They came around a pilaster, only to find a woman in a gray suit kneeling on the stone floor, scraping dust out of a crack and putting it in a test tube. Nearby, a man in a white lab coat was organizing what looked like samples in a portable chemical laboratory.
“What in the world is she doing?” Viola whispered.
Nora had never seen the woman before. She certainly didn’t look much like a museum employee. In fact, she looked like a cop.
“Let’s find out.” Nora walked over. “Hello. I’m Nora Kelly, curator of the exhibition.”
The woman rose. “I’m Susan Lombardi, with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.”
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
“We’re testing for any environmental hazards—toxins, microbes, that sort of thing.”
“Really? And why is that necessary?”
She shrugged. “All I know is, the request came from the NYPD. A rush job.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Nora turned away and the woman went back to work.
“That’s odd,” said Viola. “Are they worried about some kind of infectious disease, perhaps, endemic to the tomb itself? Some Egyptian tombs have been known to harbor ancient viruses and fungus spores.”
“I suppose so. Strange that no one told me.”
But Viola had turned away. “Oh, look—what a fabulous unguent container! It’s better than anything in the British Museum!” And she rushed over to a large glass case containing an artifact carved in white alabaster and decorated with paint, a lion crouching on the lid. “Why, it has the cartouche of Thutmosis himself on it!” She knelt, examining it with rapt attention.
There was something refreshingly spontaneous, even rebellious, about Viola Maskelene. Nora took in the woman’s beaten-up canvas pants, lack of makeup, and dusty work shirt, wondering if this was going to be her standard museum uniform. She looked just the opposite of a stuffy British archaeologist.
Viola… Viola Maskelene. It was a strange name, and it rang a bell… Had Menzies mentioned her before? No, not Menzies… somebody else…
And then, quite suddenly, she remembered.
“You were the one kidnapped by the jewel thief!” It came out in a rush, before she’d had time to think, and Nora immediately colored.
Viola rose quietly from the case and brushed off her knees. “Yes. That was me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fling it out like that.”
“Actually, I’m glad you mentioned it. Better to get it out in the open and get past it.”
Nora felt her cheeks flaming.
“It’s fine, Nora—really. Actually, all that was just another reason I was glad to take this job and return to New York.”
“Really?”
“To me, it’s sort of like falling off a horse—you’ve got to get right back on if you ever hope to ride again.”
“That’s a good way to look at it.” Nora paused. “So you’re Agent Pendergast’s friend.”
Now it was time for Viola Maskelene to color. “You might say that.”
“My husband, Bill Smithback, and I are well acquainted with Special Agent Pendergast.”
Viola looked at her with fresh interest. “Really? How did you meet?”
“I helped with a case of his a few years ago. I feel terrible about what’s happened to him.” She didn’t mention her husband’s activities, which he had insisted on keeping confidential.
“Agent Pendergast is the other reason I returned,” Viola said in a low voice. Then she fell into silence.
After they had finished up in the burial chamber, they followed with a quick check of the side chambers. Then Nora glanced at her watch. “One o’clock. You want some lunch? We’re going to be here until after midnight, and you don’t want to be caught running on empty. Come on—the shrimp bisque in the staff cafeteria is actually worth making a trip for.”
At this, Viola Maskelene brightened. “Lead the way, Nora.”
40
In the close darkness of cell 44, high within the isolation cellblock of Herkmoor Federal Correctional Facility, Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast lay at rest, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. The dark was not absolute: an unchanging bar of light from the lone window streaked across the ceiling, formed by the harsh glare of the illuminated yards and grounds outside. From the next cell, the soft sounds of the drummer continued, muted and thoughtful now, a mournful adagio which Pendergast found curiously conducive to concentration.
Other sounds reached his sensitive ears: the clang of steel against steel; a distant gargled cry of anger; the endless repetition of a cough, coming in groups of three; footsteps of a guard on his rounds. The great prison of Herkmoor was resting but not sleeping—a world unto its own, with its own rules, food chain, rituals, and customs.