Dance of Death (53 page)

"He's got the gem!" Collopy cried, struggling to his feet. "He's got Lucifer's Heart! My God, get him!
Do
something!"

Beck had his radio out. "Security Command? This is Samuel Beck. Lock down the building! Lock it down! I don't want anyone going out-anything going out-no garbage, no mail, no people,
nothing!
You hear me? Shut off the elevators, lock the stairwells. I want a full security alert and all security personnel to search for a George Kaplan. Get an image of his face from the security checkpoint video cam. Nobody leaves the building until we've got a security cordon in place. No, to hell with fire regulations! That's a direct order! And I want an X-ray machine suitable for detecting a swallowed or concealed gemstone, along with a fully staffed technical team to man it, at the Sixth Avenue entrance, on the double."

He turned to the rest of them. "And none of you,
none
of you, are to leave this room without my permission."

Two exhausting and trying hours later, Smithback found himself in a line with what seemed like a thousand employees of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance. The line snaked interminably around the interior lobby of the building, coiling three times about the elevator banks. On the far side of the lobby, he could see employees trundling carts piled with mail and packages, running them all through X-ray machines of the kind found in airports. Kaplan had not been found-and, privately, Smithback knew he wouldn't be.

As Smithback approached the head of the line, he could hear a hubbub of voices raised in argument, from a large group of people shunted to one side who had refused to allow themselves to be X-rayed. Outside were fire trucks, their lights flashing; police cars; and the inevitable gaggle of press. As each person in line was thoroughly searched and then put through the X-ray machine, finally emerging into the gray January afternoon, there would be scattered applause and a burst of camera flashes.

Smithback tried to control his sweating. As the minutes crawled by, his nervousness had only grown worse. For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for agreeing to this. He had already been searched twice, including a revolting body-cavity search. At least the others in the executive boardroom had been subjected to the same kind of search, Collopy insisting on it for himself and the rest, including the officers of Affiliated Transglobal Insurance and even Beck. Meanwhile, Collopy-almost beside himself with agitation-had been doing all he could to convince Smithback to keep mum, not to publish anything. Oh, God, if they only knew...

Why, oh why, had he ever agreed to this?

Only ten more people in line ahead of him now. They were putting the people, one at a time, into what looked like a narrow telephone booth, with no fewer than four technicians examining various CRT screens affixed to it. Someone in front of him was listening to a transistor radio with everyone else crowding around-amazing how news got out-and it appeared the real Kaplan had been released unharmed in front of his brownstone a half hour ago and was now being questioned by the police. Nobody yet knew who the fake Kaplan was.

Just two more people to go.
Smithback tried to swallow but found that he couldn't. His stomach churned with fear. This was the worst part. The very worst of all.

And now it was his turn. Two technicians stood him on a mat with the usual yellow footprints and searched him yet again, just a little too thoroughly for comfort. They examined his temporary building pass and his press credentials. They had him open his mouth and searched it with a tongue depressor. Then they opened the door of the booth and put him inside.

"Don't move. Keep your arms at your side. Look at the target on the wall..." The directions rolled out with rapid efficiency.

There was a short hum. Through the safety glass, Smithback could see the technicians poring over the results. Finally, one nodded.

A technician on the other side opened the door, placed a firm hand on Smithback's arm, and drew him out. "You're free to go," he said, pointing to the building exit.

As he gestured, the technician brushed briefly against Smithback's side.

Smithback turned and walked the ten feet to the revolving door- the longest ten feet of his life.

Outside, he zipped up his coat, ran the gauntlet of flashbulbs, ignored the shouted questions, pushed through the crowd, and walked stiffly up Avenue of the Americas. At 56th Street, he hailed a cab, slid into the back. He gave the driver the address of his apartment, waited until the cab had moved out into traffic, turned and glanced searchingly out the rear window for a full five minutes.

Only then did he dare settle into his seat, reach into his coat pocket. There, nestled safely in the bottom, he could feel the hard, cold outline of Lucifer's Heart.

SIXTY-FOUR

D'Agosta and Pendergast sat, without speaking, inside the Mark VII on a bleak stretch of Vermilyea Avenue in the Inwood section of Upper Manhattan. The sun was dropping slowly through layers of gray, setting with a final slash of blood-red light, which cast a momentary glow over the dusky tenements and bleak warehouses before it was extinguished in bitter night.

They were listening to 1010 WINS, New York's all-news radio station. The station repeated its top stories on a twenty-two-minute cycle, and it had been continuously broadcasting news of the museum diamond heist, the announcer's excited voice in contrast to the somber mood inside the vehicle. Just ten minutes earlier, a new story had broken, a related but even more spectacular item: the theft of the real Lucifer's Heart from Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters. D'Agosta had no doubt the police had tried desperately to keep a lid on that one, but there was no way something that explosive could be kept under wraps.

"...
the most brazen diamond theft in history, taking place right under the noses of museum and insurance company executives, and following hard on the heels of the diamond heist at the museum. Sources close to the investigation say the same thief is suspected of both crimes...
"

Pendergast was listening intently, his face as hard and pale as marble, his body motionless. His cell phone sat on the seat between them.

"Police are questioning George Kaplan, a well-known gemologist, who was on his way to identify Lucifer's Heart for Affiliated Transglobal Insurance when he was abducted near his Manhattan town house. Sources close to the investigation say that the thief then assumed his identity in order to gain access to the diamond. Police believe he may still be hiding in the Affiliated Transglobal building, where a massive manhunt is still under way
..."

