Page 11 of False Flag

“I want you on my team. I know you don’t believe in what I’m doing, but I believe in you, that you will be honest in your assessment of the work. We’re doing this scientifically. I’m not cutting corners. I want a nonbeliever like you on my team, because when I win you over, we can change the world.”

She held his gaze in silence, remembering how she’d felt when she returned home after the fundraiser in December. He’d sat there with his twelve apostles and preached about what he claimed were the hidden truths of human history. He said archaeologists like herself colluded with government officials to hide the truth.

His audience ate it up—meanwhile, he colluded with a politician to get NSF money to fund pseudoscience.

Even without knowing that last part, in December, she’d felt dejected and a little creeped out by the amount of sway he held over the people in the room. Plus, there were the ones who weren’t physically there. His podcast and YouTube videos had millions of views.

And then there’d been the handsome guy who’d paid twenty-five hundred dollars to cozy up to Campbell and told her to her face that the podcaster’s theory that archaeologists were the enemy was interesting.

That night, she’d taken a long, hot shower that did nothing to make her feel clean.

They were in a cult, and Gerard Campbell was their leader.

That experience, combined with what happened after she broke up with Beau when she learned he was a Lost Civilizations fan, had solidified in her mind that the man who now stood before her was the true danger. He was working toward something with his disinformation campaign. He was building power and surrounding himself with men like the vice president, who knew how to wield it.

But he was being nice. And he’d said he believed in her. Trusted her to let go of her biases and give a fair analysis. But it wouldn’t just be analysis. She’d have to do the advance work to line up research permits. Work with him on his research design. She’d have to conduct oral history interviews. She’d meet face-to-face with the people his theories actively harmed.

She took a deep breath. “So what’s your offer?” She wanted him to believe this was about the money for her.

He cocked his head. “Am I wrong to believe in you? What will you do when we find proof to support my theories?”

“Everything we find—whether it’s artifacts or underwater rock formations—will be evaluated fairly. I’ll use my training to determine if it’s cultural material or natural, and if I believe it’s cultural, I’ll confer with other archaeologists to determine age and origin. The work will be vetted to ensure the scientific method is employed and analysis is done by experts. You will pay for the outside experts, by the way, but I get to select them, not you.”

“That’s fair.”

“Okay then. So what number do you have in mind?”

“Meals and lodging, plus a stipend.”

“If I’m going to give up my life for several months and sign releases to let you film me for your documentary, it better be a damn good stipend.”

“Two hundred and fifty a day.”

“Seven days a week?”

“Six. But you’ll be expected to work six days a week.”

“Make it five hundred a day, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Three hundred.”

“No.” She huffed out a breath. “I don’t think you understand what I’m risking here. I’m going to be putting my name out there asking other archaeologists to work with you. I’m going to lose friends. I know archaeologists who’ve been blackballed for less. You’ve made statements about ‘Big Archaeology’ that are bullshit.”

And dangerous, but she left that part out of the negotiation, or he’d wonder why she was considering this job at all.

“You say that because you’re part of the machine. No one wants to believe they’ve been duped by the system. It’s hard to admit to being a rube.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes. This was the art of his con. He could be earnest and charming. Empathetic. But he also knew when to be cynical, slice into her where he believed her to be vulnerable. “I’m not the rube in this situation.”

“Nor am I.”

No. They both knew who his marks were. “Five hundred a day. Six days a week. I won’t do this for less.”

Before he could respond, there was a knock, followed by one of the household staff opening the door. “The vice president is ready to receive you now.”

“Thank you,” Gerard said, and they both followed the servant into a large room where a half dozen people were gathered, enjoying hors d’oeuvres and sparkling wine.

She accepted both from trays circulated by uniformed servants and made the mistake of popping a puffy cheese pastry bite into her mouth the moment Gerard introduced her to the vice president of the United States.