The Obsidian Chamber

by Lincoln Child

  “When I take the rag out of your mouth,” he said, “you’re going to answer my questions. If you lie, I’ll respond appropriately.”

  The man nodded. Proctor removed the sodden rag.

  “As God is my judge,” the man began again, “I have not seen anybody all—”

  Proctor pulled a rusty, four-inch awl from among an adjacent workbench of tools, seized the man’s free elbow, yanked the arm forward, slammed the right hand on the table, and stabbed the awl through it, pinning it to the table as well.

  The man screamed in agony. “Laat my met rus! Polisie!”

  “Nobody can hear you,” said Proctor. With a short, sharp movement, he kicked the man’s chair straight back from his desk. Affixed as he was to the table, the man fell forward off the chair, his knees hitting the floor, arms straight out in front of him, hands pinned to the table by the letter opener and the awl. He uttered another inchoate scream.

  From his bag, Proctor pulled a blacked-out KA-Bar knife with a serrated edge. With two quick flicks of the blade, he cut through the man’s belt and sliced away his zipper. And then he picked a heavy set of hose clamp pliers off the workbench. “Last chance,” he said, hefting the pliers. “Your balls are next.”

  “No!” the man said as the pliers swung toward him. “Yes!” He was almost crying.

  “Who came here tonight?”

  He blubbered, gasping in panic, hardly able to get the words out. “A man. And…a woman.”

  “Describe them to me.”

  “The man was tall. He had a beard. And his eyes…different colors.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Young. Yellow hair.” The man gasped. “Please—it hurts!”

  “Blond? Not dark-haired?”

  “No, no. Ahhh!” Blood was pooling over the top of the table now.

  “There was nobody else?”

  “No. Just the two. And—and their cargo.”

  “What cargo?”

  “It was…” The man gasped. “A coffin.”

  “Coffin?”

  The man nodded desperately. “A big coffin. Refrigerated.”

  A refrigerated coffin. “What did they want?”

  “They rented a Rover. A, a Land Rover.”

  “What else?”

  “They asked for tie-downs. To lash the coffin into the bed of the Rover.”

  “Anything more?”

  Sweat was pouring from the man’s forehead, dripping from his nose, mingling with the blood on the table. “No. But they loaded their own supplies in with the coffin.”

  “What supplies?”

  “Water. Petrol. Camping gear.”

  “How much petrol?”

  He swallowed. “Dozen jerrycans, maybe more.”

  “Where did they get the supplies?”

  The man shook his head. “They were in the van they arrived in.”

  The van. Shona, too, had mentioned a waiting van. It must have contained not only the petrol and water—but the refrigerated coffin, as well. Diogenes had planned even that—on the plane, if not before. At the thought, Proctor felt a shudder go through his frame.

  But a van would not be well equipped for desert travel. A Land Rover, on the other hand, would.

  “Did you see where they went?”

  The salesman jerked his head. “East. They headed east, on the B6.”

  East. In the direction of Botswana—and the Kalahari Desert.

  Proctor took firm hold of the letter opener. Then he yanked it away from the table, out of the man’s hand. He did the same with the awl. Then, ripping the oily rag in two with his teeth, he quickly fashioned tourniquets and applied them to the hands.

  “I need an all-terrain vehicle,” he said. He glanced out toward the lot, where a variety of cars gleamed in the remaining sodium light; there was one Land Cruiser, tricked out for desert travel. “That Land Cruiser. How much?”

  “Take it,” the man said, weeping and cradling his mangled, bleeding hands. “Take it!”

  “No, I’ll rent it.” Proctor did not want to be found with a stolen vehicle. “How much?”

  “Nine thousand Namibian a week.” The man forced himself back up into the chair, where he rocked back and forth, forearms crossed before him, making a low keening sound.

  Proctor counted out fifteen hundred American dollars and tossed them on the bloody table. “That should cover it for two. Get me the paperwork and receipt. Make sure everything’s in order.” He tossed a hundred more dollars at the man. “That’s to get some medical attention. Clean the place up. And keep your mouth shut—I don’t want anybody thinking I’ve paid you a visit. If I’m bothered—by police, military—I’ll come looking for you, and…” Instead of finishing the sentence, Proctor shifted his gaze to the pliers.

