That had puzzled Emily, too. The area had just been opened to the U.N. after a violent year of bandit and Taliban activity. It was strange that the museum had appeared to be untouched by the violence taking place around it, but perhaps stranger that it existed here at all. "I was told the museum was funded by Aman Nemid, a member of the National Council who was born in that village. He's very proud of it. He was the one who requested we be sent here to save it."

"Save what? I think that curator would have considered an old print of Casablanca an art treasure."

"It was. I liked that movie." She was already on her way downstairs. "I know, I'm a sentimental slob."

"Yep," he said as he followed her. "You need someone to jar you into the real world. I can't understand why you're not a cynical, hardbitten shrew, considering the job you do."

Her brows rose. "You mean I'm not? What a concession coming from you."

"Well, I have to keep you in line. You'd be impossible to work with if I didn't."

"I am cynical," she said quietly. "I just can't let it poison me. There are scumbags walking this earth, but there are good people too. I figure if I look straight at the goal ahead, maybe I won't see the ugliness." She smiled as she glanced back over her shoulder. "And good company helps the bad medicine go down. You qualify at least seventy percent of the time."

"Ninety percent."

"Eighty-five." She was looking around the dim cellar. It had been used as a storage area as in most museums, and they had packed up everything that qualified as a possible artifact. There were rusting farm tools thrown in the corner, but they couldn't have been over twenty years old and had probably been used in the garden in the back. The few wooden storage boxes piled across the way had already been searched and deemed not worth transporting. "You check that wall. I'll do this one. If you see any cracks, any thickness that might conceal a compartment, give a shout."