But as he approached the stone steps leading to the surface, and the faint sweet circle of moonlit sky appeared above him, he saw with sudden horror bulky figures looming forward, blotting out the stars. Now they were descending—oh, God—toward him. He dropped back to the catwalk, desperately looking around at the brick walls, at the curve of the shaftway as it ran down toward the pit. To one side of the catwalk lay the entrance to an access tunnel: an ancient stone archway, rimed in crystallized lime, like hoarfrost. The figures were closing in fast now. Smithback leapt for the archway, passed beneath it, and entered a low tunnel. Feeble lightbulbs dotted its ceiling at infrequent intervals. He plunged forward, running with desperate abandon, realizing even as he did so that the tunnel angled in precisely the direction he did not want to go: down, ever down.
= 51 =
THE FBI AGENT on duty in Armory Division was leaning back, nose deep in a copy of Soldier of Fortune, his chair precariously balanced on its rear two legs. Over the top of the magazine, Margo could see his eyes widen at their approach. Probably he wasn’t used to seeing an impossibly ratty, wild-eyed man with an unkempt beard, wandering around the basement of the FBI’s Federal Plaza headquarters with a young woman and pudgy man in tow. She watched as the eyes suddenly narrowed, the nostrils flaring. Must have caught wind of Mephisto, as well, Margo thought.
“Just what the hell can I do for you gentlemen?” the guard asked, lowering the magazine and easing the chair forward slowly.
“They’re with me,” Pendergast said briskly, coming forward and flashing his identification. But the man had caught sight of him and bounded to his feet already, the magazine skidding across the floor.
“I’ll need to sign for some ordnance,” Pendergast said.
“Of course, right away, sir,” the agent babbled, unlocking the upper and lower locks of the metal door behind him and swinging it open.
Margo stepped into the large room beyond. Row upon row of wooden cabinets rose in ordered procession toward the low ceiling. “What is all this stuff?” she asked as they followed Pendergast down the nearest aisle.
“Emergency supplies,” came the answer. “Rations, medical supplies, bottled water, food supplements, blankets and bedding, spare parts for the essential systems, fuel.”
“You got enough shit to withstand a siege in here,” D’Agosta muttered.
“That’s exactly the point, Lieutenant,” Pendergast said, approaching a small metal door in the far wall, punching in a code, and flinging it open. Beyond lay a narrow corridor. Rows of stainless steel lockers flanked both sides, Plexiglas labels engraved on their fronts. Entering the room, Margo stopped to look at a few of the closest labels: M-16/XM-148, CAR-15/SM-177E2, KEVLAR S-M, KEVLAR L-XXL.
“The cop and his toys,” Mephisto said.
Pendergast moved quickly down the aisle, then stopped at a locker, wrenched it open, and removed three masks of clear plastic, attached to small canisters of oxygen. Keeping one for himself, he tossed the others to D’Agosta and Mephisto.
“Just in case you feel like gassing a few more underground residents on our way down?” Mephisto said, catching it awkwardly in his manacled hands. “I’ve heard we make good sport.”
Pendergast stopped and turned toward the homeless man. “I know you feel your people were ill-used by the police,” he said quietly. “As it happens, I agree with you. You’ll simply have to take my word when I say I had nothing to do with it.”
“Two-faced Janus speaks again. Mayor of Grant’s Tomb, sure. I should’ve known it was a crock of shit.”
“It was your own paranoia and isolation that made my ruse necessary,” Pendergast said, opening additional lockers and removing a head-mounted flash unit, several pairs of goggles with long eye-stalks Margo guessed were night-vision devices, and some long yellow canisters she didn’t recognize. “I don’t, and never did, look upon you as an enemy.”
“Then take these cuffs off.”
“Don’t do it,” D’Agosta warned.
Pendergast poised in the act of removing several K-bar knives from the locker. Then he dug into the breast pocket of his black suit, stepped forward, and released the cuffs with a quick turn of his wrist. Mephisto flung them contemptuously down the narrow corridor.
“Planning on whittling while you’re below, Whitey?” he asked. “Those little Special Forces penknives you’ve got there won’t do you much good against the Wrinklers. Except maybe tickle them some.”
