Dance of Death (44 page)

Menzies bowed his head, popped two soft contact lenses out from his eyes and into a waiting plastic container, then stepped up to the optical reader. A quick bar of light passed across his face; there was a moment's stillness, and then a soft click announced the disengagement of the lock. He stepped through the door into the hall beyond, the door automatically closing behind him.

With a rapidity of movement marvelous for his advanced age, Menzies knelt, opened his satchel, and got to work. First he reached up and, with a sharp tug, removed his leonine thatch of white hair, shoved the wig into the satchel, then reached into his mouth and pulled out five molded rubber cheek and chin pieces. This act alone caused an astonishing transformation in the shape and apparent age of his face. Another pair of quick tugs took off the bushy eyebrows and a few small blemishes, liver spots, a mole.

Next, still kneeling, the man removed more than a dozen small dental mirrors from the satchel, mounted on bizarre little stands in a variety of odd shapes and sizes, all made of beautifully hand-machined brass. Next came an array of black objects wired together, a stack of thin Mylar sheets, several small cutting tools, exotic-looking metal instruments, and a flat of sticky pads, each the size and shape of a lentil.

When these had been arranged on the floor with military precision, the man waited, still crouching, unmoving, stopwatch again in his hands. He raised his head once to look at the hall in front of him. It was dark-utterly dark-without even the slightest gleam announcing its extraordinary contents. The darkness was part of the security, because the only electromagnetic radiation in the hall after closing was invisible infrared and far-infrared wavelengths. Even the myriad laser beams crisscrossing the hall were infrared, undetectable to the naked eye. But he did not need light: he had rehearsed this many hundreds of times, in an exact duplicate of this room which he had constructed himself.

The watch gave another soft beep, and the man exploded into movement. With the speed of a ferret, he darted about the room, placing the dental mirrors in precisely fixed and calibrated locations, each mirror turned to the precise angle.

In two minutes, he was done and back in his place by the door, breathing slowly and regularly, watch in hand.

Another soft beep indicated the laser beams had gone back on- each one now redirected to a different path, running around the outer walls instead of crisscrossing the hall itself. This rotating series of laser grids was one of the features of the new security system. No doubt the technicians in the basement were congratulating themselves on another successful test.

Again, the man waited, looking at his watch. Another soft beep and he was up again, this time carrying the Mylar sheets, which he stuck over the video camera lenses which had been placed in numerous strategic locations. The Mylar sheets, clear to the naked eye, were actually etched with holographs which responded strongly to infrared light, and which reproduced the precise scene that the infrared video cameras were pointed at-minus, of course, the man. When the video cameras came back on, they would see the same boring scene they had seen before. Only it would not be real.

Again, like a cat, the man retreated to his safe corner. Again, he waited until the stopwatch beeped another soft warning.

This time he scurried around the perimeter of the hall, setting a sleek black box in each corner, connected by wires to a small power pack. These were powerful radar guns of the type used by state police, modified to jam the museum's new infrared Doppler radar system, said to be so sensitive it could detect the motion of a cockroach across the carpeting.

Once the radar jammers were in place and active, the man straightened up, dusted his knees, and gave a low, dry chuckle. Movements now almost languid, he removed a flashlight from the satchel, turned it on, and played the dull green beam about the hall- a precise wavelength of green light chosen because none of the sophisticated electromagnetic sensors in the hall could see it.

The man strolled casually to the center of the hall where a square, four-foot pillar had been constructed, on top of which was set a thick Plexiglas box. He bent down and looked in the box. Resting inside on thick satin was the dark form of a heart-cut diamond of extraordinary, almost incredible size: Lucifer's Heart, the museum's prize gem, which had been called the most valuable diamond in the world. It was certainly the most beautiful.

A fine place to start.

With a small cutting tool, the man opened a hole in the Plexiglas. Then, with a series of slender tools machined precisely for this purpose and some of the tiny, sticky pads, he reached in and removed the diamond, being careful to prevent the trigger pin under the diamond from rising. Another deft movement placed a large glass marble on the same stand, which would keep the pin depressed.

The man held the diamond in his hand, shining the flashlight up through it for a moment. In the green light it looked black and dead, without color, almost like a piece of coal. But the man was not perturbed: he knew that a red diamond under green light always looked black. And this diamond was red-or more precisely, a rich cinnamon, but without a trace of brown. It was the only diamond of its color in the world. Blue diamonds were created by boron or hydrogen trapped in the crystal matrix, green diamonds by natural radiation, yellow and brown diamonds by nitrogen, and pink diamonds by the presence of microscopic lamellae. But this color? Nobody knew.

He held it up and peered through it to the flashlight below. He could see his own eyes reflected and multiplied by the diamond's facets, creating a surreal kaleidoscope of eyes and more eyes, hundreds of them, staring every which way inside the gem. He moved the gem back and forth, from eye to eye, enjoying the spectacle.

And the strangest thing of all was that the eyes were of different colors: one hazel, the other a milky, whitish blue.

FIFTY-THREE

Larry Enderby sat at his console in the Advanced Technology Center, puffing slightly. The hollowness in his stomach had gone, replaced with an uncomfortable bloated feeling. He felt like a frigging suckling pig, to tell the truth. He belched, let out his belt a notch. All that was missing was the shiny red apple for his mouth.

He glanced over at his co-workers, Walt Smith and Jim Choi. Smitty-who, true to his nature, had acted with restraint-was staring at a bank of monitors, no worse for wear. The same couldn't be said for Choi, who was slumped at his terminal, a glazed expression on his face. During the fifteen minutes Smitty had allotted, Choi had indeed shown a remarkable ability to bolt down jumbo shrimp and glasses of champagne. Enderby had given up counting shrimp at sixty-two.

