“It’s going to take twenty minutes to force our way through that crowd,” Smithback said. “And for sure somebody’s going to knock that beaker out of your hands along the way.”
“That would be unacceptable.”
A hell of an understatement, Smithback thought. “What do you plan to do about it, then?”
“We shall simply have to part the crowds.”
“How?” But even as he asked the question, Smithback saw a gun appear in Pendergast’s hand. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to use that.”
“I’m not going to use it. You are. I wouldn’t dare fire a gun while carrying this-the proximity of the discharge could set it off.”
“But I’m not going to-”
Smithback felt the gun placed in his hand. “Fire into the air, high up into the air. Aim out over Central Park.”
“But I’ve never used this model-”
“All you need to do is pull the trigger. It’s a Colt.45 Model 1911, kicks like a mule, so wrap both hands on the grip and keep your elbows slightly bent.”
“Look, I’ll carry the nitro.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Smithback. Now, get moving, if you please.”
Reluctantly, Smithback advanced toward the crowd. “FBI!” he said unconvincingly. “Make way!”
The crowds didn’t even notice him.
“Make way, damn it!”
Now some of the crowd stared back at him like a herd of cows, placid, unmoving.
“The sooner you fire, the sooner you will have their attention,” Pendergast said.
“Make way!” Smithback raised the gun. “Emergency!”
A few at the front perceived what was coming, and there was a flurry of action, but the mass of the crowd between them and the subway entrance just stood there dumbly.
Bracing himself, Smithback squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He squeezed harder-and the gun went off with a terrific boom, jolting him.
A chorus of screams erupted and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Two cops started running toward them from where they’d been pushing back the crowd nearby, their own guns drawn.
“FBI!” Pendergast shouted as they rushed forward into the breach. “This is an emergency federal action. Do not interfere!”
“Let’s see your shield, sir!”
The back of the crowd was already coalescing and Smithback realized his mission was not yet accomplished. “Make way!” he yelled, firing the gun again while walking forward, to dramatic effect.
A series of screams, and a fresh pathway appeared almost miraculously before them.
“You crazy bastard!” somebody shouted. “Firing a gun like that!”
Smithback broke into a run, Pendergast following as quickly as he dared behind him. The cops attempted to give chase, but the crowd had already drawn together behind them. Smithback could hear the cops cursing as they tried to fight their way through.
A minute later, they’d reached the entrance to the subway, and here Pendergast went ahead, taking the stairs quickly yet with remarkable smoothness, still cradling the small flask. They trotted along the deserted platform, ducked around a corner at the far end, into the museum’s subway entrance. Halfway down it, Smithback could see two figures: D’Agosta and Hayward.
“Where’s our entry point?” Pendergast called out as he arrived.
“Between those lines,” said Hayward, indicating two lines that had been marked on the tiles with lipstick.
Pendergast knelt and placed the flask carefully against the wall, positioning it between the lines. Then he stood and turned to face the little group. “If you would all please withdraw around the corner? My sidearm, Mr. Smithback?”
As Smithback handed the gun to the agent, he heard the sound of feet charging down the stairwell into the station. He followed Pendergast back around the corner onto the platform proper, where they crouched against the wall.
“NYPD!” came a shouted command from the far end of the station. “Drop your weapons and freeze!”
“Stay back!” Hayward shouted, waving her badge. “Police action in progress!”
“Identify yourself!”
“Captain Laura Hayward, Homicide!”
That seemed to flummox them.
Smithback saw Pendergast taking careful aim. He shrank closer to the wall.
“Stand down, Captain!” one of the policemen yelled.
“Take cover now!” came Hayward’s reply.
“Ready?” Pendergast asked quietly. “On the count of three. One…”
“I repeat, Captain, stand down!”
“Two…”
“And I repeat, you idiots: take cover!”
“Three.”
There was another gunshot, followed immediately by a terrific, earthshaking roar, and then a concussive blast that smacked Smithback hard against the chest and knocked him to the cement floor. Instantly the entire station filled with cement dust. Smithback lay on his back, dazed, the wind temporarily knocked from him. Chips of cement pattered down around him like rain.
“Holy shit!” It was D’Agosta’s voice, but the man himself was invisible in the sudden gloom.
Vaguely, Smithback could hear confused shouting from the other end of the station. He pulled himself to a sitting position, choking and spluttering, ears ringing, and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Pendergast’s voice was in his ear.
“Mr. Smithback? We’re going in now, and I’ll need your help. Stop the show-rip out wires, rip down screens, smash lights, but stop the show. We must do that before we do anything else-even before we help the people. Do you understand?”
“Call for backup!” came the choking cry from somewhere at the far end of the platform.
“Do you understand?” Pendergast asked urgently.
Smithback coughed, nodded. The agent pulled him to his feet.
“Now!” Pendergast whispered.
They bolted around the corner, D’Agosta and Hayward at their heels. The dust had cleared just enough to show a gaping hole in the wall. From it gushed billows of fog, brilliantly illuminated by the maniacal flashing of strobe lights.
Smithback held his breath, readied himself. Then he ducked inside.
