Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

“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 twisted 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.”

“How did you come by this information?” Pendergast asked in a voice so cold D’Agosta felt his blood freeze.

“Agent Pendergast, please. The acquisition of knowledge is our primary stock-in-trade. In trying to learn more about you-for purposes of better understanding your brother-we have spoken to a great many people. One of them was Cornelia Delamere Pendergast, your great-aunt. Current residence: the Mount Mercy Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Then there was a certain associate of yours, Miss Corrie Swanson, enrolled as a senior at Phillips Exeter Academy. She was a rather more difficult subject, but we ultimately learned what we needed to.”

Glinn regarded Pendergast with his Sphinx-like gaze. Pendergast returned the look, his pale cat’s eyes hardly blinking. The tension in the conference room increased rapidly; D’Agosta felt the hairs on his arms standing on end.

At last Pendergast spoke. “This prying into my private life goes far beyond the bounds of your employ.”

Glinn did not reply.

“I use the memory crossing in a strictly impersonal way-as a forensic tool, to re-create the scene of a crime or a historical event. That is all. It would have no value with such a… personal matter.”

“No value?” A dry tone of skepticism crept into Glinn’s voice.

“On top of that, it is a very difficult technique. Attempting to apply it here would be a waste of time. Just like the little game that Dr. Krasner tried to play with me.”

Glinn leaned forward again in his wheelchair, still staring at Pendergast. When he spoke, his voice carried a sudden urgency.

“Mr. Pendergast, isn’t it possible that the same event which has marred your brother so terribly-which turned him into a monster-scarred you as well? Isn’t it possible you have walled up its memory so completely that you no longer have any conscious recollection of it?”

“Mr. Glinn-”

“Tell me,” Glinn said, his voice growing louder. “Isn’t it possible?”

Pendergast looked at him, gray eyes glinting. “I suppose it is remotely possible.”

“If it is possible, and if this memory does exist, and if this memory will help us find that last missing piece, and if by doing so we can save lives and defeat your brother… isn’t it at least worth trying?”

The two men held each other’s gaze for less than a minute, but to D’Agosta it seemed to last forever. Then Pendergast looked down. His shoulders slumped visibly. Wordlessly he nodded.

“Then we must proceed,” Glinn went on. “What do you require?”

Pendergast did not reply for a moment. Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Privacy,” he said.

“Will the Berggasse studio suffice?”

“Yes.”

Pendergast placed both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed himself upright. Without a glance at the others in the room, he turned and made his way back toward the room from which he’d emerged.

“Agent Pendergast…?” Glinn said.

Hand on the doorknob, Pendergast half turned.

“I know how difficult this ordeal will be. But this is not the time for half measures. There can be no holding back. Whatever it is, it must be faced-and confronted-in its totality. Agreed?”

Pendergast nodded.

“Then good luck.”

A wintry smile passed briefly over the agent’s face. Then, without another word, he opened the door to the study and slipped out of sight.

Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood to the left of the Egyptian Hall entrance, gazing dubiously over the crowd. She had dressed in a dark suit, the better to blend in with the crowd, the only sign of her authority the tiny gold captain’s bars pinned to her lapel. Her weapon, a basic Smith amp; Wesson.38, was in its holster under her suit jacket.

The scene that greeted her eyes was one of textbook security. Her people, plainclothed and uniformed, were all at their appointed stations. They were the best she had-truly New York’s finest. The museum guard presence was there as well, deliberately obtrusive, adding at least a psychological sense of security. Manetti had so far been fully cooperative. The rest of the museum had been painstakingly secured. Hayward had run dozens of disaster scenarios through her head, drawing up plans to deal with every contingency, even the most unlikely: suicide bomber, fire, security system malfunction, power failure, computer failure.

The only weakness was the tomb itself-it had only one exit. But it was a large exit, and at the insistence of the NYC fire marshals, the tomb and all its contents had been specially fireproofed. She herself had made sure the tomb’s security doors could be opened or closed from the inside or outside, manually or electronically, even in the case of a total power failure. She had stood in the control room, occupying the empty room next to the tomb, and had operated the software that opened and closed the doors.

The toxicological teams had made not one sweep, not two, but three-the results uniformly negative. And now she stood, surveying the crowd, asking herself, What could possibly go wrong?

Her intellect answered loud and clear: Nothing.

But her gut sensed otherwise. She felt almost physically sick with unease. It was irrational; it made no sense.

Once more, she delved deep into her cop instincts, trying to discover the source of the feeling. As usual, her thoughts formed almost automatically into a list. And this time the list was all about Diogenes Pendergast.

Diogenes was alive.

He had kidnapped Viola Maskelene.

He had attacked Margo.

He had stolen the diamond collection-and then destroyed it.

He had probably been responsible for at least some of the killings ascribed to Pendergast.