Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

BA-0002359148

Maskelene, Lady Viola

British Airways Flight 822

Departed: London Gatwick LGW, 27 January, 11:54 P.M. GMT

Arrived: Kennedy Intl JFK, 28 January, 12:10 A.M. EST

End of Inquiry

Pendergast turned away from the screen. His entire being seemed to crackle with energy, and his eyes-before so empty and distant– were on fire.

"Come, Vincent-we're off to JFK. Every minute we waste, the trail grows colder." And without another word, he dashed out of the room and down the hall.

FORTY-EIGHT

It was like the old days, D'Agosta thought grimly: Pendergast in his black suit, racing along the streets of New York City in his Rolls. Except that, really, it wasn't like the old days at all. Pendergast was a hunted man, and D'Agosta himself was in such deep shit he'd need a decompression chamber when he surfaced– assuming he ever surfaced at all.

The Rolls pulled up to the curb at Terminal 7 Arrivals. Pendergast leaped out, leaving the vehicle running. A Port Authority policeman was strolling along the curb, and Pendergast swooped down on him.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation." He passed his gold shield in front of the officer briefly, then closed it up and slid it back into his suit.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the officer responded, instantly intimidated.

"We're here on an investigation of the utmost importance. Can I ask you to watch my vehicle, Officer?"

"Yes, sir." The man practically saluted.

Pendergast strode into the terminal, black coat flapping behind him. D'Agosta followed him to baggage claim security. Within, a heavyset guard was listening patiently to a man in a suit shouting angrily about a stolen bag.

Again, Pendergast opened his badge, "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My associate, Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD."

"Well, it's about time!" the man cried angrily. "My wife's extremely valuablejewelry-"

"Neverput valuable jewelry in check-in luggage," said Pendergast smoothly, linking his arm in the man's and propelling him to the door and out, then stepping quickly back and shutting and locking it.

"You make it look so easy," said the guard with a grin.

"Is there an Officer Carter on duty?" said Pendergast, his eye just flitting over the man's identification badge.

"That's me. Randall Carter. What can I do for you?"

"I was told you were the best man to handle my problem."

"Really?" The man's face lit up. "Who-?"

"We need to review some security videotapes from last night. Just after midnight. It's a matter of great urgency."

"Yes, sir, let me just call the director of security."

Pendergast shook his head wonderingly. "Didn't they tell you this was already cleared?"

"It is? I didn't know. Funny they didn't send down an S.C…"

"Well," Pendergast interrupted briskly, "I'm glad they at least had the sense to send me to you. You think for yourself; you're not one of those bureaucratic types." He suddenly leaned into the man's face and grasped his shoulder. "Are you wearing body armor, Officer?"

"Body armor? We're not required… Hey, but why-?"

"We'd better get going."

"Yes, sir." The officer needed no more persuasion. He hustled to the back of his office and unlocked a security door.

Down a beige corridor, past another locked door, and D'Agosta found himself in a large computer room festooned with monitors playing back live video feeds from all over the terminal. A few security guards were sitting around a cafeteria-style table drinking coffee, while a thin, irritated technician rapped away on a keyboard in one corner.

"These gentlemen need to see some video," Carter said to the technician.

"Moment," said the technician.

"No, now.This man's FBI and it's a matter of grave importance."

The technician got up, expelling an irritated hiss. "Right. Let's see the S.C." He held out his hand.

"It's been cleared. You got my okay on that."

A roll of the eyes. "So what do you want?"

Pendergast stepped up. "British Airways Flight 822 arrived here from Gatwick just after midnight. I want the security videotapes of the carousel where that flight's luggage arrived and, most important,I need to review the feed from the greeting area just beyond customs clearance."

"Have a seat. This might take a while."

"I'm afraid I don't have a while."

"Give me a break. I'll do what I can, but don't hold your breath."

Pendergast broke into a gentle smile. Seeing that smile, D'Agosta felt himself tense up instinctively.

"You're Jonathan Murphy, are you not?" Pendergast asked in his honeyed voice.

"So you can read an ID card. Bravo."

"I believe in the carrot-and-stick method of doing things, Jonathan," Pendergast said, still pleasantly. "Get me those videotapes in five minutes and you will receive a ten-thousand-dollar reward from the FBI's Public Incentive and Reward Program, also known as PIRP. No doubt you've heard of it. On the other hand, fail to get me that videotape and I'll put a red security flag in your file, which will mean that you'll never work at another airport, or any other secured site, in the country again. Now, which is it to be: carrot or stick?"

