The Book of the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  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.

  Chapter 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 Glinn 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.

  “But I will. Thank you very much, my dear Vincent.” He spoke softly, taking D’Agosta’s hand in his own and giving it a curt shake. D’Agosta felt strangely moved by this man who sometimes found even the simplest human courtesies awkward.

  “Please sit down,” said Glinn in the same neutral voice-devoid of any human feeling-that had so annoyed D’Agosta on their first meeting.

  He complied. Pendergast slipped into a seat opposite-a little stiffly, D’Agosta thought, yet with his usual feline grace. “And I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to you as well, Mr. Glinn,” Pendergast went on. “A most successful operation.”

  Glinn nodded curtly.

  “Although I deeply regret having to kill Mr. Lacarra to do so.”

  “As you know,” Glinn replied, “there was no other way. You had to kill an inmate in order to escape in his body bag, and that inmate, furthermore, had to take his exercise in yard 4, the ideal spot for an abortive escape. We were fortunate-if I may be permitted that expression-to identify a yard 4 inmate who was so thoroughly evil that some might say he deserved to die: a man who tortured three children to death in front of their mother. It was then a simple matter to hack into the Justice Department database and change Lacarra’s arrest records to identify him as one of your ‘collars’-thus baiting the trap for Coffey. Finally, I might point out that you were forced to kill him: it was self-defense.”

  “No amount of sophistry will change the fact it was a premeditated killing.”

  “Strictly speaking, you are correct. But as you know yourself, his death was necessary to save more lives-perhaps many more lives. And our model indicated his death sentence appeals would have been denied, anyway.”

  Pendergast silently inclined his head.

  “Now, Mr. Pendergast, let us lay trivial ethical dilemmas aside. We have urgent business to take care of, relating to your brother. I assume no news from the outside world reached you while in solitary confinement?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then it would be a surprise to learn that your brother destroyed all the diamonds he stole from the museum.”

  D’Agosta saw Pendergast stiffen visibly.

  “That’s right. Diogenes pulverized the diamonds and returned them to the museum as a sack of powder.”

  After a silence, Pendergast said, “Once again, his actions were beyond my ability to predict or comprehend.”

  “If it’s any consolation to you, they surprised us as well. It meant our assumptions about him were wrong. We believed that after being cheated of Lucifer’s Heart-the one diamond he most desired-your brother would go to ground for a period, lick his wounds, plot his next move. Clearly, that was not the case.”

  Krasner broke in, his cheerful voice in stark contrast to Glinn’s monotone. “By destroying the very diamonds he had spent many years planning to steal, diamonds that he both desired and needed, Diogenes was destroying a part of himself. It was a suicide of sorts. He was abandoning himself to his demons.”

  “When we learned what happened to the diamonds,” Glinn went on, “we realized our preliminary psychological profile was woefully insufficient. And so we went back to the drawing board, reanalyzed existing data, gathered additional information. That is the result.” He nodded to the thick volume. “I’ll spare you the details. It boils down to one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “The ‘perfect crime’ which Diogenes spoke of was not the theft of the diamonds. Nor was it the outrage he perpetrated on you: killing your friends and then framing you for the crimes. Whatever his original intent was we are in no position to speculate. But the fact remains that his ultimate crime has yet to be committed.”

  “But the date in his letter?”

  “Another lie, or at least diversion. The theft of the diamonds was part of his plan, but their destruction was apparently a more spontaneous act. That doesn’t change the fact that his series of crimes was carefully planned to keep you occupied, to mislead you, to stay one step ahead of you. I must say, the depth and complexity of your brother’s plan is quite breathtaking.”

  “So the crime is yet to come,” Pendergast said in a dry, quiet voice. “Do you know what it is, or when it will take place?”

  “No-except that all indications are that this crime is imminent. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps tonight. Hence the need for your immediate liberation from Herkmoor.”

  Pendergast was silent a moment. “I fail to see how I can be of any help,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “As you see, I’ve been wrong at every turn.”

  “Agent Pendergast, you are the one person-the only person-who can help. And you know how.”

  When Pendergast did not immediately respond, Glinn went on. “We had hoped our forensic profile would have predictive power-that it would provide a sense of what Diogenes’s future action would be. And it has… to a point. We know he’s motivated by a powerful feeling of victimization, the sense that a terrible wrong was done to him. We believe his ‘perfect crime’ will attempt to perpetrate a similar wrong on a large number of people.”

  “That is correct,” Krasner broke in. “Your brother wants to generalize this wrong, to make it public, to force others to share his pain.”

  Glinn leaned over the table and stared at Pendergast. “And we know something else. You are the person who inflicted this pain on your brother-at least, that’s how he perceives it.”

  “That is absurd,” said Pendergast.

  “Something happened between you and your brother at an early age: something so dreadful it tw
isted his already warped mind and set in motion the events he’s playing out now. Our analysis is missing a vital piece of information: what happened between you and Diogenes. And the memory of that event is locked up there.” Glinn pointed at Pendergast’s head.

  “We’ve been through this before,” Pendergast replied stiffly. “I’ve already told you everything of importance that has passed between my brother and myself. I even submitted to a rather curious interview with the good Dr. Krasner here-without result. There is no hidden atrocity. I would remember: I have a photographic memory.”

  “Forgive my disagreeing with you, but this event happened. It must have. There’s no other explanation.”

  “I’m sorry, then. Because even if you’re right, I have no recollection of any such event-and there’s clearly no way for me to recall it. You’ve already tried and failed.”

  Glinn tented his hands, looked down at them. For a moment, the room went still.

  “I think there is a way,” he said without looking up.

  When there was no response, Glinn raised his head again. “You’re schooled in a certain ancient discipline, a secret mystical philosophy practiced by a tiny order of monks in Bhutan and Tibet. One facet of this discipline is spiritual. Another is physical: a complex series of ritualized movements not unlike the kata of Shotokan karate. And still another is intellectual: a form of meditation, of concentration, that allows the practitioner to unleash the full potential of the human mind. I refer to the secret rituals of the Dzogchen and its even more rarefied practice, the Chongg Ran.”