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"Keep Villon under strict surveillance and get Guerrier back in his grave."
"I'll see to it."
"And one more thing, commissioner."
"Sir?"
"From now on, report to me in person. Telephone communications have a way of being intercepted."
"Understood. I'll be back to you shortly. Goodbye, Prime Minister.
Several seconds after Finn hung up, Sarveux was still gripping the receiver. Is it possible that Henri Villon and the slippery head of the FQS are one and the same? he wondered. And Foss Gly. Why would he masquerade as Villon?
The answers took an hour in coming, and suddenly he wasn't tired anymore.
The trim executive jet, sporting the NUMA aquamarine colors, whined onto the landing strip and rolled to a stop within twenty feet of where Sandecker and Moon stood waiting. The door to the passenger compartment dropped open and Pitt climbed down. He carried a large aluminum container in both hands.
Sandecker's eyes mirrored a deep concern when he saw the haggard face, watched the slow faltering steps of a man who had lived too long with exhaustion. He moved forward and put his arm around Pitt's shoulder as Moon took the box.
"You look terrible. When was the last time you slept?"
Pitt peered at him through glazed eyes. "I've lost track. What's today?"
"Friday.
"Not sure . . . think it was Monday night."
"Good God, that was four days ago."
A car pulled up and Moon manhandled the box into the trunk. The three of them piled in the back seat, and Pitt promptly dozed off. It seemed he had hardly closed his eyes when Sandecker was shaking him.
The driver had stopped at the laboratory entrance to the Arlington College of Archaeology.
A man wearing a white lab coat came through the doorway, accompanied by two uniformed security guards. He was sixtyish, walked slightly stooped and owned a face like Dr. Jekyll after he became Mr.
Hyde.
"Dr. Melvin Galasso," he said without offering his hand. "Did you bring the artifact?"
Pitt gestured at the aluminum box as Moon lifted it from the rear of the car. "In there."
"You haven't allowed it to dry out, I hope. It's important that the outer wrapping be pliable."
"The travel bag and the oilcloth packet are still immersed in St. Lawrence River water."
"How did you find them?"
"Buried in silt up to the carrying handle."
Galasso nodded silently in satisfaction. Then he turned toward the doorway to the laboratory.
"All right, gentlemen," he said over his shoulder. "Let's see what you've got."
Dr. Galasso may have been sadly lacking in the social graces, but he had no shortage of patience. He used up two hours simply removing the oilcloth from the travel bag, describing in precise detail every step of the procedure as though lecturing to a class. "The bottom mud was your savior," he elucidated. "The leather, as you can see, is in an excellent state of preservation and still quite soft."
With meticulous dexterity he cut a rectangular hole in the side of the travel bag with a surgical scalpel, extremely careful not to damage the contents. Then he trimmed a thin plastic sheet to slightly larger dimensions than the packet and eased it into the opening.
"You were wise, Mr. Pitt, not to touch the wrapping," he droned on. "If you had attempted to lift it out of the bag, the material would have crumbled away."
