Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston

  “Yes, yes. But tell me about the map you drew. Can you draw the same map for me?”

  “Of course! Delighted! You see, I sent him around the marshes because the way by Kilchurn Lodge is even more dangerous. I honestly don’t know how he got out there in the first place.” He clucked again as he drew a crude map, with atrocious draftsmanship, cramped and small. “Here is where we were,” he said, poking at an X.

  Esterhazy was forced to bend down to see better. “Where?”

  “Here.”

  Even before Esterhazy could comprehend what was happening, he felt a ferocious jerk. Then he was forced to the ground and pinned, his arm twisted behind his back, his face pressed into the turf—and the cold barrel of a pistol was jammed so hard into his ear canal that it cut his flesh, drawing blood.

  “Talk,” said the clergyman.

  The voice was that of Pendergast.

  Esterhazy struggled, his mind wild, but the barrel jammed in relentlessly. He felt a wave of horror and terror. Just when he was sure the devil was dead and gone, he reappeared. This was the end. Pendergast had finally won. The enormity of it sank in like poison.

  “You said Helen was alive,” came the voice, almost a whisper. “Now tell me the rest. All of it.”

  Esterhazy struggled to bring his mind into order, to overcome his shock, to consider what he would say and how he would say it. The smell of turf filled his nostrils, gagging him. “Just a moment,” he gasped. “Let me explain from the beginning. Please, let me up.”

  “No. Stay down. We have plenty of time. And I have no compunctions about forcing you to talk. You will talk. But if you lie to me, even once, I’ll kill you. No warning.”

  Esterhazy grappled with an almost overwhelming fear. “But then… then you’ll never know.”

  “Wrong. Now that I know she’s alive, I’ll find her regardless. But you could spare me a lot of time and trouble. I repeat: truth or die.”

  Esterhazy heard the soft click of the safety being thumbed off.

  “Yes, I understand…” He tried once again to collect his thoughts, calm himself down. “You have no idea,” he gasped, “no idea what’s involved here. It goes back, before Longitude.” He heaved, struggling for air in the dew-laden grass. “It goes back even before we were born.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Esterhazy took a heaving breath. This was harder than he ever imagined. The truth was so very, very awful…

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “That would be April 1945…”

  The pressure of the gun abruptly vanished. “My dear fellow, that was a nasty fall! Let me help you up.” Pendergast’s voice had changed, and the Welsh accent was back in force.

  For a moment Esterhazy was utterly confused.

  “You’ve cut your ear! Oh, dear!” Pendergast dabbed at the ear and Esterhazy felt the gun, now in Pendergast’s pocket, pressing into his side. At the same time he heard a car door slam, then voices—a chorus of voices. He looked up from the earth, blinking. A jolly group of men and women approached, with walking sticks, waterproofs, notebooks, cameras, and pens. The van in which they had arrived was parked just beyond the old stone wall enclosing the kirkyard. Neither of them had heard it come, so intense was their confrontation.

  “Hallo!” said their leader, a short, fat, vigorous man, who came stumping toward them waving a furled umbrella. “Are you all right?”

  “Just a little fall,” said Pendergast, helping Esterhazy to his feet but at the same time gripping him with a hand of steel, the gun barrel rammed like a pike into his kidneys.

  “Fancy meeting other people in this forgotten corner of Scotland! And you here by bicycle, no less! What brings you to these wild climes?”

  “Tomb iconography,” said Pendergast, with remarkable calmness. His eyes, however, were anything but calm.

  Esterhazy made a huge effort to pull himself together. Pendergast was temporarily stymied, but he could be sure the agent wouldn’t miss even the slightest opportunity to finish what he’d started.

  “We on the other hand are genealogists!” said the man. “And our interest is in names.” He stuck out his hand. “Rory Monckton, Scottish Genealogical Society.”

