Buried Alive by Jack Cuozzo

From this review:

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Running throughout the book is a rivulet of paranoia. A rivulet, did I say? - an ocean, more like: the entire book is soaked in it, and it even infuses the descriptions of the fossils themselves. The entire first section of the book, fifteen chapters long, is a paean of paranoia: There, in 1979, is our hero, with his wife and five children, travelling to Paris; they breach the defences of the Muse de l'Homme, bastion of evolutionism, hiding their X-rays from the staff lest their true purpose be discovered; they are dogged by a mysterious Mr. McCue in Normandy; a furtive visit to the Louvre is spent dodging a sinister American, doubtless an evolutionist sent to tail them, their suspicions confirmed when he is detected that evening dining in the same pizzeria, after which there is a high-speed car chase through the suburbs of Paris, followed by not one but two cars driven by evolutionists; contact with friends is thwarted because their phone number, copied down by the conniving evolutionist lab secretary in the museum, turns out to be just a phone box; finally it gets so bad that, at the airport hotel, they have to unscrew the bathroom doors of the two rooms they occupy, to wedge them against the doors of their suites lest the evolutionists push their way in. This all reads like the screenplay for an Indiana Jones movie, but there is one little difference - there is not a scrap of evidence that anything anything untoward was going on, that any "evolutionist" was the least bit interested in them, let alone giving them wrong phone numbers, following their car, or trying to get into their rooms. (One might, indeed, infer that their own behaviour was more than a little suspicious: what were they doing, in the gastronomic capital of the world, visiting a pizzeria?).

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It is things like this that really should discredit the creationist movement.