She held up quite well until she reached her apartment. Then she began to get the shakes, a mixture of anger and frustration and I-should’ve-saids. She had poured herself a sherry, and then another.
Hampton was so mired in academic politics that it never occurred to him that she could have done anything so extravagant, so flamingly irrational as to steal an artifact. That was the only factor delaying the moment of retribution.
Maybe Kontos actually believed the guard had made off with the cube. If so, then clearly Kontos wanted her notes so he could fake his way through a preliminary report, establishing priority, buying time until he could trace the artifact.
There was no way this fiction could hold together for long. She lit a cigarette and thumbed on the radio. A nasal voice whined that her honey baby had gone away, she didn’t know what to say, she could only sit down and cry, maybe now she’d have to die die die. Claire grimaced and reflected that Cole Porter was not only dead, he was forgotten.
Her sherry glass was empty, so she refilled it. On the way back from the liquor cabinet she saw she was nearly finished with her cigarette and stubbed it out. As she reached for another she caught herself, recognizing the pattern. Alone, fretting, reviewing the day, getting into an addictive cycle. She did not want to face an evening of neurotic jitters. She reached for the telephone.
“Do you know where Locke Ober’s is?” she asked when John answered the third ring at the laboratory. She had known he would be there, though it was after six o’clock.
“Uh, I think so.”
“Meet me there at seven. I have to repair myself.”
An hour later they sat at a small round table on the first floor, drinking whisky and bitters with a twist. The maitre d’ had been persuaded to seat them without reservations, not by John’s steady insistence, but rather—to her surprise—by recognizing Claire herself. “Just goes to show that having ancestors who came here steadily for a century or two does have some compensations,” she observed.
“Um. Nice place,” John admitted.
“I love the creamed spinach here.” She glanced around at the room, which was rapidly filling. “Tourists and untermenschen are seated upstairs, which is a bit more modern. They didn’t let women in at all until the seventies, I believe. The waiters are courtly, though usually also deaf.”
As if on cue, a feeble man shuffled over and took their dinner order. Claire ran a fond eye down the script of the menu. “Lobsters off the Portland boat, that’s how I remember it here with my grandfather.”
“An old salt?”
“No, a banker. Now he and my grandmother are the oldest couple in Vermont; there was a newspaper article about them last year. My grandfather told the reporter his favorite joke, which is, ‘Why do people keep buying shampoo when they can have real poo?’ He’s become a professional character.”
“I’ve heard worse jokes.”
They ordered seafood and a California wine Claire had never heard of. She said, “I love it here, it’s so, well, reassuring. The heavy draperies, even the slightly musty smell. My family comes here when everyone’s in town. They’re all so old, I swear they remember it when hansom cabs brought you to the door.”
“Thus, archeology?”
“What? Oh, I see. Preoccupation with the past?” She stared moodily into the candle flame. “Perhaps so…”
“Now that we’re settled in, tell me the bad news.”
She did, concluding, “So Kontos has discovered that it’s missing, but he’s not sure how it was done.”
John said speculatively, “Or by whom. But he’s suspicious of li’l ol’ us.”
“That’s the way I read it, too.”
“What can he do? Until, of course, Hampton finds out that we have it.”
“I thought we’d have more time than this.”
“I didn’t,” he said flatly. “Kontos doesn’t hesitate.”
“Then we’ve got to push ahead.”
“Abe is working hard, and I’m putting in all my time over there. Not that I’m much use. I’m basically a go-fer.”
“Even though I’m on a semester sabbatical, I’ve got obligations at BU. I stupidly agreed to be a women’s advisor even though I’m on leave.”
“What kind of advice?”
“Academic, personal, whatever. It’s fairly discouraging. Reminds me of another of my grandfather’s jokes. What do you call a student advisor at a women’s college?”
He shrugged. She said sardonically, “An obstetrician. There’s more truth to it than I’d ever have admitted. A lot of them are orbiting around those issues.”
