The Book of the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  She followed the security director through a labyrinth of corridors and dusty halls, arriving at last at the exhibit entrance. The museum was still open and the security doors hooked back, but the exhibit itself was almost deserted.

  “Let’s begin here,” said Hayward. “I’ve been going over the setup again and again, and there are a few things I just don’t get. The perp had to enter the hall through this door, am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “The door at the far end could be opened only from the inside, not from the outside. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the security system was supposed to automatically keep a log of all who came and went, because each magnetic card key is coded with the name of the owner.”

  Manetti nodded.

  “But the system registered no entry other than Margo Green. The perp then stole her card and used it to leave by the rear exit.”

  “That’s the assumption.”

  “Green could have entered and left this door hooked open.”

  “No. First, that would have been against the rules. Second, the system registered that she didn’t do that. A few seconds after she entered, the door reengaged. We had an electronic log to that effect.”

  “So the perp must have been waiting in the hall, hiding, from the time it closed to visitors-five o’clock-until the time of the assault, two A.M.”

  Manetti nodded.

  “Or else the perp managed to get around the security system.”

  “We think that’s highly improbable.”

  “But I think it’s almost certain. I’ve been through this hall a dozen times since the assault. There’s no place for the perp to have hidden.”

  “It was under construction. Stuff was all over the place.”

  “It was two days from opening. It was almost finished.”

  “The security system is foolproof.”

  “Like the Diamond Hall. Right?”

  She watched Manetti’s lips tighten and felt a pang. This wasn’t her style. She was becoming a bitch, and she didn’t like it.

  “Thank you, Mr. Manetti,” she said. “I’d like to make another pass through the hall, if you don’t mind.”

  “Be our guest.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Manetti disappeared and Hayward took a thoughtful turn around the room where Green had been attacked, picturing, yet again, each step of the assault in a kind of mental stop-motion. She tried to shut out the little voice in her head that said this was a wild-goose chase; that she wasn’t likely to find anything of value here weeks after the attack, after a hundred thousand people had walked through; that she was doing this for all the wrong reasons; that she should just get on with her life and career while she still could.

  She took another turn around the room, the little voice disappearing under the rap of her heels against the floor. As she came to the side of the case where the spot of blood had been found, she saw a crouched, dark-suited figure moving toward her from behind the case, ready to spring out.

  She pulled out her weapon, drew down on the figure. “You! Freeze! NYPD!”

  The person leaped up with a gargled shout, arms windmilling, an unruly cowlick of hair bobbing. Hayward recognized him as William Smithback, the Times city desk reporter.

  “Don’t shoot!” the journalist cried. “I was just, you know, looking around! Jesus, you’re scaring the hell out of me with that thing!”

  Hayward holstered her weapon, feeling sheepish. “Sorry. I’m a bit on edge.”

  Smithback squinted. “You’re Captain Hayward, isn’t that right?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m covering the Pendergast case for the Times.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Good. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I’m very busy. Make an appointment through my office.”

  “I already tried that. You don’t speak to the press.”

  “That’s right.” She gave him a stern look and took a step forward, but he didn’t step aside to let her pass.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Listen,” he said, talking fast. “I think we can help each other. You know, exchange information, that kind of thing.”

  “If you have any information of an evidentiary nature, you better divulge it now or get slapped with an obstruction charge,” she said sharply.

  “No, nothing like that! It’s just that… well, I think I know why you’re here. You’re not satisfied. You think maybe Pendergast isn’t the one who assaulted Margo. Am I right?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “A busy homicide captain doesn’t waste her valuable time visiting the scene of the crime when the case is wrapped up. You must have your doubts.”

  Hayward said nothing, concealing her surprise.

  “You wonder if the killer might have been Diogenes Pendergast, the agent’s brother. That’s why you’re here.”

  Still, Hayward said nothing, her surprise mounting.

