Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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THREE

D'Agosta sat in the backseat of the vintage '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.

D'Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions, but he felt sure the chauffeur would not respond.

Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive.The home-one of the homes– of Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, D'Agosta's friend and partner in several unusual cases. The mysterious FBI agent whom D'Agosta knew, and yet did not know, who seemed to have as many lives as a cat…

Until that day not two months ago, when he'd seen Pendergast for the last time.

It had been on the steep flank of a hill south of Florence, Italy. The special agent had been below him, surrounded by a ravening pack of boar-hunting dogs, backed up by a dozen armed men. Pendergast had sacrificed himself so D'Agosta could get away.

And D'Agosta had let him do it.

D'Agosta stirred restlessly at the memory. Someone who has requested your presence,Proctor had said. Was it possible that, despite everything, Pendergast hadsomehow managed to escape? It wouldn't be the first time. He suppressed a surge of hope…

But no, it was not possible. He knew in his heart that Pendergast was dead.

Now the Rolls was cruising up Riverside Drive. D'Agosta shifted again, glancing out at the passing street signs: 125th Street, 130th. Very quickly, the well-tended neighborhood surrounding Columbia University gave way to dilapidated brownstones and decaying hulks. The usual loiterers had been chased indoors by the January chill, and in the dim light of evening the street looked deserted.

Up ahead now, just past 137th Street, D'Agosta could make out the boarded-up facade and widow's walk of Pendergast's mansion. The dark lines of the vast structure sent a chill through him.

The Rolls pulled past the gates of the spiked iron fence and stopped beneath the porte-cochere. Without waiting for Proctor, D'Agosta let himself out and stared up at the familiar lines of the rambling mansion, windows covered with tin, looking for all the world like the other abandoned mansions along the drive. Inside, it was home to wonders and secrets almost beyond belief. He felt his heart begin to race. Maybe Pendergast was inside, after all, in his usual black suit, sitting in the library before a blazing fire, the dancing flames casting strange shadows over his pale face. "My dear Vincent," he would say, "thank you for coming. May I interest you in a glass of Armagnac?"

D'Agosta waited as Proctor unlocked, then opened, the heavy door. Pale yellow light streamed out onto the worn brickwork. He stepped forward while Proctor carefully relocked the door behind him. He felt his heart beat still faster. Just being back inside the mansion sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through him: excitement, anxiety, regret.

Proctor turned toward him. "This way, sir, if you please."

The chauffeur led the way down the length of the gallery and into the blue-domed reception hall. Here, dozens of rippled-glass cabinets displayed an array of fabulous specimens: meteorites, gems, fossils, butterflies. D'Agosta's eyes stole across the parquet floor to the far side, where the double doors of the library lay open. If Pendergastwas waiting for him, that's where he'd be: sitting in a wing chair, a half-smile playing across his lips, enjoying the effect of this little drama on his friend.

Proctor ushered D'Agosta toward the library. Heart pounding, he stepped through the doors and into the sumptuous room.

The smell of the place was as he remembered it: leather, buckram, a faint hint of woodsmoke. But today there was no fire crackling merrily on the hearth. The room was cold. The inlaid bookshelves, full of leather-bound volumes tooled in gold, were dim and indistinct. Only a single lamp glowed-a Tiffany piece standing on a side table-casting a small pool of light in a vast lake of darkness.

After a moment, D'Agosta made out a form standing beside the table, just outside the circle of light. As he watched, the form advanced toward him across the carpeting. He recognized immediately the young girl as Constance Greene, Pendergast's ward and assistant. She was perhaps twenty, wearing a long, old-fashioned velvet dress that snugged her slender waist and fell in lines almost to the floor. Despite her obvious youth, her bearing had the poise of a much older woman. And her eyes, too-D'Agosta remembered her strange eyes, full of experience and learning, her speech old-fashioned, even quaint. And then there was that something else, something just the other side of normal, that seemed to cling to her like the antique air that exhaled from her dresses.

