Then, moving back to the desk, he grabbed the memo and scrawled an illegible signature across the bottom. He handed it to the secretary on the way out. “Save that signature, it’ll be valuable someday,” he said over his shoulder, letting the door close with a bang.
* * *
Margo was hanging up her phone as Smithback walked in. Once again, she had the lab to herself: her office mate, the preparator, had apparently taken a sudden extended vacation.
“I just talked to Frock,” she said. “He was pretty disappointed that we didn’t find anything more in the crate, and that I didn’t get a chance to look for any remaining seed pods. I think he was hoping for evidence of a creature. I wanted to tell him about the letter and Jörgensen, but he said he couldn’t talk. I think Cuthbert was in there with him.”
“Probably asking about that Request for Access form he sent up,” Smithback said. “Doing his Torquemada imitation.” He gestured toward the door. “How come this was unlocked?”
Margo looked surprised. “Oh. Guess I forgot again.”
“Mind if I lock it, just in case?” He fumbled with the door, then, grinning, he reached into his jacket and slowly withdrew a small, battered book, its leather cover stamped with two overlapping arrowheads. He held it up like a trophy fish for her inspection.
Margo’s look of curiosity turned to astonishment. “My God! Is that the journal?”
Smithback nodded proudly.
“How did you get it? Where did you get it?”
“Rickman’s office,” he said. “I had to make a terrible sacrifice for it. I signed a piece of paper forbidding me ever to speak to you again.”
“You’re joking.”
“Only partly. Anyway, at one point in the torture she opened her desk drawer, and I saw this little beat-up book. Looked like a diary. Seemed like a strange thing for Rickman to keep in her desk. Then I remembered your story about how she’d supposedly borrowed the journal.” He nodded smugly. “As I always suspected. So I nicked it as I was leaving her office.”
He opened the journal. “Now be quiet, Lotus Blossom. Daddy’s going to read you a bedtime story.”
Margo listened as Smithback began to read; slowly at first, but faster as he got the hang of the sloppy handwriting and frequent abbreviations. Most of the early entries were very short; cursory sentences giving a few details about the day’s weather and the expedition’s position.
Aug. 31. Rain all night—Canned bacon for breakfast—Something wrong with helicopter this morning, had to waste day doing nothing. Maxwell insufferable. Carlos having more trouble with Hosta Gilbao—demanding additional wages for …
“This is boring,” said Smithback, interrupting his reading. “Who cares that they ate canned bacon for breakfast?”
“Keep going,” urged Margo.
“There really isn’t that much here,” Smithback said, paging ahead. “Guess Whittlesey was a man of few words. Oh, God. I hope I didn’t sign my life away for nothing.”
The journal described the expedition’s progress deeper and deeper into the rain forest. The first part of the journey was made by Jeep. Then the party was helicoptered two hundred miles to the upper reaches of the Xingú. From there, hired guides rowed the party up the sluggish flow of the river toward the tepui of Cerro Gordo. Smithback read on.
Sept. 6. Left dugouts at dropoff site. On foot all the way now. First glimpse of Cerro Gordo this afternoon—rain forest rising into clouds. Cries of tutitl birds, captured several specimens. Guards murmuring among themselves.
Sept. 12. Last of corned beef hash for breakfast. Less humid than yesterday. Continued toward tepui—clouds broke free at noon—altitude of plateau possibly eight thousand feet—temperate rain forest—saw five rare candelaria ibex—recovered blow darts and tube, excellent condition—mosquitoes bad—Xingú dried peccary for dinner—not bad, tastes like smoked pork. Maxwell filling crates with useless rubbish.
“Why did Rickman snag this?” Smithback wailed. “There’s no dirt in here. What’s the big deal?”
Sept. 15. Wind from the S.W. Oatmeal for breakfast. Three portages today owing to brush jams in river—water up to chest—leeches lovely. Around dinner, Maxwell stumbled upon some specimens of flora he is extremely excited about. Indigenous plants indeed quite unique—odd symbiosis, morphology seems very ancient. But more important discoveries lie ahead, I am sure.
