And yet there, on the front page of the Times, was a headline that might just be his tombstone. He had weathered several bad patches recently, irruptions of scandal that would have felled a lesser man. But he had handled them coolly and decisively—and he would do the same here.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in.”
The bearded figure of Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department, dressed elegantly and with less than the usual degree of academic rumpledness, entered the room. He silently took a chair as Josephine Rocco, the head of public relations, entered behind him, along with the museum’s lawyer, the ironically named Beryl Darling of Wilfred, Spragg and Darling.
Collopy remained standing, watching the three as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.
“I’ve called you here in emergency session, for obvious reasons.” He glanced down at the paper. “I assume you’ve seen the Times?”
His audience nodded in silent assent.
“We made a mistake in trying to cover this up, even briefly. When I took this position as director of the museum, I told myself I would run this place differently, that I wouldn’t operate in the secretive and sometimes paranoid manner of the last few administrations. I believed the museum to be a great institution, one strong enough to survive the vicissitudes of scandal and controversy.”
He paused.
“In trying to play down the destruction of our diamond collection, in seeking to cover it up, I made a mistake. I violated my own principles.”
“An apology to us is all well and good,” said Darling in her usual crisp voice, “but why didn’t you consult me before you made that hasty and ill-considered decision? You must have realized you couldn’t get away with it. This has done serious damage to the museum and made my job that much more difficult.”
Collopy reminded himself this was precisely the reason the museum paid Darling four hundred dollars an hour: she always spoke the unvarnished truth.
He raised a hand. “Point taken. But this is a development I never in my worst nightmares anticipated—finding that our diamonds have been reduced to…” His voice cracked: he couldn’t finish.
There was an uneasy shifting in the room.
Collopy swallowed, began again. “We must take action. We’ve got to respond, and respond now. That is why I’ve asked you to this meeting.”
As he paused, Collopy could hear, coming faintly from Museum Drive below, the shouts and calls of a growing crowd of protesters, along with police sirens and bullhorns.
Rocco spoke up. “The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. It’s nine now, and I think we’ve probably got until ten, maybe eleven at the latest, to make some kind of official statement. In all my years in public relations, I’ve never encountered anything quite like this.”
Menzies shifted in his chair, smoothed his silver hair. “May I?”
Collopy nodded. “Hugo.”
Menzies cleared his throat, his intense blue eyes darting to the window and back to Collopy. “The first thing we have to realize, Frederick, is that this catastrophe is beyond ‘spinning.’ Listen to the crowd out there—the fact that we even considered covering up such a loss has the people up in arms. No: we’ve got to take the hit, honestly and squarely. Admit our wrong. No more dissembling.” He glanced at Rocco. “That’s my first point and I hope we’re all in agreement on it.”
Collopy nodded again. “And your second?”
He leaned forward slightly. “It’s not enough to respond. We need to go on the offensive.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to do something glorious. We need to make a fabulous announcement, something that will remind New York City and the world that, despite all this, we’re still a great museum. Mount a scientific expedition, perhaps, or embark on some extraordinary research project.”
“Won’t that look like a rather transparent diversion?” asked Rocco.
“Perhaps to some. But the criticism will last only a day or two, and then we’ll be free to build interest and good publicity.”
“What kind of project?” Collopy asked.
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
Rocco nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would work. This event could be combined with a gala party, strictly A-list, the social ‘must’ of the season. That will mute museum-bashing among the press and politicians, who will naturally want to be invited.”
“This sounds promising,” Collopy said.
After a moment, Darling spoke. “It’s a fine theory. All we lack is the expedition, event, or whatever.”
At that moment, Collopy’s intercom buzzed. He stabbed at it with irritation. “Mrs. Surd, we’re not to be disturbed.”