Those eyes seemed different today. They looked haunted, dark, heavy with loss… and fear?

Constance held out her right hand. "Lieutenant D'Agosta," she said in a measured tone.

D'Agosta took the hand, uncertain as always whether to shake it or kiss it. He did neither, and after a moment the hand was withdrawn.

Normally, Constance was polite to a fault. But today she simply stood before D'Agosta, without offering him a chair or inquiring after his health. She seemed uncertain. And D'Agosta could guess why. The hope that had been stirring within him began to fade.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked, her voice almost too low to make out. "Anything at all?"

D'Agosta shook his head, the flame of hope dashed out.

Constance held his glance a moment longer. Then she nodded her understanding, her gaze dropping to the floor, her hands fluttering at her sides like confused white moths.

They stood there together in silence for a minute, perhaps two.

Constance raised her eyes again. "It's foolish for me to continue to hope. More than six weeks have passed without a word."

"I know."

"He is dead," she said, voice even lower.

D'Agosta said nothing.

She roused herself. "That means it is time for me to give you this."She went to the mantelpiece, took down a small sandalwood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A tiny key already in her hand, she unlocked it and, without opening it, held it out toward D'Agosta.

"I have delayed this moment too long already. I felt that there was still a chance he might appear."

D'Agosta stared at the box. It looked familiar, but for a moment he could not place where he'd seen it before. Then it came to him: it had been in this house, this very room, the previous October. He'd entered the library and disturbed Pendergast in the act of writing a note. The agent had slipped it into this same box. That had been the night before they left on their fateful trip to Italy-the night Pendergast told him about his brother, Diogenes.

"Take it, Lieutenant," Constance said, her voice breaking. "Please don't draw this out."

"Sorry." D'Agosta gently took the box, opened it. Inside lay a single sheet of heavy cream-colored paper, folded once.

Suddenly, the very last thing D'Agosta wanted to do was to take out that piece of paper. With deep misgivings, he reached for it, opened it, and began to read.

My dear Vincent,

If you are reading this letter, it means that I am dead. It also means I died before I could accomplish a task that, rightfully, belongs to me and no other. That task is preventing my brother, Diogenes, from committing what he once boasted would be the "perfect" crime.

I wish I could tell you more about this crime, but all I know of it is that he has been planning it for many years and that he intends it to be his apotheosis. Whatever this "perfect" crime is, it will be infamous. It will make the world a darker place. Diogenes is a man with exceptional standards. He would not settle for less.

I'm afraid, Vincent, that the task of stopping Diogenes must now fall to you. I cannot tell you how much I regret this. It is something I would not wish on my worst enemy, and especially not on somebody I've come to regard as a trusted friend. But it is something I believe you are best equipped to handle. Diogenes's threat is too amorphous for me to take to the FBI or other law enforcement agency, since he contrived his own false death some years ago. A single, dedicated individual has the best chance of preventing my brother from carrying out this crime. That individual is you.

Diogenes has sent me a letter consisting of only one thing: a date, January 28. In all likelihood, the crime will be committed on that date. I would not, however, make any assumptions-the date could mean nothing at all. Diogenes is, if anything, unpredictable.

You will need to take a leave of absence from the Southampton P.D. or wherever you are currently employed. This cannot be avoided. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. Diogenes is an expert on forensics and police procedure, and any information left at the scene of the crime-assuming, God forbid, you are not in time to stop said crime-will no doubt be cleverly contrived to mislead the police. Hayward, as fine an officer as she is, is no match for my brother.

I've left a separate note for Constance, who will at this point know all the particulars of this matter. She will make my house, my finances, and all my resources available to you. She will immediately put at your disposal a bank account containing $500,000 in your name, to use as you see fit. I recommend that you use her invaluable research skills, though I ask that you keep her out of your direct investigation for obvious reasons. She must never leave the mansion-ever. And you must watch her very, very carefully. She is still fragile, both mentally and physically.

