tour of the Far East prior to the upcoming G20 summit in India. But he was here, accompanied by his family, his political entourage, the press corps and what seemed like several hundred Secret Service agents, impassive eyes constantly sweeping the room.
The speeches had been made - first by Nina, then the mayor of San Francisco, and finally the President himself - and now Cole and his family were being given a personal tour of the exhibits by Rowan Sharpe and Nina. ‘And here,’ she said, indicating one of the display cases, ‘we have an artefact recovered from the Temple of Poseidon: a golden trident.’
Cole nodded appreciatively. ‘A solid gold weapon. I guess Atlantean defence contractors weren’t that different from ours!’ Sycophantic laughter came from his retinue.
Even though she knew he was joking, Nina felt compelled to correct him. ‘It’s not actually
‘Of course,’ said Cole politely. ‘And what about this?’ He indicated the neighbouring case, which held a large book, some eighteen inches tall and almost a foot wide. It was open, revealing its most unusual feature - the pages were not paper, but sheets of reddish-gold metal, scribed with dense text in the ancient language of the Atlanteans.
‘We call it the Talonor Codex,’ said Nina. ‘It’s not the most valuable artefact the IHA’s recovered from Atlantis in purely monetary terms - although it’s made from orichalcum, a gold alloy, so it’s worth a lot in its own right. But its contents are what make it really valuable.’
‘Talonor was one of Atlantis’s greatest explorers,’ Rowan went on. ‘On one of his expeditions he visited South America, and on another he rounded Africa, crossed the Arabian peninsula, and even reached India. The Codex is his journal, an account of all the places he visited and peoples he encountered.’
‘Our researchers at the IHA are working to translate the entire text,’ Nina added.
‘Impressive,’ said Cole. The book was supported by a stand; he rounded the case to look at the cover, noting a circular indentation about six inches across in the metal, then moved on. ‘Now,
Rowan nodded. ‘It is - it’s our crown jewels, literally.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said the First Lady. ‘How much is it worth?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ Nina replied as everyone gazed at the object behind the toughened glass. It was an ornate crown, made from gold and orichalcum with silver trim. The metalwork was adorned with precious stones, which glinted enticingly under the lights. ‘In purely material terms, maybe three million dollars. But as a cultural artefact, the crown of the ruler of a lost civilisation . . . who can say? It’s literally priceless.’
‘Then I hope your security’s up to scratch,’ the President joked. More laughter. ‘This is an incredible exhibition, Dr Wilde.’
‘Thank you, Mr President.’ She felt relieved. Maybe her concerns about the big, jowly former lawyer had been unfounded . . .
‘It’s good to see that all the funding the US government has put into the IHA is finally producing some visible returns,’ he continued, squashing Nina’s optimism like a bug. ‘After all, these are turbulent economic times. The American taxpayer needs to know the money is being spent wisely.’
‘Well, I’m not American, but I pay taxes here,’ said Eddie, moving closer to Nina, ‘and I think the IHA’s pretty good value. Especially as it does all kinds of useful stuff that most people don’t hear about. Mr President,’ he added.
Cold looks came from the presidential entourage, but Cole gave him a smile; one that didn’t quite reach to his eyes. ‘Of course it does, Mr Chase. By the way, it’s interesting to meet you and Dr Wilde at last. My predecessor was very well acquainted with you both.’
‘Hopefully we, ah, lived up to your expectations,’ said Nina, feeling a nervous knot form in her stomach. That Cole’s reply was just another empty campaign smile only made it tighter.
Instead, he turned to his followers. ‘A great exhibition, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s hear it for Dr Wilde and the IHA.’ There was a ripple of polite applause. ‘Now, unfortunately I have to move on to my next engagement - keeping a roomful of lawyers waiting for their five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner is a surefire way to get sued!’
