Читать книгу Ten Days - John Sheppard - Страница 9

Does he have to drone on so? thought Sam. It felt like he had been presenting all afternoon, even though it had only been about forty-five minutes. Did Richard Blankenship really enjoy the sound of his own voice that much? It was always Richard, never Rich, and when he introduced himself to you the first time, it was “Richard Arnold Blankenship the Fourth.” Behind his back, the team referred to him as King Richard the Fourth. He was thin, rather effeminate, with a thin reedy voice.

Richard was also intelligent and knew it; he delighted in shredding, verbally, anyone who disagreed with him. These daily departmental meetings were his form of mental combat. The purpose of the meetings was to determine what artifacts would be placed in the vault, in the hopes that something of their culture would survive past this war. The vault was located in the basement of the museum. These meetings, shortly after the war had begun, were fairly simple. There had been general agreement as to the major documents and artifacts. Now they were down to personal favorites, and very limited space.

Richard was arguing his case for two large vases. The vases were a matching set. Five feet tall, they were a deep emerald green, with delicate apple blossom flower patterns over an ornate gold-leaf geometric pattern. Sam had to admit they were beautiful, but she didn’t support the idea that they were reflective of the nation’s history.

Oops, Patrice Rant had just questioned “King Richard’s” provenance, and verbal war was now at hand. Sam knew this would set her up for a tongue-lashing when she presented. Richard had a “take no prisoners” policy when someone publicly embarrassed him. Although she was guiltless, Sam would pay a price for Patrice’s impudence.

Midway through Sam’s presentation, Richard interrupted with, “Oh, provenance, provenance, provenance, PROVENANCE, Ms. Carrolton-Logan! I just don’t see the provenance.” Then, in his most sarcastic, venomous tone, “Certainly you don’t expect us to accept some poor quality, grainy photograph as proof that this hideous clock graced the main mantel of the presidential residence, do you?” Before she could answer, he continued, “Letters from that nutcase wife of President Daniels don’t prove anything. She claimed to see the ghost of more than one president in her bedroom.” Then he continued, “She stole a pocket watch from the French ambassador and claimed it was a gift from the English. I wouldn’t trust her to tell me it snowed during the winter.”

It was true, Sam thought. The photo was of such poor quality, it could be almost any mantel clock on any mantel of any fireplace of the presidential residence. It was also true that Mrs. Daniels was the best source Sam had at the moment. But, another truth was that, for a couple of centuries, the curators of the National Museum of History and Art had accepted as fact the clock was a gift from a European country during the Daniels presidency, and had displayed it as such. The clock had fallen out of favor during a period of revisionist thought in the museum, and until now, there wasn’t enough proof to restore it to the presidential collection.

While Sam was considering her reply to Richard, he drooled, “Besides, it’s just plain awful. Could you have picked something more butt U-G-L-Y?” The remark caused a ripple of chuckles around the room.

Sam had to confess, it was ugly, at least by today’s standards. It was tall, almost too tall to really be a mantel clock. The overall height was just short of three feet. Most of the surface was gold leaf, with a large globe above the face of the clock, held up by four classical pillars entwined with olive branches. Male and female figurines were seated above the globe, she with her head resting on his shoulder. The clock itself was housed in a rectangular golden box. With the exception of the round face of the clock, the rectangular box was filled with an array of raised scroll and floral designs. It all rested on a thick black marble base, which was ornamented with several miniature golden wreathes.

The clock had been chosen by Sam, not because of its beauty, but because of its historical significance. The eighty-year or so period which included the era of the Daniels presidency had been as excessive as this clock. The era was known for its extremes and corruption. It was during that time that the country had really lost its way. As a democracy, they had tried to emulate the pomp and pageantry of what had been the monarchy of their Enemy to the north.

Garrett Matthews, Dr. Spencer’s assistant, sat quietly in the corner, as he always did. He had suddenly been appointed about seven or eight months ago and no one knew much about him or what exactly he did. Garrett wasn’t an unpleasant man in appearance. He seemed to have a rather athletic build, a full head of light brown hair, and deep-set brown eyes. Sam guessed him to be in his late thirties or very early forties. Like everyone else, she wasn’t totally sure of exactly what he did, but she knew he made her uncomfortable. To her, it was as if he was taking everything in, evaluating, making mental notes.