A silence. The security guards were nudging each other and grinning. Clearly, the technician wasn't popular.

Murphy smirked. "I'll take the ten grand."

"Excellent."

The technician sat down again and went to work with a vengeance, fingers hammering at the keys. D'Agosta watched as numbers scrolled frantically across the CRT.

"We don't use videotapes anymore," he said. "We have everything stored digitally, on-site. The ganged feeds use up an entire terabyte of our RAID-1 array every…"

Suddenly, he stopped bashing at the keyboard. "Okay. The flight arrived at ten minutes after midnight, gate 34. Let's see… It takes about fifteen minutes, on average, to go through pre-customs and walk to the carousel… I'll cue up to twelve-twenty, just to be safe."

A video sprang to life on Murphy's screen. Pendergast bent forward, scrutinizing it intently. D'Agosta peered over his shoulder. He could see the international baggage area, an empty carousel turning.

"I'll nudge up the speed until people start arriving," Murphy said.

Now the carousel turned much faster. The seconds spun by, in fast motion, at the bottom of the screen. Shortly, people began arriving at the carousel, looking for their luggage. Murphy tapped a set of keys, slowing the video down to normal speed.

"That's her!" Pendergast whispered urgently, pointing at the screen.

D'Agosta made out the slender form of Viola Maskelene, carrying a small bag. She approached the carousel, pulled her ticket out of the bag, examined the baggage claim checks, then crossed her arms to wait.

For a minute, Pendergast just stared at the image. Then he spoke again. "Switch to the greeting area, please. Same time frame."

The technician typed in some more commands. The image of the baggage area disappeared, replaced by the waiting area outside customs. It was sparsely populated, a few knots of people standing around restlessly, waiting to meet arrivals.

"There,"said Pendergast.

A man stood off to one side, tall, slender, dressed in a dark overcoat. He had gingery hair, and he was looking around the room rather languidly, peering into various corners. His eye turned and stopped, fixed on the security camera.

D'Agosta had to stop himself from taking an instinctual step back. The man was staring right at them. His face was tan and angular and he had a closely trimmed beard, one eye milky blue, the other hazel. D'Agosta recognized him instantly as the man he had seen on theslopes above Castel Fosco in Italy that fateful day not two months earlier.

The man nodded formally at the camera, raised his hand just a little, and tipped a wave. His lips moved as if in speech.

D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. His face was white-with rage.

Pendergast turned to the technician. "Back that up and print it out, there-when the man waves."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later and the computer printer was humming. Pendergast ripped the color image out and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Fast-forward, please, until a lady conies out and greets him."

Once again, the images on the screen scurried briefly in accelerated motion, slowing again when Viola emerged. Diogenes approached with two outstretched hands and a large smile. D'Agosta watched breathlessly as the two exchanged what appeared to be pleasantries; then Diogenes waved a bill and a skycap came rushing over. They turned and headed toward the door, the skycap following with Viola's bags.

Pendergast pointed at the screen. "Who's that skycap?"

Carter, the security officer, squinted at the screen. "Looks like Norm. Norman Saunders."

"Is he still on?"

Carter shook his head. "Couldn't say."

"He goes off at eight," one of the other guards said. "But sometimes he works overtime."

The figures disappeared out the glass doors.

"Go to the curbside camera."

"Right."

More rapping of keys. The scene abruptly changed again. There was Diogenes striding toward a dark Lincoln. He grasped the door handle, opened the door for Viola, helped her in. He waited for the skycap to close the trunk; then he walked around the car and got into the driver's seat.

The car pulled away, accelerating into the darkness beyond, and was gone.

"Back up," said Pendergast, "and get me a print of the car. When the door is open, please: I want to see the interior. And another print when the car's pulling away, so we can get a make on the plate."

A moment later, the computer was spitting out the images, which Pendergast immediately thrust into his jacket. "Good. Now we're going to find Saunders."

"If he's here, he'll be at the east carousels," Carter said.

"Thank you." Pendergast turned to go.

"So," said the technician, "how do I collect my ten grand?"

Pendergast paused. "Ten thousand dollars? Just for doing your job? A ridiculous idea."

To much muffled laughter and shaking of heads, they left the room. "If Saunders is on, he'll be over by baggage," said Carter. "I'll show you."

Several flights had recently arrived, and streams of travelers were crowding into baggage claim. All carousels were running full-bore, packed with luggage, and skycaps were coming and going busily.

