D’Agosta snorted to himself. This should be interesting, he thought.
Over lunch, he’d made a few surreptitious calls to some friends in the Bureau. Turned out they’d not only heard of Pendergast, but they’d heard several rumors about him. Graduated with honors from some English university—probably true. A special forces officer who’d been captured in Vietnam and had later walked out of the jungle, the only survivor of a Cambodian death camp—D’Agosta wasn’t sure about that one. But he was revising his opinion nevertheless.
Now the massive door opened silently and Wright came in, the Security Director at his heels. Abruptly, Wright sat down opposite the FBI agent. “You’re Pendergast, I suppose,” the Director sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
D’Agosta sat back to watch the fun.
There was a long silence while Pendergast turned pages. Wright shifted. “If you’re busy,” he said irritably, “We can come back another time.”
Pendergast’s face was invisible behind the large book. “No,” he said finally. “Now is a good time.” Another page was leisurely turned. Then another.
D’Agosta watched with amusement as the Director reddened.
“The Security Director isn’t needed for this meeting,” came the voice from behind the book.
“Mr. Ippolito is part of the investigation—”
The agent’s eyes suddenly appeared over the spine of the book. “I’m in charge of the investigation, Dr. Wright,” Pendergast said quietly. “Now, if Mr. Ippolito would be so kind—?”
Ippolito glanced nervously at Wright, who flicked his hand in dismissal.
“Look, Mr. Pendergast,” Wright began as the door closed. “I’ve got a Museum that needs running, and I don’t have much time. I hope this can be brief.”
Pendergast laid the open book carefully on the desk in front of him.
“I’ve often thought,” he said slowly, “that this early classicist stuff of Piranesi’s was his best. Do you agree?” Wright looked utterly astonished. “I fail to see,” he stammered, “what that has to do with—”
“His later work was interesting, of course, but too fantastical for my taste,” Pendergast replied.
“Actually,” said the Director in his best lecture voice, “I’ve always thought—”
The book slammed shut like a shot. “Actually, Dr. Wright,” Pendergast said tightly, his courtly manner gone, “it’s time to forget what you’ve always thought. We’re going to play a little game here. I’m going to talk, and y’all are going to listen. Understood?”
Wright sat speechless. Then his face mottled in anger. “Mr. Pendergast, I will not be spoken to in that manner—”
Pendergast cut him off. “In case you haven’t read the headlines, Dr. Wright, there have been three grisly murders in this Museum in the last forty-eight hours. Three. The press is speculating that some kind of ferocious beast is responsible. Museum attendance is down fifty percent since the weekend. Your staff is very upset, to put it mildly. Have you bothered taking a stroll through your Museum today, Dr. Wright? You might find it edifying. The feeling of dread is almost palpable. Most people, if they leave their offices at all, travel in twos and threes. The maintenance staff is finding any reasons it can to avoid the Old Basement. Yet you prefer to act as if nothing is wrong. Believe me, Dr. Wright, something is extremely wrong.”
Pendergast leaned forward, and slowly folded his arms on top of the book. There was something so menacing in his deliberateness, so cold in his pale eyes, that the Director sat back involuntarily. D’Agosta unconsciously held his breath. Then Pendergast continued.
“Now we can handle this one of three ways,” he said. “Your way, my way, or the Bureau’s way. So far, your way has been far too much in evidence. I understand that the police investigation has been subtly obstructed. Phone calls are returned late, if at all. Staff are busy or not to be found. Those who are available—such as Mr. Ippolito—have not proven particularly useful. People are late to appointments. Why, it’s enough to make one suspicious. As of now, your way is no longer acceptable.”
Pendergast waited for a response. There was none, and he went on.