“It is my hope we won’t meet up with any inhabitants of the Astor Tunnels,” Pendergast said, snugging a pair of handguns into the waist of his pants, his head buried in the locker. “But I’ve already learned that it pays to be prepared.”
“Well, enjoy your turkey shoot, FBI man. Afterwards, we can stop by Route 666 for tea and biscuits, have a nice chin-wag, maybe get your trophies stuffed.”
As Margo watched, Pendergast stepped back from the locker. Then he moved slowly toward Mephisto. “What can I do, exactly, to impress on you the seriousness of this situation?” he asked, his face inches from that of the underground leader. He spoke softly, yet there was a subtle edge to his voice that seemed somehow menacing.
Mephisto took a step backward. “If that’s what you want, you’re going to have to trust me.”
“If I didn’t,” Pendergast replied, “I wouldn’t have removed your handcuffs.”
“Then prove it.” Mephisto said, quickly recovering his nerve. “Give me a piece. One of those nice shiny Stoners I saw in that locker back there. Or at least a 12-gauge. If you guys get greased, I want a fighting chance to survive.”
“Pendergast, don’t be crazy,” D’Agosta said. “This guy’s bent. Today’s the first time he’s seen daylight since George Bush was president, for Chrissakes.”
“How quickly can you get us to the Astor Tunnels?” Pendergast asked.
“Ninety minutes, maybe. If you don’t mind getting your feet wet on the way down.”
There was a silence. “You seem to know your weapons. Do you have any experience?”
“Seventh Infantry, I-Corps. Wounded for the greater glory of the U.S. of frigging A. in the Iron Triangle.” As Margo watched with disgusted fascination, Mephisto unbuckled his filthy pants and dropped them, exposing a puckered scar that ran across his abdomen and down his thigh, ending in a large knot of scar tissue. “Had to restuff me before they could get me onto the stretcher,” he said, with a lopsided grin.
Pendergast paused for a long moment. Then he turned, opened another locker, and removed two automatic weapons, slinging one over his right arm and tossing the other to D’Agosta. Then he withdrew a case of buckshot and a stubby-looking pump-action shotgun. He closed the locker, turned, and passed the weapon to Mephisto.
“Don’t let me down, soldier,” he said, his hand still on the barrel.
Mephisto pulled the gun from Pendergast and pumped the magazine, saying nothing.
Margo had begun to notice a troublesome pattern: Pendergast had been removing plenty of equipment, but none of it was finding its way to her. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “What about me? Where’s my gear?”
“I’m afraid you’re not coming,” Pendergast said, dragging bulletproof vests from the locker and checking their sizes.
“Who the hell says I’m not?” Margo said. “Because I’m a woman?”
“Dr. Green, please. You know very well it has nothing to do with that. You’re not experienced in this kind of police action.” Pendergast began digging into another locker. “Here, Vincent, take charge of these, will you?”
“M-26 fragmentation grenades,” D’Agosta said, handling them gingerly. “You’ve got enough firepower in here to invade China, pal.”
“Not experienced?” Margo echoed, ignoring D’Agosta. “I was the one who saved your ass back there in the Museum, remember? If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been Mbwun droppings long ago.”
“I would be the first to admit it, Dr. Green,” Pendergast replied as he shrugged into a backpack equipped wi
th a long hose and a strange hooded nozzle.
“Don’t tell me that’s a flamethrower,” D’Agosta asked.
“ABT FastFire, if I’m not mistaken,” Mephisto said. “When I was a grunt, we called the jelly they sprayed purple haze. The sadistic weapon of a morally bankrupt republic.” He looked speculatively into one of the open lockers.
“I’m an anthropologist,” Margo said. “I know these creatures better than anyone. You’re going to need my expertise.”
“Not enough to endanger your life,” said Pendergast. “Dr. Frock’s an anthropologist, too. Shall we wheel him down with us and get his learned opinion on the matter?”
“I was the one who discovered all this. Remember?” Margo realized she was raising her voice.
“She’s right,” said D’Agosta. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”
“That still doesn’t give us the right to involve her further,” Pendergast replied. “Besides, she’s never been below ground, and she’s not a police officer.”
