Shortly, a rangy man in a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows came to the door.
Kurt offered a hand. “Dr. Kensington, I presume?”
“Call me William,” the man said, shaking Kurt’s hand. He was an English expatriate. One of many on an island that had been part of the British Empire for over a century.
“Sorry we’re late,” Kurt said. “The wind was contrary.”
Kensington grinned. “It usually is. That’s why someone invented the motorboat.”
A light wave of laughter made the rounds as Kensington ushered them into the building and then locked the door behind them. A nod to the security guard seemed customary, but before he led them down the hall, Kurt noticed the curator looking back out the door, bending one of the slats in the venetian blinds to get a better view.
Kensington turned from the window and led them through the foyer and past an expansive main hall, where preparations were ongoing for the party and the auction a few days hence. They continued on to Kensington’s office, a small rectangular room in a remote corner of the third floor. It was cluttered to the rafters with tiny artifacts, stacks of magazines and scholarly papers. The window seemed out of place, as it was a narrow panel of stained glass.
“Leftover from the building’s prior life as an abbey in the eighteenth century,” Kensington explained.
As the three men sat down, floodlights came on outside, accompanied by the so
unds of construction work: jackhammers and cranes and men shouting.
“A little late to be breaking up the place,” Kurt suggested.
“They’re redoing the plaza,” Kensington said. “They work at night so they don’t disturb the tourists.”
“Wish they’d do that on the roads around D.C.,” Joe said. “It would speed up my commute dramatically.”
Kurt handed Kensington his card.
“NUMA,” the curator said, perusing the card. “I’ve worked alongside your people before. Always a pleasure. What can I help you with?”
“We’re here to ask about the pre-auction reception.”
Kensington put the card aside. “Yes,” he said. “It’s going to be very exciting. The gala will take place two nights from now. It will be done to the nines, with all the trimmings. I’d invite you, but I’m afraid it’s a closed group.”
“What happens at this party?”
“It allows the guests to peruse the lots in a virtual fashion,” Kensington said, “and size up one another, so they can know who they’re bidding against.” He grinned. “Nothing pumps up the prices like a little ego-driven competition.”
“I can imagine,” Kurt said.
“Let me tell you,” the curator added. “People will pay a pretty penny for the right to see something no one else has seen in hundreds or even thousands of years.”
“And an even prettier penny to take it home and keep it to themselves.”
“Yes,” Kensington said. “But there’s nothing illegal about that. And it’s all for the benefit of the museum. We’re a private organization, we have to fund our restoration activities through something more than ticket sales.”
“Do you have a list of items for sale?”
“I do,” Kensington said. “But I’m afraid I can’t share it. Rules and such.”
“Rules?” Kurt said.
“And such,” Kensington repeated.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Kurt said.
A bead of sweat appeared on Kensington’s forehead. “You know how it is, being explorers of the sea. As soon as something is recovered and revealed to the world, people begin to fight over who owns it. When gold is recovered from a Spanish galleon, who does it belong to? The salvage team says it’s theirs. The Spanish insist it was on their ship. The descendants of the Incas say it was our gold in the first place, we dug it from the ground. And that’s just gold, with artifacts it’s even worse. Did you know the Egyptians are now suing to get the Rosetta stone back from England? And the Lateran Obelisk from Rome? It originally stood outside the Temple of Amun in Karnak until Constantius the Second took it. He wanted it brought to Constantinople, but the obelisk only made it as far as Rome.”
“So you’re saying . . .”