Chapter 66
Just inside the breach, they paused. The heavy mist was pouring out of the gap like water from a broken dam, filling the tunnel and the subway station beyond; within the tomb itself, it was already subsiding below eye level, allowing them to see the upper portions of the tomb. Smithback immediately recognized it, from Nora’s descriptions, as the burial chamber. Strobe lights of extraordinary, even painful intensity were flashing from every corner, and an unholy rumble filled the tomb, overlaid by a throbbing, nerve-shredding, high-pitched shriek.
“What the hell is going on?” D’Agosta asked behind him.
Pendergast moved forward without answering, waving away the swirling tendrils of fog. As they approached the huge stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, the agent paused, looked around at the ceiling, took aim, and fired: a fixture in the corner exploded in a flash of sparks and streamers of glass. He rotated his stance, fired again, and then again, until all the strobes were dead-although flashing could still be seen coming through the doorway to the next room of the tomb, and the hideous sounds continued.
They moved forward again. Smithback felt a sudden lurch in his gut: as the fog cleared, he could see bodies on the ground, moving feebly. The floor was slick with blood.
“Oh, no.” Smithback looked around wildly. “Nora!”
But it was impossible to hear anything over the maddening wall of noise that seemed to penetrate his very bones. He took a few more steps, frantically waving away the mist. Another explosion from Pendergast’s gun, followed by the hollow screech of feedback and an electric arc as an audio speaker crashed to the floor. Still, the sound throbbed on, unabated. Smithback grabbed some loose wires, yanked.
A plainclothes policeman approached t
hem, staggering as if half drunk. His face was scratched and bleeding, and his shirt was torn and hanging in strips. His shield flapped on his belt as he moved, and his service piece dangled from one hand like a forgotten appendage.
Hayward frowned in surprise. “Rogerson?” she asked.
The cop’s eyes swiveled toward her briefly, then swiveled away. After a second, he turned his back on them and began staggering off. Hayward reached over and plucked the gun from the man’s unresisting hand.
“What the hell happened here?” D’Agosta cried, looking around at the scattering of torn clothes, shoes, blood, and injured guests.
“There’s no time to explain,” Pendergast said. “Captain Hayward, you and Lieutenant D’Agosta head up to the front of the tomb. You will find most of the guests up there, clustered at the entrance. Lead them back here and out through the gap in the wall. But be careful: many of them have undoubtedly become unhinged as a result of this sound-and-light show. They may be violent. Take care not to cause a stampede.” He turned to Smithback. “We must find that generator.”
“The hell with that. I’m finding Nora.”
“You won’t be able to find anyone until we stop this infernal show.”
Smithback stopped. “But-”
“Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
Smithback hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.
Pendergast slipped a second flashlight out of his pocket and handed it to him, and they moved forward into the fog, side by side. It was a horrifying scene of carnage-wounded were sprawled across the marble floor, groaning, and more than one body lay motionless in a grotesque, unnatural position… apparently trampled to death. The floor was littered with shards of pottery. Smithback swallowed and tried to control his wildly beating heart.
Pendergast shone his light across the ceiling, the beam finally coming to rest on a long stone molding. He aimed his gun, fired, and blew off a corner of the molding, exposing a power cable that smoked and sparked.
“They would not have been allowed to bury the cables in the walls of the tomb,” he explained. “We need to search for more false moldings.”
Slowly, he traced his light along the molding, which had been plastered, textured, and painted to look like stone. It ran to a corner, where it was joined by a second molding, and from there a larger molding headed through the doorway to the adjoining room.
They picked their way over several bodies piled before the door and entered the next chamber of the tomb. Smithback winced at the blinding strobes, which Pendergast dispatched with four well-placed shots.
As the last shot reverberated through the gloom, a figure emerged from the dissipating fog, shambling, picking up and dropping its feet as if shackled with heavy weights. The mouth moved as if in violent speech, but Smithback could hear nothing over the thundering sound.
“Look out!” Smithback cried as the man abruptly lunged at Pendergast. The agent stepped aside deftly, tripping the stumbling figure and pushing him to one side. The man fell heavily to the ground and rolled, unable to get up.
They moved into a third room, Pendergast following the lines of molding with his flashlight. They appeared to all converge at a fake half-pilaster set into the far wall. Beneath stood a large XX Dynasty chest, gilded and intricately carved. It was set within a glass display case, unbroken despite the carnage.
“There!” Pendergast walked over, picked up a broken chariot wheel, and swung it into the case, shattering the glass. He stepped back and, raising his gun again, shot the ancient bronze lock off the chest. After holstering his weapon, he swept away the lock and the broken glass and lifted the lid from the heavy chest. Inside, a large generator hummed and vibrated. Pendergast slipped a knife out of his pocket, reached in, and cut a wire; the generator coughed, choked, and died-plunging the tomb into utter darkness and silence.
And yet the silence was not complete. Smithback could now hear a cacophony of cries and shrieks from the front section of the tomb: a moblike hysteria. He stood up, probing the darkness with his own flashlight.
“Nora!” he cried out. “Nora!”