Carter stopped one of them. "Saunders take an extra shift?"

The man shook his head. "He's off until midnight."

Looking past the skycap, D'Agosta noticed four Port Authority cops on the landing above the baggage claim concourse, scanning the crowd. Immediately, he nudged Pendergast. "I don't like that."

"Neither do I."

Carter's radio went off and he grabbed it.

"We better get the hell out of here," murmured D'Agosta.

They began walking briskly toward the exit.

"Hey!" came a distant shout. "Wait!"

D'Agosta glanced back to see the officers spilling into the crowd, pushing their way through. "You two! Wait!"

Pendergast broke into a run, darting through the throngs of people and heading back out to the curb. The P.A. cop was still beside the idling Rolls, talking on his radio. Pendergast shot past him, and D'Agosta half jumped, half tumbled into the passenger seat. The man's protest was lost in the roar of the big engine and the tremendous screech of rubber as the Rolls shot away from the pickup area at high speed.

As they accelerated onto the JFK Expressway, Pendergast pulled the printouts from his suit coat.

"Boot up my laptop, there in the carrier, and do a make on a Lincoln Town Car, New York license 453A WQ6. Radio the milepost 11 toll plaza on the Van Wyck Expressway and talk someone into reviewing the security tapes for between twelve-thirty and one a.m., going both east and west."

"What about us?"

"We're going east."

"East? You don't think he took her into the city?"

"That's exactly what I dothink he did. But given that Diogenes seems to be able to anticipate what I think, I'm going east-to the far end of the island."

"Right."

"Another thing: we're going to need to trade down." And Pendergast abruptly pulled off the airport expressway into the returns lot of a Hertz office, steered the big car into an empty spot, and killed the engine.

D'Agosta looked up from the laptop. "What, rent something?"

"No. Steal something."

FORTY-NINE

Once again, Smithback entered the gracious confines of Dr. Tisander's office, a load of textbooks under one arm. It was eight o'clock, well past the barbaric 5:30 p.m. dinner hour of River Oaks. He found the psychiatrist seated behind his desk, but this evening the usual look of genteel condescension was marred by an irritated flash in the eyes.

"Edward," Dr. Tisander said. "Although I am extremely busy, I am happy to give you five minutes of my undivided attention."

Smithback seated himself without an invitation and thumped the load of books onto the man's desk.

"I've been thinking about something you said in our conversation the day before yesterday," he began. "You told me: 'It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with total scrupulosity'"

"I may have said something like that, yes."

"You said exactly that. It made me curious to know just what that process is."

Tisander nodded condescendingly. "You seem to have found our library to your satisfaction."

"Very much so. In fact, I found exactly what I was looking for."

"How nice," said Tisander, feigning interest while taking a surreptitious glance at his watch.

Smithback patted the top book. "The laws of New York State regarding the involuntary commitment of the mentally ill are among the strictest in the nation."

"I am well aware of that. It's one reason why we have so many homeless people on the street."

"It isn't enough for a family to sign the documents in order to commit someone against his will. There's a whole process involved."

Another sage nod from Tisander.

"Isn't it true, for example, that a judge has to declare the person non compos mentis?"

"Yes."

"And even a judge cannot make that declaration unless two conditions are met. Do you recall those two conditions, Dr. Tisander?"

This time the psychiatrist gave a genuine smile, delighted to show off his erudition. "I certainly do. The person is either a danger to himself-mentally or physically-or a danger to society."

"Right. In the first case, suicide ideation or an actual attempt must usually be present, which must be attested to by a signed letter from a doctor. In the case of a person being a danger to society, it's usually necessary for the person to have been arrested."

"You havebeen busy, Edward," said Tisander.

"And then, afterthe declaration of non compos mentis, there must be a psychiatric evaluation recommending involuntary commitment."

"All standard procedure. Now, Edward, it's after eight, and it isn't long until lights-out, so if you'd-"

Smithback pulled one of the books from the pile. "I'll be done in a minute."

Tisander rose, squaring papers on his desk. "If you make it quick." He nodded imperceptibly, and an orderly emerged from the shadows near the door.

Smithback hastily pulled a sheet of paper from the book and handed it over the desk. "I drew up a list of documents that must, by law, be in my file."

Tisander took the list, scanned it with a frown. "A judge's declaration. A suicide-attempt report-signed by a doctor-or an arrest record. A psychiatric evaluation." He read them off. "I've no doubt they're all there. Now, Edward, it's time."

The orderly advanced.

"One other thing," Smithback said.