“What do you tell them?”
“To be captains of their own fates.”
“Profound. Who’s going to be the crew?”
She smiled despite herself. “Okay, wrong metaphor. Anyway, I’ve got that advising to do, and it gets in the way of my archeology. I’ve got to write my part of our paper. Hampton’s been sending me notes about it for a week.”
“The artifact’s part of that paper, right?” He broke open a short loaf of French bread, which steamed in the air, and began munching thoughtfully.
“No, I’m leaving it out. I mean, what can I say without giving away too much?”
“If you ignore it, you’ll alert Hampton to something fishy.”
“I will?”
“I think so. He’s shrewd, beneath that Ivy League pomposity.”
“I can never see how to play these things.”
“I think Hampton is suspicious already.”
“Can he do something dreadful? Can he accuse me of a crime, have me arrested?” The wine had arrived without her noticing; she drank half her glass.
“For what?”
“Taking a national treasure out of Greece.”
“The Greeks have to run you down for that. And they’re busy with other things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the Globe this morning. Greece broke off diplomatic relations with Turkey.”
“Oh no. Turkey outnumbers them so much—that’s stupid!”
He nodded. “Very. But it also means Kontos can throw a fit back there, chew the rug, anything—it won’t matter. His government has bigger fish to fry.”
“If Kontos asks the authorities here, they could arrest me, couldn’t they?”
“Now, there won’t be any such ruckus,” he said softly, reaching across to take her hand. She discovered that she had, without noticing it, torn her bread into fragments beside her plate. The sudden rush of blood to her face was even more unsettling.
“I…you’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“I…we’re both liable in this. If Kontos…it…doesn’t bother you?”
He shrugged elaborately. “Naw.”
“Mr. Macho.”
“Damn right.” He grinned.
She noticed his folded hands, and remembered how they had rested on a tablecloth in Nauplia—broad fingers, pronounced knuckles, thick nails with a smooth glaze to them. Sturdy hands that reminded her of working men’s, but with few calluses. Hands that moved casually, calmly to pick up a wine glass, or more bread—no fidgeting, no tremor of inner conflict. In the watery glow of the candlelight they seemed large, moving with natural purpose like independent creatures.
She realized she had been staring at his hands. She felt a warmth spreading through her, and thought it came from the wine and her relaxation after the day. The murmur of arriving parties, the ringing as some of the heavy silver pieces came into play for dining, the clink of dishes served—she let the timeless luxury seep into her. She excused herself before the main course and went to the ladies’. Returning, John’s eyes followed the sway of her hips, and she saw that he could tell that beneath the clinging blue fabric she wore a garter belt and hose. Men always thought them erotic, she remembered, far better than utilitarian panty hose. From his expression she knew that he regarded her wearing them as a provocation. She felt an automatic stern tightness come into her own face a
nd something made her banish it, letting a half smile cant the corners of her mouth instead. Her choice of old-fashioned style in hosiery had far more to do with a tendency to yeast infections, but let him think what he liked.
They strolled up Winter Place, down Tremont and eventually to the narrow walk along the Charles. A large-breasted girl jogged past them, wearing a T-shirt with HANDS OFF printed across it. Ordinarily Claire would have curled a lip at such display, but tonight she suppressed a chuckle. Brandy warmed her against the chill wind scooting fitfully off the river and she took John’s arm without thinking.
“You’re so much surer about this whole thing than I am,” she said softly.
“No use fretting.”
“But why are you sticking with it? You’d never been very interested in archeology before, you told me that at the beginning.”
He arched his eyebrows, peering into the distant dancing lights of MIT. “I got interested. But…actually, it was you.”
“Really? Me?” She was surprised at the eager lilt in her voice. For an instant she reprimanded herself for such obvious coquetry. But then she mentally shrugged, remembering that she was risking far more with this whole artifact business; surely she could afford a certain impish gamble here. She thought of his hands, now hovering at his sides as he turned. She breathed out a pearly cloud and it was as though something was bursting buoyantly free, something she had until now quite effectively blocked.
