He sat back, a smile of triumph on his face.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Fugit murmured. “That was a great deal of money in 1846.”

“Yes. But what’s it worth today? We’re not just talking about the melt value here—we’re talking about the numismatic value. A single gold eagle in uncirculated MS-60 or better condition with a date in the mid-1840s is currently valued between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars. In other words, somewhere in or around that camp is a strongbox containing up to twenty million dollars’ worth of gold coins.”

Benton stopped and the silence in the office was impressive. Finally the president spoke.

“This is all well and good, but if the Institute excavates the site and finds the gold…who owns it?”

“Any artifacts uncovered in a permitted excavation by a qualified 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization are normally owned by the organization.”

“So the gold would be ours?”

“Debatable. California will claim the treasure as its historical patrimony. The Federal government will also want it, since it will have been found on federal land. Wolfinger had no descendants that I can find, so there’s little concern in that direction.”

“I’ve seen situations like this before. Descendants or no, it could very easily get ugly.”

“Yes. But Dr. Fugit—” Benton leaned forward— “here’s where the Institute and its stellar reputation come in. As part of the archaeological permitting process, the Institute will negotiate ahead of time how any treasure will be divided, should it be found. That arrangement will be written into the permits themselves. The Institute’s reputation would ensure no one objected to you getting a goodly share—to increase your endowment. Fund important research. Raise salaries. If the Institute offered a third to California, a third to Uncle Sam, and kept a third, who could argue with that?” He lowered his voice. “In other words, you don’t need grant money to fund this expedition.”

“It would still be a rather expensive gamble.”

“If the Institute felt it was too risky, I’d understand. Our joint alma mater, Stanford, has a world-class archaeology program, as does Berkeley.”

A line of displeasure creased Fugit’s brow. Nora knew the director wouldn’t respond well to threats, and she was startled by Benton’s directness.

“I’m sure we can find the funds,” the president said sharply. “But in this division you propose, where would you come in?”

Benton laughed. “You mean, how much gold for me? None. My interest is purely in history. If I wanted the gold, I could have gone up there myself and searched it out—and nobody would be the wiser.”

“Commendable,” Fugit said drily. “But how do you know someone else didn’t find it years ago?”

“If somebody had, there would be an unusual number of uncirculated 1846 gold eagles floating around. Nobody had any idea where the Lost Camp was located—except us, now, thanks to Tamzene Donner and her journal.”

There was a brief silence. Then Fugit closed the folder on her desk. “The Institute will accept your proposal and bear the cost of the expedition. Nora, you will be the archaeological director if you so choose, and Clive—may I call you Clive?—will be chief historian. My office will take care of the permits. We have the winter months, which isn’t much time to put together a major expedition.”

She stood and shook both their hands. “Dr. Benton, I wonder if you’d give me a moment with Nora?”

“Of course.” He smiled at them both, turned, and stepped out of the office.

Fugit watched him close the door. They resumed their seats and she turned back to Nora. “This is a very intriguing proposal.” The president’s expression remained formal, but her face betrayed a hint of enthusiasm.

“Thank you. I’m glad you think so.”

“Where do we stand on that Pueblo ruin out by Pedernal Peak?”

“The final room has been fully excavated and documented. It’s just a question of cataloging the potsherds and artifacts. Lab work.”

“And that outlier settlement you were working at Bandelier?”

“Our job is complete; I’ve handed it off to the Antiquities Department to handle the legal issues.”

The president looked at her searchingly for a moment. “You know, I’ve been here almost two and a half years. And in all that time, I can’t remember you once taking a vacation, or even just getting your head out of a test trench.”

“It’s simple: I love my work.”

“Is that all there is to it?”

“Yes,” Nora said, a little more abruptly than she intended to.

“I’m not trying to pry. But I’m aware of your history. I’m glad you love your work—I just don’t want to see you bury yourself in it.”

Nora said nothing.

“This expedition may not exactly be a walk in the park. The high Sierras are rugged, dangerous mountains. You know that Ted Curtin is just champing at the bit for a dig like this. Fact is, he needs to get one under his belt. If you want to hand off the fieldwork to him, you could take some time off, and then direct the work from back here and pick up when—”

“Dr. Fugit,” Nora interrupted, “I thank you for your concern—truly I do. And I want to see Ted Curtin get his fellowship. But the fact is, Clive Benton sought me out personally. I don’t know how he’d feel about handing the dig off to somebody else. And in all honesty, I’m not burying myself in my work—that work is my life. I can’t imagine anything more exciting than finding the Lost Camp of the Donner Party. There will be downtime over the winter as we prepare—it isn’t like I’ll be going without sleep or anything.”

Fugit remained quiet, listening.

“I know you’re aware of my history. Honestly, it’s not relevant. And…well, to use your own words, I really do appreciate your sensitivity in not prying.”

Fugit’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this. Silence fell over the office for a moment. And then the president nodded.

“Very well,” she said briskly. “Best of luck with your preparations, Dr. Kelly.”

6

March 29

AGENT SWANSON?”

The long, echoing room—once apparently a grand chamber of some sort, now broken up into a warren of office cubicles—remained silent save for the low beep of electronic equipment and the clack of fingers on keys.

“Agent Swanson!”

Corinne Swanson looked up abruptly, dropping the papers she was leafing through onto her desk.

“Yes?” she said.

The voice belonged to Robert Wantaugh. His head was sticking up from a cubicle at the far end of what she’d come to call their cellblock. He had short blond hair, and it was combed back in a ducktail that would have made an extra from The Untouchables proud.

“You’re alive. Good. I thought maybe something had happened, and you were as dead as those case files you’re studying.”

“Not yet.” Wantaugh had been on the job only six months longer than she, but since he’d made GS-11 he’d adopted an air of breezy, reckless experience. At least when more senior agents weren’t around.