Sept. 16. Stayed late in camp this morning, repacking gear. Maxwell now insists on returning with his “find.” Idiotic fellow, nuisance is that almost everyone else is returning also. They turned back with all but two of our guides just after lunch. Crocker, Carlos, and I press on. Almost immediately, stopped to repack crate. Specimen jar had broken inside. While I repacked, Crocker wandered off trail, came upon ruined hut …
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Smithback said.
… brought gear down to investigate, reopened crate, retrieved toolbag—before we could investigate hut, old native woman wanders out from brush, staggering—sick or drunk, impossible to tell—points to crate, wailing loudly. Breasts down to her waist—no teeth, nearly bald—great sore on her back, like a boil. Carlos reluctant to translate, but I insist:
Carlos: She says, devil, devil.
Myself: Ask her, what devil?
Carlos translates. Woman goes into hysterics, wailing, clutching chest.
Myself: Carlos, ask her about the Kothoga.
Carlos: She say you come to take devil away.
Myself: What about the Kothoga?
Carlos: She say, Kothoga gone up mountain.
Myself: Up mountain! Where?
More caterwauling from woman. Points at our open crate.
Carlos: She say you take devil.
Myself: What devil?
Carlos: Mbwun. She say you take devil Mbwun in box.
Myself: Ask her more about Mbwun. What is it?
Carlos talks to woman, who calms down a little, and speaks for an extended period of time.
Carlos: She says that Mbwun is son of devil. The foolish Kothoga sorcerer who asked devil Zilashkee for his son to help them defeat their enemies. Devil made them kill and eat all their children—then sent Mbwun as gift. Mbwun helps defeat Kothoga enemies, then turns on Kothoga, starts killing everyone. Kothoga flee to tepui, Mbwun follow. Mbwun not ever die. Have to rid Kothoga of Mbwun. Now white man come and take Mbwun away. Beware, Mbwun curse will destroy you! You bring death to your people!
I am flabbergasted, and elated—this tale fits into myth cycles we had only heard secondhand. I tell Carlos to get more details about Mbwun—woman breaks away—great strength for one so old—melts into brush. Carlos follows her, comes back empty-handed—he looks frightened, I don’t push matters. Investigate hut. When we return to trail, guides gone.
“She knew they were going to take the figurine back!” Smithback said. “That must have been the curse she was talking about!”
He read on.
Sept. 17. Crocker missing since last night. I fear the worst. Carlos very apprehensive. I will send him back after Maxwell, who must be halfway to the river by now—can’t afford to lose this relic, which I believe priceless. I will continue on in search of Crocker. There are trails throughout these woods that must be Kothogan—how civilization can harness this kind of landscape is beyond me—perhaps the Kothoga will be saved after all.
That was the end of the journal.
Smithback closed the book with a curse. “I can’t believe it! Nothing we didn’t already know. And I sold my soul to Rickman … for this!”
36
Behind his desk in the command post, Pendergast was fiddling with an ancient Mandarin puzzle made of brass and knotted silken cord. He seemed totally absorbed. Behind him, the learned sounds of a string quartet emerged from the speakers of a small cassette player. Pendergast did not look up as D’Agosta walked in.
“Beethoven’s String Quartet in F Major, Opus 135,” he said. “But no doubt you knew that, Lieutenant. It’s the fourth movement A
llegro, known as Der schwer gefaßte Entschluß—the ‘Difficult Resolution.’ A title that could be bestowed on this case, as well as the movement, perhaps? Amazing, isn’t it, how art imitates life.”
“It’s eleven o’clock,” D’Agosta said.
“Ah, of course,” Pendergast said, rolling his chair back and standing up. “The Security Director owes us a guided tour. Shall we go?”
