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“Reverse-engineer the code if you can, get a sense of what it does.” Pendergast turned toward Hayward and D’Agosta. “Although I’m afraid I already know the answer.”
“What’s that?” Hayward asked.
“That’s not a zero at the end-it’s the letter o. Confundo in Latin means to trouble, distress, throw into confusion. It’s no doubt a system routine added by Diogenes to hijack the show.” He gestured at the room full of equipment. “I would guess all this equipment-everything-is now under Diogenes’s control.”
Meanwhile, Enderby was peering at his screen. “There seems to be another server actually ru
Pendergast leaned over the technician’s shoulder. “Can you attack it, disable it?”
More furious typing. “No. Now it isn’t even accepting my input anymore.”
“Cut all power to the tomb,” Pendergast said.
“It’ll just switch to backup-”
“Cut that, too.”
“That’ll leave them in darkness.”
“Do it.”
More typing, followed by a frustrated curse. “Nothing.”
Pendergast looked around. “In that case, the breaker box.” He strode over, flung open the box, and threw the main circuit breaker.
Although the little room was immediately plunged into darkness, the computers remained online. Within seconds, there was a sharp click as the backup power system kicked in, rows of emergency fluorescent tubes flicking on.
Enderby stared at the monitors in disbelief. “Incredible. There’s still full power in the tomb. The show’s going on like nothing’s happened. There must be an internal generator somewhere inside. But that wasn’t on any of the plans I-”
“Where’s the backup power source for this room?” Pendergast interrupted.
Manetti nodded toward a large gray metal cabinet in the corner. “That contains the relays co
Pendergast stepped back and pointed Manetti’s weapon at the cabinet. He emptied a full clip into it-the gunshots incredibly loud in the soundproofed space-walking the rounds from one side of the cabinet to the other, each round punching a large dark hole in the metal and sending chips of gray paint flying. There was a sound of crackling electricity, a massive blue arc, and the lights flickered and went out-leaving only the glow of the computer screens and the stench of cordite and melted insulation.
“These computers are still on,” said Pendergast. “Why?”
“They’ve got their own local battery backup.”
“Force a hard reboot, then. Pull the power cords and plug them back in.”
Enderby crawled under the table and began yanking out cords, throwing the room into utter darkness and silence. There was a snap, then a sudden glow of light as Hayward switched on her flashlight.
The door was abruptly flung open and a tall man with a red ascot and round black glasses advanced. “What is going on here?” he asked in a shrill voice. “I’m directing a live simulcast to millions of people, and you can’t even keep the power on? Listen, my backup power won’t last more than fifteen minutes.”
D’Agosta recognized Randall Loftus, the famous director, his face mottled with anger.
Pendergast turned to D’Agosta, leaned in close. “You know what has to be done, Vincent?”
“Yes,” D’Agosta said. Then he turned toward the director. “Let me help you.”
“I should hope so.” And Loftus turned and walked stiffly out of the room, D’Agosta following.
In the hall beyond, guests were milling around in a darkness relieved only by the glow from hundreds of tea candles set on the tables, excited but not yet alarmed, apparently treating it as an adventure. Museum guards were circulating, reassuring people that the power would be restored at any moment. D’Agosta followed the director to the far end of the hall, where his crew was set up. They were all working quickly and efficiently, murmuring into mikes or observing small camera-mounted monitors.
“We’ve lost touch with the crew inside,” said one. “But it seems their power is still on. They’re still broadcasting, and the feed to the uplink is good. In fact, I don’t even think they know we’ve lost power out here.”
“Thank God for that,” said Loftus. “I’d rather die than deliver dead airtime.”
“This feed you mention,” D’Agosta asked. “Where is it?”
Loftus nodded toward a thick cable that snaked its way out of the hall, covered with a strip of rubber and secured by gaffer tape.
“I see,” said D’Agosta. “And if that cable got cut?”
“God forbid,” said Loftus. “We’d lose our simulcast. But it won’t be cut, believe me. It would take more than an accidental kick to damage that cable.”
“You don’t have a backup cable?”
“No need. That cable’s got a rubber-and-epoxy-clad sheath, with woven steel-it’s indestructible. Well, Officer…?”
“Lieutenant D’Agosta.”
“It appears we don’t need you, after all.” Loftus turned his back and pointed to another crew member. “You ni
D’Agosta looked around. At the far end of the hall, near the entrance, was the obligatory fire station case, containing a coiled hose and a massive Pulaski axe behind a sheet of breakable glass. He strode over, gave the glass a sharp kick, and extracted the Pulaski. Then he walked over to where the taped-down cable turned the corner, braced himself, and raised the axe above his head.
“Hey!” called one of the crew members. “What the hell!”
D’Agosta brought the axe down smartly, neatly chopping the cable in half with a shower of sparks.
An inarticulate howl of rage went up from Randall Loftus.
A moment later, D’Agosta was back in the control room. Pendergast and the technicians were still laboring over the newly rebooted computer system, which was still refusing to accept commands.
Pendergast turned toward him. “Loftus?”
“Beside himself with anger at the moment.”
Pendergast nodded, his lips twitching in a brief semblance of a smile.
Suddenly a barrage of flashing lights on one of the live monitors attracted D’Agosta’s notice.
“What’s that?” Pendergast asked sharply.
“The strobes are firing up,” said Enderby, hunched over the keyboard.
“There are strobe lights in the show?”
“In the later part, yeah. You know, for special effects.”
Pendergast turned his attention to the monitor, the blue glow reflecting his intense gray eyes. More strobe lights flashed on, followed by a strange rumble.
Enderby suddenly sat up. “Wait. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”
The audio feed from the tomb continued over the monitor, carrying a rising murmur from the audience along with it. Pendergast turned to Hayward. “Captain, during your security review, you consulted a set of plans to the tomb and adjacent areas, I assume?”
“I did.”
“If you had to, what would the best point be to force an entry into the tomb from outside?”
Hayward thought for a moment. “There’s a corridor that co
“Twenty-four inches of what?”
“Concrete and rebar. It’s a load-bearing wall.”
“Twenty-four inches of concrete,” D’Agosta murmured. “Might as well be a hundred feet. We can’t shoot through that, and we can’t chop through it. Not in time.”
A dreadful hush fell over the little room, punctuated only by the strange booming from inside the hall, and the accompanying murmur of the crowd. As D’Agosta watched, Pendergast’s shoulders sank visibly. It’s happening, he thought with a thrill of horror. Diogenes is wi