Dance of Death (40 page)

They walked down the short hallway to the elevator. A minute passed without a word being exchanged. Then, from below, the elevator gave a clank and began to rise. Shortly, the brass grille was drawn back and two figures emerged: the doorman D'Agosta had met earlier and the bicycle messenger, a slim Hispanic youth wearing a scarf and a heavy jacket. He held an oversize envelope in one hand.

Looking at the package, Pendergast's pale face went gray. Wordlessly, he reached into a pocket of his black jacket, withdrew a pair of medical gloves, and drew them on. Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to the messenger.

"Would you mind waiting here a few moments, please?" he asked.

"I guess," the messenger said, looking suspiciously at the gloves.

Pendergast took the envelope, exchanged a private look with the doorman. Then, nodding to D'Agosta, he strode quickly back into the room.

"Is it from Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked, closing the door behind them.

Pendergast didn't respond. Instead, he spread a sheet of white paper on the desk, laid the envelope on top of it, and examined it carefully. It was unsealed, the rear flap loosely fastened by twisted red thread. Pendergast gave the thread a brief, close scrutiny. Then he unwound it and carefully upended the envelope.

A small sheet of folded paper fell out, followed by a lock of glossy dark hair.

Pendergast drew in his breath sharply. In the room, it sounded explosively loud. Quickly, he knelt and opened the folded sheet.

The paper was a beautiful, hand-pressed linen, with an embossed coat of arms at its top: a lidless eye over two moons, with a lion couchant. Beneath, written in tobacco-colored ink with a fountain pen or quill, was a date: January 28.

D'Agosta realized it was identical to the note Pendergast had received a few months earlier, at the mansion on Riverside Drive. Unlike that note, however, this one had more written upon it than just a date. His eye fell to the words below:

She's very spirited, brother. I can see why you like her.

Savor this token as earnest of my claim: a lock of her lovely hair. Savor it also as a memento of her passing. If you caress it you can almost smell the sweet air of Capraia.

Of course, I could be lying about everything. This lock could belong to someone else. Search your heart for the truth.

Frater, ave atque vale.

"Oh, my..." D'Agosta said. The words were cut off as his throat closed up involuntarily. He glanced over at the agent. He was sitting on the floor, gently stroking the lock of hair. The look on his face was so terrible D'Agosta had to turn away.

"It could be a lie," he said. "Your brother's lied before."

Pendergast did not answer. There was a brief and awful silence.

"I'll go question the messenger," D'Agosta said, not daring to look back.

Exiting the room, he walked down the corridor to the elevator. The messenger was there, waiting, watched over by Martyn.

"NYPD," he said, briefly showing his badge. Everything had slowed down, as in a nightmare. He felt curiously heavy, as if he could barely move his limbs. He wondered if this was what it was like to be in shock.

The youth nodded.

"Who gave you the package to deliver?"

"Somebody in a cab dropped it off at our service."

"What did the passenger look like?"

"It was just the cabbie. There was no passenger."

"What kind of vehicle, exactly?"

"Typical yellow cab. From the city."

"Did you get a name or medallion number?" Even as he asked the question, D'Agosta knew it wouldn't matter whether the kid had gotten one or not; no doubt Diogenes had covered his trail.

The messenger shook his head.

"How were you paid?"

"The driver paid fifty bucks. Said his instructions were to get a messenger to deliver the package to a Dr. Pendergast, 1 West 72nd Street. In person, if possible. And not to talk to anybody but Dr. Pendergast or the doorman."

"Very well." D'Agosta got the youth's name and employer. Then he took Martyn aside, asking him to make sure the cops didn't stop the messenger as he left the building. The strange feeling of heaviness had not left him. He walked back down the corridor to the small room.

Pendergast did not look up at his entrance. He was still sitting on the floor, hunched forward, the lock of hair placed before him. One hand rested on each knee, palm inward, each thumb forming a small circle with the middle finger. The bereft, grief-stricken expression on his face had disappeared, and in its place was utter impassivity. He did not move, did not blink, didn't even seem to breathe. He looked to D'Agosta as if he were a million miles away.

Maybe he is,
D'Agosta thought.
Maybe he's meditating or something. Or maybe he's just trying to keep himself sane.

"The messenger knew nothing," he said as gently as he could. "The trail's too well covered."

Pendergast did not acknowledge this. He remained motionless. His face had lost none of its pallor.

"How the hell did Diogenes find out about Viola?" D'Agosta burst out.

Pendergast spoke almost robotically. "For the first week, while in Diogenes's care, I was raving. Delirious. It's possible I mentioned her name. Nothing escapes Diogenes-nothing."

D'Agosta sank into a nearby chair. Right now, he didn't think he cared if Laura Hayward, a dozen FBI agents, and an army corps came storming into the apartment. They could lock him up and throw away the key. It wouldn't make any difference. Life was shit.

The two sat in the room, motionless, silent, as half an hour ticked by.

Then, without warning, Pendergast leaped to his feet, so suddenly that D'Agosta's heart turned over in his chest.

"She would have traveled under her own name!" he said, eyes glittering intently.

"What?" D'Agosta said, rising himself.

"She wouldn't have come if he'd asked her to use a pseudonym or arranged for a false passport. And she must have just arrived; he wouldn't delay the note-he wouldn't have had time!"

He raced toward the nearest laptop and began typing furiously. Within twenty seconds, the typing stopped.

"Here she is!" he cried.

