"And here"-he brought up the next image-"is an electron micrograph at 3,000x, showing this extraordinary pitting along the silver-but not the gold-surface of the cross. I can't account for this, either. I suspect it might have been caused by an intense and prolonged dose of radiation that seems to have stripped off the top layers of electrons and vaporized part of the metal. It acts much more strongly on silver than on gold. Again, I have no idea why."

Carlton was on his feet. "Can we have this in plain English?"

"Of course," Dienphong said dryly. "Something heated up and melted the cross without heating up anything around it. I guess it must have been some kind of radiation that was taken up by metal more strongly than flesh."

"Like maybe the same radiation that burned the hoofprint?"

Carlton, Dienphong had to admit, was not as stupid as he pretended to be.

"A good possibility."

Pendergast raised a finger.

"Agent Pendergast?"

"Were there any signs of radiation burns or heating in any other surfaces in the room?"

An even better question. "Yes, in fact, there were. The bedposts, which were varnished pine, showed signs of heat stress, as did the wall behind the bed, which was painted pine. In some areas, the paint had softened and bubbled."

He moused his way through the on-screen menu and pulled up another image. "Here's a cross section of the wall, showing four layers of paint. Now here's yet another small mystery: only the lowest layer of paint seems to have heated up and bubbled. The others were undisturbed and remained chemically unaltered."

"Did you analyze all four layers of paint?" Pendergast asked.

Dienphong nodded.

"Was the bottom layer a lead-based paint?"

Dienphong felt a sudden surprise. He quickly saw where the line of questioning would lead, and it was something that he had not thought of. "Let me check the book." He flipped through the lab reports, organized and categorized in a three-ring binder labeled Brimstone . All FBI investigations get a nickname, and this was the one he had given this case. Melodramatic, perhaps, but appropriate.

He looked up from the binder. "Yes, as a matter of fact it was lead-based."

"And the rest were not?"

"That's correct."

"Further proof that we are dealing with some kind of radiation."

"Very good, Agent Pendergast." It was the first time in his career that an FBI agent had beaten him to a conclusion. This Pendergast was living up to his reputation. Dienphong cleared his throat. "Any other questions or comments?"

Carlton sat down again, raised a weary hand.

"Yes?"

"I'm missing something. How could something affect the bottom layer of paint and not the upper ones?"

Pendergast turned. "It was the lead in the paint that reacted, like the metal in the cross. It absorbed the radiation more strongly. Was there any radioactivity present at the site, Doctor, during follow-up investigation?"

"None whatsoever."

Carlton nodded. "Check into that, Sam, will you?"

"Of course, sir," one of the junior agents replied.

Dienphong went to the next image. "Here's the final image: a close-up of a section of the cross. Note the very localized melting, completely inconsistent with a convective source of heat. Again an indication that radiation played a role."

"What type of radiation would selectively heat metal more than flesh?" Pendergast asked.

"X-rays, gamma rays, microwave, far infrared, certain wavelengths in the radio spectrum, not to mention alpha radiation and a flux of fast neutrons. This is not very unusual. What is unusual is the intensity ."

Dienphong waited for the inevitable expostulation from Carlton, but this time the agent in charge said nothing.

"The pitting on the cross," Pendergast said, "might suggest to you something?"

"Not so far."

"Speculations?"

"I never speculate, Mr. Pendergast."

"An intense electron beam could cause it, don't you think?"

"Yes, but an electron beam would have to propagate through a vacuum. Air would disperse it in, say, a millimeter or two. As I said, it might have been in the infrared, microwave, or X-ray spectrum, except that it would take a transmitter of several tons to generate a beam that intense."

"Quite so. What do you think, Doctor, of the theory being pushed by the New York Post ?"

Dienphong paused briefly at this sudden change of tack. "I am not in the habit of taking my theories from the pages of the Post ."

"They've published speculation that the devil took his soul."

There was a brief silence, and then there was a smattering of nervous chuckles. Pendergast was evidently making a joke. Or was he? He didn't seem to be laughing.

"Mr. Pendergast, that's a theory I don't subscribe to."

"No?"

Dienphong smiled. "I am a Buddhist. The only devil we believe in is the one inside the human heart."

{ 18 }

Not much scanning of the crowd streaming into the Metropolitan Opera House was needed to locate Count Isidor Fosco: his huge presence, striking a dramatic pose beside the Lincoln Center fountain, was unmistakable. Pendergast drifted toward him with the crowd. All around, men in tuxedos and women in pearl necklaces were babbling excitedly. It was opening night at the Metropolitan Opera, and the program was Donizetti's Lucrezia Borgia. The count was wearing white tie and tails, beautifully tailored to his enormously fat figure. The cut was old-fashioned, and in place of the usual white waistcoat, Fosco was sporting one in gorgeous Hong Kong silk brocaded in white and dove gray. A gardenia was stuck in his buttonhole, his handsome face was patted and shaved and powdered to pink perfection, and his thick mane of gray hair was brushed back into leonine curls. His small, plump hands were perfectly fitted in gray kid gloves.

"My dear Pendergast, I was hoping you'd come in white tie!" Fosco said, rejoicing. "I cannot understand why people dress down so barbarously on a night such as this." He waved a dismissive hand at the tuxedoed patrons streaming past them into the hall. "There are only three occasions left to truly dress up in these dark days: at one's nuptials, at one's funeral, and at opening night at the opera. By far the happiest of these three is the last."

"That depends on your point of view," said Pendergast dryly.

"You are happily married, then?"

"I was referring to the other occasion."

"Ah!" Fosco laughed silently. "You are right, Pendergast. I've never seen a more contented smile on some people than at their own wake."

"I was referring to the deceased's heirs."

"You wicked fellow. Shall we go inside? I hope you don't mind sitting in the pit-I avoid the boxes because the acoustics are muddy. We have tickets for row N, center right, which I have found from experimentation to be the acoustical sweet spot in this hall, particularly seats twenty-three through thirty-one. But look, there go the houselights: we had better sit down." And with his giant head held erect, chin raised, Fosco moved swiftly through the milling crowd, which parted instinctively. For his part, Fosco looked neither to the right nor to the left as they moved through the central doors, brushing past several ushers offering programs and sweeping down the central aisle to row N. Fosco waited at the end of the row, gesturing a dozen people out of their seats and into the far aisle so he could make his way undisturbed. The count had purchased three seats for himself, and he seated himself in the center one, stretching his arms on the upturned seats on either side.