Reliquary

“I’ve heard this story before,” Horlocker said. “It doesn’t get any better the second time around. What’s your point?”

“What we in the Bureau call a redundant solution,” Pendergast said.

Horlocker opened his mouth to speak just as a uniformed officer signaled from a comm desk. “Captain Waxie for you, sir. I’ll patch him through on the open line.”

Horlocker picked up the phone again. “Waxie, what’s your status?” He stopped to listen. “Speak up, I can’t hear you. The what? What do you mean, you’re not sure? Well, take care of it, goddammit! Look, put Duffy on. Waxie, you hear me? You’re breaking up. Waxie? Waxie!”

He slammed the phone into its cradle with a shattering crash. “Get Waxie back on the horn!” he yelled.

“May I continue?” Pendergast asked. “If what I just heard is any indication, time is short. So I’ll be brief. If Waxie fails and the Reservoir is drained, we must have a backup plan in place to prevent the plants from escaping into the Hudson.”

“How the hell are we going to do that?” D’Agosta asked. “It’s nearly ten o’clock. The Reservoir is scheduled to dump in just over two hours.”

“Can we just stop the plants from escaping somehow?” Margo asked. “Place filters over the exit pipes, or something?”

“An interesting thought, Dr. Green,” Pendergast said, glancing toward her with his pale eyes. He paused briefly. “I’d imagine that 5-micron filters would be sufficient. But where would we find them manufactured to the proper dimensions? And what about the tolerances required to withstand the tremendous water pressure? And how could we be certain we had located every exit?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid the only solution that time allows is to seal the exits from the Astor Tunnels with high explosive. I’ve studied the maps. A dozen charges of C-4, accurately placed, should be sufficient.”

Horlocker swiveled himself toward Pendergast. “You’re crazy,” he said matter-of-factly.

There was a sudden commotion at the entrance to the center, and Margo looked over to see a group of policemen half running, half stumbling in from the concourse beyond. Their uniforms were disheveled and muddy, and one of the officers had a nasty cut on his forehead. In their midst, struggling wildly, was an incredibly dirty man wearing a ragged corduroy suit. His long gray hair was matted and streaked with dirt and blood. A large turquoise, necklace hung from his neck, and a heavily stained beard hung down to his handcuffed wrists.

“We got the ringleader!” one of the cops panted as they tugged the struggling man toward the Chief.

D’Agosta stared incredulously. “It’s Mephisto!” he cried.

“Oh?” Horlocker said sarcastically. “A friend of yours?”

“Merely a social acquaintance,” Pendergast replied.

Margo watched as the man named Mephisto stared from D’Agosta to Pendergast. Suddenly, the piercing eyes flooded with recognition, and his face turned dark.

“You!” he hissed. “Whitey! You were spies. Traitors! Pigs!” He struggled with a sudden, terrible strength, breaking free of his captors for a moment only to be tackled to the floor and pinned again. He grappled and strained, raising his manacled hands. “Judas!” he spat in Pendergast’s direction.

“Frigging lunatic,” Horlocker said, looking toward the group wrestling on the tiled floor.

“Hardly,” Pendergast replied. “Would you act any differently if somebody had just gassed you and driven you out of your home?”

Mephisto lunged again.

“Hold him, for Chrissakes,” Horlocker snapped, stepping out of reach. Then he turned back to Pendergast. “Now, let me see if I understand this,” he said with insulting sweetness, the parody of a father humoring a foolish son. “You want to blow up the Astor Tunnels. Do I have it right?”

“Not the tunnels so much as the exits from the tunnels,” Pendergast replied, oblivious to the sarcasm. “It is critical that we stop any water draining from the Reservoir from reaching the open ocean. But perhaps we can accomplish both ends: cleanse the Astor Tunnels of their inhabitants while preventing the reovirus from escaping. All we have to do is hold the water for forty-eight hours and let the herbicide do its work.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Margo watched as Mephisto went still.

“We can send in a team of divers up the spillways from the river,” Pendergast went on. “The route to the Astor outflow is relatively straightforward.”

Horlocker shook his head.

“I’ve studied the system carefully. When the Astor Tunnels fill, the overflow will channel into the West Side Lateral. That’s what we’ll have to block with explosives.”

“I don’t believe this,” Horlocker said, lowering his head and resting it on the knuckles of one hand.

“But then again, that may not be enough,” Pendergast went on, paying no attention to Horlocker now, thinking out loud. “To be certain, we’d also need to seal the Devil’s Attic from above, as well. The charts show that the Bottleneck and its drainage tubes are a closed system all the way up to the Reservoir, so all we have to do to keep the water trapped inside is to seal any escape routes immediately below it. That will also prevent the creatures from riding out the flood in an air pocket somewhere.”

Horlocker looked blank. Pendergast found a scrap and paper and swiftly drew a diagram. “Don’t you see?” he asked. “The water will pass through the Bottleneck, here. The second team will descend from the surface and block any exit paths directly beneath the Bottleneck. Several levels deeper is the Devil’s Attic and the spillways that vent to the river. The SEAL team will set their charges in the spillways.” He looked up. “The water will be trapped in the Astor Tunnels. There will be no escape for the Wrinklers. None.”

A low wheeze escaped from the manacled figure, raising the hairs on Margo’s neck.

“I’ll have to lead the second team, of course,” Pendergast went on calmly. “They’ll need a guide, and I’ve already been down once before. I’ve got a crude map, and I’ve studied the city plans for the works closer to the