“May I?” Marshall retrieved the photos, looked at the close-up again. Although the silver paint of the floor reflected the bright light of the vault, he could immediately see that Faraday was right: the wood splinters weren’t forced upward. Instead, they clearly angled down.

“Whoever it was didn’t break in from underneath,” he said. “They sawed their way out from inside.”

Sully waved his hand in impatient dismissal. “Wolff’s gotten to the two of you. You’re seeing things.”

“No. It’s there all right.” Marshall glanced at Faraday. “You know what this means?”

Faraday nodded. “It means whoever stole the cat knew the combination to the vault.”

18

Until now, Marshall had been no deeper inside Conti’s capacious suite than its threshold. But as the director gestured for him to enter, Marshall immediately understood why Conti had appropriated not only the commander’s quarters but the deputy commander’s as well. The rambling but spartan set of rooms on C Level had been converted into a sprawling, opulent salon. Leather couches, velvet banquettes, and plush ottomans were placed in complementary attitudes atop expensive Persian rugs. Draperies and postmodernist paintings in discreet frames camouflaged the drab metal walls. The centerpiece of the space was a huge, hundred-inch LCD screen in the rear, its base hidden by rows of chairs set before it: a private cinema for viewing rushes, feature films, and- Marshall felt certain-the Greatest Hits of Emilio Conti.

The director was polite, even cheery, and the only hint he hadn’t slept in perhaps thirty-six hours was the blue-black smudges beneath his eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Marshall,” he said with a smile. “Good morning. Come in, come in. Seven-thirty: excellent. I appreciate promptness.” He’d been watching something on the vast screen-black-and-white, slightly grainy-and with the flick of a remote he switched it off. “Please, sit down.”

He led the way across the room. Through an open doorway, Marshall could see a small conference table, surrounded by ergonomic work chairs. A Moviola stood in a far corner, strips of film trailing from its spools. Marshall stared at it, wondering if this anachronism was part of Conti’s work flow or simply a directorial affectation.

Conti took a seat before the screen and motioned Marshall to do the same. “What do you think of my little screening room?” he asked, still smiling.

“I watched them airlift that thing in,” Marshall said, nodding at the LCD. “I’d assumed it was some critical piece of documentary technology.”

“It is critical,” Conti replied. “Not only for assembling my film but for maintaining my sanity.” He waved at two bookcases full of DVDs that framed the screen. “You see those? That is my reference library. The greatest films ever made: the most beautiful, the most groundbreaking, the most thought provoking. The Battleship Potemkin, Intolerance, Rashômon, Double Indemnity, L’Avventura, The Seventh Seal-they are all here. I never travel anywhere without them. Yet they are not just my solace, Dr. Marshall-they are my oracle, my Delphic temple. Some turn to the Bible for guidance; others, the I Ching. I have these. And they never fail me. Take this, for instance.” And with another flick of the remote Conti restarted the film.

The perpetually worried-looking visage of Victor Mature filled the screen. “Kiss of Death. Familiar with it?”

Marshall shook his head.

Conti muted the sound to a whisper. “A forgotten masterpiece of 1947. Henry Hathaway’s breakthrough film-but then you must know Hathaway’s work, The House on 92nd Street, 13 Rue Madeleine. Anyway, in the movie, the hero, Nick Bianco”-and Conti pointed at Mature, his exaggerated face now framed by prison bars-“is sent up to Sing Sing on a minor charge. There he’s double-crossed by his shyster lawyer. In order to make parole, he cuts a deal with the DA: he agrees to squeal on this psychopathic killer named Tommy Udo.”

“Sounds intriguing.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Not only is it a brilliant film-but it’s exactly the solution to my problem.”

Marshall frowned. “I don’t follow you.”

“When we discovered the cat was missing, I was close to panic. I was afraid my documentary-possibly even my career-was in jeopardy. You can imagine how I felt. This was to be my ne plus ultra. It was to put me right up there with Eisenstein.”

A prime-time documentary? Marshall thought. He decided it was better to keep mum.

“I paced half the night, worrying, debating what to do. Then I turned to these”-he waved at the bookcases-“and as always they provided the answer I needed.”

Marshall waited, listening, as Conti nodded once more toward the screen. “You see, Kiss of Death is what’s known as a ‘docunoir’: a hybrid of documentary and film noir. Very interesting concept. Very revolutionary.”

He turned to Marshall, the screen illumination throwing the contours of his face into chiaroscuro. “Yesterday, in the heat of the moment, I was sure this was an act of theft. Now I’ve had time to think. And I’ve changed my mind. I’m convinced it was sabotage.”

“Sabotage?”

Conti nodded. “As valuable as that cat is, the logistics of removing it from the base-spiriting it away-simply don’t work.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “The thieves-and there would have to be at least two, the asset is simply too heavy for one person to handle-would need transportation. That would be impossible to conceal from us. And if anyone were to leave prematurely, we’d know.”

“What about Carradine, the trucker? He not only has the transportation; he’s one of the newest arrivals.”

“His cab’s been thoroughly searched, and his movements are accounted for. As I was saying, stealing the cat would be prohibitively difficult. But if all somebody wanted was for the documentary to stop, for our show to go away…” He shrugged. “Then it would just be a matter of dropping the carcass down some crevasse. Nobody would be the wiser.”

“Who would want to do such a thing?” Marshall asked.

Conti looked at him. “You would.”

Marshall looked back in surprise. “Me?”

“Well-you scientists. It might be you, in particular. But on careful consideration I think Dr. Sully is the more obvious choice. He seems to be quite put out that I didn’t make him a star of Raising the Tiger.”

Marshall shook his head. “That’s crazy. The documentary was set to go live yesterday-you would have been gone today. Why bother with sabotage?”

“It’s true: I would have been gone today. But postproduction on a successful shoot would take several days longer. Not to mention dismantling the sets, removing the equipment. When I gave Sully an estimated timeline, he didn’t seem especially pleased.” Conti looked at him searchingly. The smile was now gone. “Sully seems like the impulsive type. You don’t. That’s why I’ve come to you. Despite our little fracas the other day, I think you’re a reasonable man. Perhaps more than your colleagues, you realize what’s at stake. So: Where the hell is that cat?”

Marshall returned the stare. Despite the director’s carefully composed expression, it was obvious that Conti was doing a desperate dance, searching for a way, any way, to salvage the situation.

“What about Logan?” Marshall asked, recalling the previous evening’s conversation in the RASP room. “He came here out of nowhere. Nobody knows what he wants. I’m told he’s a Yale professor-professor of history. Doesn’t that strike you as strange-and very suspicious?”

“It is strange. So strange, in fact, that I have to discount him as a suspect. He’s too obvious. Besides, I already told you: my money’s on sabotage, not theft. And Dr. Logan has no reason to sabotage my documentary. So: Where’s the cat? Sully would have told you, I think. Is it retrievable?”