  “No,” the man whimpered.

  Proctor looked at the office’s watercooler. “I’ll take that jug. Do you have more?”

  “…Closet.”

  “Maps?”

  “On the shelf.”

  “Extra jerrycans of petrol?”

  The man fumbled a key from around his neck. “In the shed. Back of the lot.”

  Ten minutes later, Proctor was on the B6, driving east at high speed, heading for the border, with fifteen gallons of water, fifty extra gallons of petrol, and a full set of maps of southern Africa, from Namibia to Botswana.

  10

  PROCTOR HAD RACED eastward on route B6 through Witvlei, then Gobabis, covering the two-hundred-plus-mile journey to the border crossing with Botswana in three hours. At the Mamuno border post a bit of money—strategically exchanged—had confirmed that the vehicle with the refrigerated coffin passed through less than two hours before, and for an additional sum Proctor had obtained a Botswanan visa on the spot. The process was swift and efficient, and in less than ten minutes he was once again on his way.

  It was at this point that the chase—and Proctor’s progress—slowed significantly.

  The B6 ended at a north–south highway called the A3. The exchange was situated at the edge of the Kalahari Desert, vacant and free of any roadside businesses. From this point he could not be certain which way Diogenes had gone. Proctor chose the route north, toward a town called Ghanzi, primarily on the basis that it was the road less traveled. He felt confident Diogenes had not taken the A3 south. The man would not risk trying to bribe a coffin through South African border control: it was a stricter, less corrupt country, known for enforcing regulations. And it seemed logical, somehow, that Diogenes would head into the Kalahari Desert rather than away from it.

  But for what purpose, he had no idea.

  When Proctor reached Ghanzi, a bustling desert town, he realized something was amiss. It took many inquiries—he did not speak Setswanan—until he finally confirmed that the Land Rover had not passed through. Now he drove back along the A3, slowly and painstakingly, pondering where he’d gone wrong. He remained confident that Diogenes and the girl had turned north, rather than south—which meant that, along the way, his quarry had turned off the highway onto one of the sparse desert tracks that led deep into the Kalahari. But which one?

  He tried one track after another as he headed back south. None showed any signs of tire tracks. At last, he pulled off the highway yet again to consult his maps. Although it was many hours from dawn, tremendous stored heat radiated off the asphalt in waves. Eastward lay the vast, untamed expanse of the Kalahari, populated only by sparse numbers of Bushmen and a scattering of isolated game camps for tourists. In the 250,000 square miles of desert, there was nothing else—no paved roads and no towns. He looked up from his map to gaze across the infinite, sand-colored plains, dotted with scrub and the occasional acacia tree, barely distinguishable in the moonlight.

  But there was a town—of sorts—marked on the map. A settlement called New Xade, about sixty miles east, connected to the highway by a dirt road. Proctor sensed this was the road Diogenes must have taken; all the others he’d passed were not on the map and looked improvised and unreliable.


  He backtracked to the New Xade turnoff: an unmarked, sandy track leading like an arrow into the darkness. Before he turned in, he pulled his Land Cruiser over to the shoulder again and got out. First he used a flashlight to examine his own tires, new Michelin XPSs, noting the distinctive tread. Then he went to the turnoff and, with the aid of the headlights, examined the sand—and there he saw the marks of a similar tread, turning off the road from the south and heading east. The tread was fresh, and no other car had turned off since.

  Grimly energized, he drove eastward along the straight dirt road, toward the town of New Xade. Whether that was their final destination, or whether they were continuing on into the untracked desert, was something Proctor could not know for sure. But judging from the amount of water and petrol Diogenes had taken, he believed the man would be continuing on, deep into the Kalahari Desert, on a multiday journey, for reasons unknown—with Constance’s corpse.

