Ten minutes later, you are slumped in a sumptuously upholstered armchair in Lady Dewsbury's penthouse suite at the King David Hotel, mopping the sweat from your face and nursing a glass of sweet apple tea. A ceiling-mounted electric fan swishes languidly above you, barely disturbing the air. Intense sunlight streams through semiopaque drapes, illuminating the suite's rich, gilded Art Deco furnishings. Esme finishes fixing herself a drink that looks suspiciously alcoholic and comes to sit across from you, her back to the large French windows.
"You did well to avoid capture," she says. "I've met plenty of archaeologists in my time. Most of them are odd, nervous little men. They wouldn't last two minutes being hunted by Nazis. Clearly you are unusual in your field."
"I'd say the same about you, but I have no idea what your field could be," you reply.
Esme smiles wickedly. "Nor I. I suppose you might say I am an adventurer."
You consider what to ask her next.