Free The Tenth Chamber by Glenn Cooper Page B

dig. Judging from the strained expression of pleasure on his face at seeing her, and the sidelong glances from the Hungarian who, regrettably for Sara, was a real stunner, the rumours were true. Her visit only lasted until early the next day. Sometime around three in the morning she angrily broke it off, spent the rest of the night at the furthest edges of his bed and let him sleep when she slipped away at dawn. Within months she had accepted a faculty appointment at the Institute of Archaeology in London and there she completely faded from his life.
    ‘Please don’t hang up. This is important.’
    She sounded concerned. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘No, no, I’m fine, but I need to talk to you about something. Are you in front of a computer?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Can I send you some material to look at while I hold the line?’
    She hesitated then gave him her email address.
    He heard her breathing into the mouthpiece as he attached some files and sent them on the way. ‘Got it?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Open photo 93 first.’
    He waited, staring at his copy of the picture, still mesmerised by it, and tried to imagine her at the moment of download. Two years wasn’t such a long time. She couldn’t have changed much. He was glad he finally had an excuse to call.
    She sounded startled, as if someone had dropped a stack of china behind her back. ‘God! Where’s this from?’
    ‘The Périgord. What do you think?’
    It was a picture of the dense herd of small bison with the bird man in their midst.
    ‘It’s magnificent. Is it new?’
    He enjoyed the excitement in her voice. ‘Very new.’
    ‘You found it?’
    ‘Yes, I’m happy to say.’
    ‘Does anyone know about it yet?’
    ‘You’re among the first.’
    ‘Why me?’
    ‘Open Number 211 and 215 next.’
    They were taken in the last of the ten chambers, the Hall of the Plants, as Luc had come to call it.
    ‘Are these for real?’ she asked. ‘Was this photoshopped?’
    ‘Unmanipulated, unretouched, au naturel,’ he replied.
    She was quiet for a moment then said in a hushed voice, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
    ‘Didn’t think you had. Oh, and one more thing. I found an Aurignacian blade in direct association with the paintings.’
    ‘Oh, boy . . .’ she whispered.
    ‘So, I need a plant expert. Want to come and play?’

NINE
    Gatinois sat rigidly at his antique chinoiserie desk keeping his ankles, knees and hips fixed at ninety degree angles. He never slouched, not even at home or at his club. It was the way he was brought up, one of the social artefacts of a merchant family vaguely clinging to its aristocratic heritage. At the office, the sight of his erect posture contributed to his carefully cultivated image of imperiousness.
    He had in his hand a dossier entitled: ‘Proposal to Mount a Major Excavation at Ruac Cave, Dordogne, by Prof. Luc Simard, University of Bordeaux’. He had read it, sedulously, poring over the photos and absorbing the implications unfiltered by static from his staff.
    After nine long years running Unit 70, this was his first bona fide crisis and it was stirring up mixed emotions. On one hand, it was a disaster, of course. The Unit’s sixty-five-year mission was threatened. If a major security breach occurred, there’d be hell to pay. His head would certainly roll, but not only his. Could the Minister of Defence survive? The President?
    But the fear of bad outcomes was tempered by the perfumed whiff of opportunity. Finally, he would be front-and-centre in the Minister’s mind. His instincts were telling him to stir the pot. Get his superiors agitated, keep things hot. Then, if he was ultimately successful in keeping the lid on Unit 70, he’d surely be recognised.
    Finally, a plum senior staff position at the Ministry was within his grasp.
    He ran his finger over the clear acrylic cover of the dossier. Was this was his path to heaven, or hell?
    Marolles came as summoned, standing at attention, his moustache