The Book of the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  “How did you come by this information?” Pendergast asked in a voice so cold D’Agosta felt his blood freeze.

  “Agent Pendergast, please. The acquisition of knowledge is our primary stock-in-trade. In trying to learn more about you-for purposes of better understanding your brother-we have spoken to a great many people. One of them was Cornelia Delamere Pendergast, your great-aunt. Current residence: the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Then there was a certain associate of yours, Miss Corrie Swanson, enrolled as a senior at Phillips Exeter Academy. She was a rather more difficult subject, but we ultimately learned what we needed to.”

  Glinn regarded Pendergast with his Sphinx-like gaze. Pendergast returned the look, his pale cat’s eyes hardly blinking. The tension in the conference room increased rapidly; D’Agosta felt the hairs on his arms standing on end.

  At last Pendergast spoke. “This prying into my private life goes far beyond the bounds of your employ.”

  Glinn did not reply.

  “I use the memory crossing in a strictly impersonal way-as a forensic tool, to re-create the scene of a crime or a historical event. That is all. It would have no value with such a… personal matter.”

  “No value?” A dry tone of skepticism crept into Glinn’s voice.

  “On top of that, it is a very difficult technique. Attempting to apply it here would be a waste of time. Just like the little game that Dr. Krasner tried to play with me.”

  Glinn leaned forward again in his wheelchair, still staring at Pendergast. When he spoke, his voice carried a sudden urgency.

  “Mr. Pendergast, isn’t it possible that the same event which has marred your brother so terribly-which turned him into a monster-scarred you as well? Isn’t it possible you have walled up its memory so completely that you no longer have any conscious recollection of it?”

  “Mr. Glinn-”

  “Tell me,” Glinn said, his voice growing louder. “Isn’t it possible?”

  Pendergast looked at him, gray eyes glinting. “I suppose it is remotely possible.”

  “If it is possible, and if this memory does exist, and if this memory will help us find that last missing piece, and if by doing so we can save lives and defeat your brother… isn’t it at least worth trying?”

  The two men held each other’s gaze for less than a minute, but to D’Agosta it seemed to last forever. Then Pendergast looked down. His shoulders slumped visibly. Wordlessly he nodded.

  “Then we must proceed,” Glinn went on. “What do you require?”

  Pendergast did not reply for a moment. Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Privacy,” he said.

  “Will the Berggasse studio suffice?”

  “Yes.”

  Pendergast placed both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself upright. Without a glance at the others in the room, he turned and made his way back toward the room from which he’d emerged.

  “Agent Pendergast…?” Glinn said.

  Hand on the doorknob, Pendergast half turned.

  “I know how difficult this ordeal will be. But this is not the time for half measures. There can be no holding back. Whatever it is, it must be faced-and confronted-in its totality. Agreed?”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “Then good luck.”

  A wintry smile passed briefly over the agent’s face. Then, without another word, he opened the door to the study and slipped out of sight.

  Chapter 48

  Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood to the left of the Egyptian Hall entrance, gazing dubiously over the crowd. She had dressed in a dark suit, the better to blend in with the crowd, the only sign of her authority the tiny gold captain’s bars pinned to her lapel. Her weapon, a basic Smith amp; Wesson.38, was in its holster under her suit jacket.

  The scene that greeted her eyes was one of textbook security. Her people, plainclothed and uniformed, were all at their appointed stations. They were the best she had-truly New York’s finest. The museum guard presence was there as well, deliberately obtrusive, adding at least a psychological sense of security. Manetti had so far been fully cooperative. The rest of the museum had been painstakingly secured. Hayward had run dozens of disaster scenarios through her head, drawing up plans to deal with every contingency, even the most unlikely: suicide bomber, fire, security system malfunction, power failure, computer failure.

  The only weakness was the tomb itself-it had only one exit. But it was a large exit, and at the insistence of the NYC fire marshals, the tomb and all its contents had been specially fireproofed. She herself had made sure the tomb’s security doors could be opened or closed from the inside or outside, manually or electronically, even in the case of a total power failure. She had stood in the control room, occupying the empty room next to the tomb, and had operated the software that opened and closed the doors.

  The toxicological teams had made not one sweep, not two, but three-the results uniformly negative. And now she stood, surveying the crowd, asking herself, What could possibly go wrong?

  Her intellect answered loud and clear: Nothing.

  But her gut sensed otherwise. She felt almost physically sick with unease. It was irrational; it made no sense.

  Once more, she delved deep into her cop instincts, trying to discover the source of the feeling. As usual, her thoughts formed almost automatically into a list. And this time the list was all about Diogenes Pendergast.

  Diogenes was alive.

  He had kidnapped Viola Maskelene.

  He had attacked Margo.

  He had stolen the diamond collection-and then destroyed it.

  He had probably been responsible for at least some of the killings ascribed to Pendergast.

  He spent a great deal of time in the museum in some unknown capacity, most likely posing as a curator.

  Both perps-Lipper and Wicherly-had been involved with the Tomb of Senef, and both had suddenly gone mad after being in the tomb. And yet a meticulous examination of the tomb and the hall had produced no evidence whatsoever of any kind of environmental or electrical problem-certainly nothing that could trigger psychotic breaks or brain damage. Was Diogenes somehow to blame? What on earth was he planning?

