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Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter,


Douglas Preston dedicates this book to

James Mortimer Gibbons, Jr., M.D.


The authors wish to thank the following people for helping, in myriad ways, this book see the light of day: Bob Gleason, Matthew Snyder, Denis Kelly, Stephen de las Heras, Jim Cush, Linda Quinten, Tom Espensheid, Dan Rabinowitz, Caleb Rabinowitz, Karen Lovell, Mark Gallagher, Bob Wincott, Lee Suckno, and Georgette Piligian.

Special thanks to Tom Doherty and Harvey Klinger, without whose guidance and diligent effort Reliquary would not have been possible.

Thanks also to everyone on the Tor/Forge sales force for all their hard work and dedication.

We would also like to acknowledge all those readers who have supported us, whether it be by calling during radio or television interviews, speaking with us at book signings, sending mail both conventional and electronic, or simply by reading and enjoying our books. Your enthusiasm for Relic was the motivating force behind this sequel.

To all of you—and to those of you who should have been mentioned, but were not—our deepest thanks.

We listen to the unspoken, we gaze upon the unseen.

—Kakuzo Okakura, The Book of Tea



REL-I-QUARY relic-wary (n): a shrine or coffer for displaying an object, bone, or body part from a saint or deity

= 1 =

SNOW TESTED HIS regulator, checked both air valves, ran his hands along the slick neoprene of the suit. Everything was in order, just as it had been when he last checked it, sixty seconds before.

“Another five minutes,” the Dive Sergeant said, cutting the launch to half speed.

“Great,” came the sarcastic voice of Fernandez over the sound of the big diesel. “Just great.”

Nobody else spoke. Already, Snow had noticed that small talk seemed to die away when the team neared a site.

He looked back over the stern, watching the froth of the Harlem River spread out behind the propeller in a brown wedge. The river was wide here, rolling sluggishly under the hot gray haze of the August morning. He turned his gaze toward the shore, grimacing slightly as the rubber cowl pulled at the skin of his neck. Towering apartment buildings with broken windows. Ghostly shells of warehouses and factories. An abandoned playground. No, not quite abandoned: one child, swinging from a rusty frame.

“Hey, Divemaster,” Fernandez’s voice called to him. “Be sure you got your training diapers on.”

Snow tugged at the ends of his gloves and continued looking toward the shore.

“Last time we let a virgin out on a dive like this,” Fernandez continued, “he shit his suit. Christ, what a mess. We made him sit on the transom all the way back to base. And that was off Liberty Island, too. A frigging Cakewalk compared to the Cloaca.”

“Fernandez, shut up,” the Sergeant said mildly.

Snow continued to gaze over the stern. When he’d come to Scuba from regular NYPD, he had made one big mistake: mentioning that he’d once worked a Sea of Cortez dive boat. Too late, he’d learned that several of the Scuba team had at one time been commercial divers laying cable, maintaining pipelines, working oil platforms. To them, divemasters like him were pampered, underskilled wimps who liked clear water and clean sand. Fernandez, in particular, wouldn’t let him forget.

The boat leaned heavily to starboard as the Sergeant angled in closer to shore. He cut the power even further as they approached a thick cluster of riverfront projects. Suddenly, a small, brick-lined tunnel came into view, breaking the monotony of the gray concrete facades. The Sergeant nosed the boat through the tunnel and out into the half-light beyond. Snow became aware of an indescribable smell wafting up from the disturbed waters. Tears sprang involuntarily to his eyes, and he stifled a cough. In the bow, Fernandez looked back, sniggering. Beneath Fernandez’s open suit, Snow could see a T-shirt with the Police Scuba team’s unofficial motto: We dive in shit and look for dead things. Only this time it wasn’t a dead thing, but a massive wrapped brick of heroin, thrown off the Humboldt Rail Bridge during a shootout with police the previous night.

The narrow canal was lined on both sides by concrete embankments. Ahead, a police launch was waiting beneath the railroad bridge, engine off, bobbing slightly in the striped shadows. Snow could see two people on board: the pilot and a heavyset man in a badly fitted polyester suit. He was balding and a wet cigar projected from his lips. He hiked up his pants, spat into the creek, and raised one hand toward them in greeting.

The Sergeant nodded toward the launch. “Look who’s here.”

“Lieutenant D’Agosta,” one of the divers in the bow replied. “Must be bad.”

“Anytime a cop is shot, it’s bad,” said the Sergeant.

The Sergeant killed the engine, swinging the stern around so the two launches drifted together. D’Agosta stepped back to speak with the dive team. As he moved, the police launch heeled over slightly under his shifting weight, and Snow could see that the water left an oily, greenish residue on the hull as it slid away.

“Morning,” D’Agosta said. Normally ruddy-faced, in the darkness beneath the bridge the Lieutenant blinked back at them like a pale cave creature that shunned the light.

“Talk to me, sir,” the Dive Sergeant replied, strapping a depth gauge to his wrist. “What’s the deal?”

“The bust went bad,” D’Agosta said. “Turns out it was just a messenger boy. He tossed the stuff off that bridge.” He nodded upward toward the overhanging structure. “Then he shot up a cop and got his own ass aired out good. If we can find the brick, we can close this piece-of-shit case.”

The Dive Sergeant sighed. “If the guy was killed, why call us out?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “What, you just gonna leave a six-hundred-grand brick of heroin down there?”

Snow looked up. Between the blackened girders of the bridge, he could see the burnt facades of buildings. A thousand dirty windows stared down at the dead river. Too bad, he thought, the messenger had to throw it into the Humboldt Kill, aka Cloaca Maxima, named after the great central sewer of ancient Rome. The Cloaca was so called because of its centuries-old accumulation of shit, toxic sludge, dead animals, and PCBs. A subway lumbered by above, shuddering and screeching. Beneath his feet the boat quivered, and the surface of the glistening thick water seemed to jiggle slightly, like gelatin that had begun to set.

“Okay, men,” he heard the Sergeant say. “Let’s get wet.”

Snow busied himself with his suit. He knew he was a first-rate diver. Growing up in Portsmouth, practically living in the Piscataqua River, he’d saved a couple of lives over the years. Later, in the Sea of Cortez, he’d hunted shark, done technical diving below two hundred feet. Even so, he wasn’t looking forward to this particular dip.