Golden Relic. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ international arena to steal it from us – with your blessing. When it sits at home in its glass case in Santiago he can deal with no one but me, my institution and my government. In Paris he thinks he has the chance to create an incident.’

      ‘Create an incident?’ Maggie repeated. ‘Don’t you mean open a debate?’

      Professor Jorge ran his fingers through his moustache thoughtfully. ‘It depends on where you are sitting.’

      ‘Would you like to comment on this, Dr Escobar?’ Maggie asked.

      Escobar cleared his throat. He would like to have used his hands for emphasis but he was still sitting on them. ‘The one fact that my esteemed colleague continues to ignore, is that this is an Inca relic. It belongs to Peru. It is part of our cultural heritage.’

      ‘It is as much our heritage as yours, Escobar,’ Jorge stated. ‘The border that has divided us for the last 70 years is not even the same one which separated us 120 years ago, and further back when Tahuantinsuyu, the Inca Empire, was at its height there was no Chile or Peru. The northern reaches of what is now my country were part of that Empire, and therefore we share that heritage.’

      ‘So the borders have changed,’ Escobar shrugged. ‘They can change again.’

      Jorge gave Maggie an I-told-you-so look. ‘Would you call a not-so-veiled threat to our borders a debate or an incident?’

      Maggie closed her eyes for a moment and then said, ‘I think I would call a ten minute recess.’

      Jorge and Escobar left the room together in silence, but as soon as the door closed behind them Maggie could tell that their heated conversation in Spanish had a lot more to do with animal husbandry than any kind of professional discourse or attempt at diplomacy.

      Maggie put her head down on the table and took a breath before sitting up and shaking her head at Pierre Dessalines. ‘This is intolerable,’ she said. ‘I realise the need for a mediator to stop Escobar and Jorge from throttling each other and causing some kind of international incident, but quite honestly I’m going to need a Valium or a whisky or I might just strangle Escobar myself.’ Maggie smiled. ‘With my own bare hands and a great deal of enjoyment.’

      ‘I am sorry, Maggie,’ Pierre said. ‘I have on three occasions stopped myself from throwing Dr Escobar in the Seine. Even Professor Jorge is becoming a little tiresome. That is why I asked you to come. I thought you would be the best person to handle this.’

      Maggie waved her hands at nothing in particular. ‘I probably am, Pierre. It’s just that, apart from the fact that Escobar is so irritating, I can’t understand why the Director of his Museum in Cuzco has delegated this job to him. If the Peruvians really are serious about claiming this relic as their own, why isn’t Emilio himself here arguing this rather dubious case, rather than entrusting it to his most inept assistant?’

      ‘It is Escobar’s grail. To him it is personal.’

      ‘But he has no case. And when the personal becomes political it also becomes dangerous. We have to convince him of that. Or more sensibly we have to inform Emilio of the danger, so that he will recall Escobar and end this nonsense.’

      When the two rivals returned to the conference room Escobar took up his argument at almost the same point, as if there had been no recess or verbal fracas in the hallway outside.

      ‘I return to Professor Jorge’s own statement, with which I cannot help but agree,’ he said, ‘that the northern reaches of what is now Chile did form part of Tahuantinsuyu. However, as the relic in question was unearthed in Punta Arenas, so far away from any part of the Empire that it couldn’t have gone any further south without crossing the ocean and turning up in Antarctica, one can only assume that it was stolen. It therefore belongs to Peru.’

      Maggie felt a tension headache crawling across the top of her head and pressing on her eyebrows. Pierre excused himself from the table, with obvious relief, to attend to his assistant who had entered the room.

      ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t follow your logic, Dr Escobar,’ Maggie said, as politely as possible. ‘Who do you think stole it?’

      Escobar flung out his hands. ‘Who knows? Probably a conquistador four centuries ago, but maybe it was the German tourist caught trying to smuggle it out of Chile 10 years ago. He claims he stole it from a little museum in Punta Arenas; but he was a thief, which makes it likely he was a also liar. He could just as easily have taken it from a house in Cuzco, Lima or anywhere else in Peru.’

      ‘Or Santiago in Chile, or Sydney, Australia for that matter,’ Maggie stated, quite baffled at what passed for sound argument in Escobar’s little corner of the universe. ‘I can’t imagine why the thief would lie about where he found the bracelet unless... oh, of course, he was trying to sabotage your claim to ownership.’

      Maggie hesitated long enough for Escobar to take a breath before continuing. ‘Unless you have proof, which you have yet to present, there is no reason not to believe that the German tourist found the bracelet, just as he said, in Punta Arenas – which is in Chile, is it not Dr Escobar?

      ‘Yes, but–’

      ‘There are no buts. You have defeated your own argument. It matters not where it was found when you cannot prove where it came from in the first place.’

      Escobar began rifling through the notes in front of him looking for another stand to take, while Jorge grinned triumphantly at Maggie who tried to ignore them both.

      Maggie pondered instead, the consummate skill of professional mediators whom, she assumed, managed to remain objective while dealing with opposing points of view. She concluded, however, that they probably only ever dealt with valid disputes between evenly-matched sides with justifiable though differing opinions presented by sane people with well-researched arguments. Dr Pablo Escobar would not be found within spitting distance of a negotiation of that kind and, well, she was an archaeologist not a mediator, professional or otherwise, and objectivity was not a concept she normally associated with fools or foolish notions.

      Pierre, his expression a mixture of disbelief and trepidation, returned to the table. ‘We have a problem,’ he stated quietly.

      ‘Another one?’ Maggie asked.

      ‘The van transporting some of the exhibits for the Pre-Columbian Treasures of the Americas exhibition has been hijacked en route from the airport.’

      Pierre’s statement was met with stony silence. He cleared his throat. ‘The thieves have acquired an Aztec dagger, a gold Sicán ceremonial mask, three Toltec figurines and the, em, Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet.’

      Paris, Thursday September 17, 1998

      It was 6.30 am, but even so the airport bar was crowded with passengers, well-wishing families and friends, and a bizarre variety of yet-to-be checked-in luggage, including a unicycle, a surfboard, and what looked to Maggie like a suitcase-sized stealth bomber wrapped in brown paper.

      Pierre struggled through the throng and handed Maggie a cup of coffee before taking his seat. ‘What do you suppose an American is doing in Paris with a surfboard?’ he asked.

      ‘Perhaps he thinks he’s in Texas,’ Maggie suggested.

      ‘I don’t think there is surfing in that Paris either,’ Pierre stated.

      Maggie СКАЧАТЬ