Smithback followed Pendergast at a dead run through the emptied museum halls, the beam from the agent’s flashlight licking its way along the velvet ropes. Within minutes, they had reached the rotunda, their footsteps clattering on the white marble, and seconds later, they emerged onto the grand, red-carpeted staircase before the museum. Police cars were arriving in force along Museum Drive now, sirens wailing and brakes screeching. Smithback could hear the thudding of helicopters overhead.
Many of the police were engaged in crowd control, trying to clear Museum Drive of the panicked guests, onlookers, and press. Numerous other police officers were clustered together at the foot of the great steps, where they were setting up a mobile command center. There was pushing and shoving, and a hubbub of shouting filled the air. The flashes of photographers exploded like a fireworks display.
Pendergast hesitated at the top of the stairs, then turned to Smithback. “That’s the subway entrance we need,” he said, pointing to the far end of Museum Drive. Their route was blocked by a seething mass of guests and onlookers.
“It’s going to take twenty minutes to force our way through that crowd,” Smithback said. “And for sure somebody’s going to knock that beaker out of your hands along the way.”
“That would be unacceptable.”
A hell of an understatement, Smithback thought. “What do you plan to do about it, then?”
“We shall simply have to part the crowds.”
“How?” But even as he asked the question, Smithback saw a gun appear in Pendergast’s hand. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to use that.”
“I’m not going to use it. You are. I wouldn’t dare fire a gun while carrying this-the proximity of the discharge could set it off.”
“But I’m not going to-”
Smithback felt the gun placed in his hand. “Fire into the air, high up into the air. Aim out over Central Park.”
“But I’ve never used this model-”
“All you need to do is pull the trigger. It’s a Colt.45 Model 1911, kicks like a mule, so wrap both hands on the grip and keep your elbows slightly bent.”
“Look, I’ll carry the nitro.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Smithback. Now, get moving, if you please.”
Reluctantly, Smithback advanced toward the crowd. “FBI!” he said unconvincingly. “Make way!”
The crowds didn’t even notice him.
“Make way, damn it!”
Now some of the crowd stared back at him like a herd of cows, placid, unmoving.
“The sooner you fire, the sooner you will have their attention,” Pendergast said.
“Make way!” Smithback raised the gun. “Emergency!”
A few at the front perceived what was coming, and there was a flurry of action, but the mass of the crowd between them and the subway entrance just stood there dumbly.
Bracing himself, Smithback squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He squeezed harder-and the gun went off with a terrific boom, jolting him.
A chorus of screams erupted and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Two cops started running toward them from where they’d been pushing back the crowd nearby, their own guns drawn.
“FBI!” Pendergast shouted as they rushed forward into the breach. “This is an emergency federal action. Do not interfere!”
“Let’s see your shield, sir!”
The back of the crowd was already coalescing and Smithback realized his mission was not yet accomplished. “Make way!” he yelled, firing the gun again while walking forward, to dramatic effect.
A series of screams, and a fresh pathway appeared almost miraculously before them.
“You crazy bastard!” somebody shouted. “Firing a gun like that!”
Smithback broke into a run, Pendergast following as quickly as he dared behind him. The cops attempted to give chase, but the crowd had already drawn together behind them. Smithback could hear the cops cursing as they tried to fight their way through.
A minute later, they’d reached the entrance to the subway, and here Pendergast went ahead, taking the stairs quickly yet with remarkable smoothness, still cradling the small flask. They trotted along the deserted platform, ducked around a corner at the far end, into the museum’s subway entrance. Halfway down it, Smithback could see two figures: D’Agosta and Hayward.
“Where’s our entry point?” Pendergast called out as he arrived.
“Between those lines,” said Hayward, indicating two lines that had been marked on the tiles with lipstick.
Pendergast knelt and placed the flask carefully against the wall, positioning it between the lines. Then he stood and turned to face the little group. “If you would all please withdraw around the corner? My sidearm, Mr. Smithback?”
As Smithback handed the gun to the agent, he heard the sound of feet charging down the stairwell into the station. He followed Pendergast back around the corner onto the platform proper, where they crouched against the wall.
“NYPD!” came a shouted command from the far end of the station. “Drop your weapons and freeze!”
“Stay back!” Hayward shouted, waving her badge. “Police action in progress!”
“Identify yourself!”
“Captain Laura Hayward, Homicide!”
That seemed to flummox them.
Smithback saw Pendergast taking careful aim. He shrank closer to the wall.
“Stand down, Captain!” one of the policemen yelled.
“Take cover now!” came Hayward’s reply.
“Ready?” Pendergast asked quietly. “On the count of three. One…”
“I repeat, Captain, stand down!”
“Two…”
“And I repeat, you idiots: take cover!”
“Three.”
There was another gunshot, followed immediately by a terrific, earthshaking roar, and then a concussive blast that smacked Smithback hard against the chest and knocked him to the cement floor. Instantly the entire station filled with cement dust. Smithback lay on his back, dazed, the wind temporarily knocked from him. Chips of cement pattered down around him like rain.
“Holy shit!” It was D’Agosta’s voice, but the man himself was invisible in the sudden gloom.
Vaguely, Smithback could hear confused shouting from the other end of the station. He pulled himself to a sitting position, choking and spluttering, ears ringing, and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Pendergast’s voice was in his ear.
“Mr. Smithback? We’re going in now, and I’ll need your help. Stop the show-rip out wires, rip down screens, smash lights, but stop the show. We must do that before we do anything else-even before we help the people. Do you understand?”
“Call for backup!” came the choking cry from somewhere at the far end of the platform.
“Do you understand?” Pendergast asked urgently.
Smithback coughed, nodded. The agent pulled him to his feet.
“Now!” Pendergast whispered.
They bolted around the corner, D’Agosta and Hayward at their heels. The dust had cleared just enough to show a gaping hole in the wall. From it gushed billows of fog, brilliantly illuminated by the maniacal flashing of strobe lights.
Smithback held his breath, readied himself. Then he ducked inside.