  Against her will, her mind returned to the conversation she’d had with D’Agosta in her office days before. All of what he’s done so far-the killings, the kidnapping, the diamond theft-has been leading up to something else. Those had been his words. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.

  She shivered. Her conjectures, her questions about Diogenes-it was all linked, it had to be. It was part of a plan.

  But what was the plan?

  Hayward hadn’t the slightest idea. And yet her gut told her it would happen tonight. It couldn’t be coincidence. This was the “something else” D’Agosta had talked about.

  Her eyes traveled around the room, making contact with her people, one by one. As she did so, she picked out the many famous faces in the hall: the mayor, the speaker pro tem of the House, the governor, at least one of the state’s two senators. And there were many others: CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, Hollywood producers, a smattering of actors and television personalities. Then there were the museum staff she knew: Collopy, Menzies, Nora Kelly…

  Her eyes moved to the PBS television crew, which had set up at one end of the hall and was filming the gala live. A second crew had set up inside the as-yet-unopened tomb, ready to film the first VIP tour of the exhibition and the sound-and-light show that would be part of it.

  Yes-that would be part of the plan. Whatever was going to happen would happen live, with millions watching. And if Diogenes’s alter ego was a curator, or somebody else highly placed in the museum, he would have the power and the access necessary to engineer almost anything. But who could he be? Manetti’s careful probing of the museum’s personnel files turned up nothing. If only they had a picture of Diogenes that was less than twenty-five years old, a fingerprint, a bit of DNA…

  What was the plan?

  Her eye ended up at the closed
door to the tomb, the steel now covered with a faux stone finish, a huge red ribbon stretched across its front.

  Her feeling of sickness increased. And along with it came a desperate feeling of isolation. She had done everything in her power to stop, or at least postpone, this opening. But she had convinced nobody. Even Police Commissioner Rocker, her ally in the past, had demurred.

  Was it all in her mind? Had the pressure finally gotten to her? If only she had someone who saw things her way, who understood the background, the true nature of Diogenes. Someone like D’Agosta.

  D’Agosta. He had been ahead of her at every step of the investigation. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Long before anyone else, he’d known the kind of criminal they were up against. He had insisted Diogenes was alive even when she and everyone else had “proved” he was dead.

  And he knew the museum-knew it cold. He’d been involved in cases connected to the museum going back half a dozen years or more. He knew the players. God, if only he were here now… Not D’Agosta the man-that was over-but D’Agosta the cop.

  She controlled her breathing. No point wishing for the impossible. She had done all she could. There was nothing left now but to wait, watch, and be ready to act.

  Once again her eye roved the crowd, gauged the flow, examined each face for unnatural tension, excitement, anxiety.

  Suddenly she froze. There, standing by the group of dignitaries near the podium, stood the tall figure of a woman: a woman she recognized.

  All her alarm bells went off. Making an effort to control her voice, she raised her radio. “Manetti, Hayward here, do you read?”

  “Copy.”

  “Is that Viola Maskelene I’m looking at? Over by the podium.”

  A pause. “That’s her.”

  Hayward swallowed. “What’s she doing here?”

  “She was hired to replace that Egyptologist, Wicherly.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. A day or two ago.”

  “Who hired her?”

  “Anthropology, I think.”

  “Why wasn’t her name on the guest list?”

  A hesitation. “I’m not sure. Probably because she was such a recent hire.”

  Hayward wanted to say more. She wanted to curse into the radio. She wanted to demand to know why she hadn’t been told. But it was too late for all that. Instead, she merely said, “Over and out.”

  The profile indicated that Diogenes isn’t through.

  The whole gala opening looked like a meticulous setup-but for what?

  D’Agosta’s words rang in her ears like a Klaxon. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.

  Jesus, she needed D’Agosta-she needed him right now. He had the answers she didn’t.

  She pulled out her personal phone, tried his cellular. No response.

  She glanced at her watch: 7:15. The evening was still young. If she could find him, get him back here… Where the hell could he be? Once again, his words echoed in her mind:

  There’s something else you ought to know. Have you heard of the forensic profiling firm of Effective Engineering Solutions, down on Little West 12th Street, run by an Eli Glinn? I’ve been spending most of my time down there recently, moonlighting…

  It was just a chance-but it was better than nothing. It sure beat waiting here, twiddling her thumbs. With luck, she could be there and back in less than forty minutes.

  She lifted her radio again. “Lieutenant Gault?”

  “Copy.”

  “I’m heading out briefly. You’re in charge.”

  “There’s somebody I need to speak with. If anything-anything-out of the ordinary happens, you have my authority to shut this down. Totally. You understand?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She pocketed the radio and walked briskly out of the hall.

  Chapter 49

  Pendergast stood in the small study, back pressed against the door, motionless. His eyes took in the rich furnishings: the couch covered with Persian rugs, the African masks, the side table, bookshelves, curious objets d’art.

  He took a steadying breath. With a great effort of will, he made his way to the couch, lay down upon it slowly, folded his hands over his chest, crossed his ankles, and closed his eyes.

