Westlake, Donald E - Novel 43 by High Adventure (v1.1) Page B

fingernails, he
said, “No, I’m sorry, Miss Greene, this is the one parcel of land in all Belize
where not even the Mayans ever lived.”
                Valerie, despite herself, was a bit
daunted by what he had said, but she did have the computer results to buoy her,
and the faith of the two New York foundations, and the results of her own
study, so she said, “I’m sorry, um—” not knowing whether to call him Vernon or Mister Vernon , therefore calling him um instead of either “—but I
really want to go see the place for myself.”
                 “Of
course, that’s your privilege,” Vernon said, smiling at her to show it was no
skin off his nose. “In fact,” he
said, “if you were to go there now, just today, the area would look very nice
indeed. The rainy season ended a few weeks ago and the water is still draining
away, so the vegetation hasn’t all died yet but the ground is dry.”
                 “I would like to see the place,” Valerie
said firmly, aware of the office door opening behind her, “and as soon as
possible.”
                 “Ah,
here’s the Deputy Director now,” Vernon said, smiling, gesturing for Valerie to
turn about and look.
                 The
man she saw was an inch or two shorter than herself, barrelbodied, older than
50, with tightly curled black hair, skin the color of milk chocolate, eyes and
teeth that flashed with pleasure at the sight of her, and a strong aura of
self-confidence, mastery. Without being offensive about it, he would dominate
any room he entered.
                 As
he dominated this one, approaching Valerie, thick-fingered hand out to be
shaken as Vernon performed the introductions: “Deputy Director St. Michael,
this is Miss Valerie Greene, an archaeologist from the United States.”
                 “Delighted,”
St. Michael said, closing her hand briefly in both of his. (His hands were
warm, not unpleasantly so.)
                 “You
recall, Deputy Director,” Vernon was saying, “the correspondence concerning
undiscovered Mayan ruins, possibly to be traced by computers at the University
of California at Los Angeles.”
                 “Yes,
of course.” St. Michael beamed at her, as though he’d just this minute invented
her. “Miss Greene, of course. And how is Los Angeles?”
                 “Actually,”
Valerie said, “I came here from New York.”
                 “Ah,
New York! I love that town.” St. Michael’s beam turned reminiscent, then
waggish. “Cold up there right now,” he said, “but give me a New York restaurant
any day. Even in January. Has Vernon been helpful?” (Which didn’t help much in
the first-name-last-name question.)
                “Very,” she said. “Though he has
been trying to discourage me.”
                 “Oh,
I hope not.” St. Michael waggled a finger at Vernon, saying, “Never discourage
our friends from the north.”
                 “I
don’t think Miss Greene can be discouraged,” Vernon said. “She showed me the area where she expects to find
the temple, and I had to tell her the problems.”
                 “Problems?”
Even this St. Michael reacted to with an undercurrent of waggish humor. Valerie
was surprised to realize the man was— despite all the obvious
differences—reminding her of Orson Welles in “The Third Man.” She halTexpected
him to call her Holly.
                 “Well,
here, sir,” Vernon was saying, pointing to the topographical map again, “you know this piece of land, you’ll see the
difficulty right away. ”
                 “I
do?” St. Michael strode over to the map, he and Vernon consulted for a few
seconds, and then St. Michael thumped his finger against the map, saying,
“Here, you mean?”
                 “Right
there, yes, sir.”