Secret of the Slaves Read Online Free PDF Page B

experienced field archaeologist who also tramped great distances in the course of her work with Chasing History’s Monsters, she knew the value of good footwear.
    â€œMy pleasure, Mr. Seddon,” she said. “So, you’re an archaeologist?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnthropologist?”
    â€œNo.” His manner was relaxed. Perhaps even a trifle superior.
    â€œDan is a troubleshooter,” Publico put in as smoothly as his gravelly voice would allow. “He’s been a major activist for years, campaigning against globalization all over the world. Seattle 2000. Italy ’03. Now he specializes in getting things done for me. He’s proved himself a key part of my humanitarian operations.”
    Seddon smiled a lazy smile.
    Annja frowned. “I’m sure Mr. Seddon has great abilities in his field,” she said. “But I’m not sure what he brings to the table for an archeological expedition.”
    â€œIt doesn’t really rise to the level of an expedition yet,” Publico admitted. “I hope it’ll turn into one. In the opening phases, though, it’s likely to entail a combination of intensive historical research and detective work.”
    â€œYou’ve got the historical angle nailed,” Seddon said with a grin. “I know you’re good at that. Not like that bimbo Kristie.”
    Maybe this guy is okay, Annja thought.
    â€œMark’s career as a campaigner has involved no small amount of investigative work,” Moran said.
    â€œDigging up dirt on exploiters and polluters,” the young man said. “Also I might just be able to look out for you. I’ve been around some.”
    Annja had to press her lips together at the thought of his looking out for her. “I’d certainly appreciate your having my back,” she said, truthfully if not so candidly.
    He looked her up and down a little more deliberately than was strictly polite. “That I can do, Ms. Creed,” he said. “That I can do.”

4
    â€œI said, Emo’s for people not optimistic enough to be Goth,” Dan said.
    Annja laughed. On the long journey to Brazil from Publico’s Manhattan penthouse her companion had proved consistently entertaining, with a sharp eye and facile wit. Those traits didn’t exactly translate into being of perceptible use in fieldwork, but they did help to pass the time. And there was no doubt that his air of self-assurance, quite untainted by any hint of bragging over his own abilities or achievements, was an encouraging sign.
    The Belém riverfront was splashed with noonday sun and alive with people as they strolled along it. It was hot, the humid air like a lead blanket that wrapped about her and weighed her down. The rain that had fallen as they ate a late breakfast at a café near their small but well-appointed hotel had done nothing to alleviate the heat. If anything the extra moisture in the air made it more oppressive.
    The floppy straw hat Annja affected helped a little, but she still felt overdressed in sleeveless orange blouse and khaki cargo shorts. She had even forsaken her trusty walking shoes for a pair of flip-flops.
    Her companion shook his frosted head. He wore a white polo-style shirt over khaki trousers, a surprisingly conventional upscale-tourist look. When she had called him on it at breakfast he had explained frankly that dressing like a more conventional college-age American, in jeans-and-T-shirt scruff, tended to attract a little too much attention from the local law enforcement.
    â€œIf there’s one thing I learned from Genoa,” he had said over a forkful of scrambled eggs and bacon—to Annja’s relief he was no vegetarian—“it’s to pick your battles with the Man carefully.”
    Genoa, she had learned, was the antiglobalization protest where police had killed demonstrators, resulting in a scandal that rocked the whole European Union.
    â€œI wish I had a