Page 31 of The Children of Eve

“The priceless.”

“I’m too much of a realist to accept that term,” said Madeline. “Everything has a price.”

“Even you?”

“Even me.”

Intentionally or not, Madeline had stepped into a negotiation. What surprised her was that she did not immediately retreat from it; Triton spotted it also. A decade was a long time to spend in one institution, the prospects for advancement were few, and Madeline was still young. She had, on occasion, struggled to disguise her impatience with bureaucracy, parsimony—enforced or elective—and the tenacity with which the old clung to their positions. Triton was known to pay well and trust his employees.

But more than that, Rainbird’s home county of Washington suffered from the highest poverty rate in the state of Maine, and a declining population. Its towns were dying. Worse, the four Wabanaki nations of Maine—Maliseet, Mi’kmaq, Penobscot, and Rainbird’s own Passamaquoddy people—suffered a disadvantage that tribes in the other Lower 48 states did not: they lacked genuine tribal self-government. Under the Maine Indian Claims Settlement Act of 1980, or MICSA, the state of Maine was empowered to block nearly all federal Native American self-determination policy unless Congress authorized a federal override, and that had occurred only once. Even the simple act of digging a well on Passamaquoddy land required permission from the state. Millions of dollars in federal funds had been denied the Wabanaki, causing tribal development in Maine to stagnate. If Triton could be persuaded to invest in Washington County, and select Machias or Calais as the site of a permanent museum home for his collection, it might be the harbinger of real, fundamental change, especially if Rainbird had access to businessmen, lawmakers, funding…

“I understand that you’ve been approached about a pair of mantas seized at LAX a couple of days ago,” he said.

“You’re well-informed.”

“They don’t sell mantas at Target. Interested parties comprise a select constituency.”

“We’ve been asked to consult with the Cotsen on their preservation,” said Madeline. “The smuggler claimed not to know the source of the mantas or how they might have been stored before he bought them. They’ll need to be checked for pests, damage, decay—”

“And then they’ll be returned, I presume?”

“You know they will. The Peruvians will have the main claim, and the Mexicans won’t object because they’ll be offered the Moche pieces sharing baggage space with the mantas. It’s a good deal all around, except for the smuggler and the ultimate buyer. Our guess is that the mantas were acquired to order. Someone will be out of pocket.”

“But justice will have been served,” said Triton.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Those mantas may never see daylight again. The Moche pottery will gather dust in a Mexican cellar. If sold, at least a buyer might have derived a degree of pleasure from them.”

“We take a very different view of these matters, you and I,” said Madeline.

“Yes, on occasion. At other times, we think alike.” Triton tapped his water glass, making it chime. “We should talk again. I have a further proposition for you, and it may be—no, it is—a matter of some urgency.”

“Involving?”

“Saving the invaluable,” Triton replied. “Preserving the unique. It would be a private contract, but I promise you’d have no regrets about accepting it.”

“You seem very confident of that.”

“I am. Without your help, something ancient and precious might vanish forever.”

Over his shoulder, Madeline saw the widow Douglas’s eyes flit over various faces and backs before alighting, somewhat unsteadily, onTriton. One of her children received a tap on the shoulder and a whispered instruction that sent him toward them.

“I think you’re about to be summoned back to the widow’s side,” said Madeline, but she no longer had Triton’s attention. She thought she’d heard the beep of an incoming SMS in the form of the old Nokia Morse code alert, but Triton’s Samsung Galaxy smartphone was on the table beside him, and its screen remained dark.

“Is that your—?” she began, but Triton was already walking away from her, heading for the door, his Samsung now in one hand, the other reaching for something in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll just be a moment.”

But he wasn’t only a moment. Minutes elapsed: five, then ten, and still without any sign of his return. Madeline was about to check that he was okay when Tanya Hook appeared by her side.

“What’s up?” Madeline asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Mark asked me to make his apologies and take care of Mrs. Douglas and her kids. He said he’d be in touch later.”

“Is he feeling ill?”

“A business problem. I know he respects you a lot. You’re friends, right?”

---