* * *
The door of Security Command was opened by Ippolito himself. To D’Agosta, the place looked like the control room of a nuclear power plant, all dials and buttons and levers. Across one wall was a vast miniature city of lighted grids, arranged in intricate geometries. Two guards monitored a battery of closed-circuit screens. In the center, D’Agosta recognized the relay box for the repeater stations used to ensure strong signals for the radios the police and Museum guards carried.
“This,” said Ippolito, spreading his hands and smiling, “is one of the most sophisticated security systems in any museum in the world. It was designed especially for us. It cost us a pretty penny, I can tell you.”
Pendergast looked around. “Impressive,” he said.
“It’s state of the art,” said Ippolito.
“No doubt,” Pendergast said. “But what concerns me right now, Mr. Ippolito, is the safety of the five thousand guests who are expected here tonight. Tell me how the system works.”
“It was primarily designed to prevent theft,” the security director went on. “A large number of the Museum’s most valuable objects have small chips attached in inconspicuous places. Each chip transmits a tiny signal to a series of receivers located around the Museum. If the object is moved even one inch, an alarm goes off, pinpointing the location of the object.”
“And then what happens?” asked D’Agosta.
Ippolito grinned. At a console, he pressed some buttons. A large screen illuminated floor plans of the Museum.
“The interior of the Museum,” Ippolito continued, “is divided into five cells. Each cell includes a number of exhibit halls and storage areas. Most of these run from basement to roof, but, because of the Museum’s structural framework, the perimeters in cells two and three are a little more complicated. When I flick a switch on this panel here, thick steel doors drop down from the ceilings to seal off the interior passages between cells. The Museum windows are all barred. Once we’ve sealed off a certain cell, the burglar is trapped. He can move around within one section of the Museum, but he can’t get out. The grid was laid out in such a way that the exits are external to it, making monitoring easy.” He moved over to the layouts. “Let’s say someone manages to steal an object, and by the time the guards arrive, he’s left the room. It won’t make any difference. Within a few seconds, the chip will have sent a signal to the computer, instructing it to seal off that entire cell. The whole process is automatic. The burglar is trapped inside.”
“What happens if he takes the chip off before he runs?” D’Agosta asked.
“The chips are motion sensitive,” Ippolito continued. “That would set off the alarm, too, and the security doors would instantly descend. A burglar couldn’t move fast enough to get out.”
Pendergast nodded. “How do you reopen the doors once the burglar has been caught?”
“We can open any set of doors from this control room, and each security door has a manual override on it. It’s a keypad, actually. Punch in the right code, and the door comes up.”
“Very nice,” Pendergast murmured. “But the entire system is geared toward preventing someone from getting out. What we’re dealing with here is a killer who wants to stay in. How will all this help keep tonight’s guests safe?”
Ippolito shrugged. “No big deal. We’ll just use the system to create a secure perimeter around the reception hall and the exhibition. All the festivities are taking place inside Cell Two.” He pointed to the schematic. “The reception is taking place in the Hall of the Heavens, here. That’s just outside the entrance to the Superstition exhibition, which is itself within Cell Two. All the steel doors for this cell will be closed. We’ll be leaving only four doors open: the East Door of the Great Rotunda—which is the gateway to the Hall of the Heavens—and three emergency exits. All will be heavily guarded.”
“And what parts of the Museum exactly does Cell Two consist of?” asked Pendergast.
Ippolito pushed some buttons on the console. A large central section of the Museum glowed green on the panels.
“This is Cell Two,” Ippolito said. “As you can see, it reaches from the basement to the ceiling, as do all the cells. The Hall of the Heavens is here. The computer lab and the room we’re in now, Security Command, are both inside this cell. So is the Secure Area, the central archives, and a variety of other high-security areas. There will be no exit from the Museum except through the four steel doors, which we’ll keep open on override. We’ll seal the perimeter an hour before the party, drop all the other doors, and set up guards at the access points. I’m telling you, it’ll be more secure than a bank vault.”
“And the rest of the Museum?”
