Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

Smithback waited, cell phone in hand. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Fifteen.

Smithback paced in frustration. This was not looking good.

Then his phone gave a shrill ring. He opened it quickly.

"This is Collopy," came the patrician voice. "Is this Smithback?"

"Yes, it is."

"One of the guards will escort you to my office immediately."

A scene of controlled chaos greeted Smithback as he approached the grand, carved oaken doors of the director's office. Outside was a confabulation of New York City police, detectives, and museum officials. The door was shut, but as soon as Smithback's escort announced him, he was shown inside.

Collopy stood pacing before a great row of curved windows, hands clasped behind his back. Beyond the windows lay the wintry fastness of Central Park. Smithback recognized the security director, Manetti, along with several other museum officials standing before Collopy's desk.

The museum director noticed him, stopped pacing. "Mr. Smithback?"

"That's me."

Collopy turned to Manetti and the other officials. "Five minutes."

He watched them leave, then turned to Smithback. He was gripping the card in one hand, his face slightly flushed. "Who's behind this outrageous rumor, Mr. Smithback?"

Smithback swallowed. He had to make this sound good. "It's not exactly a rumor, sir. It came from a confidential source which I can't reveal. But I made a few calls, checked it out. It seems there might be something to it."

"This is intolerable. I've got enough to worry about without this. It's just some crank speculation, best ignored."

"I'm not sure that would be wise."

"Why? You're not going to publish unsubstantiated calumnies like this in the Times, are you? My assertion that the diamond is safe at our insurance company ought to be enough."

"It's true the Times doesn't publish rumors. But as I said, I've got a reliable source that claims it's true. I can't ignore that."

"Bloody hell."

"Let me pose a question to you," Smithback said, keeping his voice the soul of reasonableness. "When was the last time you personally saw Lucifer's Heart?"

Collopy shot him a glance. "It would have been four years ago, when we renewed the policy."

"Did a certified gemologist examine it at the time?"

"No. Why, it's an unmistakable gemstone…" Collopy's voice trailed off as he realized the weakness of his remark.

"How do you know it was the genuine article, Dr. Collopy?"

"I made a perfectly reasonable assumption."

"That's the crux of it, isn't it, Dr. Collopy? The truth is," Smithback continued gently, "you don't know for a fact that Lucifer's Heart is still in the insurance company vault. Or, if a gemstone is there, whether it's the real one."

"This is an absurd spinning of a conspiracy theory!" The director set off pacing again, hands balled up behind his back. "I don't have time for this!"

"You wouldn't want to let a story like this get out of control. You know how these things tend to assume a life of their own. And I do have to file my article by this evening."

"Your article? What article?"

"About the allegations."

"You publish that and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast!"

"Take on the Times? I don't think so." Smithback spoke mildly and waited, giving Collopy plenty of time to think things out to the inevitable, preordained conclusion.

"Damn it!" Collopy said, spinning on his heel. "I suppose we'll just have to bring it out and have it certified."

"An interesting suggestion," said Smithback.

Collopy paced. "It'll need to be done publicly, but under tight security, of course. We can't just invite every Tom, Dick, and Harry in to watch."

"May I suggest that all you really need is the Times'? The others will follow our lead. They always do. We're the paper of record."

Another turn. "Perhaps you're right."

Another pace across the room, another turn. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get a gemologist to certify that the stone held by our insurance company is, in fact, Lucifer's Heart. We'll do it right there, at Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters, under the tightest security. You'll be the only journalist there and, damn it, you'd better write an article that will scotch those rumors once and for all."

"If it's genuine."

"It'll be genuine or the museum will end up owning Affiliated Transglobal Insurance, so help me God."

"What about the gemologist? He'd have to be independent, for credibility."

Collopy paused. "It's true we can't use one of our own curators."

"And his reputation will obviously need to be unimpeachable."

"I'll contact the American Council of Gemologists. They could send one of their experts." Collopy walked to the desk, picked up the phone, and made several calls in rapid succession. Then he turned back to Smithback.

"It's all arranged. We'll meet at the Affiliated Transglobal headquarters, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, forty-second floor, at one o'clock precisely."

"And the gemologist?"

"A fellow named George Kaplan. Said to be one of the best." He glanced at Smithback. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do. See you at one." He hesitated. "And thank you for your discretion."

"Thank you, Dr. Collopy."

D'Agosta listened to the sirens coming across the dunes. They grew louder, receded, then grew louder again. From his days with the Southampton P.D., he recognized the tinny sound as coming from the cheap units mounted on the dune patrol buggies.

They'd sat here in the shadow of a sand dune, hiding, assessing the situation, at least five minutes. If he remained on the beach, there was no way their truck was going to escape dune buggies. And yet if he went back on the street, he'd be nabbed immediately, now that they knew his approximate location, vehicle, and license plate.

They were now near Southampton, D'Agosta's old stomping ground, and he knew the lay of the land, at least in general terms. There had to be a way out. He would just have to find it.

He started the truck, popped the emergency brake.

"Hold on to your seat," he said.

Pendergast, who had apparently finished making a string of cell phone calls, glanced over. "I am in your hands."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. Then he gunned the engine, the pickup digging out of the hollow and climbing the side of a dune, shooting huge jets of sand behind them. They plunged into another depression, wound around several dunes, then climbed diagonally up the flank of an especially large one that separated them from the mainland. As they topped it, D'Agosta got a backward glimpse of several patrol buggies scooting along the hard sand a quarter mile back, with at least two others in the dunes themselves, no doubt following their tracks.

Shit. They were closer than he'd expected.

D'Agosta jammed the pedal to the floor as the pickup topped the dune. For a moment, they were airborne. Then they landed on the far side, bottoming out in the loose sand, churning and grinding their way through a patch of dense brush. The preserve ended, and the path ahead was blocked by several grand Hampton estates. As he fought with the wheel, D'Agosta quickly arranged the local topography in his head. If they could just get past the estates, he knew, Scuttlehole marsh lay beyond.

The dunes leveled out and he bashed the truck through a slat fence, emerging onto a narrow road. On the far side was a high boxwood hedge, surrounding one of the great estates. He tore alongside the hedge, and where the road curved up ahead, he saw what he was looking for-a sclerotic patch in the foliage-and he veered off, aiming directly for it. The pickup truck hit it at forty, bashed through the hedge, tearing off both mirrors in the process, and then they were accelerating across a ten-acre lawn, a huge Georgian mansion on the left, a gazebo and covered pool on the right, the way beyond blocked by an Italian rose garden.