  With Constance’s corpse. The thought brought back a rush of emotion and incomprehension. Proctor could understand why Diogenes would murder Constance; after all, the woman had tried to murder him, and had—in the opinion of all in the know—succeeded. By killing Constance, Diogenes would exact the ultimate revenge on his hated brother, Pendergast. But what could Diogenes possibly want with her corpse? Why take such complicated and Byzantine steps to spirit it away, preserved by refrigeration, practically to the ends of the earth? Compounding the mystery, many, though probably not all, of these elaborate preparations had been carefully made in advance. Why? Diogenes had a sick fondness for elaborate and cruel mind games, but this was unfathomable.

  Proctor sped along, the Land Cruiser trailing a gigantic corkscrew of dust. Darkness would only help him see the fleeing vehicle better from a distance. Besides, Diogenes would not leave the track, he felt sure; not, at least, until reaching New Xade. If Diogenes then continued on into the heart of the Kalahari, Proctor was prepared. He mentally reviewed the contents of his bug-out bag, to make sure he had all he needed:

  2 Glock 9mms with extra clips

  KA-Bar knife

  Leatherman MUT Tactical

  $300,000 in remaining cash

  Compass

  GPS with miniature solar panel

  Flashlight

  Binoculars

  Burner phone

  Crank-operated radio

  Various passports

  Mylar-coated space blanket

  Bivvy bag

  Ferrocerium fire striker

  Enhanced first-aid kit

  Water purification tablets

  MREs

  Fishing line and hook

  Signal mirror

  LED light with strobe

  Needle and thread

  “550” parachute cord

  Camp stove with LPG fuel

  With these supplies, he could survive a week or more in even this harsh environment. And with the extra petrol, the range of his vehicle was over a thousand miles. Diogenes was not going to escape him. Proctor was going to find him. And he was going to get answers to his questions—every single one.

  11

  IN THE BLAZING inferno of the Kalahari, Proctor stopped yet again to consult his map. Despite his long experience in desert ops, he was seriously taken aback by the vastness of this place. It wasn’t lifeless, exactly; he had passed a number of game animals along the way, including oryx, wildebeest, and a family of giraffes. There was bunch grass, brush, and even the occasional tree. What unnerved him was the endless immensity of it: infinity made visible.

  He stepped out of the vehicle and unfurled the map on the burning ground, weighing down the corners with stones. There wasn’t a breath of wind, and the air around him trembled in the heat. He took out his GPS, turned it on, laid it upon the map, then watched while it slowly acquired satellites and gave him his location. He found it on the map, pondered what it meant.

  New Xade was almost 150 miles behind him, and before lay another 250 miles of desert. But he knew he was on the right track—and this time, it hadn’t taken long at all to confirm it. Diogenes’s Land Rover had roared through New Xade at high speed, an event the entire village had noted. At the far end of town, where the dirt road finally petered out, the tire tracks remained sharp and clear. As he continued the pursuit, even with his occasional stops to consult the map, he seemed to be gaining on this target. He assumed this was because Diogenes was carrying a heavy, refrigerated coffin that, no doubt, impacted the performance and handling of the Land Rover.

  Where the dirt road petered out, Diogenes’s tracks had continued over wandering cattle paths, game trails, and a series of bone-dry riverbeds before finally going overland. The sandy desert floor captured a clear tire track, much helped by the lack of wind and the slanting morning light. Diogenes’s vehicle had made a slow arc to the northeast, heading, as Proctor suspected, into the very heart of the Kalahari. They had come within the official boundary of the vast Kalahari Game Reserve, but this spot was far from where the safaris operated, the land being flat, arid, and without variety.

  Now, looking at the map, he began to see where Diogenes might be headed: a place marked on his map as Deception Valley. It was indicated as a long, uncertain, shallow gorge with a dry riverbed at its center, ending in a place called Deception Pan, a huge dead lake. What the “deception” was, and what the place looked like in reality, Proctor could only guess.

  His assumption was that Diogenes had killed Constance out of revenge. But then, why the refrigerated coffin? Why this incredibly remote place? Was it possible Constance had resisted and been accidentally killed in a struggle? The latter seemed possible, given her hatred of Diogenes and her ungovernable rages. And there had been that talk, back at Akjoujt airport, of an unknown delay caused by one of the passengers.

