“Mr. Sidesky?” Kidder said, raising his voice. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV. A sudden, blessed silence.
“X-ray time!”
No response.
Kidder reached over and gave the man’s shoulder a gentle push—then jerked back with a muffled cry. Even through the covers, the body felt cold.
It wasn’t possible. The man had been brought in an hour ago, alive and healthy.
“Hey, Sidesky! Wake up!” With a trembling hand, he reached out again, pressed on the shoulder—and once again felt that hideous muffled cold.
With a feeling of dread, he grasped the corner of the covers and drew them back, exposing a naked corpse, purple and grotesquely bloated. The stench of death and disinfectants rose up, enveloping him like a miasma.
He staggered, hand over his mouth, choking, mind reeling in confusion and disbelief. The man had not only died, he had started to decay. How was it possible? He looked around wildly but there was no other patient in the ward. There had been some terrible mistake, some crazy mix-up . . .
Kidder took a steadying breath. Then he grasped the figure by the shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. The head flopped around, eyes staring, tongue lolling like a dog, face horribly blue and bloated, mouth draining some kind of yellow matter.
“God!” he moaned, backing up. It wasn’t the injured guard at all. It was the dead prisoner he had worked on just the day before, helping the radiologist produce a series of forensic X-rays.
Trying to keep his voice normal, he paged the Herkmoor chief physician. A moment later the man’s irritated voice came over the intercom.
“I’m busy, what is it?”
For a moment, Kidder didn’t quite know what to say. “You know that dead prisoner in the morgue—”
“Lacarra? They carted him away fifteen minutes ago.”
“No. No, they didn’t.”
“Of course they did. I signed the transfer myself, I saw them load the body bag into the morgue-mobile. It was waiting outside the gate for the all-clear so it could come in for the corpse.”
Kidder swallowed. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think what? What the hell are you talking about, Kidder?”
“Pocho Lacarra . . .” He swallowed, licked dry lips: “. . . is still here.”
Twenty miles to the south, the mortuary vehicle was on the Taconic State Parkway, heading toward New York City through light traffic. Within minutes, it pulled over at a rest area and cruised to a stop.
Vincent D’Agosta tore off his white morgue uniform, climbed into the rear, and unzipped the body bag. Inside was the long, white, nude form of Special Agent Pendergast. The agent sat up, blinking.
“Pendergast! Damn, we did it! We frigging did it!”
The agent held up a hand. “My dear Vincent, please—no effusive demonstrations of affection until I am showered and dressed.”
46
At 6:30 that evening, William Smithback Jr. stood on the sidewalk of Museum Drive, looking up at the brilliantly lit facade of the New York Museum of Natural History. A broad velvet carpet had been unrolled down the great granite steps. A seething crowd of rubberneckers and journalists was held back by velvet ropes and phalanxes of museum guards, while one limousine after another rolled up, disgorging movie stars, city officials, kings and queens of high finance, society matrons, gaunt vacant-eyed fashion models du jour, managing partners, university presidents, and senators—a stupendous parade of money, power, and influence.
The great and powerful ascended the museum steps in a measured flow of black, white, and glitter, looking neither left nor right, heading through the pillared facade and vast bronze doors into a great blaze of light—while the rabble, held back by velvet and brass, gaped, squealed, and photographed. Above, a four-story banner draped over the museum’s neoclassical facade billowed in a light breeze. It depicted a gigantic Eye of Horus with words in faux Egyptian script written underneath:
GRAND OPENING
THE GREAT TOMB OF SENEF
Smithback adjusted the silk tie of his tuxedo and smoothed his lapels. Having arrived in a cab instead of a limo, he had been forced to get out a block shy of the museum and had pushed his way through the crowd until he’d arrived at the ropes. He showed his invitation to a suspicious guard, who called over another, and after several minutes of confabulation they grudgingly allowed him through—right in the perfumed wake of Wanda Meursault, the actress who had made such a fuss at the Sacred Images opening. Smithback considered how distressing it must have been when she lost out in her bid for Best Actress at the recent Academy Awards. With a thrill of pleasure, he marched in the parade of power and passed through the shining gates.
This was going to be the mother of all openings.
The velvet carpet led across the Great Rotunda, with its brace of mounted dinosaurs, through the magnificent African Hall, and from there wound its way through half a dozen musty halls and half-forgotten corridors to arrive at a set of elevators, where the crowd had backed up. It was quite a distance from the entrance, Smithback thought as he waited in line for the next elevator—but the Tomb of Senef was located in the very bowels of the museum, about as far from the front entrance as you could get. He adjusted the knot of his tie. The hike might just pump a little blood through some of these dried-out old husks, he thought. Do them good.
