The Book of the Dead (4 page)

“I am now. The boss just went home.”

“Lucky for you. Can I ask a few questions?”

“You said you’re a reporter?”

“That’s right.”

“I suppose so.”

“This is the lab that handled that package from the museum this morning?”

“Sure is.”

“What was in it?”

Smithback heard a snort. “Diamond grit.”

“Not corundum?”

“No. Diamond.”

“Did you examine the grit yourself?”

“Yup.”

“What’d it look like?”

“Under coarse examination, like a sack of brown sand.”

Smithback thought for a moment. “How’d you figure out it was diamond grit?”

“By the index of refraction of the particles.”

“I see. And it couldn’t be confused with corundum?”

“No way.”

“You also examined it under a microscope, I assume?”

“Yup.”

“What’d it look like?”

“It was beautiful, like a bunch of little colored crystals.”

Smithback felt a sudden tingling at the nape of his neck. “Colored? What do you mean?”

“Bits and fragments of every color of the rainbow. I had no idea diamond grit was so pretty.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“A lot of things that are ugly to the human eye look beautiful under the microscope. Like bread mold, for instance—or sand, for that matter.”

“But you said the grit looked brown.”

“Only when blended together.”

“I see. What’d you do with the package?”

“We sent it back to the museum and chalked it up as a false alarm.”

“Thanks.”

Smithback slowly shut the phone.
Impossible. It couldn’t be
.

He looked up to find Nora staring at him, annoyance clear on her face. He reached over and took her hand. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got another call to make.”

She crossed her arms. “And I thought we were going to have a nice evening together.”

“One more call. Please. I’ll let you listen in. Believe me, this is going to be good.”

Nora’s cheeks grew pink. Smithback knew that look: his wife was getting steamed.

Quickly, he dialed the museum again, put the phone on speaker. “Dr. Sherman?”

“Yes?”

“This is Smithback from the
Times
again.”

“Mr. Smithback,” came the shrill reply, “I’ve already told you everything I know. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“I know that what arrived at the museum this morning was not corundum grit.”

Silence.

“I know what it
really
was.”

More silence.

“The museum’s diamond collection.”

In the silence, Nora looked at him sharply.

“Dr. Sherman, I’m coming over to the museum to talk to you. If Dr. Collopy is still around, he would be wise to be there—or, at least, to make himself available by phone. I don’t know what you told my colleague Harriman, but you’re not going to fob the same stuff off onto me. It’s bad enough that the museum allowed its diamond collection—the most valuable in the world—to be stolen. I’m certain the museum trustees wouldn’t want a cover-up scandal to follow hard on the heels of the revelation that the same diamond collection had just been reduced to industrial-strength grinding powder. Are we clear on that, Dr. Sherman?”

It was a very weak and shaky voice that finally issued from the cell phone. “It wasn’t a cover-up, I assure you. It was, ah, just a delay in the announcement.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

Smithback immediately made another call, to his editor at the
Times
. “Fenton? You know that piece on the anthrax scare at the museum that Bryce Harriman filed? Better kill that. I’ve got the real story, and it’s a bombshell. Hold the front page for me.”

He shut the phone and looked up. Nora was no longer mad. She was white.

“Diogenes Pendergast,” she whispered. “He
destroyed
the diamonds?”

Smithback nodded.

“But why?”

“That’s a very good question, Nora. But now, darling, with my infinite apologies, and an IOU for dinner at the Rattlesnake Café, I have to go. I’ve got a couple of interviews to conduct and a story to file before midnight if I’m going to make the national edition. I’m really, really sorry. Don’t wait up for me.”

He rose and gave her a kiss.

“You’re amazing,” she said in an awed voice.

Smithback hesitated, feeling an unaccustomed sensation. It took him a moment to realize he was blushing.

D
r. Frederick Watson Collopy stood behind the great nineteenth-century leather-topped desk of his corner office in the museum’s southeast tower. The huge desk was bare, save for a copy of the morning’s
New York Times
. The newspaper had not been opened. It did not need to be: already, Collopy could see everything he needed to see, on the front page, above the fold, in the largest type the staid
Times
dared use.

The cat was out of the bag, and it could not be put back in.

Collopy believed that he occupied the greatest position in American science: director of the New York Museum of Natural History. His mind drifted from the subject of the article to the names of his distinguished forebears: Ogilvy, Scott, Throckmorton. His goal, his one ambition, was to add his name to that august registry—and not fall into ignominy like his two immediate predecessors: the late and not-much-lamented Winston Wright or the inept Olivia Merriam.