  “And that happens to be why I’m here, too.” He paused and peered at her curiously, as if to gauge the effect of his words.

  “What makes you think it wasn’t Agent Pendergast?” asked Hayward cautiously.

  “Because I know Agent Pendergast. I’ve been covering him-in a manner of speaking-since the museum murders seven years ago. And I know Margo Green. She phoned me from her hospital bed. She swears it wasn’t Pendergast. She says her attacker had eyes of two different colors, one green, the other milky blue.”

  “Pendergast is known to be a master of disguises.”

  “Yeah, but that description fits his brother. Why would he disguise himself as his brother? And we already know his brother pulled the diamond heist and kidnapped that woman, Lady Maskelene. The only logical answer is that Diogenes also assaulted Margo and framed his brother. QED.”

  Once again, Hayward had to control her surprise, his thinking so closely paralleling her own. Finally she allowed a smile. “Well, Mr. Smithback, you seem to be quite the investigative reporter.”

  “That I am,” he hastened to confirm, smoothing down his cowlick, which popped up again, unrepentant.

  She paused a moment, considering. “All right, then. Maybe we can help each other. My involvement, naturally, will be strictly off the record. Background only.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And I expect you to bring anything you find to me first. Before you bring it to your paper. That’s the only way I’ll consent to work with you.”

  Smithback nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

  “Very well. It seems Diogenes Pendergast has vanished. Completely. The trail stops dead at his hideout on Long Island, the place where he held Lady Maskelene prisoner. Such an utter disappearance just doesn’t happen these days, except for one possible circumstance: he slipped into an alter ego. A long-established alter ego.”

  “Any ideas who?”

  “We’ve drawn a blank. But if you were to publish a story about it… well, it just might shake something loose. A tip, a nosy neighbor’s observation: you understand? Naturally, my name couldn’t appear.”

  “I certainly do understand. And-and what do I get in return?”

  Hayward ’s smile returned, broader this time. “You’ve got it backward. I just did you the favor. The question now is, what do you do for me in return? I know you’re covering the diamond heist. I want to know all about it. Everything, big or small. Because you’re right: I think Diogenes is behind the Green assault and the Duchamp murder. I need all the evidence I can get, and because I am in Homicide, it’s difficult for me to access information at the precinct level.”

  She didn’t say that Singleton, the precinct captain handling the diamond theft, was unlikely to share information with her.

  “No problem. We have a deal.”

  She turned away, but Smithback called after her. “Wait!”

  She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.
r />   “When do we meet again? And where?”

  “We don’t. Just call me if-when-something important turns up.”

  “Okay.”

  And she left him in the semidarkness of the exhibition hall, jotting notes hurriedly onto the back of a scrap of paper.

  Chapter 16

  Jay Lipper, computer effects consultant, paused in the empty burial chamber, peering about in the dim light. Four weeks had passed since the museum made the big announcement about the new opening of the Tomb of Senef; and Lipper himself had been on the job three weeks. Today was the big meeting, and he had arrived ten minutes early, to walk through the tomb and visualize the setup he’d diagrammed out: where to lay the fiber-optic cables, where to put the LEDs, where to mount the speakers, where to float the spots, where to put the holographic screens. It was two weeks before the grand opening, and an incredible amount still had to be done.

  He could hear a medley of voices echoing down the multi-chambered tomb from somewhere near the entrance, distorted, mingled with the sound of hammering and the whine of Skilsaws. The teams of workmen were going flat out, and no expense was being spared. Especially his expense: he was charging $120 an hour, working eighty hours a week, making a fortune. On the other hand, he was earning every penny of it. Especially given the clown the museum had assigned him as cable-puller, duct-taper, and all-around electronic gofer. A real knuckle-dragger: if the guy was typical of the museum’s tech staff, they were in trouble. The man was so buffed and toned he looked like a brick of meat, with a bullet head that contained about as much gray matter as a spaniel. The man probably spent his weekends in the gym instead of boning up on the technology he was supposed to understand.