A chime announced the arrival of the next car and he filed in with the rest of them, packed in like black and white sardines, waiting for the elevator to make the crawl to the basement. The doors opened again at last and they were greeted with another blaze of light, the swirling sounds of an orchestra, and beyond, the great Egyptian Hall itself, its nineteenth-century murals beautifully restored. Along the walls, gold, jewels, and faience glittered from every case, while exquisitely laid tea tables and dining tables, flickering with thousands of candles, covered the marble floors. Most important, Smithback thought as his eye roved about, were the long tables along the walls groaning with smoked sturgeon and salmon, crusty homemade breads, huge platters of hand-cut San Daniele prosciutto, silver tubs of pearly-gray sevruga and beluga caviar. Massive silver cauldrons heaped with shaved ice stood at either end, bristling with bottles of Veuve Clicquot like so many batteries of artillery, waiting to be fired and poured.
And these, Smithback thought, were merely the hors d’oeuvres—the dinner was yet to come. He rubbed his hands together, savoring the splendid sight and looking about for his wife, Nora, whom he had hardly seen in the past week, and shivering slightly at the thought of other, more intimate pleasures to be enjoyed later, once this party—and this whole hectic and dreadful week—had finally come to a close.
He was contemplating which of the food tables to assault first when he felt an arm slip through his from behind.
“Nora!” He turned to embrace her. She was dressed in a sleek black gown, tastefully embroidered with silver thread. “You look ravishing!”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Nora reached up and smoothed his unrepentant cowlick, which promptly sprang up again, defying gravity. “My handsome overgrown boy.”
“My Egyptian queen. How’s your neck feeling, by the way?”
“It’s fine, and please stop asking.”
“This is amazing. Oh, God, what a spread.” Smithback looked around. “And to think—you’re the curator. This is your show.”
“I had nothing to do with the party.” She glanced over at the entrance to the Tomb of Senef, closed and draped with a red ribbon, waiting to be cut. “My show’s in there.”
A slim waiter came sweeping by, bearing a silver tray loaded with flutes of champagne, and Smithback snagged two as the man passed, handing one to Nora.
“To the Tomb of Senef,” he said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
“Let’s get some food before the crush,” said Nora. “I’ve only got a few minutes. At seven, I’ve got to say a few words, and then there’ll be other speeches, dinner, and the show. You won’t see much of
me, Bill. I’m sorry.”
“Later, I’ll see more.”
As they approached the tables, Smithback noticed a tall, striking, mahogany-haired woman standing nearby, dressed incongruously in black slacks and a gray silk shirt, open at the neck, set off by a simple string of pearls. It was down-dressing in the extreme, and yet somehow she managed to pull it off, make it look classy, even elegant.
“This is the museum’s new Egyptologist,” said Nora, turning to the woman. “Viola Maskelene. This is my husband, Bill Smithback.”
Smithback was taken aback. “Viola Maskelene? The one who . . . ?” He quickly recovered, extending his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
“Hullo,” the woman said in a cultured, faintly amused accent. “I’ve enjoyed working with Nora these past few days. What a museum!”
“Yes,” said Smithback. “Quite the noble pile. Viola, tell me . . .” Smithback could hardly restrain his curiosity. “How, er, did you happen to end up here in the museum?”
“It was a last-minute thing. With Adrian’s tragic death, the museum needed an Egyptologist right away, someone with expertise on the New Kingdom and the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Hugo Menzies knew of my work, it seems, and suggested my name. I was delighted to take the job.”
Smithback was about to open his mouth to ask another question when he caught Nora casting him a warning look: now was not the time to start pumping her for information about the kidnapping. Still, he reflected, it was mighty strange that Maskelene was so suddenly back in New York—and at the museum, no less. All Smithback’s journalism bells were ringing: this was far too much a coincidence. It bore looking into . . . tomorrow.
“Quite a spread,” Viola said, turning to the food tables. “I’m starving. Shall we?”
“We shall,” said Smithback.
They elbowed up to the teeming tables, and Smithback, gently easing aside a meek curator, reached out and loaded up a plate with a good two ounces of caviar, a tall stack of blinis, and a dollop of crème fraîche. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw, with surprise, that Viola was heaping her plate with an even more unseemly amount of food, apparently as dismissive of decorum as he was.
She caught his eye, colored slightly, then winked. “Haven’t eaten since last night,” she said. “They’ve had me working nonstop.”
“Go right ahead!” Smithback said, scooping up a second mound of caviar, delighted to have a partner in crime.
A sudden burst of music came from the small orchestra at the end of the hall, and there was a smattering of applause as Hugo Menzies, magnificent in white tie and tails, mounted a podium next to the orchestra. A hush fell on the hall as his glittering blue eyes surveyed the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “I won’t inflict a long speech on you tonight, because we have far more interesting entertainment planned. Let me just read you an e-mail I received from the Count of Cahors, who made this all possible with his extraordinarily generous donation:
My dear Ladies and Gentlemen,
I am desolate not to join you in these festivities celebrating the reopening of the Tomb of Senef. I am an old man and can no longer travel. But I shall raise a glass to you and wish you a spectacular evening.
