Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(133)
Next, Pendergast went from table to table, collecting dozens of tea candles and arranging them in a circle around the cleared area to provide illumination.
What the hell is he doing?
A man came into the hall at a dead run, carrying a bottle of something, which Pendergast immediately snatched up, checked, then shoved into the mound of crushed ice. Two more men arrived, one pushing a cart crammed with bottles and laboratory equipment—beakers and flasks—which were also shoved into the ice.
Pendergast straightened and, his back to Smithback’s hiding place, began rolling up his sleeves. “I need a volunteer,” he said.
“What exactly are you doing?” asked Manetti.
“Making nitroglycerin.”
There was a silence.
Manetti cleared his throat. “This is crazy. Surely there’s a better way to get into the tomb than blowing your way in.”
“No volunteers?”
“I’m calling for a SWAT team,” said Manetti. “We need professionals to break in there. We can’t just blow it up willy-nilly.”
“Well, then,” said Pendergast, “how about you, Mr. Smithback?”
Smithback froze in the blackness, hesitated, looked around. “Who, me?” he said in a small voice.
“You’re the only Smithback here.”
Smithback emerged from the shadows of the doorway and stepped into the hall, and only now did Pendergast turn and look him in the eye.
“Well, sure,” Smithback stammered. “Always happy to help a— Wait. Did you say nitro?”
“I did.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“Given my inexperience at the synthesis, and the impurity of the formulation that will inevitably result, I’d estimate our chances are slightly better than fifty percent.”
“Chances at what?”
“Enduring a premature detonation.”
Smithback swallowed. “You must… be worried about what’s happening in the tomb.”
“I am, in fact, terrified, Mr. Smithback.”
“My wife’s in there.”
“Then you have a special incentive to help.”
Smithback stiffened. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Thank you.” Pendergast turned to Manetti. “See to it that everyone leaves the hall and takes cover.”
“I’m calling for a SWAT team, and I strongly suggest—”
But the look on Pendergast’s face silenced the security director. The guards hastened out of the hall, Manetti following, his radio crackling.
Pendergast glanced back at Smithback. “Now, if you will kindly follow my instructions to the letter, we will have a fair chance of pulling this off.”
He went back to setting up the equipment: rotating the bottles in the ice to chill them more quickly; taking a flask, shoving it deep into the ice, setting a glass thermometer within it. “The problem, Mr. Smithback, is that we have no time to do this properly. We need to mix the chemicals quickly. And that sometimes provokes an undesirable result.”
“Look, what’s happening in the tomb?”
“Let us concentrate on the problem at hand, please.”
Smithback swallowed again, trying to get a grip on himself. All thought of a big story had vanished. Nora is in there, Nora is in there—the phrase pounded in his head like a drumbeat.
“Hand me the bottle of sulfuric acid, but wipe it off first.”
Smithback located the bottle, pulled it out of the ice, wiped it down, and handed it to Pendergast, who poured it carefully into the chilled flask. A nasty, acrid smell arose. When the agent was satisfied he had poured in the requisite amount, he stepped back and capped the bottle. “Check the temperature.”
Smithback peered down at the glass thermometer, pulled it from the flask, held it close enough to a candle to read.
“Needless to say,” said Pendergast dryly, “you will take exquisite care with that candle flame. I should also mention these acids will dissolve human flesh in a matter of seconds.”
Smithback’s hand jerked away.
“Give me the nitric acid. Same procedure, please.”
Smithback wiped off the bottle and handed it to Pendergast. The agent unscrewed the top and held it up, examining the label.
“As I pour this in, I want you to stir the solution with the thermometer, reading off the temperature at thirty-second intervals.”
“Right.”
Pendergast measured the acid into a graduated cylinder, then began pouring it, a tiny amount at a time, into the chilled flask while Smithback stirred.
“Ten degrees,” said Smithback.
More exquisitely slow pouring.
“Eighteen… twenty-five… Going up fast… Thirty…”
The mixture began to foam and Smithback could feel the heat of it on his face, along with a hideous stench. The ice began melting around the beaker.