And yet there, on the front page of the Times, was a headline that might just be his tombstone. He had weathered several bad patches recently, irruptions of scandal that would have felled a lesser man. But he had handled them coolly and decisively—and he would do the same here.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

The bearded figure of Hugo Menzies, chairman of the Anthropology Department, dressed elegantly and with less than the usual degree of academic rumpledness, entered the room. He silently took a chair as Josephine Rocco, the head of public relations, entered behind him, along with the museum’s lawyer, the ironically named Beryl Darling of Wilfred, Spragg and Darling.

Collopy remained standing, watching the three as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. Finally he spoke.

“I’ve called you here in emergency session, for obvious reasons.” He glanced down at the paper. “I assume you’ve seen the
Times?
”

His audience nodded in silent assent.

“We made a mistake in trying to cover this up, even briefly. When I took this position as director of the museum, I told myself I would run this place differently, that I wouldn’t operate in the secretive and sometimes paranoid manner of the last few administrations. I believed the museum to be a great institution, one strong enough to survive the vicissitudes of scandal and controversy.”

He paused.

“In trying to play down the destruction of our diamond collection, in seeking to cover it up, I made a mistake. I violated my own principles.”

“An apology to us is all well and good,” said Darling in her usual crisp voice, “but why didn’t you consult me before you made that hasty and ill-considered decision? You must have realized you couldn’t get away with it. This has done serious damage to the museum and made my job that much more difficult.”

Collopy reminded himself this was precisely the reason the museum paid Darling four hundred dollars an hour: she always spoke the unvarnished truth.

He raised a hand. “Point taken. But this is a development I never in my worst nightmares anticipated—finding that our diamonds have been reduced to…” His voice cracked: he couldn’t finish.

There was an uneasy shifting in the room.

Collopy swallowed, began again. “We must take action. We’ve got to respond, and respond now. That is why I’ve asked you to this meeting.”

As he paused, Collopy could hear, coming faintly from Museum Drive below, the shouts and calls of a growing crowd of protesters, along with police sirens and bullhorns.

Rocco spoke up. “The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. It’s nine now, and I think we’ve probably got until ten, maybe eleven at the latest, to make some kind of official statement. In all my years in public relations, I’ve never encountered anything quite like this.”

Menzies shifted in his chair, smoothed his silver hair. “May I?”

Collopy nodded. “Hugo.”

Menzies cleared his throat, his intense blue eyes darting to the window and back to Collopy. “The first thing we have to realize, Frederick, is that this catastrophe is beyond ‘spinning.’ Listen to the crowd out there—the fact that we even
considered
covering up such a loss has the people up in arms. No: we’ve got to take the hit, honestly and squarely. Admit our wrong. No more dissembling.” He glanced at Rocco. “That’s my first point and I hope we’re all in agreement on it.”

Collopy nodded again. “And your second?”

He leaned forward slightly. “It’s not enough to respond. We need to go on the
offensive
.”

“What do you mean?”

“We need to do something glorious. We need to make a fabulous announcement, something that will remind New York City and the world that, despite all this, we’re still a great museum. Mount a scientific expedition, perhaps, or embark on some extraordinary research project.”

“Won’t that look like a rather transparent diversion?” asked Rocco.

“Perhaps to some. But the criticism will last only a day or two, and then we’ll be free to build interest and good publicity.”

“What kind of project?” Collopy asked.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

Rocco nodded slowly. “Perhaps it would work. This event could be combined with a gala party, strictly A-list, the social ‘must’ of the season. That will mute museum-bashing among the press and politicians, who will naturally want to be invited.”

“This sounds promising,” Collopy said.

After a moment, Darling spoke. “It’s a fine theory. All we lack is the expedition, event, or whatever.”

At that moment, Collopy’s intercom buzzed. He stabbed at it with irritation. “Mrs. Surd, we’re not to be disturbed.”

“I know, Dr. Collopy, but… well, this is highly unusual.”

“Not now.”

“It requires an immediate response.”

Collopy sighed. “Can’t it wait ten minutes, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s a bank wire transfer donation of ten million euros for—”

“A gift of ten million euros? Bring it in.”

Mrs. Surd entered, efficient and plump, carrying a paper.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Collopy snatched the paper. “Who’s it from and where do I sign?”

“It’s from a Comte Thierry de Cahors. He’s giving the museum ten million euros to renovate and reopen the Tomb of Senef.”

“The Tomb of Senef? What the devil is that?” Collopy tossed the paper on the desk. “I’ll deal with this later.”

“But it says here, sir, that the funds are waiting in transatlantic escrow and must be either refused or accepted within the hour.”

Collopy resisted an impulse to wring his hands. “We’re awash in bloody restricted funds like this! What we need are
general
funds to pay the bills. Fax this count whoever and see if you can’t persuade him to make this an unrestricted donation. Use my name with the usual courtesies. We don’t need the money for whatever windmill he’s tilting at.”