Dance Of Death

FORTY-EIGHT

It was like the old days, D'Agosta thought grimly: Pendergast in his black suit, racing along the streets of New York City in his Rolls. Except that, really, it wasn't like the old days at all. Pendergast was a hunted man, and D'Agosta himself was in such deep shit he'd need a decompression chamber when he surfaced- assuming he ever surfaced at all.

The Rolls pulled up to the curb at Terminal 7 Arrivals. Pendergast leaped out, leaving the vehicle running. A Port Authority policeman was strolling along the curb, and Pendergast swooped down on him.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation." He passed his gold shield in front of the officer briefly, then closed it up and slid it back into his suit.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the officer responded, instantly intimidated.

"We're here on an investigation of the utmost importance. Can I ask you to watch my vehicle, Officer?"

"Yes, sir." The man practically saluted.

Pendergast strode into the terminal, black coat flapping behind him. D'Agosta followed him to baggage claim security. Within, a heavyset guard was listening patiently to a man in a suit shouting angrily about a stolen bag.

Again, Pendergast opened his badge, "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. My associate, Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD."

"Well, it's about time!" the man cried angrily. "My wife's extremely valuable jewelry-"

"Never put valuable jewelry in check-in luggage," said Pendergast smoothly, linking his arm in the man's and propelling him to the door and out, then stepping quickly back and shutting and locking it.

"You make it look so easy," said the guard with a grin.

"Is there an Officer Carter on duty?" said Pendergast, his eye just flitting over the man's identification badge.

"That's me. Randall Carter. What can I do for you?"

"I was told you were the best man to handle my problem."

"Really?" The man's face lit up. "Who-?"

"We need to review some security videotapes from last night. Just after midnight. It's a matter of great urgency."

"Yes, sir, let me just call the director of security."

Pendergast shook his head wonderingly. "Didn't they tell you this was already cleared?"

"It is? I didn't know. Funny they didn't send down an S.C…"

"Well," Pendergast interrupted briskly, "I'm glad they at least had the sense to send me to you. You think for yourself; you're not one of those bureaucratic types." He suddenly leaned into the man's face and grasped his shoulder. "Are you wearing body armor, Officer?"

"Body armor? We're not required… Hey, but why-?"

"We'd better get going."

"Yes, sir." The officer needed no more persuasion. He hustled to the back of his office and unlocked a security door.

Down a beige corridor, past another locked door, and D'Agosta found himself in a large computer room festooned with monitors playing back live video feeds from all over the terminal. A few security guards were sitting around a cafeteria-style table drinking coffee, while a thin, irritated technician rapped away on a keyboard in one corner.

"These gentlemen need to see some video," Carter said to the technician.

"Moment," said the technician.

"No, now. This man's FBI and it's a matter of grave importance."

The technician got up, expelling an irritated hiss. "Right. Let's see the S.C." He held out his hand.

"It's been cleared. You got my okay on that."

A roll of the eyes. "So what do you want?"

Pendergast stepped up. "British Airways Flight 822 arrived here from Gatwick just after midnight. I want the security videotapes of the carousel where that flight's luggage arrived and, most important, I need to review the feed from the greeting area just beyond customs clearance."

"Have a seat. This might take a while."

"I'm afraid I don't have a while."

"Give me a break. I'll do what I can, but don't hold your breath."

Pendergast broke into a gentle smile. Seeing that smile, D'Agosta felt himself tense up instinctively.

"You're Jonathan Murphy, are you not?" Pendergast asked in his honeyed voice.

"So you can read an ID card. Bravo."

"I believe in the carrot-and-stick method of doing things, Jonathan," Pendergast said, still pleasantly. "Get me those videotapes in five minutes and you will receive a ten-thousand-dollar reward from the FBI's Public Incentive and Reward Program, also known as PIRP. No doubt you've heard of it. On the other hand, fail to get me that videotape and I'll put a red security flag in your file, which will mean that you'll never work at another airport, or any other secured site, in the country again. Now, which is it to be: carrot or stick?"

A silence. The security guards were nudging each other and grinning. Clearly, the technician wasn't popular.

Murphy smirked. "I'll take the ten grand."

"Excellent."

The technician sat down again and went to work with a vengeance, fingers hammering at the keys. D'Agosta watched as numbers scrolled frantically across the CRT.

"We don't use videotapes anymore," he said. "We have everything stored digitally, on-site. The ganged feeds use up an entire terabyte of our RAID-1 array every…"

Suddenly, he stopped bashing at the keyboard. "Okay. The flight arrived at ten minutes after midnight, gate 34. Let's see… It takes about fifteen minutes, on average, to go through pre-customs and walk to the carousel… I'll cue up to twelve-twenty, just to be safe."

A video sprang to life on Murphy's screen. Pendergast bent forward, scrutinizing it intently. D'Agosta peered over his shoulder. He could see the international baggage area, an empty carousel turning.

"I'll nudge up the speed until people start arriving," Murphy said.

Now the carousel turned much faster. The seconds spun by, in fast motion, at the bottom of the screen. Shortly, people began arriving at the carousel, looking for their luggage. Murphy tapped a set of keys, slowing the video down to normal speed.

