Chapter 5
Dinner with the officials was as educational as Alexander had suggested, but not in the way he’d anticipated.
It was less an opportunity for him and his fellow team leaders to get to know the agora, the city, and the policies the Turks had put in place and more a lesson in what to expect of their hosts.
Politeness. Rigid, never-ending politeness that was gratifying, if one took the attitude of Mr. Demirel, or aggravating, if one identified with Dr. Henry.
Demirel preened at the attention his countrymen offered him, apparent even in the snatches of conversation in their shared language.
Henry’s attempts to turn the conversation to the business at hand was rebuffed again and again with such delicacy that Alexander wasn’t sure Henry had realized what was happening until halfway through the meal.
When the topic was gently diverted away from timetables and directed toward the glorious past and promising future of Turkey yet again, Dr. Henry’s tenuous hold on his impatience was slipping.
It was then that Mrs. Henry had stepped in.
Mr. Tawfik, Mr. Assam’s young interpreter, missed the entirety of the third course after Mrs. Henry asked why Assam’s office, the Office of Turkish Antiquities, was a part of the Ministry of Education rather than belonging to some other ministry.
Tawfik had watched his untouched dish disappear from the table with resignation, while Assam seemed to forget he was meant to be eating in the onslaught of his enthusiasm.
Sir Randolph Waverly, the consul general, was a plain man of late middle age, with the complexion of a Brit who lingered too close to the equator for too long.
He was bald and comfortably rounded and took little interest in the conversations around him save for when Mr. Assam paid obeisance to him in his long-winded comments.
Saffron had finally relaxed into enjoying the meal and the byplay of the officials.
They’d exchanged more than one amused glance across the table as Assam waxed on about the weighty responsibilities he was honored to shoulder to protect and promote the history of his culture.
Mr. Hayrettin’s eyes grew more and more remote until, when the last of their roast mutton was cleared away, he started so violently in surprise that he nearly knocked the footman with his plate over.
Alexander had had to fake a cough to cover Saffron’s laugh.
When the meal was completed and the ladies rose in the tradition of Western dining to adjourn to a sitting room, Alexander was relieved his fiancée seemed to be at ease.
He hoped Saffron wouldn’t note Mrs. Demirel had cried off.
He was sure to hear her opinion on why she was forced to attend the dinner if the wife of their liaison hadn’t, though he thought any comment in that regard was likely to be half-hearted.
“Forcing” her to this dinner gave her access to more information and Saffron was nothing if not a philonoist.
Conversation around the table took a forceful turn when Dr. Henry said, “Now, Hayrettin, I want to know more about the security your people have put in place at the dig site. You said men would be stationed there, but how many? And who are they? What is their pay?”
Mr. Hayrettin slowly lowered his glass of tea to the table, untouched. Mr. Assam glanced between Henry and his colleague uneasily as Tawfik murmured in his ear.
“Dr. Henry,” Hayrettin said, drawing out each syllable, “you must understand the security of the agora and its treasure is most important to the republic.”
“Yes, but in practical terms—”
“I hope you will trust we have taken all considerations to ensure our site is carefully guarded.” Hayrettin seemed to think this was a sufficient answer.
Dr. Henry did not. His chest inflated, threatening the buttons of his shirt, and his face, already flushed, went red.
“Do you know what happens to sites that are ‘carefully guarded’ if the men are commoners off the street, given a few pennies a day? Artifacts are stolen and pawned for slightly more pennies,” he growled.
“You pay trained men good money and arm them. That’s what they do at any dig site worth its salt.
Better yet, we’ll do what my friend Ingholt does.
He’s planning a big dig in Palmyra. He says he’ll pay his locals for what treasures they find.
The bigger find, the more coin they get.
That way nothing wanders off in the middle of the night. ”
Clearing his throat, Hayrettin lifted a bold brow. “And who will make such payments, Dr. Henry?”
“You will!” Dr. Henry barked. “Your ministries”—he flicked a hand between Hayrettin and Assam—“want to keep the goods here, don’t you? Cough up, or you’ll find yourself with empty museums.”
On one end of the table, Tawfik and Assam put their heads together as if trying to decide how exactly to respond to such brash talk. Hayrettin, meanwhile, was stony-faced. He didn’t look likely to respond.