“We thought about sealing all five cells, but decided against it.”
“Good,” said Pendergast, eyeing another panel. “In the event of a crisis, we wouldn’t want any emergency personnel to be hampered.” He pointed at the illuminated panel. “But what about the subbasement? The basement areas of this cell may well connect with it. And that subbasement could lead almost anywhere.”
“Nobody would dare try to use that,” Ippolito snorted. “It’s a maze.”
“But we’re not talking about an ordinary burglar. We’re talking about a killer that’s eluded every search you, I, or D’Agosta here have mounted. A killer that seems to call the subbasement home.”
“There is only one stairwell connecting the Hall of the Heavens to other floors,” Ippolito explained patiently, “and it’ll be guarded by my men, just like the emergency exits. I’m telling you, we’ve got this figured out. The entire perimeter is going to be secure.”
Pendergast examined the glowing map for some time in silence. “How do you know this schematic is accurate?” he asked finally.
Ippolito looked a little flustered. “Of course it’s accurate.”
“I asked: how do you know?”
“The system was designed straight off the architectural drawings from the 1912 reconstruction.”
“No changes since then? No doors knocked open here, sealed off there?
“All changes were taken into account.”
“Did those architectural drawings cover the Old Basement and subbasement areas?”
“No, those are older areas. But, like I told you, they’ll either be sealed or guarded.”
There was a long silence while Pendergast continued to look at the panels. Finally, he sighed and turned to face the Security Director.
“Mr. Ippolito, I don’t like it.”
A throat was cleared behind them. “What doesn’t he like now?”
D’Agosta didn’t have to turn around. That abrasive Long Island accent could belong only to Special Agent Coffey.
“I’m just reviewing the security procedures with Mr. Pendergast,” said Ippolito.
“Well, Ippolito, you’re gonna have to review them all over again with me.” He turned his narrow eyes on Pendergast. “Remember in the future to invite me to your private parties,” he said irritably.
“Mr. Pendergast—” Ippolito began.
“Mr. Pendergast is up here from the Deep South to give us a little help here and there when we need it. I’m running the show now. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Ippolito. He reviewed the procedures again while Coffey sat in an operator’s chair, twirling a set of earphones around his finger. D’Agosta wandered around the room, looking at the control panels. Pendergast listened carefully to Ippolito, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t heard the speech before. When the Security Director finished, Coffey leaned back in his chair.
“Ippolito, you got four
holes in this perimeter.” He paused for effect. “I want three of them plugged. I want only one way in and one way out.”
“Mr. Coffey, fire regulations require—”
Coffey waved his hand. “Let me worry about the fire regulations. You worry about the holes in your security net. The more holes we have, the more trouble we have waiting to happen.”
“That, I’m afraid, is precisely the wrong way to go,” Pendergast said. “If you close these three exits, the guests are going to be locked in. Should something happen, there would be only one way out.”
Coffey spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Hey, Pendergast, that’s just the point. You can’t have it both ways. Either you have a secure perimeter or you don’t. Anyway, according to Ippolito here, each security door has an emergency override. So what’s your problem?”
“That’s right,” said Ippolito, “the doors can be opened using the keypad in an emergency. All you need is the code.”
“May I ask what controls the keypad?” asked Pendergast.
“The central computer. The computer room is right next door.”
“And if the computer goes down?”
“We’ve got backup systems, with redundancies. Those panels on the far wall control the backup system. Each panel has its own alarm.”
“That’s another problem,” said Pendergast quietly.
Coffey exhaled loudly and spoke to the ceiling. “He still doesn’t like it.”
“I counted eighty-one alarm lights on that bank of controls alone,” Pendergast continued, oblivious to Coffey. “In a true emergency, with multiple system failure, most of those alarms would be blinking. No team of operators could deal with that.”
“Pendergast, you’re slowing me down,” Coffey snapped. “Ippolito and I are going to work out these details, okay? We’ve got less than eight hours to showtime.”
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 21