Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

"Here she is!" he cried.

D'Agosta raced to look at Pendergast's screen:

Folkestone DataCentre PROPRIETARY

SQL Engine 4.041.a CONFIDENTIAL

Passenger Manifest Lookup

Results of inquiry follow

One record(s) found:

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.

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 valuable jewelry-"

"Never put 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.