He was a looming bulk against the city lights, seeming larger than she remembered. “You’re hypnotic, ma’am.”
“So I made archeology come alive for you?” she mocked. “Stimulated your frontal lobes?”
“More like a li’l further down.”
Without her noticing it, he had taken her in his arms. Something instinctive in her started to pull away, but his hands were firm on her arms, the calm, ample hands, and she peered up at him, trying to read his expression in the fitful dark.
“You’re not totally cerebral, then.” She kept her voice light. Passing headlights on Storrow Drive threw ivory light across his face and she saw that his mouth held an amused smile, almost sardonic, but his eyes were serious, darkly glittering.
“No. But I know how to fish.”
“Fish?”
“Mostly it’s just waiting.”
“Until you get a nibble?”
“No. Wait for the strong bite.”
“And now you’re reeling me in?”
He only smiled.
“You arrogant so-and-so!”
“Your words, ma’am.”
He kissed her slowly, so that she had plenty of time to think, to accept it, to know what it meant. It lasted a long time and when it was over she felt his hands on her arms, through her coat, though he was not pressing, in fact was scarcely touching her. Looking at his face, she felt that the hands fit him, were an essential part of what he was.
She was afraid to say anything, and wished the moment would last. The wind bit into her with a cold flurry, tossing her carefully prepared hair, and abruptly her teeth chattered.
“We’ll have to get you inside.”
“I…yes.”
“Where do you live?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
CHAPTER
Five
Abe Sprangle said defiantly, “It’s damn well right, I tell you.”
John shook his head. “I’m not saying you’re making a mistake, understand. But that picture just doesn’t make sense.” He poked a finger at the x-ray image, printed out in hard copy. Abe had hit upon another way to diagnose the cube. He treated the emitted x-rays as if they were ordinary light, and exposed an array of sensors. A few hours’ exposure gave a ghostly image, formed from a sprinkling of dots.
“These make a square, see?” Abe traced the diffuse outline.
“You’re sure you aren’t getting these from another source? I mean, a square arrangement of radioactive elements…” His voice trailed off doubtfully.
“Not just a square. See how there are dots shading in the inside of the square? None outside it at all.”
John nodded. “So it’s…what?”
“A hollow cube, I’d say. The sides have radioactives in them. We’re looking right along the axis of the hollow cube, so we see all the radioactivity from the sides.”
“Except…what’s this?”
Abe frowned. “That, I do not know.” There was a dark spot at the exact center of the square, far more intense than the fog of points around it.
“Something at the center of your hollow cube?”
X-RAY PROFILE
COUNT RATE: STANDARD
3CB48579
SPRANGLE
“I suppose so. The image, it washes out from over-exposure.”
“A hollow cube inside this rock cube?” John’s voice carried disbelief.
“That’s what the x-rays say.”
“And the size of this, uh, cube?”
“About two centimeters on a side.”
“What? that’s—”
“I know, very small. But that is—”
“What the x-rays say, I know.”
“There are explanations,” Abe said defensively. “Don’t you think? A piece of jewelry buried inside? A handicraft?”
“Well…” John stroked his chin.
“We can ask Claire.”
“I know what she’ll say.”
“What?”
“Ridiculous! There must be an error.” Claire fingered the photocopy. “The Mycenaeans never made any such objects. The cubic form was very rare among them.”
“I have checked it a dozen times,” Abe said precisely.
“This can’t be.”
“If you imply that my work—”
“Look,” John said smoothly, stepping between them, “nobody’s implyin’ anything. Still, we’ve got to understand this thing without going right in, tearing it apart. Correct?”
Claire said impatiently, “Of course. I’m simply saying there must be a systematic error which gives us, well, wrong results…somehow.” She finished lamely, biting her lower lip.