  As if on cue, the clown’s voice rang down the corridor. “Dark as a tomb in here, hey, Jayce?” Teddy DeMeo came lumbering around the corner, arms full of an untidy bundle of rolled electronic diagrams.

  Lipper tightened his lips and reminded himself once again of that $120 an hour. The worst of it was that, before he’d gotten to know what DeMeo was like, Lipper had unwisely mentioned to him the massively multiplayer online RPG he was involved in: Land of Darkmord. And DeMeo had immediately gone online and subscribed. Lipper’s character, a devious half-elf sorcerer with a +5 onyx cape and a full book of offensive spells, had spent weeks organizing a military expedition to a distant castle stronghold. He’d been recruiting warriors-and suddenly, there was DeMeo, in the character of a slope-faced orc carrying a club, volunteering for military service, acting like his best friend, full of asinine questions and stupid off-color jokes and embarrassing him in front of all the other players.

  DeMeo came to a halt beside him, breathing hard, the sweat pouring off his brow, smelling like a damp sock.

  “All right, let’s see…” He unrolled one of the plats. Naturally, DeMeo was holding it upside down, and it took him several seconds to right it.

  “Give it to me,” said Lipper, snatching it from him and smoothing it out. He glanced at his watch. Still five minutes before the curatorial committee was due to arrive. No problem-at two dollars a minute, Lipper would wait for Godot.

  He sniffed, looked around. “Someone’s going to have to do something about this humidity. I can’t have my electronics sitting in a sweatshop.”

  “Yeah,” said DeMeo, looking around. “And will you look at this weird shit? I mean, what the hell’s that? Gives me the creeps.”

  Lipper glanced over at the fresco in question, depicting a human being with the black head of an insect, wearing pharaonic dress. The burial chamber was creepy: walls black with hieroglyphics, ceiling covered with a representation of the night sky, strange yellow stars and a moon against a field of deep indigo. But the truth was, Lipper liked being creeped out. It was like being inside the world of Darkmord for real.

  “That’s the god Khepri,” he said. “A man with the head of a scarab beetle. He helps roll the sun across the sky.” Working on the project had fascinated Lipper, and he’d delved deeply into Egyptian mythology over the last several weeks, looking for background and visual cues.

  “The Mummy meets The Fly,” said DeMeo with a laugh.

  Their conversation was cut short by a rising hubbub of voices as a group entered the burial chamber: the man in charge, Menzies, followed by his curators.

  “Gentlemen! I’m glad you’re already here. We don’t have much time.” Menzies came forward, shook their hands. “You all know each other, of course.”

  They all nodded. How could they not, having practically been living together these past few weeks? There was Dr. Nora Kelly, someone Lipper could at least work with; the smug Brit named Wicherly; and Mr. Personality himself, the anthropology curator, George Ashton. The committee.

  As the new arrivals talked briefly among themselves, Lipper felt a painful dig in his ribs. He looked over to see DeMeo, mouth open, winking and leering. “Man, oh man,” he whispered, nodding at Dr. Kelly. “I’d climb all over that in a heartbeat.”

  Lipper glanced away, rolling his eyes.

  “Well!” Menzies turned to address them again. “Shall we do the walk-through?”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Menzies!” said DeMeo.

  Lipper gave him a look he hoped would shut the moron up. This was his plan, his brainwork, his artistry: DeMeo’s job was rack-mounting the equipment, pulling cable, and making sure juice got to all parts of the system.

  “We should start at the beginning,” Lipper said, leading them back to the entrance with another warning side glance at DeMeo.

  They threaded their way back through the half-built exhibits and the construction teams. As they approached the entrance to the tomb, Lipper felt his annoyance at DeMeo displaced by a growing excitement. The “script” for the sound-and-light show had been written by Wicherly, with various additions by Kelly and Menzies, and the end result was good. Very good. In turning it into reality, he’d made it even better. This was going to be one kick-ass exhibition.