The group’s laughter as he led it away seemed genuine this time, lawyer jokes always universally appreciated. The Secret Service followed, moving towards the main entrance in unison as if someone had tilted a tray of ball bearings. Someone loudly announced that the President was departing, and the other guests broke off from their conversations to applaud him as he left. Nina joined in, though Eddie’s response was more of a slow handclap.
‘I didn’t like what he was implying about the IHA,’ said Nina to her husband, concerned. ‘You think he’s going to cut our budget?’
‘Who knows what any politician’s thinking? Except for “I want more power”, obviously.’
‘I assure you, we’re not all like that,’ said a voice behind them. Nina winced a little when she realised to whom it belonged: Roger Boyce, the mayor of San Francisco.
‘I’m sure you’re not, Mr Mayor,’ she said. She had been introduced to Boyce before the President’s arrival, and knew a little about him by reputation: the latest in a long line of Democratic incumbents, and by all accounts a fresh-faced poster boy for political correctness. He was accompanied by a group of people who, Nina guessed from the number of outfits that cost more than her monthly salary, were the VIPs whose invitations had caused her so much hassle the previous day. ‘Eddie was only joking. Weren’t you?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Eddie, without conviction.
‘Oh, no offence taken,’ said Boyce breezily. ‘It’s all part of the job. You won’t last long as mayor if you’re thin-skinned! But hey, I wanted to thank you and Dr Sharpe for doing such a terrific job with the exhibition. I’m sure it’ll be a huge hit when it opens to the public tomorrow. Just a shame it can’t stay here for longer.’
‘Fifteen other cities might get mad if it did,’ Rowan said. ‘But I think it’ll get the tour off to a great start.’
‘Well, what better place to start anything than San Francisco?’ asked Boyce, gesturing at the fog-shrouded street beyond the windows. Nina almost replied ‘New York’, but suppressed the urge. ‘Have you had a chance to check out our city?’
‘Not yet,’ said Eddie. ‘Looking forward to it, though. I want to drive too fast down that twisty street, and see where all those great car chases were filmed -
‘There’s more to San Francisco than car chases,’ Nina chided, sensing Boyce was unhappy at hearing his community reduced to a backdrop for Hollywood blockbusters. ‘We’ll be visiting places that are actually interesting too.’
‘Happy to hear it.’ The mayor turned to his companions. ‘Anyway, if I may, I’d like you to meet some very special guests.’
He made the introductions; the VIPs were a mix of leaders of impeccably liberal special interest groups, entrepreneurs from Silicon Valley and foreign businesspeople, being wooed by the mayor in the hope they would bring jobs to California in general, and San Francisco in particular. ‘And this is Pramesh Khoil and his wife Vanita,’ he said of the final couple. ‘Mr Khoil owns some of the fastest-growing technology and telecoms companies in India - and is also the inventor of the Qexia search engine.’
‘Oh, Qexia? “Just ask”, right?’ said Nina, repeating the slogan from Qexia’s TV commercials as she shook hands. On the surface, Khoil was extremely unassuming, round face as smooth as a sea-worn pebble behind wire- rimmed glasses, and tending towards a plumpness that his tailored Nehru jacket could not hide. Even had she not been wearing heels for the occasion he would only have been fractionally taller than her. She guessed him to be in his early forties. ‘You invented Qexia? A friend recommended it to me - I use it almost all the time now.’
‘We will become the world’s top search engine within two years,’ said Khoil matter-of-factly. His English was very precise but oddly accentless, flat and vaguely robotic. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Dr Wilde.’
‘We were hoping to discuss the exhibits,’ said Vanita. Unlike her husband, she had a distinct, melodious accent, and was considerably more striking, wearing a traditional Indian sari of exquisitely decorated silk and bedecked in jewellery, most prominently a pair of large golden earrings. She was about the same age as Khoil and undeniably beautiful, but in a sharp, birdlike way, her nose thin and angular.
‘Just ask, to coin a phrase! Dr Sharpe and I will be happy to answer any questions,’ Nina said, addressing the group.