Dr. Henry turned to the team leaders, oblivious of their equally uncertain expressions. “Templeton, what did we pay the fellows who worked on that site off Rio Jari?”
“You mean the place you thought might have been an ancient village site?” Templeton asked.
Dr. Henry scowled at him. “I mean the place I was told by the Brazilian officials was the location of a settlement of stilt houses dating back nearly a millennium!”
Templeton winced. “I believe it was something like twenty milréis for the week.”
Henry harrumphed. “Good money! And not a thing was stolen out from under us.”
Templeton could have said Dr. Henry had found nothing worth stealing on that ill-conceived, weeklong dig at a supposedly “known site,” but he looked no more likely to point that out than Alexander was.
Dr. Henry swung back around to the officials.
“See, that’s what you’ve got to do. You all have trained soldiers in the city, don’t you?
Too many wars fought around here not to.
Find a few old hands, arm them, and station them about the site.
Our fellows won’t mind; most saw action themselves and will be glad for a few fellows on our side of things!
” He reached for the enameled box of cigarettes sitting on the table and lit himself one.
In a puff of smoke, he asked, “Did you bring the diagrams of the site in its current state? The last I have are six weeks old and I want to know what progress has been made.”
Hayrettin’s already sour look pinched. “You will see it tomorrow, Henry efendi.”
“I want to know just where we’ll be putting our boots.” He tapped ash into the glass dish next to the cigarette box. “Templeton, make a note. We’ll put two teams on each market stall. Two archaeologists and one historian, and whatever assistants are assigned to them. We’ll make quick work of them.”
“Henry efendi,” Hayrettin said, “if I may—”
Mr. Assam was frowning at his translator’s murmurs, and then he questioned Hayrettin in a low voice.
Hayrettin looked grim as he raised his voice to interrupt Dr. Henry’s continued instructions to Templeton. “The market stalls are not yet prepared for your men.”
Dr. Henry barked, “What? What do you mean, they are not prepared?”
“The first is, yes,” Hayrettin said smoothly, not quite looking Dr. Henry in the eye. “But the second is not yet opened.”
The other team leaders stirred at this. Hazelwood looked confused, Balthazar’s heavy brows were lowered over his dark eyes, and Templeton looked nervously at Dr. Henry.
“Opened?” repeated Henry incredulously. “It hasn’t been breached at all?
What the devil have you lot been doing for the past month?
” He glared at Sir Randolph, who watched the exchange with mild interest, but Henry seemed to understand the man wouldn’t be much help.
“We were brought here with the understanding that both market stalls were unearthed and prepared for work.” He jabbed his finger onto the table.
“This sets us back weeks! And you don’t have security in place?
What sort of ship are you running here, Hayrettin? ”
The rest of the group was spared the awkward silence that fell by a footman inconspicuously opening the door the ladies had left through.
Hayrettin got to his feet immediately, and with a look that suggested he’d rather eat his shoes than continue the conversation, he gestured for the company to follow him through the door.
Saffron and Mrs. Henry had only a few minutes of quiet conversation before the thunderous sounds of Dr. Henry’s displeasure began leaking through the door. They’d sipped their coffee while listening to the one-sided argument about the dig.
The setback would be significant to the entire expedition, but Saffron couldn’t help but wonder what it meant for her, specifically.
The details provided to the applicants of the crew had promised ruins, not underground rooms. If one of the two storerooms in which she might find botanical matter was still underground, did that mean she would have to go underground to retrieve it?
Her hand grew damp around the small cup of coffee in her hands, and not because of its heat.
And if she found she could not venture underground to attend to her duties, what would become of her study?
The gentlemen joined them a moment later.
Mrs. Henry declared it best if the rest of the crew were given the opportunity to mingle with the Turkish officials, and broke up their party to join them.
Saffron thought this a clever way to disperse the tension and give Dr. Henry a chance to cool his temper.
There were nowhere near enough ladies present in the party for the usual after-dinner entertainment of dancing, and so conversation and cards occupied the crew. Several sets of French doors in the parlor and connected dining room were thrown wide to the night.