"That's her!" Pendergast whispered urgently, pointing at the screen.

D'Agosta made out the slender form of Viola Maskelene, carrying a small bag. She approached the carousel, pulled her ticket out of the bag, examined the baggage claim checks, then crossed her arms to wait.

For a minute, Pendergast just stared at the image. Then he spoke again. "Switch to the greeting area, please. Same time frame."

The technician typed in some more commands. The image of the baggage area disappeared, replaced by the waiting area outside customs. It was sparsely populated, a few knots of people standing around restlessly, waiting to meet arrivals.

"There," said Pendergast.

A man stood off to one side, tall, slender, dressed in a dark overcoat. He had gingery hair, and he was looking around the room rather languidly, peering into various corners. His eye turned and stopped, fixed on the security camera.

D'Agosta had to stop himself from taking an instinctual step back. The man was staring right at them. His face was tan and angular and he had a closely trimmed beard, one eye milky blue, the other hazel. D'Agosta recognized him instantly as the man he had seen on theslopes above Castel Fosco in Italy that fateful day not two months earlier.

The man nodded formally at the camera, raised his hand just a little, and tipped a wave. His lips moved as if in speech.

D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. His face was white-with rage.

Pendergast turned to the technician. "Back that up and print it out, there-when the man waves."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later and the computer printer was humming. Pendergast ripped the color image out and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Fast-forward, please, until a lady conies out and greets him."

Once again, the images on the screen scurried briefly in accelerated motion, slowing again when Viola emerged. Diogenes approached with two outstretched hands and a large smile. D'Agosta watched breathlessly as the two exchanged what appeared to be pleasantries; then Diogenes waved a bill and a skycap came rushing over. They turned and headed toward the door, the skycap following with Viola's bags.

Pendergast pointed at the screen. "Who's that skycap?"

Carter, the security officer, squinted at the screen. "Looks like Norm. Norman Saunders."

"Is he still on?"

Carter shook his head. "Couldn't say."

"He goes off at eight," one of the other guards said. "But sometimes he works overtime."

The figures disappeared out the glass doors.

"Go to the curbside camera."

"Right."

More rapping of keys. The scene abruptly changed again. There was Diogenes striding toward a dark Lincoln. He grasped the door handle, opened the door for Viola, helped her in. He waited for the skycap to close the trunk; then he walked around the car and got into the driver's seat.

The car pulled away, accelerating into the darkness beyond, and was gone.

"Back up," said Pendergast, "and get me a print of the car. When the door is open, please: I want to see the interior. And another print when the car's pulling away, so we can get a make on the plate."

A moment later, the computer was spitting out the images, which Pendergast immediately thrust into his jacket. "Good. Now we're going to find Saunders."

"If he's here, he'll be at the east carousels," Carter said.

"Thank you." Pendergast turned to go.

"So," said the technician, "how do I collect my ten grand?"

Pendergast paused. "Ten thousand dollars? Just for doing your job? A ridiculous idea."

To much muffled laughter and shaking of heads, they left the room. "If Saunders is on, he'll be over by baggage," said Carter. "I'll show you."

Several flights had recently arrived, and streams of travelers were crowding into baggage claim. All carousels were running full-bore, packed with luggage, and skycaps were coming and going busily.

Carter stopped one of them. "Saunders take an extra shift?"

The man shook his head. "He's off until midnight."

Looking past the skycap, D'Agosta noticed four Port Authority cops on the landing above the baggage claim concourse, scanning the crowd. Immediately, he nudged Pendergast. "I don't like that."

"Neither do I."

Carter's radio went off and he grabbed it.

"We better get the hell out of here," murmured D'Agosta.

They began walking briskly toward the exit.

"Hey!" came a distant shout. "Wait!"

D'Agosta glanced back to see the officers spilling into the crowd, pushing their way through. "You two! Wait!"

Pendergast broke into a run, darting through the throngs of people and heading back out to the curb. The P.A. cop was still beside the idling Rolls, talking on his radio. Pendergast shot past him, and D'Agosta half jumped, half tumbled into the passenger seat. The man's protest was lost in the roar of the big engine and the tremendous screech of rubber as the Rolls shot away from the pickup area at high speed.

As they accelerated onto the JFK Expressway, Pendergast pulled the printouts from his suit coat.

"Boot up my laptop, there in the carrier, and do a make on a Lincoln Town Car, New York license 453A WQ6. Radio the milepost 11 toll plaza on the Van Wyck Expressway and talk someone into reviewing the security tapes for between twelve-thirty and one a.m., going both east and west."

"What about us?"

"We're going east."

"East? You don't think he took her into the city?"

"That's exactly what I do think he did. But given that Diogenes seems to be able to anticipate what I think, I'm going east-to the far end of the island."

"Right."

"Another thing: we're going to need to trade down." And Pendergast abruptly pulled off the airport expressway into the returns lot of a Hertz office, steered the big car into an empty spot, and killed the engine.

D'Agosta looked up from the laptop. "What, rent something?"

"No. Steal something."