Reliquary

Near the top of the enormous stack, a small metal observation chamber clung, barnaclelike, to the side of the orange wall. From his vantage point on the narrow access ladder, Pendergast could make out the chamber far above his head. The ladder had been bolted to the river side of the vent stack, and in several places the bolts had pulled free of their moorings. As he climbed, he could see the traffic through the corrugations in the iron steps, wrestling its way into the tu

The ladder fell into shadow as he approached the underside of the observation chamber. Looking up, Pendergast noticed a hatch set into the chamber’s underside. It had a circular handle, like the watertight door of a submarine, and the words PORT OF NEW YORK AUTHORITY had been stamped into it. The roar of the vent stack was like the shriek of a jet engine, and Pendergast had to bang several times on the hatch before it was raised by the person inside.

Pendergast climbed into the tiny metal room and straightened his suit while the occupant—a small, wiry man dressed in a plaid shut and coveralls—closed the hatch. Three sides of the observation chamber looked down over the Hudson, the approaches to the Lincoln Tu

The man stepped away from the hatch and moved to a stool behind a small draftsman’s table. There was no other chair in the tiny, cramped chamber. Pendergast watched as the man looked at him and moved his mouth as if speaking. But no sound was audible over the shriek of the huge stack vent beside them.

“What?” Pendergast shouted, moving closer. The floor hatch did little to keep out either the noise or the traffic fumes wafting up from below.

“ID,” the man replied. “They said you’d have some ID.”

Pendergast reached into his jacket pocket and showed his FBI identification to the man, who examined it carefully.

“Mr. Albert Diamond, correct?” Pendergast said.

“Al,” the man said with a careless gesture. “What ya need?”

“I hear you’re the authority on underground New York,” Pendergast said. “You’re the engineer who’s consulted on everything from the building of a new subway tu

Diamond stared at Pendergast. One cheek began to bulge as his tongue made a slow traverse of his lower molars. “Guess that’s true,” he replied at last.

“When were you last underground?”

Diamond raised one fist, opened it wide once, twice, closed it again.

“Ten?” Pendergast said. “Ten months?”

Diamond shook his head.

“Years?”

Diamond nodded.

“Why so long?”

“Got tired. Requested this instead.”

“Requested? Interesting choice of assignment. About as far away from the underground as one could get without actually being airborne. Intentional?”

Diamond shrugged, neither agreeing nor contradicting.

“I need some information,” Pendergast shouted. It was simply too loud in the observation chamber for any kind of small talk.

Diamond nodded, the bulge in his cheek slowly rising as the investigation moved to the upper molars.

“Tell me about the Devil’s Attic.”

The bulge froze in position. After a few moments, Diamond shifted on the stool, but said nothing.

Pendergast continued. “I’m told there’s a level of tu

After a long moment, Diamond looked down. “Devil’s Attic?” he repeated, as if with great reluctance.

“Do you know of such a place?”

Diamond reached into his coveralls and drew out a small flask of something that was not water. He took a long pull, then returned the flask without offering it to Pendergast. He said something that was inaudible over the shriek of the exhaust stack.

“What?” Pendergast cried, moving still closer.

“I said, yeah, I know of it.”

“Tell me about it, please.”

Diamond looked away from Pendergast, his eyes gazing over the river toward the New Jersey shore.

“Those rich bastards,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Those rich bastards. Didn’t want to rub shoulders with the working class.”

“Rich bastards?” Pendergast asked.

“You know. Astor. Rockefeller. Morgan. And the rest. Built those tu

“I don’t understand.”

“Railroad tu

“But why so deep?”

For the first time, Diamond gri

“I beg your pardon?” Pendergast yelled.

“Rotten Precambrian siltstone. We call it shitstone. You can run water and sewer lines through shitstone, but not a railroad tu

“But why?”

Diamond looked at the FBI agent in disbelief. “Why? Why do you think? Those fancy pants didn’t want to share any sidings or signals with regular train lines. With those deep tu

“That doesn’t explain why there is no record of their existence.”

“Cost a fortune to build. And not all of it came from the pockets of the oil barons. They called in favors from City Hall.” Diamond tapped the side of his nose. “That kind of construction you don’t document.”

“Why were they abandoned?”

“Impossible to maintain. Beneath most of the sewer and storm drains like they were, you could never keep them dry. Then there was methane buildup, carbon monoxide buildup, you name it.”

Pendergast nodded. “Heavy gases, seeking the lowest level.”

“They spent millions on those damn tu

Diamond fell silent, and the chamber filled once again with the roar of the vent stack.

“Are there any maps of these tu

Diamond rolled his eyes. “Maps? I looked for maps for twenty years. Those maps don’t exist. I learned what I learned by talking to a few old-timers.”

“Have you been down there?” Pendergast asked.

Diamond twitched noticeably. Then, after a long moment, he nodded silently.

“Could you diagram them for me?”

Diamond was silent.

Pendergast moved closer. “Any little thing you could do would be appreciated.” His hand seemed merely to smooth the lapel of his jacket, but suddenly a hundred-dollar bill flared between two of the slender fingers, arching in the engineer’s direction.

Diamond stared at the bill, as if deliberating. Finally, he took it, rolled it into a ball, and crammed it into a pocket. Then, turning to the drafting table, he began sketching deftly on a piece of yellow graph paper. An intricate system of tu

“Best I can do,” he said, straightening up after a few minutes. “That’s the approach I used to get inside. A lot of the stuff south of the Park has been filled with concrete, and the tu