  Esterhazy saw his chance. As the man pumped Pendergast’s unwilling hand, thus temporarily occupying it, Pendergast was forced to release Esterhazy’s arm for a moment.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast began, “but I fear we really must be on our way—”

  Esterhazy slammed his arm back against the lump of the gun and twisted away from it with sudden violence, dropping down; Pendergast fired but was a millisecond too late, and by then Esterhazy had his own weapon out.

  “Mother of God!” The portly man threw himself down on the grass.

  The group, which had started to deploy about the headstones, now fell into hysteria, some taking cover, others scattering like partridge in the direction of the hills.

  A second shot tore through the flap of Esterhazy’s coat while he simultaneously got off a shot at Pendergast. Tumbling behind a tombstone, Pendergast fired again, and missed; he was not in good form, obviously still weakened by his injury.

  Esterhazy fired twice, forcing Pendergast back behind the tombstone, and then ran like hell for the van, going around the far side and leaping in, keeping low.

  The keys were in the ignition.

  A bullet slammed through the side windows, showering him with glass. He returned fire.

  Starting the van, Esterhazy continued firing with one hand out the now-shattered window, over the heads of the genealogists and between the gravestones, preventing Pendergast from getting in a good shot. Screams pealed from the churchyard as Esterhazy threw the van into reverse, scattering pebbles like shotgun pellets. He heard bullets striking the rear of the van as he slewed about, jamming his foot on the accelerator and taking off.

  Another round struck the van before he sped over the shoulder of the hill and was out of range. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He considered that the chapel of St. Muns was twelve miles from Lochmoray. There was no cell coverage. And no car, only two old bicycles.

  He had two hours, perhaps a little less, to get to an airport.

  CHAPTER 25

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  YOU MAY PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON NOW, Mr. Pendergast.” The elderly doctor replaced his tools in the worn Gladstone bag, one by one, with fussy, precise movements: stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, otoscope, penlight, ophthalmoscope, portable EKG monitor. Closing up the bag, the man looked around the luxurious hotel suite, then fixed his disapproving gaze once more upon Pendergast. “The wound has healed badly.”

  “Yes, I know. The recuperative conditions were… less than ideal.”

  The doctor hesitated. “That wound was clearly inflicted by a bullet.”

  “Indeed.” Pendergast buttoned his white shirt, then slipped into a silk dressing gown of a muted paisley pattern. “A hunting accident.”

  “Such accidents have to be reported, you know.”

  “Thank you, the authorities know all that is necessary.”

  The doctor’s frown deepened. “You are still in a considerably weakened state. Anemia is quite pronounced, and bradycardia is present. I would recommend at least two weeks’ bed rest, preferably in hospital.”

  “I appreciate your diagnosis, Doctor, and will take it under advisement. Now if you could please provide me with a report of my vital signs, along with the EKG readout, I will be happy to attend to your bill.”

  Five minutes later, the doctor left the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Pendergast washed his hands in the bathroom sink, then went to the telephone.

  “Yes, Mr. Pendergast, how can I be of service?”

  “Please have a setup delivered to my suite. Old Raj gin and Noilly Prat. Lemon.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Pendergast hung up the phone, walked into the living room, opened the set of glass doors, and stepped out onto the small terrace.
The hum of the city rose to meet him. It was a cool evening; below, on Princes Street, several cabs were idling at the hotel entrance, and a lorry went trundling past. Travelers were streaming into Waverly Station. Pendergast raised his gaze over the Old Town toward the sprawling, sand-colored bulk of Edinburgh Castle, ablaze with light, framed against the purple glow of sunset.

  There was a knock, then the door to the suite opened. A uniformed valet entered with a silver tray containing glasses, ice, a shaker, a small dish of lemon peels, and two bottles.

  “Thank you,” Pendergast said, stepping in from the terrace and pressing a bill into his hand.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  The valet left. Pendergast filled the shaker with ice, then poured in several fingers of gin and a dash of vermouth. He shook the mixture for sixty seconds, then strained it into one of the glasses and pinched in a zest of lemon. He took the drink back onto the patio, sat down in one of the chairs, and fell into deep thought.

