Page 31 of Angel of Vengeance
Constance removed the knife. Now that she’d located it, the task of unsealing the hidden door could wait temporarily. She turned back to the skiff, pulled aside the oilcloth, and—quietly, but with haste—unloaded the contents from the bow and arranged them along the damp stones nearby.
23
A COLD DAWN WAS JUST breaking over Longacre Square as the sandhogs finished their work. Pendergast looked it over with no little satisfaction. These men were the best of the best at such tasks; they had done all he asked and more. Smee’s Alley was now completely secure. The mouth of the alley was thoroughly blocked off, the tenements surrounding it offering no access; the hole in the wall caused by the dynamite was boarded over, and the brewery gate at the far end of the alley had been reinforced and padlocked. Just inside the alley’s Seventh Avenue entrance, a sturdy, two-story guard station had been built into the temporary joists, beams, and supports, ready to watch over this small—but critical—alleyway.
Pendergast understood only too well that, if the portal were ever to be opened again, it was vital to control the surrounding space and—even more vital—to prevent Leng from using it. If he ever passed through the portal and gained control of the machine from the twenty-first century of Pendergast’s home universe… the results would be unthinkable.
“Mr. Bloom,” he said, turning to the foreman. “Please assemble your men.”
Bloom quickly lined up the nine members of his crew. They stood straight in their motley work clothes and heavy boots, faces smudged with concrete dust and dirt.
Pendergast eyed them and, after a few words of fulsome praise, reached into his pocket and took out a fistful of $10 gold eagles. He walked down the line, dropping one into each outstretched hand. The expressions on the faces of the men at the sight of the gold were remarkable indeed.
“You,” said Pendergast, tapping one man on the chest. “What is your name?”
“Patrick McGonigle, sir.”
“Do you have any squeamishness regarding fisticuffs or acts of violence?”
“Squeam? I don’t have the clap or the coughing sickness, if that’s what you mean. As for violence, I can handle myself with fists or me shillelagh.”
“Very good. Step over there.”
Pendergast paused at another man. “And your name?”
“Tony Bellagamba, sir.”
“I can see where you got that moniker. Step over there.”
He placed his hands behind his back and turned, strolling once again along the line of ragged men, who were all trying to stand as straight as possible.
“And you?”
“Emil Krauss.”
“Where did you get that scar on your cheek?”
“In a duel, sir.”
“A duel! How marvelous. With what type of weapon?”
“A Korbschläger, sir. Back in Prussia.”
“And what happened to your opponent?”
“I spared his life, sir.”
“Why?”
“Humiliation is worse than death.”
“Excellent, most excellent. Please join the others.”
One final turn along the line. “And you, my good fellow?” He paused before a giant of a man.
“Francis Smith, sir.”
“What did you do before starting work on the Brooklyn Bridge?”