D'Agosta raced to look at Pendergast's screen:

Folkestone DataCentre PROPRIETARY

SQL Engine 4.041.a CONFIDENTIAL

Passenger Manifest Lookup

Results of inquiry follow

One record(s) found:

BA-0002359148

Maskelene, Lady Viola

British Airways Flight 822

Departed: London Gatwick LGW, 27 January, 11:54 P.M. GMT

Arrived: Kennedy Intl JFK, 28 January, 12:10 A.M. EST

End of Inquiry

Pendergast turned away from the screen. His entire being seemed to crackle with energy, and his eyes-before so empty and distant- were on fire.

"Come, Vincent-we're off to JFK. Every minute we waste, the trail grows colder." And without another word, he dashed out of the room and down the hall.

FORTY-EIGHT

 It was like the old days, D'Agosta thought grimly: Pendergast in his black suit, racing along the streets of New York City in his Rolls. Except that, really, it wasn't like the old days at all. Pendergast was a hunted man, and D'Agosta himself was in such deep shit he'd need a decompression chamber when he surfaced- assuming he ever surfaced at all.

The Rolls pulled up to the curb at Terminal 7 Arrivals. Pendergast leaped out, leaving the vehicle running. A Port Authority policeman was strolling along the curb, and Pendergast swooped down on him.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation." He passed his gold shield in front of the officer briefly, then closed it up and slid it back into his suit.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the officer responded, instantly intimidated.

"We're here on an investigation of the utmost importance. Can I ask you to watch my vehicle, Officer?"

"Yes, sir." The man practically saluted.

Pendergast strode into the terminal, black coat flapping behind him. D'Agosta followed him to baggage claim security. Within, a heavyset guard was listening patiently to a man in a suit shouting angrily about a stolen bag.

Again, Pendergast opened his badge, "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My associate, Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD."

"Well, it's about time!" the man cried angrily. "My wife's
extremely valuable
jewelry-"

"Never
put valuable jewelry in check-in luggage," said Pendergast smoothly, linking his arm in the man's and propelling him to the door and out, then stepping quickly back and shutting and locking it.

"You make it look so easy," said the guard with a grin.

"Is there an Officer Carter on duty?" said Pendergast, his eye just flitting over the man's identification badge.

"That's me. Randall Carter. What can I do for you?"

"I was told you were the best man to handle my problem."

"Really?" The man's face lit up. "Who-?"

"We need to review some security videotapes from last night. Just after midnight. It's a matter of great urgency."

"Yes, sir, let me just call the director of security."

Pendergast shook his head wonderingly. "Didn't they tell you this was already cleared?"

"It is? I didn't know. Funny they didn't send down an S.C... ."

"Well," Pendergast interrupted briskly, "I'm glad they at least had the sense to send me to you. You think for yourself; you're not one of those bureaucratic types." He suddenly leaned into the man's face and grasped his shoulder. "Are you wearing body armor, Officer?"

"Body armor? We're not required ... Hey, but why-?"

"We'd better get going."

"Yes, sir." The officer needed no more persuasion. He hustled to the back of his office and unlocked a security door.

Down a beige corridor, past another locked door, and D'Agosta found himself in a large computer room festooned with monitors playing back live video feeds from all over the terminal. A few security guards were sitting around a cafeteria-style table drinking coffee, while a thin, irritated technician rapped away on a keyboard in one corner.

"These gentlemen need to see some video," Carter said to the technician.

"Moment," said the technician.

"No,
now.
This man's FBI and it's a matter of grave importance."

The technician got up, expelling an irritated hiss. "Right. Let's see the S.C." He held out his hand.

"It's been cleared. You got my okay on that."

A roll of the eyes. "So what do you want?"

Pendergast stepped up. "British Airways Flight 822 arrived here from Gatwick just after midnight. I want the security videotapes of the carousel where that flight's luggage arrived and,
most important,
I need to review the feed from the greeting area just beyond customs clearance."

"Have a seat. This might take a while."

"I'm afraid I don't have a while."

"Give me a break. I'll do what I can, but don't hold your breath."

Pendergast broke into a gentle smile. Seeing that smile, D'Agosta felt himself tense up instinctively.

"You're Jonathan Murphy, are you not?" Pendergast asked in his honeyed voice.

"So you can read an ID card. Bravo."

"I believe in the carrot-and-stick method of doing things, Jonathan," Pendergast said, still pleasantly. "Get me those videotapes in five minutes and you will receive a ten-thousand-dollar reward from the FBI's Public Incentive and Reward Program, also known as PIRP. No doubt you've heard of it. On the other hand, fail to get me that videotape and I'll put a red security flag in your file, which will mean that you'll never work at another airport, or any other secured site, in the country again. Now, which is it to be: carrot or stick?"

A silence. The security guards were nudging each other and grinning. Clearly, the technician wasn't popular.

Murphy smirked. "I'll take the ten grand."

"Excellent."

The technician sat down again and went to work with a vengeance, fingers hammering at the keys. D'Agosta watched as numbers scrolled frantically across the CRT.

"We don't use videotapes anymore," he said. "We have everything stored digitally, on-site. The ganged feeds use up an entire terabyte of our RAID-1 array every..."

Suddenly, he stopped bashing at the keyboard. "Okay. The flight arrived at ten minutes after midnight, gate 34. Let's see ... It takes about fifteen minutes, on average, to go through pre-customs and walk to the carousel... I'll cue up to twelve-twenty, just to be safe."

A video sprang to life on Murphy's screen. Pendergast bent forward, scrutinizing it intently. D'Agosta peered over his shoulder. He could see the international baggage area, an empty carousel turning.

"I'll nudge up the speed until people start arriving," Murphy said.

Now the carousel turned much faster. The seconds spun by, in fast motion, at the bottom of the screen. Shortly, people began arriving at the carousel, looking for their luggage. Murphy tapped a set of keys, slowing the video down to normal speed.