  An hour passed. Pendergast refilled the drink, returned to the patio, and sat again—motionless—another hour. Then at last he drained the glass, plucked a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed.

  It rang several times before a sleepy voice answered. “D’Agosta.”

  “Hello, Vincent.”

  “Pendergast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you?” The voice was instantly alert.

  “The Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh.”

  “How’s your health?”

  “As good as can be expected.”

  “And Esterhazy—what’s happened to him?”

  “He managed to slip from my grasp.”

  “Jesus. How?”

  “The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that even the best-laid plans can fall victim to circumstance.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In midair. On an international flight.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because a van he stole was found parked on a service road outside the Edinburgh airport.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Good. So his plane hasn’t landed yet. Tell me where the son of a bitch is headed and I’ll have a welcoming committee waiting for him.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not? Don’t tell me you’re just going to let him go.”

  “It isn’t that. I’ve already checked with immigration and passport control. There’s no record of a Judson Esterhazy leaving Scotland. Hundreds of other Americans, yes, but no Judson.”

  “Well then, that abandoned van was just a ruse. He’s still holed up somewhere over there.”

  “No, Vincent—I’ve thought this thing through from every conceivable angle. He has definitely fled the country, probably for the United States.”

  “How the hell can he do that without going through passport control?”

  “After the inquest, Esterhazy made a big show of leaving Scotland. Passport control has a record of the date and the flight number. But they have no record of him coming back into Scotland—although we both know that he did.”

  “That isn’t possible—not with airport security the way it is these days.”

  “It’s possible if you’re using a false passport.”

  “A false passport?”

  “He must have procured one back in the States, when he returned after the inquest.”

  There was a brief pause. “It’s virtually impossible to fake a U.S. passport these days. There’s got to be another explanation.”

  “There isn’t. He has a fake passport—which I find deeply troubling.”

  “He can’t hide. We’ll put the dogs on him.”

  “He now knows I’m still alive and most eager to catch up with him. Therefore, he’ll go to ground. Searching for him, in the short term, is pointless. He’s clearly had some professional help. And so my investigation must proceed along a different course.”

  “Yeah? And what course is that?”

  “I must discover the whereabouts of my wife on my own.”

  This was greeted by another, longer pause. “Um, Pendergast… I’m sorry, but you know where your wife is. In the family plot.”

  “No, Vincent. Helen is alive. I’m as sure about that as I’ve ever been about anything in my life.”

  D’Agosta gave an audible sigh. “Don’t let him do this to you. Can’t you see what’s happening? He knows how much she meant to you. He knows you’d give anything, do anything, to get her back. He’s messing with you—for his own sadistic reasons.”

  When Pendergast did not reply, D’Agosta swore under his breath. “I suppose this means you’re not in hiding anymore.”

  “There’s no longer any point. However, I’m still planning to operate under the radar for the foreseeable future. No reason to telegraph my moves.”

  “Anything I can do to help? From this end?”

  “You can look in on Constance at Mount Mercy Hospital for me. Make sure she wants for nothing.”

  “You got it. And you? What’ll you do next?”

  “It’s as I told you. I’m going to find my wife.” And with that, Pendergast rang off.

  CHAPTER 26

  Bangor, Maine

  HE HAD CLEARED CUSTOMS AND RETRIEVED HIS BAGS without incident. And yet Judson Esterhazy couldn’t get up the nerve to leave baggage claim. He remained seated in the last seat of a bank of molded plastic chairs, nervously scanning the face of everyone who passed. Bangor, Maine, had the most obscure international airport in the country. And Esterhazy had changed planes twice—first in Shannon, and then in Quebec—in the hope of muddying his trail, frustrating Pendergast’s pursuit.