As a first step, you should pay a visit to my Great-Aunt Cornelia, who is confined to a hospital on Little Governors Island. She knew Diogenes as a boy, and she will provide you with the personal and family information you will undoubtedly need. Treat this information-and her-with great care.

One final word. Diogenes is consummately dangerous. He is my intellectual equal, but he was somehow formed without the slightest shred of moral conscience. In addition, a severe childhood illness left him damaged. He is motivated by an undying hatred of myself and an utter contempt for humanity. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to. Be vigilant at all times.

Goodbye, my friend-and good luck.

Aloysius Pendergast

D'Agosta looked up. "January 28? My God, that's just one week away."

Constance only bowed her head.

FOUR

IT was the smell of the place, she thought, that really brought home the fact she was back in the museum: that mixture of mothballs, dust, old varnish, and a whiff of decay. She walked down the great fifth-floor corridor, past the oaken office doors, each sporting the name of a curator in black-edged gold leaf. She was surprised at how few new names there were. A lot of things had changed in six years, but here, in the museum, time seemed to run at a different pace.

She had been worried-more worried than she cared to admit– about how it would feel to be back in the museum several years after the most frightening experience of her life. In fact, that worry had delayed her decision to return. But she had to admit, after a slightly rough first couple of days, that little of the old terror still clung to the place. Her nightmares, the lingering sense of vulnerability, had faded with the years. The old events, the bad events, were now ancient history. And the museum was still a wonderful old pile, a Gothic castle of Brobdingnagian proportions, full of wonderful, eccentric people-and bursting with strange and fascinating specimens. The most extensive collection of trilobites in the world. Lucifer's Heart, the most precious diamond ever found. "Snaggletooth," the largest and best-preserved T. rex fossil known.

Nevertheless, she had been careful not to stray into the museum's sub-basement. And it was not laziness that made her limit the number of nights she worked much past closing.

She remembered the time when she had walked down this august corridor for the first time as a graduate student of no account. Graduate students were so low on the museum's totem pole they were not even despised-they were simply invisible. Not that she'd been resentful: it was a rite of passage everyone had to go through. Back then she was a nobody-a "you," or, at best, a "Miss."

How things had changed. Now she was "Doctor," sometimes even "Professor," and her name appeared in print with a string of titles after it: Pierpont Research Fellow (the "fellow" part always made her smile); adjunct professor of ethnopharmacology; and her most recent title, only three weeks old: editor in chief of Museology.While she'd always told herself that titles meant nothing, she was surprised to discover that, once she'd acquired them, they were most gratifying. Professor…that had a nice round sound to it, especially on the lips of those crusty old curators who, six years ago, wouldn't even give her the time of day. Now they went out of their way to ask her opinion or press their monographs on her. Just that morning, no less a personage than the head of anthropology and her titular boss, Hugo Menzies, had asked solicitously after the subject of her panel discussion for the forthcoming Society of American Anthropologists meeting.

Yes: a refreshing change, indeed.

The office of the director lay at the end of the hall, in one of the coveted tower offices. She paused before the great oaken door, darkened with the patina of a century. She raised her hand, then lowered it, suddenly feeling nervous. She took a deep breath. She felt happy to be back in the museum, and she wondered yet again if the sudden controversy she was about to launch herself into wasn't a serious mistake. She reminded herself that this controversy had been forced on her and that as editor of Museologyshe had to take a stand. If she ducked this one, she would immediately lose her credibility as an arbiter of ethics and free expression. Worse, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.

Her hand fell firmly upon the oaken door, once, twice, three times, each knock firmer than the last.

A moment of silence. Then the door was opened by Mrs. Surd, the dry and efficient secretary to the museum's director. The sharp blue eyes gave her a rapid once-over as she stepped aside.

"Dr. Green? Dr. Collopy is expecting you. You may go straight in."

