Reliquary

= 31 =

PENDERGAST WALKED swiftly up the broad steps toward the entrance of the New York Public Library, a large leather-and-canvas valise in one hand. Behind him, Hayward stopped to stare at the huge marble lions that flanked the stairway.

“You needn’t look so worried, Sergeant,” Pendergast said. “They’ve already had their afternoon feeding.” Despite the warmth of the day, he was wearing a tightly buttoned olive duster that reached almost to his ankles.

Inside, the marble entrance hall was dim and pleasantly cool. Pendergast spoke quietly to a guard, showed his ID, asked a few questions. Then he nodded for Hayward to follow him through a doorway underneath the sweeping double staircase.

“Sergeant Hayward, you know underground Manhattan better than any of us,” Pendergast said as they stepped into a small, leather-lined elevator. “You’ve already given me invaluable advice. Any last words?”

The elevator began lurching downward. “Yes,” Hayward replied. “Don’t go.”

Pendergast smiled thinly. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option. Only firsthand reconnaissance will prove whether or not the Astor Tunnels are really the source of these killings.”

“Then take me with you,” Hayward said immediately.

Pendergast shook his head. “Believe me, I wish I could. But my aim this time is stealth. Two bodies would make an unacceptable noise signature.”

The elevator stopped at the lowest level, 3-B, and they stepped out into a dark corridor. “Then watch your butt,” Hayward said. “Most of the moles go down there to escape from confrontation, not start it. But there are plenty of predators. Drugs and alcohol only make things worse. Remember that they can see better, they can hear better. And they know the tunnels. Any way you look at it, you’re at a disadvantage.”

“True,” Pendergast said. “So I’ll do what I can to even the odds.” He stopped in front of an ancient door, opened it with a key, and ushered Hayward inside. The room beyond was stacked, floor to ceiling, with metal racks filled with ancient books. The passageways between the racks were barely twenty inches across. The smell of dust and mildew was almost overpowering.

“What are we doing here, anyway?” Hayward asked as she followed Pendergast through the stacks.

“Of all the structures I examined,” Pendergast said, “this building had the best plans and the clearest access to the Astor Tunnels. I still have a long descent ahead, and I’m going down somewhat south of my final destination, but it seemed prudent to minimize the risks.” He stopped a moment, looking around. “Ah,” he said, nodding down one of the narrow rows. “This must be it.”

He unlocked another, much smaller door in the far wall and led Hayward down a staircase to a cramped little room with an unfinished floor. “Directly beneath us is an access tube,” he said. “It was begun in 1925 as part of a pneumatic system to deliver books to a storage outbuilding. The project was abandoned during the Depression and never resumed. However, it should allow me to access a main feeder tunnel.”

Pendergast set down the valise, inspected the floor with a flashlight, then brushed the dust away from an ancient trapdoor. He lifted it with Hayward’s help, exposing a slender black tube lined with tiles. Poking the flashlight down into the darkness, he looked around for a few moments. Apparently satisfied, he straightened up, unbuttoning the long duster as he did so.

Hayward’s eyes narrowed in surprise. Beneath the duster, the FBI agent was wearing a set of military fatigues in broken gray-and-black pattern. The zippers and buckles were plastic, with a matte black finish.

Pendergast smiled. “Unusual cammos, aren’t they?” he said. “Note the gray tones instead of the usual sepia. Designed for use in blackout conditions.” He knelt in front of the valise, unfastening and opening it wide. From one compartment, he removed a tube of military-issue blackout, which he began applying to his face and hands. Next, he removed a rolled piece of felt. As Pendergast checked it, Hayward noticed several pockets had been sewed into its inside edge.

“A pocket disguise kit,” Pendergast said. “Safety razor, towelettes, mirror, spirit gum. My intent this time is to avoid detection. I don’t wish to meet anybody or anything. But I’ll bring this along, just in case.” He stuffed the tube of grease paint into one of the pockets, then rolled up the kit and placed it inside his shirt. Reaching into the valise, he removed a short-barreled pistol whose dull finish reminded Hayward more of plastic than metal.

“What’s that?” she asked curiously.

Pendergast turned it over in his hands. “It’s an experimental 9-millimeter, created by Anschluss GMBH. It fires a T-round composite bullet of ceramic and Teflon.”

“Planning on going hunting?”

“You may have heard about my encounter with the Mbwun beast,” Pendergast replied. “That experience taught me that one should always be prepared. This little handgun could send a bullet through an elephant. Lengthwise.”

“An offensive weapon,” Hayward replied. “In more ways than one.”

“I’ll take that as a sign of approval,” Pendergast said. “Of course, defense will be at least as important as offense. I have my own armor.” He pulled back the fatigues to expose a bulletproof vest. Reaching into the valise again, he removed a black skullcap made of Kevlar, which he snugged onto his head. As Hayward watched, Pendergast removed a water purifying kit and several other articles, placing them in various pockets. Finally, he pulled out two carefully sealed plastic bags. Inside were strips of something that looked like black shoe leather.

“Pemmican,” he said.

“What?”

“Filet mignon, cut into strips and dried, then pounded with berries, fruits, and nuts. It has all the vitamins, minerals, and protein a man needs. And it is surprisingly edible. Nobody has yet invented a better expedition food than Native Americans. Lewis and Clark lived on it for months.”

“Well, I guess you’re provisioned, anyway,” Hayward said, shaking her head. “Provided you don’t get lost.”

Pendergast unzipped the top of his fatigues, displaying the inner lining. “Perhaps my most vital possession: maps. Like the fliers of World War Two, I’ve traced them on my flight jacket, so to speak.” He nodded at the complicated set of lines, tunnels, and levels that had been drawn on the cream-colored lining in a precise hand.

He zipped up the cammos and then, as if remembering something, dug in his pockets and handed a set of keys to Hayward. “I meant to tape these to prevent any jingling. You’d better hold them for me.” From another pocket he removed his wallet and FBI identification, which he also passed to the Sergeant. “Please give these to Lieutenant D’Agosta. I won’t be needing them below.”

He ran his hands quickly over his clothes, as if to reassure himself that everything was in place. Then he turned once again toward the trapdoor and lowered himself gingerly into the tube. “I appreciate your taking care of this for me,” he said, nodding at the valise.

“No problem,” Hayward replied. “Send me a postcard.”

The trapdoor shut over the dank, black tube, and Hayward sealed it with a quick twirl of her wrist.