With kindest regards,
Le Comte Thierry de Cahors
A thunder of applause greeted this short missive from the reclusive count. When it died down, Menzies resumed.
“And now,” he said, “I have the pleasure of introducing to you the great soprano Antonella da Rimini as Aïda, joined by tenor Gilles de Montparnasse as Radamès, who will sing for you arias from the final scene of Aïda, ‘La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse,’ which will be sung in English, for the benefit of those of you who do not speak Italian.”
More applause. An enormously fat woman, heavily painted and eyelined, and squeezed to bursting into a faux Egyptian costume, stepped onto the stage, followed by an equally large man in similar garb.
“Viola and I have to go,” Nora whispered to Smithback. “We’re on next.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then left with Viola Maskelene in tow, disappearing into the crowd.
Another round of applause shook the hall as the conductor mounted the stage. Smithback marveled at the enthusiasm of the guests—they had hardly had time to get lubricated. Glancing around while munching a blini, he was surprised at the number of notable faces: senators, captains of industry, movie stars, pillars of society, foreign dignitaries, and of course, the full spread of museum trustees and assorted bigwigs. If somebody nuked the joint, he reflected ghoulishly, the repercussions wouldn’t be just national—they’d be global.
The lights dimmed and the conductor raised his baton, the audience falling into silence. Then the orchestra began a dolorous motif as Radamès sang:
The fatal stone above has sealed my doom,
Here is my tomb! The light of day
I shall never see again . . . Nor shall I see Aïda.
Aïda, my love, where are you? May you live happily,
My hideous fate forever unknown!
But what is that sound? A slithering serpent? A ghoulish vision?
No! A dim human form I see.
By the gods! Aïda!
And now the diva sang out:
Yes, it is I.
Smithback, a confirmed opera-hater, made an effort to shut out the shrieking voice while he returned his attention to the loaded tables. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he took advantage of the temporary lull in the feeding frenzy to scoop up half a dozen oysters; on top of this, he laid two thick slabs cut from an ancient, moldy round of French cheese, added a stack of paper-thin slices of prosciutto and two slices of tongue. Balancing the tottery stack, he moved to the next table and snagged a second flute of champagne, asking the bartender to top it off for efficiency’s sake so he wouldn’t have to return as quickly for a refill. Then he made his way to one of the candlelit tables to enjoy his booty.
A free feed like this came only rarely, and Smithback was determined to make the most of it.
47
Eli Glinn was waiting for the morgue vehicle at the anonymous door to the EES building. Sending someone to deal with the vehicle, he whisked Pendergast off for a shower and change of clothes and assigned D’Agosta to a robotically silent, white-coated technician. The technician had D’Agosta wait while he made a few brief phone calls; then he led the way through the cavernous, echoing space that comprised the heart of the Effective Engineering Solutions building. The large room was quiet, as one would expect at half past seven on a weeknight: even so, several scientists could be seen scribbling on whiteboards or peering at computer monitors, amidst an air of studious efficiency. As he walked past the lab tables, the scientific equipment, and the models, he wondered just how many of the employees knew that their building currently harbored one of the fed’s top fugitives.
D’Agosta followed the technician into a waiting elevator in the rear wall. The man inserted a key into a control panel and pressed the down button. The car descended for a surprisingly long interval before the doors opened onto a pale blue corridor. Motioning D’Agosta to follow, the technician strode down it, stopping at last before a door. He smiled, nodded, then turned and walked back in the direction of the elevator.
D’Agosta stared at the retreating form. Then he glanced back at the unmarked door. After a moment, he gave a tentative knock.
It was immediately opened by a short, cheerful-looking man with a florid face and a closely cropped beard. He ushered D’Agosta in and closed the door behind him.
“You are Lieutenant D’Agosta, yes?” he asked in an accent D’Agosta assumed to be German. “Please have a seat. I am Dr. Rolf Krasner.”
The office had the spare, clinical air of a doctor’s consultation room, with gray carpets, white walls, and anonymous furnishings. A rosewood table stood in the middle, brilliantly polished. In its center sat what looked like a technical manual—thick as the Manhattan telephone book and bound in black plastic. Eli Glin
n had already wheeled himself into position at the far side of the table. He nodded silently to D’Agosta and gestured toward an empty chair.
As D’Agosta seated himself, a door in the back of the room opened and Pendergast appeared. His wounds had been freshly dressed and his hair, still damp from being washed, had been combed back. He was dressed, most incongruously, in a white turtleneck and gray wool pants, which—different as they were from his habitual black suit—almost had the effect of a disguise.
D’Agosta rose instinctively.
Pendergast’s eyes met his, and after a moment he smiled. “I fear I neglected to express my gratitude to you for freeing me from prison.”
“You know you don’t have to do that,” said D’Agosta, coloring.
The Book of the Dead Page 29