Margo approached the inner door, if anything darker and more massive than the other, grasped the ice-cold brass knob, turned it, and pushed it open on well-oiled hinges.

There, behind the great nineteenth-century desk, under a vast painting by De Clefisse of Victoria Falls, sat Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History. He rose graciously, a smile creasing his handsome face. He was dressed in a somber gray suit of old-fashioned cut, the starched white shirtfront enlivened only by a bright red silk bow tie.

"Ah,Margo. How good of you to come. Please take a seat."

How good of you to come.The note she had received had more the flavor of a summons than an invitation.

Collopy came around his desk and indicated a plush leather armchair which formed part of a group arrayed before a pink marble fireplace. Margo sat down and Collopy followed, taking a seat opposite her.

"Care for anything? Coffee, tea, mineral water?"

"Nothing, thank you, Dr. Collopy."

He leaned back, threw one leg casually over the other.

"We're so pleased to have you back at the museum, Margo," he said in his old New York society drawl. "I was delighted when you agreed to accept the editorship of Museology.We felt so lucky to lure you away from GeneDyne. Those research papers you published really impressed us, and your background here in ethnopharmacology made you the perfect candidate."

"Thank you, Dr. Collopy."

"And how do you find it? Everything to your satisfaction?" His voice was genteel, even kind.

"Everything is well, thank you."

"I am glad to hear it. Museologyis the oldest journal in its field, publishing continuously since 1892, and still the most respected. It is a great responsibility and challenge you've taken on, Margo."

"I hope to carry on the tradition."

"And so do we." He stroked his closely trimmed iron-gray beard meditatively. "One of the things we are proud of is the strongly independent editorial voice of Museology."

"Yes," said Margo. She knew where this was going, and she was ready.

"The museum has never interfered with the editorial opinions expressed in Museology,and we never will. We consider the editorial independence of the journal to be well-nigh sacred."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"On the other hand, we would not like to see Museologydevolve into a… what should one call it? An op-edorgan." The way he said it made it sound like another kind of organ entirely. "With independence comes responsibility. After all, Museologybears the name of the New York Museum of Natural History."

The voice remained soft-spoken, and yet it had taken on an edge. Margo waited. She would remain cool and professional. In fact, she had already prepared her response-even written it out and memorized it so she could express herself more eloquently-but it was important to let Collopy have his say.

"That is why the previous editors of Museologyhave always been exceedingly careful about how they exercised their editorial freedom." He let the words hang in the air.

"I assume you're referring to the editorial I am about to publish on the repatriation request of the Tano Indians."

"Exactly. The letter from the tribe, asking for the return of the Great Kiva masks, arrived only last week. The board of trustees has not yet discussed it. The museum hasn't even had time to consult its lawyers. Isn't it a bit premature to be editorializing on something that hasn't even begun to be evaluated? Especially when you're so new to the position?"

"It seems to me a straightforward issue," she said quietly.

At this, Collopy leaned back in his chair, a patronizing smile on his face. "It is anything butstraightforward, Margo. Those masks have been in the museum's collections for one hundred and thirty-five years. And they're to be the centerpiece of the Sacred Images show, the biggest exhibition in the museum since Superstition, six years ago."

Another heavy silence.

"Naturally," Collopy went on, "I'm not going to ask you to alter your editorial stand. I will merely point out that there may be a few facts you are unaware of." He pressed an almost invisible button on his desk and said into an equally invisible speaker: "The file, Mrs. Surd?"

A moment later, the secretary appeared with an ancient file in her hand. He thanked her, glanced at it, then handed it to Margo.

Margo took the file. It was very old and brittle and gave off a fearful smell of dust and dry rot. She opened it carefully. Inside were some handwritten papers in spidery mid-nineteenth-century script, a contract, some drawings.

"That is the original accession file of the Great Kiva masks you seem so anxious to return to the Tano Indians. Have you seen it?"