"Thankyou, Edward." A note of exasperation had crept into Tisander's orotund voice.

"A question. That psychiatric evaluation that must be in the file– who administers it?"

"We do. Always. Surely, Edward, you remember the interview and tests you took on admittance."

"There's where you blew it, Tisander." Smithback dropped the heavy tome back on the desk, for effect. "It says right in here-"

"Jonathan?"

The orderly appeared at Smithback's elbow, a hulking presence. "This way, Mr. Jones."

"-by law," Smithback went on loudly, "the psychiatric evaluation can't be done by anyone on the staff of the admitting institution."

"Rubbish. Show Mr. Jones to his room, Jonathan."

"It's true!"Smithback cried as the orderly took his arm. "Back in the fifties, a young man was committed by his family in collusion with the asylum. They stole his inheritance. In the aftermath, a law was passed stating the evaluation had to be done by an independent psychiatrist. Check it out. Page 337, Romanski v. Reynauld State Hospital!"

"This way, Mr. Jones," said the orderly, propelling him firmly across the Persian carpet.

Smithback dug in his heels. "Tisander, when I get out, I'm going to sue River Oaks and you personally. If you can't produce that independent evaluation, you'll lose the suit-and it'll cost you dearly."

" Good night,Edward."

"I'll make it my mission in life! I'll dog you like the Furies dogged Orestes. I'll take away everything you have, your job, your reputation, this whole pile. As you know, I'm as rich as Croesus. Check my file. I know for a factyou cut that corner! There's no independent evaluation, and you know it!"

Smithback felt himself being dragged bodily toward the door.

"Shut the door on your way out, will you, Jonathan?" Dr. Tisander said.

"Tisander?" Smithback raised his voice. "Can you afford to make this mistake? You'll lose the whole enchilada, you son of a-!"

Jonathan shut the door to the office. "Come on, Jones," he said, giving Smithback a gentle push down the hall. "Give it a rest."

"Get your hands off me!" Smithback cried, struggling.

"Hey, man, I'm just doing my job," said the orderly calmly.

Smithback relaxed. "Right. Sorry. I imagine it's about as much fun working here as it is being a 'guest.'"

The orderly released him and Smithback dusted off his jacket. "All right, Jonathan," he said, mustering a feeble smile. "Escort me back to my cage. I'll work up a new angle tomorrow."

Just as they were turning the corner, Tisander's voice came echoing down the hall. "Jonathan? Bring Mr. Jones back."

Jonathan paused. "Looks like you get another hearing."

"Yeah, right."

As they turned back toward Tisander's office, Smithback heard the low voice of the orderly behind him. "Good luck."

Smithback entered the office. Tisander was standing behind the desk, his figure rigid. Smithback saw his own file open on the director's desk. Next to it was the book he'd indicated-opened to page 337.

"Sit down," Tisander said tersely. He nodded at the orderly. "You can wait outside."

Smithback took a seat.

"You think you're a clever fellow," Tisander said. All the phony good humor and condescension was gone. His face was now as hard and gray as a boiled potato.

"I was right," Smithback murmured, more to himself than to Tisander.

"A sheer technicality. There isn't a psychiatric hospital in the state that does independent evaluations. I don't think anyone's even aware of this ridiculous law. But under the circumstances, I can't afford to keep you here."

"You're damn right you can't afford it. I'll sue your ass from here to Albany-"

Tisander closed his eyes and held up a hand. "Mr. Jones, please.Our intention was to help you, but I'll be damned if I'll let some spoiled brat undo all the good I've built up over the years. Frankly, you're not worth it."

"So I'm free?"

"As soon as I write up the decommitment papers. Unfortunately, it's almost lockdown. You won't be able to leave until six a.m. tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Smithback echoed, almost afraid to believe his ears.

"Believe me, I'd love to get rid of you now. Jonathan?"

The orderly came back in.

"Mr. Jones is to be discharged in the morning. See to it he's given every consideration until then."

They exited the office, and as soon as the door closed, Smithback grinned. "Jonathan, I'm outta here."

Jonathan high-fived him with a big smile. "Man, how'd you do it?"

Smithback shrugged. "Sheer brilliance."

FIFTY

Nora Kelly paused on the corner of 77th Street and Museum Drive, looking northward. The great Romanesque entrance to the museum was lit up with spotlights, a five-story banner touting the opening hung on the facade. Below, the drive was packed with the usual New York chaos of limos and black Mercedes, disgorging patrons and celebrities in furs and black tie to successive waves of flashes. The inevitable red carpet had been rolled down the granite steps, which were roped off as if at a movie premiere, to keep back the press and the uninvited. The whole spectacle made her sick.

