O’Shaughnessy paused.
“It’s all arranged. The paperwork is going through as we speak. From time to time, I have need of, ah, consulting specialists.” Pendergast patted a sheaf of papers lying on the seat beside him. “It’s all spelled out in here. You can sign them in the car. We’ll stop by the FBI office downtown and get you a photo ID. It’s not a shield, unfortunately, but it should serve almost as well.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but you should know, they’re opening an—”
“I know all about it. Get in, please.”
O’Shaughnessy climbed in and closed the door behind him, feeling slightly dazed.
Pendergast gestured toward the papers. “Read them, you won’t find any nasty surprises. Fifty dollars an hour, guaranteed minimum thirty hours a week, benefits, and the rest.”
“Why are you doing this?”
Pendergast gazed at him mildly. “Because I’ve seen you rise to the challenge. I need a man with the courage of his convictions. I’ve seen how you work. You know the streets, you can talk to the people in a way I can’t. You’re one of them. I’m not. Besides, I can’t push this case alone. I need someone who knows his way around the byzantine workings of the NYPD. And you have a certain compassion. Remember, I saw that tape. I’m going to need compassion.”
O’Shaughnessy reached for the papers, still dazed. Then he stopped.
“On one condition,” he said. “You know a lot more about this than you’ve let on. And I don’t like working in the dark.”
Pendergast nodded. “You’re quite right. It’s time we had a talk. And once we’ve processed your papers, that’s the next order of business. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.” And O’Shaughnessy took the papers, scanned them quickly.
Pendergast turned to the driver. “Federal Plaza, please, Proctor. And quickly.”
NINE
NORA PAUSED BEFORE THE DEEP ARCHWAY, CARVED OF SAND-COLORED stone streaked with gray. Although it had been recently cleaned, the massive Gothic entrance looked old and forbidding. It reminded Nora of Traitor’s Gate at the Tower of London. She half expected to see the iron teeth of a portcullis winking from the ceiling, defenestrating knights peering out of arrow slits above, cauldrons of boiling pitch at the ready.
At the base of an adjoining wall, before a low iron railing, Nora could see the remains of half-burnt candles, flower petals, and old pictures in broken frames. It looked almost like a shrine. And then she realized this arch must be the doorway in which John Lennon was shot, and these trinkets the remains of offerings still left by the faithful. And Pendergast himself had been stabbed nearby, not halfway down the block. She glanced upward. The Dakota rose above her, its Gothic facade overhung with gables and stone decorations. Dark clouds scudded above the grim, shadow-haunted towers. What a place to live, she thought. She looked carefully around, studying the landscape with a caution that had become habitual since the chase in the Archives. But there was no obvious sign of danger. She moved toward the building.
Beside the archway, a doorman stood in a large sentry box of bronze and glass, staring implacably out at Seventy-second Street, silent and erect as a Buckingham Palace guard. He seemed oblivious of her presence. But when she stepped beneath the archway, he was before her in a flash, pleasant but unsmiling.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“I have an appointment to see Mr. Pendergast.”
“Your name?”
“Nora Kelly.”
The guard nodded, as if expecting her. “Southwest lobby,” he said, stepping aside and pointing the way. As Nora walked through the tunnel toward the building’s interior courtyard, she saw the guard return to his sentry box and pick up a telephone.
The elevator smelled of old leather and polished wood. It rose several floors, came to an unhurried stop. Then the doors slid open to reveal an entryway, a single oak door at its far end, standing open. Within the doorway stood Agent Pendergast, his slender figure haloed in the subdued light.