  A man sat down heavily beside him, and Esterhazy turned suspiciously. But the traveler weighed close to three hundred pounds, and not even Pendergast could have duplicated the way the man’s adipose tissue bulged around his waistband. Esterhazy turned back to the faces of the people passing by. Pendergast could easily be among them. Or, with his FBI credentials, he could be in some security office nearby, watching him on a closed-circuit monitor. Or he could be parked outside Esterhazy’s Savannah house. Or even worse, waiting inside, in the den.

  The ambush in Scotland had scared the living shit out of him. Once again, he felt blind panic wash over him, mingling with rage. All these years of covering his tracks, of being so very careful… and now Pendergast was undoing it all. The FBI agent had no idea how big a Pandora’s box he was prying open. Once they stepped in… He felt mercilessly squeezed between Pendergast on one side, and the Covenant on the other.

  Gasping, tugging at his collar, he fought back the panic. He could handle this. He had the intelligence, he had the wherewithal. Pendergast wasn’t invincible. There had to be some way for him to handle this himself. He would hide; he would bury himself deep, give himself time to think.

  But what place was too remote, too obscure, for Pendergast to find? And even if he did hunker down in some remote backwater, he couldn’t go on living in fear, year after year, like Slade and the Brodies.

  The Brodies. He’d read in the paper about their ghastly deaths. No doubt they’d been discovered by the Covenant. It was a dreadful shock—but really, he should have expected it. June Brodie hadn’t known the half of what she’d been involved in—what he and Charles Slade had involved her in. If she had, she’d never have emerged from that swamp. Amazing that Slade, even in all his craziness and decline, had never betrayed the one, central, all-important secret.

  In that moment of fear and desperation Esterhazy finally realized what he had to do. There was one answer—only one. He couldn’t go it alone. With Pendergast on the rampage, he needed that last resort. He had to contact the Covenant, quickly, proactively. It would be far more dangerous if he didn’t tell them, if they found out what was going on in some other way. He had to be seen as cooperative. Trustworthy. Even if it meant putting himself once again fully in their power.

  Yes: the more he th
ought of what he had to do, the more inevitable it became. This way he could control what information they received, withhold the facts they could never be allowed to learn. And if he placed himself under their protection, Pendergast would be powerless to hurt him. In fact, if he could convince them Pendergast was a threat, then even the FBI agent, with all his wiles, would be as good as dead. And his secret would remain safe.

  With this decision came a small sense of relief.

  He looked around once more, scrutinizing each face. Then, rising and picking up his bags, he strode out of the baggage claim area to the taxi stand. There were several cabs idling: good.

  He went to the fourth cab in line, leaned in the open passenger window. “You far into your shift?” he asked.

  The cabbie shook his head. “The night’s young, buddy.”

  Esterhazy opened the rear door, threw his bags in, and ducked in after them. “Take me to Boston, please.”

  The man stared into the rearview mirror. “Boston?”

  “Back Bay, Copley Square.” Esterhazy dug into his pocket, dropped a few hundreds in the man’s lap. “That’s a starter. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Whatever you say, mister.” And putting the taxi in gear, the driver nosed out of the waiting line and drove off into the night.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ezerville, Mississippi

  NED BETTERTON LOOKED BOTH WAYS, THEN CROSSED the wide and dusty expanse of Main Street, a white paper bag in one hand and two cans of diet soda in the other. A beat-up Chevy Impala was idling at the curb outside Della’s Launderette. Walking around its hood, Betterton got into the passenger seat. A short and muscular man sat behind the wheel. He wore dark glasses and a faded baseball cap.

  “Hey, Jack,” said Betterton.

  “Hey, yourself,” came the reply.

  Betterton handed the man a soda, then fished inside the paper bag, bringing out a sandwich wrapped in butcher’s paper. “Crawfish po’boy with rémoulade, hold the lettuce. Just like you ordered.” He passed it over to the driver, then reached into the bag again and brought out his own lunch: a massive meatball Parmesan sandwich.