Margo Green had been brutally murdered just two days ago and buried this very morning-yet it was as if the museum had already dismissed and forgotten her. Nora wondered what would happen if she just turned around and went back to her apartment; but she already knew the answer: she might as well kiss her career good-bye. She was supposedly one of the stars of this show, as George Ashton had made all too clear to her. The show must go on.

Taking a deep breath, and pulling her woolen coat more tightly about her shoulders, she started forward. As she drew closer, she noticed a commotion off to one side. A group of short, heavyset men dressed in buckskins and wrapped in decorated blankets was standing in a circle, beating drums and chanting-some waving bundles of smoking sagebrush. After a moment of incomprehension, she suddenly realized what it was all about: the Tano protesters had arrived. She could see Manetti, the security director, talking with them and gesturing, flanked by a couple of NYPD cops and some museum guards. It seemed the commotion had begun to attract the attention of the guests, and some of them were coming over to see what was happening.

"Excuse me!" Nora pushed her way through some gawkers, ducked under the velvet rope, stuck her museum badge in the face of a protesting guard, and approached the group of Indians. At that very moment, a beautiful young woman came sweeping up: a star or starlet of some kind, judging by the trail of paparazzi that followed in her wake.

"This is private property," Manetti was saying to what Nora assumed was the leader of the Tanos. "We don't object to your protesting, but you have to do it down there, on the sidewalk-"

"Sir," the leader began in a quiet voice, "we are not protesting, we are praying-"

"Whatever. This is private property."

The celebrity waded in. With a jolt, Nora recognized her as movie star Wanda Meursault, tall, exotic, and vaguely foreign, rumored to be in line for best actress at the upcoming Academy Awards.

"Hold on! Why shouldn't these people have a right to pray?" she demanded to a dozen simultaneous flashes. A thicket of boomed mikes came swinging around to capture every deathless word that might drop from her lips, and TV lights fired up.

Instantly, Nora saw a P.R. disaster in the making.

"I'm not saying they can't pray," Manetti said, exasperation strong in his voice. "All I'm saying is that this is private property-"

"These Native Americans are praying."Meursault turned and asked, as an afterthought: "Why are you praying?"

"We're praying for our sacred masks, locked in a case in the museum," the leader said.

"They've locked upyour sacredmasks?" The actress's face bloomed in mock horror.

The cameras zeroed in.

Something had to be done-and fast. Nora shoved forward, pushing aside a policeman and jostling Manetti to one side.

"Hey, just a minute," the security director began.

"Nora Kelly, assistant curator of the exhibition," Nora explained to the cop, dangling her badge before every official face within reach. She turned to the security director. "I'll handle this, Mr. Manetti."

"Dr. Kelly, these people are trespassing on museum property-"

"I know that. I'll handleit."

Manetti fell silent. Amazing, Nora thought, how quickly a sharp tone and an air of authority-an authority she didn't have-could turn the tables.

She turned to the Tano leader, startled to see he was old, at least seventy. The calmness and dignity in his face was remarkable. This wasn't the young, angry activist she had imagined. The other men were equally aged, all somewhat rotund, wrapped in Pendleton wool blankets. The old VW bus they'd arrived in, a real junker, was parked illegally on Museum Drive and would no doubt soon be towed.

"Y'aah shas slit dz'in nitsa,"she said to the man.

The leader stared at her dumbfounded. "Y'aah shas,"he said hastily, as if remembering himself. "How-?"

"I spent some time at Tano Pueblo," said Nora. "That's all I know of your language, so please don't try to reply!" She smiled and held out her hand. "Nora Kelly, one of the curators of the show. I believe I spoke to one of your colleagues."

"You spoke to me."

"Then you must be Mr. Wametowa."

The old man nodded.

"How can I help you?" Nora asked.

"They want to pray!" Meursault shouted from the sidelines.

Nora ignored her, keeping her attention on Wametowa.

"We're praying to the masks," he said. "That's all we're asking, to speak to our masks."

"Speak to the masks?"

"Yes. To reassure them that we're here, that we care about them, that they haven't been forgotten."

Nora could see Manetti rolling his eyes.

"That's sobeautiful," said Meursault, turning her head to better expose her profile to the cameras. Another dozen flashes went off.