He eased up another bolus of air, then patted his stomach gingerly. They'd gotten to the food table just in time: the feeding frenzy was almost over. There was a dribble of caviar on his shirtfront, and he flicked it away with a fingernail. But that fourth glass of champagne he'd chugged at the last moment had probably been a mistake. He just hoped he could keep it together for the rest of his shift. He glanced up at the clock: only another hour. They'd verify that the Astor Hall's upgraded security system was fully operational, then go through the procedure of mothballing the old system. No sweat: he'd done it dozens of times before, he could probably do it in his sleep.

A low chime sounded. "That's it," Smitty said. "Twenty minutes." He glanced over at Choi. "What's the status of the Astor Hall system?"

Choi blinked a little blearily at his screen. "Test completed without incident." His eye swept the cluster of video feeds. "Hall looks fine."

"Error logs?"

"None. The system's nominal."

"And the beam modulation?"

"Every five minutes, as programmed. No deviation."

Smitty walked over to the wall of monitors. Enderby watched as he peered at the video feeds devoted to the Astor Hall of Diamonds. He could see case after case of the precious gems, gleaming faintly in the infrared light. There was no movement, of course: once the laser beams were activated after lockdown, not even guards were permitted in the high-security exhibition halls.

Smitty grunted his approval, then walked over to his monitoring station and picked up the internal phone. "Carlos? It's Walt in the ATC. We've completed the twenty-minute shakedown of the Astor Hall laser grid. How'd it look from Central Security?" A pause. "Okay, good. We'll get the standard scheduling online and mothball the prior."

He hung up the phone and glanced over at Enderby. "The Pit says that everything's five by five. Larry, put it to bed. I'll help Jim finalize the automation routines for the laser grid."

Larry nodded and pulled his chair closer to the console. Time to put the old security system in backup mode. He blinked, wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, then began typing in a series of commands.

Almost immediately, he sat back. "That's strange."

Smitty looked over. "What is?"

Enderby pointed at an LED screen sitting on the side of his work-station. A single red dot glowed in its upper left corner. "When I rolled back the first zone into standby mode, the system gave me a code red."

Smitty frowned. A "code red" was the legacy system's alarm setting. In the Astor Hall, this would have been activated only when a diamond was removed from its setting. "What zone was that?"

"Zone 1."

"What's it contain?"

Enderby turned to a separate console, accessed the accession and inventory database, typed in a SQL query. "Just a single diamond. Lucifer's Heart."

"That's right in the center of the room." Smitty walked over to the bank of video monitors, peered at one closely "Looks fine to me. We're dealing with some kind of software glitch here."

He glanced back toward Enderby. "Roll back zone 2."

Enderby typed a few more commands into his primary terminal. Immediately, a second red dot glowed into view on the LED screen. "That's giving me a code red, too."

Smitty walked over, a worried look coming onto his face.

Enderby stared at the screen. His mouth was dry, and the alcohol haze was dissipating fast.

"Do a global rollback," Smitty said. "All zones in the hall."

Enderby took a deep breath, then typed a short sequence on his keyboard. Immediately, he was flooded with dismay.

"Oh, no," he breathed. "No."

The little LED screen on Enderby's desk had just blossomed into a Christmas tree of red.

For a moment, there was a shocked silence. Then Smitty waved his hand dismissively.

"Let's not have a cow here. What we've got is a software glitch. Incompatibility between the new system and the old probably crashed the legacy system. Must've happened when we pulled it off-line. Nothing to get excited about. Larry, shut down the old system, one module at a time. Then reboot from the backup master."

"Shouldn't we report to Central?"

"What, and make ourselves look like idiots? We'll report
after
we've solved the problem."

"Okay. You're the boss." And Enderby began to type.

Smitty mustered a weak grin and gestured at the video screens of the empty hall, the diamonds glittering within their cases. "I mean, hey-take a look. Does the hall look robbed to you?"

Enderby had to chuckle. Maybe Smitty was acquiring a sense of humor, after all.

FIFTY-FOUR

D'Agosta moved through the channels on the portable police-band radio he'd pulled from the Rolls, searching for more official chatter about him and Pendergast. Their appearance at Kennedy had set off an APB across the entire length of Long Island, from Queens to Bridgehampton. The Rolls had been impounded at the rental lot, and in time the authorities had identified the Toyota Camry they'd stolen, and put out an advisory on that, as well. They'd managed to evade several roadblocks established on the Long Island Expressway by keeping to back roads and taking their cues from the radio advisories.

They were in a net, and the net was drawing tighter.

Still, Pendergast searched, stopping at one all-night service area after another, refusing to give up-and yet to D'Agosta it seemed a hopeless task, the kind of last-resort, brute-force police work that soaked up man-hours and rarely yielded results. It was a numbers game in which the numbers were just too damn big.

Pendergast screeched into an all-night service area at Yaphank, which looked just like the two dozen others they had already visited: glassed-in front, sickly green fluorescent lights beating back the bitter darkness. At some point, D'Agosta mused, they were going to get an attendant who had heard about the APB. And that would be it.

Yet again, Pendergast leaped out of the Camry like a cat. The man seemed to burn with a fierce, inextinguishable flame. They'd been at it more than twelve hours straight, and during all that time spent alternately searching and evading, he'd said few words not directly related to the game at hand. D'Agosta wondered how long the agent could keep it up.

Pendergast was into the little store and in the sleepy attendant's face before the man could even rouse himself from his cozy chair behind the counter, where he'd apparently been watching a martial arts movie.

"Special Agent Pendergast, FBI," he said in his usual cool voice, which somehow managed to convey menace without being offensive, as he passed his shield across the man's field of view. At the same time, D'Agosta reached over and snapped off the television, creating a sudden, unnerving silence.