Glenn Cooper - The Tenth Chamber

So, out of mounting concern over the paucity of texts and calls, she hired a car and one Friday afternoon, arrived unannounced at his 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 Perigord. 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?’

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 twitching, waiting to be recognised.

Gatinois motioned for him to sit.

‘I’ve read it. Cover to cover,’ the general said evenly.

‘Yes, sir. It’s certainly a problem.’

‘A problem? It’s a disaster!’

The small man nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell me, in the history of this unit, has anyone ever been inside that cave?’

‘No, no. I’ve checked the archives and Chabon queried Pelay. It’s been sealed since 1899. Certainly, we’ve always let sleeping dogs lie. And, to the best of our knowledge, no one from the outside has rediscovered it.’

‘Until now,’ Gatinois added coldly.

‘Yes, until now.’

‘What do we know about Luc Simard?’

‘Well, he’s a professor of archaeology at Bordeaux-’

‘Marolles, I’ve read his biography. What do we know about him? His personality. His motivations.’

‘We’re working up a profile. I’ll have it to you within the week.’

‘And what can we do to stop this before it starts?’ Gatinois asked with a calmness that seemed to surprise the colonel.

Marolles took a deep breath and delivered an unfavourable assessment. ‘I’m afraid the project has already attained a positive momentum within the Ministry of Culture. It will undoubtedly be approved and funded, I’m sorry to report.’

‘Who’s your source?’

‘Ah, one bright spot in a dark sky,’ Marolles said hopefully. ‘My wife’s cousin works in the relevant department. He’s an unctuous fellow named Abenheim. He’s always poodling up to me at family gatherings, making sly references to his belief I work in clandestine services. I’ve tried to avoid him.’

‘Until now, perhaps?’

‘Exactly.’

Gatinois leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially, as if someone else were in the room. ‘Use this man. Suggest to him that someone within the DGSE is interested in Simard and his work. Imply something negative but say nothing specific. Tell him to keep you informed of everything, to insinuate himself into the project as much as possible. Tell him if he does well that certain people within the state apparatus will be grateful. Keep it on that kind of level.’

‘I understand, sir.’

Gatinois leaned back, straightening his back to its usual position. ‘At the end of the day, you know, Bonnet will probably sort this out. He’s a ruthless bastard. Perhaps all we’ll need to do is sit back and watch the carnage.’

Luc had bypassed the usual channels and had gone straight for the top. The stakes were too high. If feathers were ruffled at his own university and with regional bureaucrats at the Department of Dordogne, then so be it.

The cave had to be protected.

He used the full weight of his academic position and his friendship with an important senator from Lyon to secure an immediate face-to-face meeting at the Palais-Royal with the Minister of Culture and her top antiquities deputies including the Director of the National Centre of Prehistory, a respected archaeologist named Maurice Barbier, who fortunately maintained a cordial relationship with Luc. The participation of Barbier’s Deputy Director, Marc Abenheim, was less fortunate. Luc had butted heads with Abenheim for years, and the two men had a mutual dislike for one another.

Working from a lavishly illustrated dossier replete with his photos, Luc requested an emergency protection order, an accelerated permitting process, and a sufficient allocation of ministry funds to secure the cave and begin its excavation.