"No, but-"

"Perhaps you should have before you drafted your editorial. That first document is a bill of sale, itemizing two hundred dollars for the masks: a lot of money back in 1870. The museum didn't pay for those Great Kiva masks in trinkets and beads. The second document is the contract. That Xis the signature of the chief of the Great Kiva Society-the man who sold the masks to Kendall Swope, the museum's anthropologist. The third document, there, is the letter of thanks the museum wrote to the chief, in care of the Indian agent, which was read to him by the agent, promising the chief that the masks would be well taken care of."

Margo stared at the ancient papers. It continually amazed her how tenacious the museum was with everything, especially documents.

"The point is, Margo, the museum bought those masks in good faith. We paid an excellent price for them. We've now owned them for almost one and a half centuries. We've taken beautiful care of them. On top of that, they're among the most important objects in our entire Native American collection. Many thousands of people view them-are educatedby them, make career choices in anthropology or archaeology because of them-every week. Not once in a hundred and thirty-five years did any member of the Tano tribe complain or accuse the museum of acquiring them illegally. Now, doesn't it seem just a tad unfair for them to suddenly be demanding them back? And right before a blockbuster exhibition in which they are the featured attraction?"

Silence fell in the grand tower office, with its tall windows overlooking Museum Drive, its dark-paneled walls graced with Audubon paintings.

"It does seem a bit unfair," Margo said evenly.

A broad smile creased Collopy's face. "I knew you would understand."

"But it won't change my editorial position."

A gradual freezing of the air. "Excuse me?"

It was time for her speech. "Nothing in that accession file changes the facts. It's quite simple. The chief of the Great Kiva Society didn't own the masks to begin with. They weren't his. They belonged to the entire tribe. It would be like a priest selling off church relics. By law, you can't sell something you don't own. That bill of sale and contract in that folder are not legally valid. What's more, when he bought the masks, Kendall Swope knew that, and that is clear from the book he wrote, Tano Ceremonials.He knew the chief didn't have the right to sell them. He knew the masks were a sacred part of the Great Kiva ceremony and must never leave the kiva. He even admits the chief was a crook. It's all right there in Tano Ceremonials."

"Margo-"

"Please let me finish, Dr. Collopy. There's an even more important principle at stake here. Those masks are sacredto the Tano Indians. Everyone recognizes that. They can't be replaced or remade. The Tanos believe each mask has a spirit and is alive. These aren't conveniently made-up beliefs; they're sincere and deeply held religious convictions."

"But after one hundred and thirty-five years? Come, now. Why hadn't we heard a peep from those people all this time?"

"The Tano had no idea where the masks had gone until they read about the upcoming exhibition."

"I simply cannot believe they were mourning the loss of those masks for all this time. They were long forgotten. This is all too convenient, Margo. Those masks are worth five, maybe ten million dollars. It's about money, not about religion."

"No, it isn't. I've spoken to them."

"You've spokento them?"

"Of course. I called and spoke to the governor of Tano Pueblo."

For a moment, Collopy's mask of implacability fell away. "The legal implications of this are staggering."

"I was simply fulfilling my responsibility as editor of Museologyto learn the facts. The Tanos doremember, they remembered all along-those masks, as your own carbon dating proved, were almost seven hundred years old when they were collected. Believe me, the Tanos remember their loss."

"They won't be properly curated-the Tanos don't have the proper facilities to take care of them!"

"They should never have left the kiva to begin with. They aren't 'museum specimens'-they're a living part of Tano religion. Do you think the bones of St. Peter under the Vatican are being 'properly curated'? The masks belong in that kiva, whether it's climate-controlled or not."

"If we give these masks back, it would set a terrible precedent. We'll be inundated with demands from every tribe in America."

"Perhaps. But that's not a valid argument. Giving back those masks is the rightthing to do. You know it, and I'm going to publish an editorial saying so!"

She stopped, swallowed, realizing she had violated all her resolutions by raising her voice.

"And that is my final, and independent,editorial judgment," she added more quietly.