Dance Of Death

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, ru

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 a

"…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?"