He had been called upon to make certain sacrifices in order to rescue the Museum. It distressed him that scientific research was forced to take second place to galas, to glittering new halls, to blockbuster exhibitions. Blockbuster—the word tasted repellent in the mouth. And yet, this was New York at the dawn of the twenty-first century, and those who did not play the game would not survive. Even his grandest forebears had their own crosses to bear. One bent with the winds of time. The Museum had survived—that was the important, that was the only, point.
He then reflected on his own distinguished scientific lineage: his great-grand-uncle Amasa Greenough, friend to Darwin and famed discoverer of the chitinous monkfish of the Indochine; his great-aunt Philomena Watson, who had done seminal work with the natives of Tierra del Fuego; his grandfather Gardner Collopy, the distinguished herpetologist. He thought of his own exciting work re-classifying the Pongidae, during the heady days of his youth. Perhaps, with luck and a goodly allowance of years, his tenure here at the Museum would rival the great directors of the past. Perhaps he, too, would have his name graven in bronze, enshrined in the Great Rotunda for all to see.
He still couldn’t shake the feeling of melancholy that had settled around him. These reflections, normally so soothing, seemed not to help. He felt a man out of place, old-fashioned, superannuated. Even thoughts of his lovely young wife, with whom he had sported so delightfully that very morning before breakfast, failed to shake the feeling.
His eye took in the office—the pink marble fireplaces, the round tower windows looking out over Museum Drive, the oak paneling with its patina of centuries, the paintings by Audubon and De Clefisse. He regarded his own person: the somber suit with its old-fashioned, almost clerical cut, the starched white shirtfront, the silk bow tie worn as a sign of independence in thought and deed, the handmade shoes, and above all—as his eye fell on the mirror above the mantel—the handsome and even elegant face, if a touch severe, that wore its burden of years so gracefully.
He turned to his desk with a faint sigh. Perhaps it was the news of the day that made him gloomy. It sat on his desk, spread out in glaring newsprint: the damnable article, written by that same vile fellow who had caused so much trouble at the Museum back in ’95. He had hoped the earlier removal of the offending materials from the Archives would have quieted things down. But now there was this letter to deal with. On every level, this had the potential to be a disaster. His own staff drawn in; an FBI agent running around; Fairhaven, one of their biggest supporters, under fire—Collopy’s head reeled at the possibilities, all too hideous to contemplate. If this thing wasn’t handled, it could very well cast a pall on his own tenure, or worse—
Do not go to that place, thought Frederick Watson Collopy. He would handle it. Even the worst disasters could be turned around with the right—what was the trendy word?—spin. Yes. That’s what was needed here. A very delicate and artfully applied spin. The Museum would not, he thought, react in its usual knee-jerk way. The Museum would not decry the investigation; it would not protest the rifling of its archives; it would not denounce the unaccountable activities of this FBI agent; it would not deny responsibility, evade, or cover up. Nor would the Museum come to the aid of its biggest supporter, Fairhaven. At least, not on the surface. And yet, much could be done in camera, so to speak. A quiet word could be strategically placed here and there, reassurances given or taken away, money moved hither and yon. Gently. Very gently.
He depressed a button on his intercom, and spoke in a mild voice. “Mrs. Surd, would you be so good as to tell Mr. Brisbane I should like to see him at his convenience?”
“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”
“Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Surd.”
He released the button and settled back. Then he carefully folded up the New York Times and placed it out of sight, in the “To Be Filed” box at the corner of his desk. And, for the first time since leaving his bedroom that morning, he smiled.
ELEVEN
NORA KELLY KNEW WHAT THE CALL WAS ABOUT. SHE HAD SEEN THE ARTICLE in the morning paper, of course. It was the talk of the Museum, perhaps of all New York. She knew what kind of effect it would have on a man like Brisbane. She had been waiting all day for him to call her, and now, at ten minutes to five, the summons had finally come. He had waited until ten minutes to five. Letting her stew, no doubt. She wondered if that meant he would give her ten minutes to clear out of the Museum. It wouldn’t surprise her.
The nameplate was missing from Brisbane’s door. She knocked and the secretary called her in.
“Have a seat, please,” said a haggard older woman who was clearly in a bad mood.
Nora sat. Goddamned Bill, she thought. What could he have been thinking? Admittedly, the guy was impulsive—he tended to act before engaging his cerebral cortex—but this was too much. She’d have his guts for garters, as her father used to say. She’d cut off his balls, fix them to a thong, and wear them around her waist like a bola. This job was so critical to her—yet here he was, practically typing out the pink slip himself. How could he have done this to her?