“Look!” Margo shouted. “Forget my expertise. Forget the help I’ve given you in the past. I’m an expert shot. D’Agosta here can testify. And I’m not going to slow you down, either. If anything, you’ll be panting to keep up with me. It comes down to this: if you get in trouble down there, every extra body you’ve got is going to count.”
Pendergast turned his pale eyes toward her, and Margo could feel the keen force of his stare as it almost seemed to probe her thoughts. “Why exactly do you need this, Dr. Green?” he asked.
“Because—” Margo stopped suddenly, wondering why, in fact, she wanted to descend to that netherworld. It would be so much easier to wish them well, step out of the building, walk home, order dinner from the Thai restaurant on the corner, and crack open that Thackeray novel she’d been meaning to start for the last month.
Then she realized it was not a question of wanting. Eighteen months before, she had stared into the face of Mbwun, seen her reflection in its feral red eyes. Together, she and Pendergast had killed the beast. And she’d thought it was over. They all did. Now she knew better.
“A couple of months ago,” she said, “Greg Kawakita tried to contact me. I never bothered to follow up. If I had, maybe all of this could have been avoided.” She paused. “I need to see this thing finished.”
Pendergast continued to gaze at her appraisingly.
“You brought me back into this, goddammit!” Margo said, rounding on D’Agosta. “It’s the last thing I wanted. But now that I’m here, I need to see it through.”
“She’s right about that, too,” D’Agosta said. “I did bring her into the investigation.”
Pendergast put his hands on Margo’s shoulders in an uncharacteristically physical gesture. “Margo, please,” he said quietly. “Try to understand. Back at the Museum, there was no choice. We were already trapped inside with Mbwun. This is different. We’re walking knowingly into danger. You’re a civilian. I’m sorry, but there it is.”
“For once, I agree with Mayor Whitey.” Mephisto looked at Margo. “You seem like a person of integrity. That means you’re out of place in company like this. So let them get their own official asses killed.”
Pendergast looked at Margo a moment longer. Then, dropping his hands, he turned toward Mephisto. “What’s our route?” he asked.
“The Lexington line, under Bloomingdale’s,” came the response. “There’s an abandoned shaft, about a quarter mile north on the express track. Heads straight into the Park, then angles down toward the Bottleneck.”
“Christ,” D’Agosta said. “Maybe that’s how the Wrinklers ambushed that train.”
“Maybe.” Pendergast fell silent a moment, as if lost in thought. “We’ll need to draw the explosives from C section,” he continued abruptly, moving toward the door. “Let’s go. We’ve got less than two hours.”
“Come on, Margo,” D’Agosta said over his shoulder as he jogged after Pendergast. “We’ll see you out.”
Margo stood motionless, watching the three move quickly toward the outer door of the armory. “Shit!” she cried in a frustrated rage, throwing her carryall to the floor and giving the nearest locker a vicious kick. Then she sank to the floor and put her head in her hands.
= 52 =
SNOW CHECKED THE oversized wall clock. The narrow hands behind the protective metal cage read 10:15 P.M. His eyes traveled across the empty squad room, past the extra tanks and regulators, the torn flippers and oversized masks. His gaze came to rest at last on the mountain of paperwork atop the desk in front of him, and he winced inwardly. Here he was, supposedly recovering from a bacterial infection of the lungs. But he, and the rest of the NYPD dive team, knew that he was actually in the doghouse. The Dive Sergeant had taken him aside, told him what a great job he’d done, but Snow hadn’t believed it. Even the fact that the skeletons he’d discovered had been the start of a big police investigation didn’t make any real difference. The fact was he’d lost it, lost it on his first dive. Even Fernandez didn’t bother to tease him anymore.
He sighed, looking out the grimy window at the long-deserted dock and the dark oily water beyond, glittering in the restless night. The rest of the squad was out after a helicopter crash in the East River earlier in the evening. And there was something big going on in the city, too: his police radio had been squawking nonstop with talk of marches, riots, mobilizations, crowd-control measures. Seemed like the action was everywhere except in his own quiet little corner of the Brooklyn docks. And here he was, filling out reports.
