“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 running the show, and it’s inside the tomb itself. All the systems in the control room, here, are slaved to it.”
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 connecting the tomb’s main power cables to the museum’s auxiliary generator.”
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?”