= 51 =
THE FBI AGENT on duty in Armory Division was leaning back, nose deep in a copy of Soldier of Fortune, his chair precariously balanced on its rear two legs. Over the top of the magazine, Margo could see his eyes widen at their approach. Probably he wasn’t used to seeing an impossibly ratty, wild-eyed man with an unkempt beard, wandering around the basement of the FBI’s Federal Plaza headquarters with a young woman and pudgy man in tow. She watched as the eyes suddenly narrowed, the nostrils flaring. Must have caught wind of Mephisto, as well, Margo thought.
“Just what the hell can I do for you gentlemen?” the guard asked, lowering the magazine and easing the chair forward slowly.
“They’re with me,” Pendergast said briskly, coming forward and flashing his identification. But the man had caught sight of him and bounded to his feet already, the magazine skidding across the floor.
“I’ll need to sign for some ordnance,” Pendergast said.
“Of course, right away, sir,” the agent babbled, unlocking the upper and lower locks of the metal door behind him and swinging it open.
Margo stepped into the large room beyond. Row upon row of wooden cabinets rose in ordered procession toward the low ceiling. “What is all this stuff?” she asked as they followed Pendergast down the nearest aisle.
“Emergency supplies,” came the answer. “Rations, medical supplies, bottled water, food supplements, blankets and bedding, spare parts for the essential systems, fuel.”
“You got enough shit to withstand a siege in here,” D’Agosta muttered.
“That’s exactly the point, Lieutenant,” Pendergast said, approaching a small metal door in the far wall, punching in a code, and flinging it open. Beyond lay a narrow corridor. Rows of stainless steel lockers flanked both sides, Plexiglas labels engraved on their fronts. Entering the room, Margo stopped to look at a few of the closest labels: M-16/XM-148, CAR-15/SM-177E2, KEVLAR S-M, KEVLAR L-XXL.
“The cop and his toys,” Mephisto said.
Pendergast moved quickly down the aisle, then stopped at a locker, wrenched it open, and removed three masks of clear plastic, attached to small canisters of oxygen. Keeping one for himself, he tossed the others to D’Agosta and Mephisto.
“Just in case you feel like gassing a few more underground residents on our way down?” Mephisto said, catching it awkwardly in his manacled hands. “I’ve heard we make good sport.”
Pendergast stopped and turned toward the homeless man. “I know you feel your people were ill-used by the police,” he said quietly. “As it happens, I agree with you. You’ll simply have to take my word when I say I had nothing to do with it.”
“Two-faced Janus speaks again. Mayor of Grant’s Tomb, sure. I should’ve known it was a crock of shit.”
“It was your own paranoia and isolation that made my ruse necessary,” Pendergast said, opening additional lockers and removing a head-mounted flash unit, several pairs of goggles with long eye-stalks Margo guessed were night-vision devices, and some long yellow canisters she didn’t recognize. “I don’t, and never did, look upon you as an enemy.”
“Then take these cuffs off.”
“Don’t do it,” D’Agosta warned.
Pendergast poised in the act of removing several K-bar knives from the locker. Then he dug into the breast pocket of his black suit, stepped forward, and released the cuffs with a quick turn of his wrist. Mephisto flung them contemptuously down the narrow corridor.
“Planning on whittling while you’re below, Whitey?” he asked. “Those little Special Forces penknives you’ve got there won’t do you much good against the Wrinklers. Except maybe tickle them some.”
“It is my hope we won’t meet up with any inhabitants of the Astor Tunnels,” Pendergast said, snugging a pair of handguns into the waist of his pants, his head buried in the locker. “But I’ve already learned that it pays to be prepared.”
“Well, enjoy your turkey shoot, FBI man. Afterwards, we can stop by Route 666 for tea and biscuits, have a nice chin-wag, maybe get your trophies stuffed.”
As Margo watched, Pendergast stepped back from the locker. Then he moved slowly toward Mephisto. “What can I do, exactly, to impress on you the seriousness of this situation?” he asked, his face inches from that of the underground leader. He spoke softly, yet there was a subtle edge to his voice that seemed somehow menacing.
Mephisto took a step backward. “If that’s what you want, you’re going to have to trust me.”
“If I didn’t,” Pendergast replied, “I wouldn’t have removed your handcuffs.”
“Then prove it.” Mephisto said, quickly recovering his nerve. “Give me a piece. One of those nice shiny Stoners I saw in that locker back there. Or at least a 12-gauge. If you guys get greased, I want a fighting chance to survive.”
“Pendergast, don’t be crazy,” D’Agosta said. “This guy’s bent. Today’s the first time he’s seen daylight since George Bush was president, for Chrissakes.”
“How quickly can you get us to the Astor Tunnels?” Pendergast asked.
“Ninety minutes, maybe. If you don’t mind getting your feet wet on the way down.”
There was a silence. “You seem to know your weapons. Do you have any experience?”
“Seventh Infantry, I-Corps. Wounded for the greater glory of the U.S. of frigging A. in the Iron Triangle.” As Margo watched with disgusted fascination, Mephisto unbuckled his filthy pants and dropped them, exposing a puckered scar that ran across his abdomen and down his thigh, ending in a large knot of scar tissue. “Had to restuff me before they could get me onto the stretcher,” he said, with a lopsided grin.
Pendergast paused for a long moment. Then he turned, opened another locker, and removed two automatic weapons, slinging one over his right arm and tossing the other to D’Agosta. Then he withdrew a case of buckshot and a stubby-looking pump-action shotgun. He closed the locker, turned, and passed the weapon to Mephisto.
“Don’t let me down, soldier,” he said, his hand still on the barrel.
Mephisto pulled the gun from Pendergast and pumped the magazine, saying nothing.
Margo had begun to notice a troublesome pattern: Pendergast had been removing plenty of equipment, but none of it was finding its way to her. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “What about me? Where’s my gear?”
“I’m afraid you’re not coming,” Pendergast said, dragging bulletproof vests from the locker and checking their sizes.
“Who the hell says I’m not?” Margo said. “Because I’m a woman?”
“Dr. Green, please. You know very well it has nothing to do with that. You’re not experienced in this kind of police action.” Pendergast began digging into another locker. “Here, Vincent, take charge of these, will you?”
“M-26 fragmentation grenades,” D’Agosta said, handling them gingerly. “You’ve got enough firepower in here to invade China, pal.”
“Not experienced?” Margo echoed, ignoring D’Agosta. “I was the one who saved your ass back there in the Museum, remember? If it wasn’t for me, you’d have been Mbwun droppings long ago.”
“I would be the first to admit it, Dr. Green,” Pendergast replied as he shrugged into a backpack equipped with a long hose and a strange hooded nozzle.
“Don’t tell me that’s a flamethrower,” D’Agosta asked.
“ABT FastFire, if I’m not mistaken,” Mephisto said. “When I was a grunt, we called the jelly they sprayed purple haze. The sadistic weapon of a morally bankrupt republic.” He looked speculatively into one of the open lockers.