Mr. Salomon’s two experts.” The nature minister spoke with a heavy Russian accent. Calder wondered if Tajik government business was conducted in Russian.
“ Which of you is the expert in cave art?” Fitrat said, in a raspy smoker’s voice.
“ I am,” Blaine lied. “What do we know about the drawings?”
“ Nothing,” Fitrat said. “Beyond the fact that the American diver saw black lines and areas of color below the frost.”
Her accent sounded to Calder like that of a professor he knew from Iran. He bit into a slice of melon. Although slightly bitter, it was juicy and delectable. He savored it, using the moment to glance from Fitrat to Delyanov. He thought he sensed mutual antagonism.
Blaine said, “How extensive are the drawings?”
Teague shot her a warning glance. Calder remembered that, in her guise as the expert in cave art, she was to say as little as possible. For the time being, the less the Tajik functionaries knew, the better.
“ The diver said that as far as he could tell, some kind of art covered both walls of the cave,” Fitrat said, her tone grudging.
“ I see.” Blaine sipped her tea and nibbled at a bit of non.
Calder sensed that, having established what the government knew, she was waiting for him to jump in.
“ Mr. Salomon expects us to make a preliminary survey,” he said to Delyanov, more to seem committed than for any specific reason.
“ That is all you are authorized to do,” the minister said. “If you find anything notable, you will relay it to my colleague, here, orally. You are to speak to no one else.”
Calder glanced at Fitrat. As director of antiquities, she might suspect the cave art
“ Your rooms are reserved,” Teague said. “I’ll pick you up at noon.” He waved at the driver and the cab pulled away.
“ Nice guy your boss sent us,” Calder said. “I saw what could be the bottom of a knife sheath hanging from his belt.”
“ The expedition should be short,” Blaine said. “We swim in, take a few measurements, grab some samples, and go home.”
“ You hope,” Calder said. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
Blaine mustered a thin smile. “Leastways we agree on something.”
#
Next day, the high-ceilinged restaurant reminded Calder of a Russian teahouse—bare and functional. Which wasn’t surprising, he thought, since until a few years ago the country had spent a century under the heavy thumbs of first the czars and then the Soviets.
Diners sat at tables scattered under chandeliers that had been electrified. About three quarters were men, mostly bearded, some dressed in western clothes and others wearing traditional long jackets and embroidered black caps. Calder saw daggers in curved sheaths. Most of the female diners were obvious Westerners. The few Tajik women wore trousers under colorful long dresses, and printed head scarves.
Teague led him and Blaine to a row of coat trees where they hung their parkas beside quilted jackets. Their hosts, a man in his fifties and a woman of indeterminate age, sat by a tall window overlooking the boulevard.
“ Dr. Ian Calder and Dr. Caitlin Blaine,” Teague said. “Meet Evgenii Delyanov, Tajik minister of nature conservation, and Gulnaz Fitrat, director of antiquities.”
Delyanov was a stocky graying man with a vigorous air. Shaking hands, Calder felt the soft palm of a bureaucrat. Fitrat, a short woman with a closed Turkic face, bowed slightly to Blaine and placed her right hand over her heart. Blaine returned the greeting awkwardly. Delyanov waved her and Calder into the two vacant seats, while Teague muttered to the occupants of an adjacent table as he appropriated a chair.
Delyanov waved at the appetizers that had been set out—green tea, unleavened bread that Calder’s phrase book had called non, and slices of white melon.
“ So. You are Mr. Salomon’s two experts.” The nature minister spoke with a heavy Russian accent. Calder wondered if Tajik government business was conducted in Russian.
“ Which of you is the expert in cave art?” Fitrat said, in a raspy smoker’s voice.
“ I am,” Blaine lied. “What do we know about the drawings?”
“ Nothing,” Fitrat said. “Beyond the fact that the American diver saw black lines and areas of color below the frost.”
Her accent sounded to Calder like that of a professor he knew from Iran. He bit into a slice of melon. Although slightly bitter, it was juicy and delectable. He savored it, using the moment to glance from Fitrat to Delyanov. He thought he sensed mutual antagonism.
Blaine said, “How extensive are the drawings?”
Teague shot her a warning glance. Calder remembered that, in her guise as the expert in cave art, she was to say as little as possible. For the time being, the less the Tajik functionaries knew, the better.
“ The diver said that as far as he could tell, some kind of art covered both walls of the cave,” Fitrat said, her tone grudging.
“ I see.” Blaine sipped her tea and nibbled at a bit of non.
Calder sensed that, having established what the government knew, she was waiting for him to jump in.
“ Mr. Salomon expects us to make a preliminary survey,” he said to Delyanov, more to seem committed than for any specific reason.
“ That is all you are authorized to do,” the minister said. “If you find anything notable, you will relay it to my colleague, here, orally. You are to speak to no one else.”
Calder glanced at Fitrat. As director of antiquities, she might suspect the cave art
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