Suddenly the beam of his light was arrested by a figure standing, half hidden, in a far alcove. Smithback stared in surprise. Although the man was dressed in impeccable white tie and tails, he wore a black mask over his face, and a set of headphones covered his ears. A small device that looked like a remote control was in his hand. He was standing so still Smithback wondered if perhaps he was just another holographic projection, but then, as if on cue, he reached up and pulled off the mask.
Pendergast had been staring at the man, and the effect of his unmasking was remarkable. He stiffened and jerked, like a man who has received an electric shock. His face, normally so pale, flushed crimson.
It seemed to Smithback that the tuxedoed figure’s reaction was even stronger. He went into a sudden, instinctive crouch, like a man poised to spring. Then he gathered himself together and slowly rose to his full height.
“You!” he said. For a moment, he went still again. And then-with a long, spidery hand-he removed the headphones and earplugs, and slowly and deliberately dropped them to the floor.
Fresh surprise blossomed over Smithback. He recognized this man: it was Nora’s boss, Hugo Menzies. And yet he looked so different. His eyes were flaming red, his limbs quivered. His face was flushed as deeply as Pendergast’s was-he was filled with rage.
Pendergast’s hand went for his gun. Then he stopped, weapon half drawn, as if paralyzed.
“Diogenes…” he said in a strangled voice.
At the same time, Smithback heard his own name being called from a far corner. He looked over to see Nora staggering to her feet, supported by Viola Maskelene. Pendergast glanced over, noticing them as well.
In that moment, Menzies darted to one side with incredible speed and vanished into the darkness. Pendergast turned, tensed for pursuit-and then he turned back again toward Viola, face contorted with indecision.
Smithback dashed over to the two women and helped them to their feet. A moment later, Pendergast was beside him, taking Viola into his arms.
“Oh my God,” she said, gasping and half weeping. “Oh my God, Aloysius…”
But Smithback barely heard. His arms were around Nora, one hand caressing her smudged and bloodied face. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She winced. “A headache. A few scratches. It was so horrible.”
“We’ll get you out.” Smithback turned back to Pendergast. The agent was still holding Viola in his embrace, his hands resting on her shoulders, but again, his gaze had darted toward the darkness into which Hugo Menzies had vanished.
Behind, from the burial chamber, Smithback heard the muffled blaring of police radios. Flashlight beams lanced through the murk, and the police were there, a dozen or more uniformed officers looking confused, moving into the Hall of the Chariots, guns drawn.
“What the hell’s going on?” said the commander, a lieutenant. “What is this place?”
“You’re in the Tomb of Senef,” said Pendergast.
“What about the explosion?”
“Necessary to gain entry, Lieutenant,” said Captain Hayward, walking toward them and showing her shield. “Now, listen carefully. We have injured in here, and a lot more up ahead. We’re going to need EMTs, mobile first-aid stations, ambulances. Do you understand? Lieutenant D’Agosta is in the front of the tomb, about to escort the trapped victims back here to the exit. He needs help.”
“Understood, Captain.” The lieutenant turned to his officers and began barking orders. Several of them holstered their weapons and began moving deeper into the tomb, flashlight beams bobbing. Beyond them, Smithback could hear the approach of the crowd, the sounds of moaning, sobbing, and coughing, punctuated now and again by angry, incoherent cries. It sounded like an insane asylum on the move.
Pendergast was already helping Viola toward the exit. Smithback put his arm around Nora, and they fell in behind, headed for the gap blown in the corner of the b
urial chamber. Moments later, they were out of the mephitic tomb and inside the brightly lit subway station. A group of EMTs came running down the platform toward them, some carrying collapsible stretchers.
“We’ll take them, gentlemen,” one of the medical technicians said as they came up, while the rest rushed through the gap into the tomb.
In moments, Viola and Nora were strapped into stretchers and being carried up the stairs. Pendergast led the way. The flush had gone from his face, leaving it ashen and unreadable. Smithback walked beside Nora.
She smiled and reached up to grasp his hand. “I knew you’d come,” she said.
Chapter 67
We serve breakfast beginning at six, sir,” the porter said to the handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman in the private compartment.
“I would prefer to be served in my bedroom. Thank you in advance for obliging me.”
The porter glanced down at the twenty-dollar bill being pressed into his hand. “No problem, sir, not a problem at all. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. You could bring me a chilled glass, some crushed ice, a bottle of cold spring water, and a tin of sugar cubes.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” The man stepped out of the compartment, smiling and bowing, and shut the door with almost reverential caution.
Diogenes Pendergast watched the dwarfish man disappear down the corridor and out of sight. He heard the footsteps patter away, heard the clunk of the heavy door at the end of the railroad car. He heard the myriad sounds of Penn Station, commingled and yet disparate in his mind: the ebb and flow of conversation outside the train, the sonorous droning of the stationmaster’s announcements.
He shifted his gaze to the window, looked idly out at the platform. A landscape in shades of gray greeted him. A portly conductor stood there, patiently giving directions to a young woman, baby in her arms. A commuter trotted by, briefcase in hand, hurrying to catch the last Midtown Express to Dover on the adjoining track. An elderly woman tottered slowly by, frail and thin. She stopped to stare at the train, then at her ticket, before continuing on her precarious way.
The Book of the Dead Page 37