John saw that she was at the edge of her competence, unable to suggest where Abe had gone wrong but unwilling to accept his findings. Archeologists treated physical diagnostics as newfangled, perhaps deceptive additions to their science. Their instinct was to integrate a newly exposed artifact with the general picture of a society. A single object was often unrepresentative; centuries of owners could have used it strangely, deliberately damaged it, or carried it hundreds of miles from its source. But some facets of it surely had to mesh with the overall pattern of its society; a simple sharpener looked different if it came from a culture of hunter-gatherers, maize agriculturists, or a proto-urban. Such was the faith.
“That dot at the center,” John said to deflect attention. “Your first image was washed out, you said.”
“Yes, and so I took a shorter exposure. Here.”
There was one point at the center of the sheet.
“That’s it?”
“Yes. I still have not resolved the central source.”
Claire frowned. “What does this correspond to, in size?”
“A third of a millimeter, I estimate,” Abe said stiffly, as if bracing for her skepticism.
This time she simply shook her head. Abe said, “In imaging jargon, we are down to one pixel. We cannot see better. I cannot guarantee that the actual source is not still smaller than this. I simply cannot resolve it.”
“Impossible,” Claire said.
“But true,” Abe countered.
The matter rested there for the better part of a week. Abe continued measurements, carefully taking further x-ray images, trying different techniques of isotope analysis, calling in associates from Harvard and Cornell and Brown to puzzle over the findings. The results did not change. Under the steady pressure of confirming data, Claire stopped wrinkling her brow in disbelief at each new finding.
Abe proposed taking a deeper boring
of the stone. Claire disliked the idea, but was becoming uneasy at the tenor of the other results. She agreed to a three centimeter boring near the edge of a side face. Abe called in a specialist in the technique from Brown named LeBailly. There was risk in every new person who saw the artifact, for inevitably they would talk. But Claire had invented a plausible story to gain secrecy from these new investigators. It was an artful retelling of what had actually happened, with heavy emphasis on Kontos’s mixing of personal, political and scientific motives. The story implied without expressly saying that they had gotten the artifact out of Greece by “pulling strings,” and that to not embarrass the principals involved, everyone was keeping quiet, in view of the steadily worsening political situation in Greece. This fable kept silence for the short term, but both John and Claire knew it was bound to bring trouble later, when the guest investigators heard nothing more and began to ask questions.
All this occurred against a backdrop of other ongoing research interests. Claire had her report to finish and a myriad of the minor chores which fall steadily upon faculty. John was meshed in a long program of calculations, many of them occasionally tricky but mostly straightforward, requiring only time and patience and a certain dogged resistance to boredom. Abe, with the greater freedom of movement accorded a full professor, could occupy himself several hours a day with sharpening the diagnostics. Details of troubleshooting the electronics and processing the data he relegated to technicians, moonlighting their time from grants devoted to more sober, practical pursuits.
Not that it was all work. John squired Claire several evenings to top restaurants, demonstrating an ability to pay wildly unreasonable bills without visible effect. This was not easy. His salary was not large and he still lusted to replace his car, now a fondly remembered luxury. Jetting through Boston in Claire’s Alfa Romeo only rubbed in the loss. He did not mind her driving for ego reasons, but her unconscious recklessness was unsettling in a city of downright claustrophobic streets.
Then, by unspoken agreement, they progressed to simpler, cheaper amusements—seafood restaurants of Spartan, steamy atmosphere and abrupt waiters; the symphony; walks along the brick sidewalks near Garden and Brattle streets in Cambridge, where gray eighteenth-century Gothic houses brooded like chaperones. He discovered that he disliked the opera. She showed a parallel distaste for country and western music, at least when heard in the single club devoted to it in the greater Boston area; in defense, he maintained that this watered-down version was not at all like the mellow, authentic sounds heard in Houston. But wherever they went, the discussion turned to the cube sitting in the bay of Building 42.
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