  Deception Valley lay only twenty more miles to the northeast. The sun was now high in the horizon. Proctor wasn’t bothered by this; the A/C in the Land Cruiser had been running well.

  He got back into the Land Cruiser, put the vehicle in gear, and set off, following the tracks slowly and carefully. In an hour he saw a streak of acacia trees silhouetted along the horizon. As he approached them, he spied a low, wandering swale in the landscape: Deception Valley. The tracks entered the riverbed and continued on the sand, now sharp and distinct in the early-afternoon sun. He accelerated abruptly, going as fast as he dared, following the tracks, the vehicle swaying and fishtailing.

  The riverbed expanded—and suddenly he was on the rock-hard clay surface of a dry lakebed: the Deception Pan. It was as vacant and level as a hundred-mile parking lot.

  The tire tracks completely vanished.

  With a curse, Proctor slammed on the brakes and got out. He examined the surface and could see, just barely, where Diogenes’s vehicle had passed. But on the hard lakebed the track had suddenly grown almost invisible, and would now necessitate great care, skill, and time in tracking.

  All too obviously, this had been carefully planned.

  He got back in the Land Cruiser and began inching forward, peering intently through the windscreen at the lakebed. He could—just barely—see the faint marks of the tires, but he could go no faster than five miles an hour, and more than once he had to stop and reconnoiter. The vehicle had ceased going in a straight line; sometimes it would zigzag, or make a sharp turn, or even loop around and cross its own tracks.

  Shortly before dark, Proctor stopped again to consult the map. Once again, he spread it out and took out his GPS. He discovered he was now in the center of the Deception Pan; his GPS showed Diogenes had led him this way and that, in a maddening set of circles and zigzags.

  Suddenly he heard the engine of his Land Cruiser—which he had left running—hiccup; hiccup again; and then die.

  He felt a sudden, sharp apprehension. The engine had not overheated; he had been watching it like a hawk and the air was already cooling fast. He got into the vehicle and turned the key.

  The solenoid clicked but nothing else.

  Now he felt rea
l alarm. He told himself to calm down; with all the heat and dust, the battery terminals probably needed cleaning.

  He popped the hood and peered inside; the terminals were dusty but not overly so. He quickly cleaned the terminals, connectors, and engine ground. He checked the battery with a brief short using a screwdriver and got a massive spark. The battery was still good.

  Still, the Land Cruiser would not start.

  With the vehicle in neutral, he used the screwdriver to bypass the starter relay solenoid and tested the starter.

  No good.

  This made no sense. How the hell had the starter died at just the same time as the engine?

  He shone the light around the engine compartment. Everything looked normal, no leaks or loose wires or signs of sabotage.

  Sabotage. Proctor glanced at his watch. The vehicle had died at 6 PM exactly. Coincidence? Probably: but an unnerving one nonetheless.

  The sudden dying of the engine would have an explanation. Proctor knew cars. He would find it.

  Four hours later, exhausted and maddened, Proctor sat down next to the vehicle, leaned against a wheel, calmed himself, and took stock. His thorough and minute inspection had convinced him of one thing: somehow, some way, the vehicle’s main computer had been reprogrammed. It had been set to render the Land Cruiser absolutely inoperable at six PM—just as night fell. It was the one thing he had no chance of fixing. Not only would it require a sophisticated diagnostic computer to identify, it would also need the source code for the engine, which was proprietary and a closely guarded secret of the parent company.

  Proctor considered his predicament. He had undergone a revelation of sorts. There was now no doubt that all of this had been carefully orchestrated: an absurdly complex plan to lure him to the ends of the earth—to the most godforsaken place on the planet…and strand him there.

  The vehicle was useless; he would have to walk back to New Xade, now 175 miles behind him. He had food and plenty of water. He would walk at night. Quickly, he did the mental calculations. He had fifty-six pounds of water left, give or take. His water requirement would be a gallon a day: eight pounds of water. That equaled a seven-day supply. Twenty-five miles of walking a day to reach New Xade.