Pens scratched away at open notebooks.
“Can anyone tell me what did happen next?”
Virtually every hand went up — graduates of elite private schools, these boys had been well tutored in The Iliad and The Odyssey—and Lucas allowed Percy Chandler to dilate on the death of Hector, the unseemly dragging of his body behind Achilles’s chariot, the subsequent plea from King Priam to allow his son’s body to be returned for proper burial. The gallery itself was a long, relatively narrow space, lined with pedestals on which a few dozen fine examples of ancient statuary and artifacts were illuminated by a broad skylight. The day had dawned gray and cloudy, and had stayed that way, so the light that suffused the gallery was soft and muted. And although it was open to the public, only two other people were perusing the collection — an older man with an ebony cane, and judging from the solicitous way in which she tended to him, his daughter.
“But Achilles had violated the laws of proper conduct,” Chandler was saying, “and the gods were unhappy with him. Zeus had supported the Greeks up until then, but he sent Apollo down to protect the body from any further damage.”
The older man was plainly an Arab, and his daughter was striking, with patrician features, a lean frame, and a mane of glossy black hair falling to her shoulders. She would look at home, Lucas thought, on the back of a white stallion, in a pair of jodhpurs and gleaming boots. Glancing his way, she must have caught him staring, and he quickly looked away.
“Thank you, Percy,” he said, interrupting the introduction of the Trojan horse into the story, “but while we have a few minutes left, let’s move on to the statue of Socrates lifting the cup of hemlock… yet another example, as you will see, of imminent action.”
Lucas ushered the students farther down the gallery, deliberately not looking back. When he finally did turn around in the middle of elaborating on the ancient philosopher’s ill-fated struggle with the Athenian state, the woman and her father were gone.
After dismissing the class, he went downstairs to fulfill the hours regularly set aside for private conferences with students. His study was a tiny room with all the charm of a dungeon cell and a horizontal window just above ground level that let in a modicum of fresh air and natural light. If he looked outside, he could see people’s ankles going by on the walkway.
Wally had just mopped the hallways; the smell of linseed oil was overpowering. Under his door, he found an envelope with the crest of the university president, Mr. Harold W. Dodds, stamped on its seal. To his surprise, it turned out to be a rather peremptory request to come to Prospect House, the president’s mansion, straight away. The semester had barely begun; had some complaint already been lodged against Lucas? He could not imagine for what.
On the way to the house, he noticed that an army truck had pulled up outside the loading bay of the museum. Three soldiers were overseeing the delivery of something he couldn’t see, but which was apparently quite unwieldy — a donation from an alumnus with an impressive military connection?
“No, no, you’re gonna drop the damn thing again!” one called out.
“Keep your shirt on!” someone replied.
The president’s mansion, an enormous Italianate house originally built in 1849 for a gentleman farmer, was immured in five acres of gardens in the center of the campus, and surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence erected by Woodrow Wilson to keep the students from stomping through the flowerbeds like a marauding army on football days. Colorful and luxuriant in summer, the gardens were lovely even now, as the branches of the yew and American beech trees shed their leaves on the winding gravel footpaths. Little brown birds flitted among the treetops, moving so rapidly that Lucas could barely make them out.
The sky, still overcast, bathed the scene in an autumnal glow as Lucas straightened his tie and stepped under the front portico. A maid in a white apron ushered him into the foyer, a solemn circle of polished marble, then up the wide staircase, past a grandfather clock ticking on the landing, and into a parlor where two men — one in a crisply laundered officer’s uniform, the other in his customary three-piece suit — were already seated, in deep discussion over cups of coffee and a plate of quartered sandwiches.
“Thank you for coming, Professor,” Harold Dodds said, rising from his chair and extending his hand. “This is Colonel Macmillan, attached to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington. He’s come up to Princeton expressly to meet you.”
Lucas shook his hand, not knowing what to expect next. The colonel gave the impression of a granite block. “I hope I’m not AWOL,” Lucas joked.
“You hope you’re not AWOL, sir,” Macmillan said, without a hint of humor. “But it’s unlikely. You’ve already been discharged.”
This was not a man, Lucas thought, who engaged in pleasantries.
“How much does the one eye interfere with your depth perception?” he asked bluntly.
“I get by.”
“Everything I’m about to say here is classified,” he went on, his curiosity apparently sated, “and President Dodds has assured me it will remain that way.”
What could be so important to national security, Lucas wondered, and yet call for his involvement? He’d only been a first lieutenant.
“In regard to your mission to the iron mine outside Strasbourg,” the colonel said, “the one where you received your injuries—”
“A very good soldier,” Lucas interjected, “Private Teddy Toussaint, was injured a lot worse than I was that day.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Macmillan said brusquely. “I saw in your report that you had submitted his name for a service medal, and it’s been taken care of.”
“Thank you,” Lucas said with a nod.
“But let me say that it was all in a good cause, because you two found one of the Nazis’ largest repositories of stolen art. On that, I commend you.”
Lucas needed no more acknowledgment of that. Many a night, when his head throbbed from the shrapnel wound, and his eye socket ached, he wished he had not been so lucky.
“Including a certain sarcophagus,” the colonel continued, “which I believe you called an ossuary in your notes.”
At the very mention of the word, the chilled air of the mine rose up around him. “Yes, we did. Although I was still in the hospital when I wrote up my notes, I think you’ll find a complete description of its discovery there.”
“Well, we’ve brought the damned thing here. To Princeton.”
“It’s being deposited in the conservation wing of the art museum even as we speak,” Dodds said.
Lucas was stunned. He had never known why, out of all the Nazi plunder, of all the treasures stolen everywhere from Lyons to Luxor, that particular item had been singled out. And now it had been transported all the way to New Jersey?
As if divining his thoughts, the colonel leaned forward in his creaking chair, and said, “You remember who it was addressed to, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He could no more forget that than the ring of ore carts protecting it, the hollowed out corpse, or the strange way in which the thing had seemed to bask in its own penumbra. “But there must be thousands of pieces reserved for the Führer.”