Pendergast leaned over and shut off the radio.

"How do you know Diogenes will hear the news?" D'Agosta asked.

"He'll hear it. For once, he's at a loss. He didn't get the diamond. He'll be in agony, on edge-listening, waiting, thinking. And once he learns what's happened, there will be only one course of action available to him."

"You mean, he'll know it was you who stole it."

"Absolutely. What other conclusion could he come to?" Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. "He'll know. And with no other way to send me a message, he'll call."

Sodium lights had come up, burning pale yellow along the length of the empty avenue. The temperature had dropped into single digits and a brutal wind swept up from the Hudson, blowing before it a few glittering flakes of snow.

The cell phone rang.

Pendergast hesitated just a second. Then he turned it over, punching the tiny speaker on the back into life. He said nothing.

"Ave, frater"
came the voice from the speaker.

A silence. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. In the reflected glow of the streetlights, his face was the color of alabaster. His lips moved, but no sound came.

"Is that any way to greet a long-lost brother? With disapproving silence?"

"I am here," Pendergast said in a strained voice.

"You're
there!
And how honored I am to be graced with your presence. It almost makes up for the vile experience of being forced to call you. But leave us not bandy civilities. I have but one question: did you steal Lucifer's Heart?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You know why."

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then a slow exhalation of breath. "Brother, brother, brother..."

"I am no brother of yours."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. We
are
brothers, whether we like it or not. And that relationship defines who we are. You know that, don't you, Aloysius?"

"I know that you're a sick man desperately in need of help."

"True: I am sick. No one recovers from the disease of being born. There is no cure to
that
sickness, short of death. But when you get down to it, we're all sick,
you
more than most. Yes, we
are
brothers- in sickness as well as in evil."

Again, Pendergast had no response.

"But here we are, bandying civilities again! Shall we get down to business?"

No answer.

"Then I will lead the discussion. First, a big, fat bravo for pulling off in one afternoon what I took years to plan-and, ultimately, failed to accomplish." D'Agosta could hear a slow patting of hands over the phone. "I assume this is all about making a little trade. A certain personage in exchange for the gemstone. Why else would you have gone to what was undoubtedly a bit of trouble?"

"You assume correctly. But first..." Pendergast's voice faltered.

"You want to know if she's still alive!"

This time it was Diogenes who let the silence draw out. D'Agosta stole a glance at Pendergast. He was motionless, save for the twitch of a small muscle below the right eye.

"Yes, she's still alive-at present."

"You hurt her in any way and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."

"Tut-tut. But while we're on the subject of women, let's talk a little bit about this young thing you've kept cloistered in the mansion of our late lamented ancestor. If indeed she is 'young,' which I'm beginning to doubt. I find myself most curious about her. Her
in particular,
in fact. I sense that what one sees on the surface is what one sees of an iceberg: the merest fraction. There are hidden facets to her, mirrors within mirrors. And at a fundamental level, I sense that something in her is
broken."

During this speech, Pendergast had stiffened visibly. "Listen to me, Diogenes. Keep away from her. You come close to her again, approach her in any way, and I'll-"

"Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands- more than it already is-as well as that of your four dear friends. Because
you, frater,
are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am."

"I made you nothing."

"Well said!
Well said!"
A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, D'Agosta felt a chill of repulsion.

"Let's get to it," Pendergast managed to say.

"Get to it? Just when the conversation was becoming interesting? Don't you want to talk about how
utterly
and
completely
responsible you are for all this? Ask any family shrink: they'll tell you how important it is that we talk it out.
Frater."

Suddenly, D'Agosta could take it no longer. "Diogenes! Listen to me, you sick fuck: you want the diamond? Then you cut with the bullshit."

"No diamond, no Viola."

"If you hurt Viola, I'll take a sledgehammer to the diamond and mail you the dust. If you think I'm kidding, keep talking."

"Empty threats."

D'Agosta brought his fist down on the dashboard, making a resounding crash.

"Careful! Easy!" The voice was suddenly high and panicked.

"So shut the hell up."

"Stupidity is an elemental force, and I respect it."

"You're still talking."

"We'll do this on my terms," said Diogenes briskly. "Do you hear me? My terms!"

"With two conditions," Pendergast said quietly. "One: the exchange must take place on the island of Manhattan, and within six hours. Two: it must be set up in such a way that you can't renege. You tell me your plan and I'll be the judge. You have one chance to get it right."

"That sounds like five conditions, not two. But of course, brother-of course! I have to say, though, this is a knotty little problem. I'll call you back in ten minutes."

"Make it five."

"More conditions?" And the phone went dead.

There was a long silence. A sheen of moisture had appeared on Pendergast's brow. He plucked a silk handkerchief from his suit jacket, dabbed his forehead, replaced it.

"Can we trust him?" D'Agosta asked.

"No. Never. But I don't think he'll have enough time to arrange an effective double cross within six hours. And he wants Lucifer's Heart-wants it with a passion you and I cannot comprehend. I think we can trust that passion, if we can trust nothing else."

The phone rang again, and Pendergast pressed the speaker button.

"Yes?"

"Okay,
frater.
Time for a pop quiz in urban geography. You know of a place called the Iron Clock?"