"We believe the masks are alive, that they have a spirit. They've been alone and away from us for a long time. We've come to bless them, comfort them."

Suddenly, Nora realized just what the solution was.

She pretended to think for a moment. She knew, from her brief week at Tano Pueblo back in her graduate student days, that they viewed any decision arrived at quickly as a poor decision. "This doesn't seem like a good place to do that," she said at last.

"That's just what I was saying-" Manetti began.

Nora paid no attention. "I wonder if there might be a better place…"

"There is," Manetti said. "Down there on the sidewalk."

Nora flashed a look at Manetti.

"We would like to be closer to our masks, not further," said Wametowa.

"Why don't you come in, then?" Nora asked.

"They won't let us."

"Come in as my guests. I'll take you to the masks right now, so you can speak to them in private– beforethe unveiling of the hall."

"Dr. Kelly, are you crazy?" Manetti protested.

The Tano elder stared at her a minute. Then his broad, ancient face broke into a radiant smile. He gave a dignified bow. "Eesha łat dził.You are a human being, Miss Nora."

"Bravo!" cried Meursault.

"I won't permit this," the security director said.

"Mr. Manetti, I'll take full responsibility."

"You can't just bring these people into the hall before the ribbon cutting-that's impossible!"

"Nothing's impossible. In fact, this is the way it shouldbe." She turned to the Indians. "Would you gentlemen like to follow me?"

"We'd be happy to," said the Tano.

Meursault linked her arm with the startled old Indian's and they marched forward behind Nora, the crowd of press and onlookers surging behind. "Make way for the Tano elders!" Meursault cried. "Make way!" Her sequined dress shimmered under the lights, her face radiant at seizing so brilliantly the center of attention.

Like magic, the crowd parted as they mounted the red-carpeted steps. The Tanos began softly chanting and beating their drums again as they passed through the Rotunda and entered the Hall of the Heavens, and Nora found herself facing a line of gala partygoers who had fallen rapt at the sight of Native Americans marching toward the hall. No doubt they all thought the procession was part of the program. The mayor came forward, sensing, like Meursault, an opportunity.

Manetti followed behind, his face red but his mouth shut, obviously realizing it would be counterproductive to continue the argument in front of the whole city.

Now Collopy came rushing forward from the greeting line. "Nora! What in the world?"

She bent toward him and whispered quickly. "The Tanos would like to have a private moment with the masks alone, before the ribbon cutting."

"Whatever for?"

"To pray for and bless the masks. That's all."

Collopy frowned. "Nora, this is not the time. Surely,this can wait!"

Nora looked straight into his eyes. "Dr. Collopy. Please trust me on this. I know the Indians of the Southwest well, I've lived and worked among them for years. They're not here to cause you trouble or public embarrassment. They just want a little private time with their masks. By the time the ceremony's over, they'll be gone. And the whole situation will be defused. This is the very best way to handle things, and I know if you give it careful consideration,you'll agree." She dropped her voice even further. "It also happens to be a great public relations opportunity."

Collopy looked at Nora, his patrician face wide with astonishment. Then he looked at Manetti. Finally, he turned toward the waiting Tanos. He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair, his brow wrinkled in thought.

And then suddenly, his face broke into a welcoming smile. He reached out his hand toward the Tano leader. "Welcome! Mr…?"

"Wametowa."

"Of course! Welcome! The museum is delighted to receive you and your group as representatives of the Tano people. I understand you've come a long way to see the Great Kiva masks."

"Two thousand miles."

A murmur went up in the crowd. The cameras were whirring.

"We are so glad you could make it. This is a special honor for the museum and for me personally."

The press was eating it up. Nora felt a huge relief: it was going to turn out all right.

"Our security director, Mr. Manetti, will take you into the hall to, ah, visit with the masks in private. Mr. Manetti? You can handle the security zones a tad ahead of schedule, I'm sure. And leave them alone while they pray."

"Yes, sir."

"Will half an hour suffice?" Collopy asked the leader.

"Yes, thank you," replied the Tano elder.

"Splendid! Afterwards, you're all invited to join the festivities, Mr. Wem, ah, Wem…"

"Wametowa."

"Excellent! Is there anything else we can do?"

"For now, this will suffice." The Tanos nodded, looking around and nodding to one another. "To tell you the truth, we didn't expect to be treated with this kind of respect."

"Nonsense! We're delighted to have you!" Collopy turned toward the cameras, having fully recovered his composure. "The museum thanks the Tano people for the privilege of being allowed to share these remarkable masks with the rest of the world."