He sighed, stapled some papers into a folder, closed it, and tossed it in the outgoing tray. Dead dog, removed from the Gowanus canal. Cause of death: gunshot wound; ownership unknown; case closed. He slid another folder off the pile: Randolf Rowell, jumper, Triborough Bridge, age 22. Suicide note found in pocket. Cause of death: drowning. Case closed.
As he dropped the file into the bin, he heard the diesel rumble of the launch as it nosed its way into the dock. Back early. The engine sounded different somehow, throatier, he thought. Maybe it needed a tune-up or something.
He heard running footfalls on the wooden dock and suddenly the door burst open: men in black wet suits, no insignia, faces black and green with greasepaint. Twin haversacks of rubber and latex dangled around their necks.
“Where’s the dive team?” barked the forward man, a hulking figure with a Texas accent.
“East River chopper crash,” Snow said. “You the second squad?” He glanced out the window and was surprised to see, not a familiar blue-and-white police boat, but a powerful inboard V-bottom launch, lying low in the water and painted as dark as the men.
“All of them?” the man asked.
“All except me. Who are you?”
“We ain’t your mother’s long-lost nephews, darlin’,” the man said. “We need someone who knows the shortest route into the West Side Lateral, and we need him now.”
Snow felt an involuntary twinge. “Let me radio the Dive Sergeant—”
“No time. What about you?”
“Well, I know the flow grid around the Manhattan shoreline. That’s part of Basic, every police driver has to—”
“Can you bring us in?” the man said brusquely, cutting him off.
“You want to get in the West Side Lateral? Most of the pipes are grilled, or too narrow for a—”
“Just answer the question: yes or no?”
“I think so,” Snow said, his voice faltering a little.
“Your name?”
“Snow. Officer Snow.”
“Get in the boat.”
“But my tanks and suit—”
“We got everything you need. You can suit up on the launch.”
Snow scrambled from his chair, following the men out onto the dock. It didn’t seem to be an invitation he could refuse. “You still haven’t told me who—”
The man paused, one foot on the gunwale of the launch. “Commander Rachlin, Patrol Leader, SEAL Team Blue Seven. Now get a wiggle on.�
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The helmsman gunned the launch out of the slip. “Mind your rudder,” the Commander said, then gestured Snow closer. “Here’s the op,” he said, lifting a matted seat and pulling out a sheaf of waterproof maps from the storage space beneath. “There’ll be four teams, two to each team.” He glanced around. “Donovan!”
“Sir!” a man said, coming over. Even in the bulky suit, he looked thin and wiry. Snow could see nothing of his facial features behind the neoprene and greasepaint.
“Donovan, you and Snow here are buddying up.”
There was a silence that Snow interpreted as disgust. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s a UD job,” Rachlin said.
“A what?”
The Commander looked at him sharply. “Underwater demolition. That’s all you need to know.”
“Is this connected with the headless murders?” Snow asked.
The Commander stared. “For a dumb-ass, tit-suckin’, bath-tub-divin’ tadpole of a po-lice diver, you ask a whole lot of questions, darlin’.”
Snow said nothing. He didn’t dare look at Donovan.
“We can chart our way in from this point,” Rachlin said, unrolling one of the maps and tamping his thumb on a blue dot. “But the new treatment plant made these insertion areas here obsolete. So you’re gonna get us in to that point.”
Snow bent over the laminated map. At the top, in chiseled copperplate script, a legend read WEST SIDE STORM AND SEWER SURVEY, LOWER QUADRANT. Below was a labyrinth of faint intersecting lines. Somebody had placed three sets of dots beneath the western side of Central Park. He stared at the complex traceries, his mind racing. The Humboldt Kill was the easiest insertion point, but it was a hell of a long way in to the Lateral from there, with many twists and turns. Besides, he didn’t want to go back there, ever, if he could help it. He tried to remember their training sessions, the long days on boats nosing up muddy canals. Where else did the West Side Lateral drain into?
“This isn’t an essay question,” Rachlin said quietly. “Hurry it up. We’re on a tight schedule here.”
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