  Reaching the God’s First Passage, Lipper turned to face the others. “The sound-and-light show will be triggered automatically. It’s important that people be let into the tomb as a group and move through it together. As they proceed, they’ll trip hidden sensors that in turn start each sequence of the show. When the sequence ends, they will move to the next part of the tomb and see the next sequence. After the show ends, the group will have fifteen minutes to look around the tomb before being escorted out and the next group brought in.”

  He pointed to the ceiling. “The first sensor will be up there, in the corner. As the visitors pass this point, the sensor will register, wait thirty seconds for stragglers to catch up, and start the first sequence, which I call act 1.”

  “How are you hiding the cable?” asked Menzies.

  “No problem,” broke in DeMeo. “We’re running it through black one-inch conduit. They’ll never see it.”

  “Nothing can be affixed to the painted surface,” said Wicherly.

  “No, no. The conduit is steel, self-supporting, only needs to be anchored in the corners. It floats two millimeters above the surface of the paint, won’t even touch it.”

  Wicherly nodded.

  Lipper breathed out, thankful that DeMeo hadn’t come across as an idiot-at least not yet.

  Lipper led the party into the next chamber. “When the visitors reach the center of the God’s Second Passage-where we’re standing now-the lights will suddenly dim. There will be the sound of digging, furtive chatter, pickaxes striking stone-at first just sounds in the dark, no visuals. A voice-over will explain that this is the tomb of Senef and that it is about to be robbed by the very priests who buried him two months before. The sounds of digging will get louder as the robbers reach the first sealed door. They’ll attack it with pickaxes-and then, suddenly, one will break through. That’s when the visuals start.”

  “The point where they break through the sealed door is critical,” Menzies said. “What’s needed is a resounding blow from the pickax, a tumble of stones inward, and a piercing
shaft of light like a bolt of lightning. This is a key moment and it needs to be dramatic.”

  “It will be dramatic.” Lipper felt a faint irritation. Menzies, while charming enough, had been intrusive and meddlesome about certain technical details, and Lipper was worried he might micromanage the installation as well.

  Lipper continued. “Then the lights come up and the voice-over directs the audience to the well.” He led them through the long passageway and a broad staircase. Ahead, a new bridge had been built over the pit, broad enough to hold a large group.

  “As they approach the well,” Lipper went on, “a sensor in that corner will pick up their passage and begin act 2.”

  “Right,” DeMeo interrupted. “Each act will be independently controlled by a pair of dual-processor PowerMac G5s, slaved to a third G5 that will act as backup and master controller.”

  Lipper rolled his eyes. DeMeo had just quoted, word for word, from Lipper’s own spec sheet.

  “Where will these computers be located?” asked Menzies.

  “We’re going to cable through the wall-”

  “Look here,” said Wicherly. “No one’s going to drill any holes in the walls of this tomb.”

  DeMeo turned to him. “It just so happens that a long time ago somebody already drilled through the wall-in five places! The holes were cemented up, but I found them and cleared them out.” DeMeo crossed his muscled arms in triumph, as if he’d just kicked sand in the face of a ninety-eight-pound weakling at the beach.

  “What’s on the far side?” Menzies asked.

  “A storeroom,” said DeMeo, “currently empty. We’re converting it to a control room.”

  Lipper cleared his throat, forestalling any more interruptions by DeMeo. “In act 2, visitors will see the digitized images of the robbers bridging the well so they can break the second sealed door. A screen will lower on the far side of the well-unseen to the visitors, of course. Then a holographic projector in the far corner will project images of the robbers in the passageway ahead, carrying burning torches, breaking the seals of the inner door, smashing it down, and heading for the burial chamber. The idea here is to make the visitors feel like they’re actually part of the gang of robbers. They’ll follow the robbers into the inner tomb-where act 3 begins.”