  Over his professional career, Pendergast had found himself in many difficult and dangerous circumstances. And yet none of these equaled what he now faced in this little room.

  He began with a series of simple physical exercises. He slowed his breathing and decelerated his heartbeat. He blocked out all external sensation: the rustle of the forced-air heating system, the faint smell of furniture polish, the pressure of the couch beneath him, his own corporeal awareness.

  At last-when his respiration was barely discernible and his pulse hovered close to forty beats per minute-he allowed a chessboard to materialize before his mind’s eye. His hands drifted over the well-worn pieces. A white pawn was moved forward on the board. A black pawn responded. The game continued, moving to stalemate. Another game began, ending the same way. Then another game, and another…

  … but without the expected result. Pendergast’s memory palace-the storehouse of knowledge and information in which he kept his most personal secrets, and from which he carried out his most profound meditation and introspection-did not materialize before him.

  Mentally, Pendergast switched games, moving from chess to bridge. Now, instead of setting two players against each other, he posited four, playing as partners, with the infinity of strategy, signals both missed and made, and plays of the hand that could result. Quickly he played through a rubber, then another.

  The memory palace refused to appear. It remained out of reach, shifting, insubstantial.

  Pendergast waited, reducing his heartbeat and respiration still further. Such a failure had never occurred before.

  Now, delving into one of the most difficult of the Chongg Ran exercises, he mentally detached his consciousness from his body, then rose above it, floating incorporeal in space. Without opening his eyes, he re-created a virtual construct of the room in which he lay, imagining every object in its place, until the entire room had materialized in his mind, complete to the last detail. He lingered over it for several moments. And then, piece by piece, he proceeded to remove the furnishings, the carpeting, the wallpaper, until at last everything was gone once again.

  But he did not stop there. Next, he proceeded to remove all the bustling city that surrounded the room: initially, structure by structure, then block by block, and then neighborhood by neighborhood, the act of intellectual oblivion gaining speed as it raced outward in all directions. Counties next; then states; nations, the world, the universe, all fell away into blackness.

  Within minutes, everything was gone. Only Pendergast himself remained, floating in an infinite void. He then willed his own body to disappear, consumed by darkness. The universe was now entirely empty, stripped clean of all thought, all pain and memory, all tangible existence. He had reached the state known as Sunyata: for a moment-or was it an eternity?-time itself ceased to exist.

  And then at last, the ancient mansion on Dauphine Street began to materialize in his mind: the Maison de la Rochenoire, the house in which he and Diogenes had grown up. Pendergast stood on the old cobbled street before it, gazing through the high wrought-iron fence to the mansion’s mansard roofs, oriel windows, widow’s walk, battlements, and stone pinnacles. High brick walls on one side hid lush, interior parterre gardens.

  In his mind, Pendergast opened the huge iron gates and walked up the front drive, pausing on the portico. The whitewashed double doors lay open before him, giving onto the grand foyer.

  After a moment of uncharacteristic indecision, he stepped through the doors and onto the marble floor of the hall. A huge crystal chandelier sparkled brilliantly overhead, hovering beneath the trompe l’oeil ceiling. Ahead, a double curved staircase with elaborately beaded newels swept up toward the second-floor gallery. On the left, closed doors led into the long, low
-ceilinged exhibition hall; on the right lay the open doorway into a dim, wood-paneled library.

  Although the real family mansion had been burned to the ground by a New Orleans mob many years before, Pendergast had retained this virtual mansion within his memory ever since: an intellectual artifact, perfect down to the last detail; a storehouse in which he kept not only his own experiences and observations, but innumerable family secrets as well. Normally, entering into this palace of memory was a tranquilizing, calming experience: each drawer of each cabinet of each room held some past event, or some personal reflection on history or science, to be perused at leisure. Today, however, Pendergast felt a profound unease, and it was only with the greatest mental effort he was able to keep the mansion cohesive in his mind.

  He crossed the foyer and mounted the stairs to the wide second-floor hallway. Hesitating only briefly at the landing, he moved down the tapestried corridor, the broad sweep of the rose-colored walls broken at intervals by marble niches or ancient gilt frames containing portraits in oils. The smell of the mansion now swept over him: a combination of old fabric and leather, furniture polish, his mother’s perfume, his father’s Latakia tobacco.

  Near the center of this hallway lay the heavy oak door to his own room. But he did not proceed that far. Instead, he stopped at the door just before it: a door that, strangely, had been sealed in lead and covered with a sheet of hammered brass, its edges nailed into the surrounding door frame.

  This was the room of his brother, Diogenes. Pendergast himself had mentally sealed this door years before, locking the room forever inside the memory palace. It was the one room into which he had promised himself never again to enter.

  And yet-if Eli Glinn was right-he must enter it. There was no choice.

  As Pendergast paused outside the door, hesitating, he became aware that his pulse and respiration were increasing at an alarming rate. The walls of the mansion around him flickered and glowed, growing brighter, then fading, like the filament of a lightbulb failing under too much current. He was losing his elaborate mental construct. He made a supreme effort to concentrate, to calm his mind, and managed to steady the image around him.