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Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

Extraction

Three people occupied the large, dimly lit library within the mansion that stood alone and aloof at 891 Riverside Drive, New York City. Two of them sat in armchairs before a crackling fire. One, Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, was paging listlessly through a catalog of Bordeaux wine futures. Across from him, his ward Constance was absorbed in a treatise titled Medieval Trephination: Tools and Techniques.

The third occupant of the room was not seated, but instead paced irritably up and down. He was a strange, comical figure: small of stature, dressed in a swallowtail coat, with all manner of odd charms and relics dangling from his neck on silver chains, which clanked and jingled with his movements. As he walked, he supported himself upon a cudgel-like cane whose handle was carved into the semblance of a grinning skull. Now and then his stomach could be heard to growl in empty complaint. This was Monsieur Bertin, Pendergast’s old childhood tutor in natural history, zoology, and more outré subjects. He was currently in New York City, visiting his old protégé.

“This is outrageous!” he called across the library. “Fou, très fou! Why, in New Orleans I would have finished dinner hours ago. Look — it’s practically midnight!”

“It’s not yet half past eight, maître,” Pendergast said with a faint smile.

A form appeared in the doorway of the library, and Pendergast glanced over. “Yes, Mrs. Trask?”

“It’s Cook,” the housekeeper replied. “She’s asked me to tell you that dinner will be half an hour late. ”

Bertin gave an expostulation of disgust.

“I’m afraid she overboiled the pasta,” Mrs. Trask went on, “and will have to make another batch. ”

“Tell her not to concern herself about it,” Pendergast replied. “We’re in no rush.

Mrs. Trask nodded, turned, and vanished from sight.

“No rush!” Bertin said. “Speak for yourself. Here I am, a guest in your house — starved like a prisoner in the Bastille. After tonight, my digestion will never be the same. ”

“Believe me, maître, it will be worth the wait. Tagliatelle al tartufo bianco is a very simple dish, and yet nevertheless of great refinement. ” Pendergast paused, as if already tasting, in his mind, the meal to come. “It is made of the finest fresh white truffles, finely shaved; butter; and tagliatelle pasta. Cook is using truffles from Alba, of course, in the Piedmont. They are the finest in the world — by weight they cost almost as much as gold. ”

“Gah!” Bertin said. “I will never understand this Yankee fascination for undercooked pasta. ”

Now Constance spoke for the first time. “It’s no Yankee fascination. The Italians themselves prefer their pasta firm: al dente — to the tooth. ”

This explanation seemed only to irritate Bertin. “Well, I like my spaghetti soft — just like my rice and my grits. So that makes me a philistine, oui? Al dente — bah!” He turned to Constance. “Ask your guardian about ‘dents. ’ Now, there’s a story to pass the time while one is dying of hunger. ”

He left in a huff, the sound of his cane gradually diminishing as it clacked across the floor of the reception room beyond.