dodged a reporter and made it to Eric. Hiram was busy with a group of collectors.
I gave Eric a quick summary of what the man had said.
“Get together the paperwork,” Eric said. “Get me a copy of the entire file. We’ll get it to our lawyers. They can get a restraining order against this madman.”
I had started to walk away when Eric’s voice caused me to stop.
“This is bad, very bad, a black eye for the museum. Hiram will not be happy tomorrow. You’d better hope the documentation is as good as you represented to us.”
I almost reminded him that he had been taking credit for the Semiramis a moment ago but remembered my father’s advice about bosses. Besides, Eric was right—the mask was my project. And I would sink or swim with it.
Right at the moment I needed a life vest.
“Don’t answer any questions from anyone, not the newspeople nor the Iraqi delegation. We’ll talk tomorrow. Go out and mingle. Just pretend nothing’s happened.”
Easy for him to say. The crowd was buzzing about the accusation.
I put on a happy face and floated around the room, chatting up potential donors, jealous curators, and glad-handing politicians, acting as if nothing had happened, waving away the incident as just some crazy publicity stunt. What I really felt like doing was rushing home and hiding my head under the covers.
The Piedmonts and Eric departed early. The artificial smiles they gave me as they left didn’t leave me with any warm feelings. It didn’t take much imagination to realize I was in deep trouble.
Hiram’s parting words to me were that he wanted an explanation of what had happened. I told him I would get back to him in the morning with an answer. After I found out myself.
Chapter 15
Abdullah trembled as he hurried away from the two women in front of the museum. He wished he were home in bed. His knees were weak and his stomach in knots. Now his chest was tightening and he felt a stabbing pressure between his shoulder blades.
He was a simple man, and appearing before “notables” and members of the news media had frightened him. His daughter had warned him… begged him not to do it. “Write a letter to the newspapers,” she pleaded.
But like his own father, he had great moral courage that kept him from surrendering to his fears. “They won’t listen if they read about it. I have to shout the truth to be heard,” he told her.
When he had left the apartment earlier he felt tense and fearful—fearing the unknown—as he moved his feet doggedly from the apartment and propelled himself toward the Piedmont.
The violent image of his father confronting tomb robbers was embedded in his mind.
Tomb robbers.
That was how he thought of the people at the rich and powerful museum. Murderous thieves who stole his country’s heritage to put on display halfway around the world.
Why didn’t they put their own heritage on display? Why his? Just as they would be devastated if he dismantled the Statue of Liberty and shipped it to Iraq, how would these Americans feel if he dug up George Washington and took him back to Baghdad to be displayed as a dried skeleton in an open coffin? Or put the Declaration of Independence and Constitution in a glass case for Iraqi children to see as their teachers took them to the Baghdad museum?
After Abdullah had blurted out his accusations and been escorted out of the museum by security, away from the excited questions of the news media, he walked swiftly down the street, blindly, more from nervous energy than anything else. He wasn’t sure where he was going.
The rain had now turned into a cloudburst, as his America-wise daughter called it. He lacked a hat, and the rain ran down his head and face and soaked his collar. He felt a chill and worried that his malaria was acting up again.
He slowed down his pace, realizing he was lost. He wasn’t familiar with the area and wasn’t sure which street would take him back to the underground station that he had exited
I gave Eric a quick summary of what the man had said.
“Get together the paperwork,” Eric said. “Get me a copy of the entire file. We’ll get it to our lawyers. They can get a restraining order against this madman.”
I had started to walk away when Eric’s voice caused me to stop.
“This is bad, very bad, a black eye for the museum. Hiram will not be happy tomorrow. You’d better hope the documentation is as good as you represented to us.”
I almost reminded him that he had been taking credit for the Semiramis a moment ago but remembered my father’s advice about bosses. Besides, Eric was right—the mask was my project. And I would sink or swim with it.
Right at the moment I needed a life vest.
“Don’t answer any questions from anyone, not the newspeople nor the Iraqi delegation. We’ll talk tomorrow. Go out and mingle. Just pretend nothing’s happened.”
Easy for him to say. The crowd was buzzing about the accusation.
I put on a happy face and floated around the room, chatting up potential donors, jealous curators, and glad-handing politicians, acting as if nothing had happened, waving away the incident as just some crazy publicity stunt. What I really felt like doing was rushing home and hiding my head under the covers.
The Piedmonts and Eric departed early. The artificial smiles they gave me as they left didn’t leave me with any warm feelings. It didn’t take much imagination to realize I was in deep trouble.
Hiram’s parting words to me were that he wanted an explanation of what had happened. I told him I would get back to him in the morning with an answer. After I found out myself.
Chapter 15
Abdullah trembled as he hurried away from the two women in front of the museum. He wished he were home in bed. His knees were weak and his stomach in knots. Now his chest was tightening and he felt a stabbing pressure between his shoulder blades.
He was a simple man, and appearing before “notables” and members of the news media had frightened him. His daughter had warned him… begged him not to do it. “Write a letter to the newspapers,” she pleaded.
But like his own father, he had great moral courage that kept him from surrendering to his fears. “They won’t listen if they read about it. I have to shout the truth to be heard,” he told her.
When he had left the apartment earlier he felt tense and fearful—fearing the unknown—as he moved his feet doggedly from the apartment and propelled himself toward the Piedmont.
The violent image of his father confronting tomb robbers was embedded in his mind.
Tomb robbers.
That was how he thought of the people at the rich and powerful museum. Murderous thieves who stole his country’s heritage to put on display halfway around the world.
Why didn’t they put their own heritage on display? Why his? Just as they would be devastated if he dismantled the Statue of Liberty and shipped it to Iraq, how would these Americans feel if he dug up George Washington and took him back to Baghdad to be displayed as a dried skeleton in an open coffin? Or put the Declaration of Independence and Constitution in a glass case for Iraqi children to see as their teachers took them to the Baghdad museum?
After Abdullah had blurted out his accusations and been escorted out of the museum by security, away from the excited questions of the news media, he walked swiftly down the street, blindly, more from nervous energy than anything else. He wasn’t sure where he was going.
The rain had now turned into a cloudburst, as his America-wise daughter called it. He lacked a hat, and the rain ran down his head and face and soaked his collar. He felt a chill and worried that his malaria was acting up again.
He slowed down his pace, realizing he was lost. He wasn’t familiar with the area and wasn’t sure which street would take him back to the underground station that he had exited
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