“Well, you’re in luck, my Quebecois-nian friend. This thing doubles as a snack pouch.”
He bowed his head to partially conceal his smile.
“Sounds great.”
He may be there for work, but he could still have a little funafter the team meeting. Who knew how long it would be before he had another chance to let his hair down, so to speak?
But after that, he’d focus. Because Rafa was here for one purpose and one purpose only—to sabotage any attempts Mr. Larity’s archaeological team had at finding the Lost City of the Moon.
Chapter
Three
There was a surprising amountof security detail for this expedition.
ID check. Pat-down. Password. Why not include a secret handshake while they were at it?
A lady with a clipboard checked Rafa’s name off a list after confirming his details in a folder marked “R. Monfils,” then handed him a name tag. “Write your full name, job title, and where you’re from.”
Name tags? Seemed a little more mixer and less top-secret archaeological expedition, but he wasn’t there to argue, so he filled out the white sticky tag and slapped it on his chest:
Name:Rafael Monfils
Occupation:Journalist/Photographer
Institution:Global Geography
He glanced around at the others’ name tags: archaeologists, field crew, archaeological technicians, historians, equipmenttechs—all from various universities and museums from around the world. He was the only person not associated with some sort of archaeological institution, which wasn’t unusual in his several years of experience working atGloGeo, though usually he wasn’t the one writing the storyandtaking pictures. Clearly, they wanted to keep their numbers down. More people meant more rumors. Rafa took good photos, but he certainly wasn’t as skilled as the photographers usually hired for these things. And he’d never documented an entire expedition from start to hopefully (or rather, unhopefully) finish. He was in it for the long haul, though. This excursion could take weeks, or it could take months.
There were at least another dozen people on the hotel roof deck, minus the staff setting up the dinner buffet. He overheard the clipboard lady (Anissa Davies, Project Coordinator, Archaeological Institute of America) telling the staff that once the crew sat to eat, all hotel personnel would need to leave. Guess they were serious about this whole secrecy thing.
The rooftop was set up with a few tables facing a rolling cart in the front with a laptop and a pull-down screen alongside it.Great, he thought, grumbling to himself. Sure, a presentation would be helpful and all, but he hoped this meeting didn’t take too long, so he could still make it on time to meet Miri in the hotel bar later. He didn’t quite know what to make of this supposed backpack consultant, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much from talking to a woman.
He shook his head to himself. God, he couldn’t believe he’d whipped out the Quebecois on Miri. He’d have to apologize later for coming off like a smarmy prick.
“Global Geography, huh?”
A voice pulled Rafa’s attention. He turned to face its source,an early-fortysomthing guy dressed like Crocodile Dundee, hat and all. This guy couldn’t be serious. Weren’t people over the whole archaeological cosplay thing by now?
Name:Dr. Bradley Quinn
Occupation:Archaeologist, PhD, and Professor of
Archaeology
Institution:Joukowsky Institute for Archaeology and the Ancient World at Brown University
A tad overkill, don’t you think, Dr. Quinn?Rafa tried not to make snap judgments, but thedinosaur-tooth necklace—on an archaeologist, no less—didn’t bode well.
“Hi, yes, Rafa Monfils,” he said, extending his hand.
“Dr. Bradley Quinn. Archaeologist.”
Yeah, buddy, we got it.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” Bradley asked, scanning around the rooftop.
“You’re looking at it.”
