Pulling a cigarette from the pack, Falkoner lit it with a gold Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, then gazed at the bottle. With exquisite care, he pulled the old, original nineteenth-century wax from the neck of the bottle, crumpled it into a ball, and dropped it into a pewter ashtray. The cognac shone in the afternoon sun like liquid mahogany, a remarkably dark and rich color for such a spirit. There were a dozen more bottles just like it laid down in the wine cellar in the Vergeltung’s belly — a tiny percentage of the spoils plundered by Falkoner’s predecessors during the occupation of France.
He exhaled, looking around with satisfaction. Another small percentage of those spoils — gold, jewelry, bank accounts, art, and antiques expropriated more than sixty years before — had paid for the Vergeltung. And a very special trideck motor yacht it was: one hundred and thirty feet LOA, twenty-six-foot beam, and six luxurious staterooms. The fuel capacity of fifty-four thousand gallons of diesel allowed the twin eighteen-hundred-horsepower Caterpillar engines to cross any ocean but the Pacific. This kind of independence, this ability to operate both beyond the law and below the radar, was critical to the work that Falkoner and his organization were engaged in.
He took another drag on the cigarette and crushed it out, only half smoked, in the ashtray. He was eager to sample the cognac. Very carefully, he poured out a measure into the tulip snifter, which — given the age and delicacy of the spirit — he’d chosen over the coarser balloon snifter. He gently swirled the glass, sampled the aroma, then — with delicious slowness — lifted it to his lips and took a tiny sip. The cognac bloomed on his palate with marvelous complexity, surprisingly robust for such an old bottle: the legendary “Comet” vintage of 1811. He closed his eyes, took a larger sip.
Quiet footsteps sounded on the teakwood floor, and then there was a deferential cough at his shoulder. Falkoner glanced over. It was Ruger, a member of the crew, standing in the shadows of the flying bridge. He held a phone in one hand.
“Telephone call for you, sir,” he said in German.
Falkoner placed the snifter on the small table. “Unless it’s Herr Fischer calling, I do not wish to be disturbed.” Herr Fischer. Now there was a truly frightening man.
“It is the gentleman from Savannah, sir.” Ruger held the phone at a discreet distance.
“Verlucht,” Falkoner muttered under his breath as he took the proffered phone. “Yes?” he spoke into the mouthpiece. Irritation at having his ritual interrupted added an uncharacteristic harshness to his tone. This fellow was evolving from a nuisance into a problem.
“You asked me to deal with Pendergast decisively,” came the voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m about to do just that.”
“I don’t want to hear what you’re going to do. I want to hear what you’ve done.”
“You offered me assistance. The Vergeltung.”
“And?”
“I’m planning to bring a visitor on board.”
“A visitor?”
“An unwilling visitor. Someone close to Pendergast.”
“Am I to assume this is bait?”
“Yes. It will lure Pendergast on board, where he can be dealt with once and for all.”
“This sounds risky.”
“I’ve worked everything out to the last degree.”
Falkoner expelled a thin stream of air. “I look forward to discussing this with you further. Not on the phone.”
“Very well. But meanwhile, I’ll need restraints — plastic cuffs, gags, rope, duct tape, the works.”
“We keep that sort of thing at the safe house. I’ll have to retrieve it. Come by this evening and we shall go over the details.”
Falkoner hung up, handed the phone to the waiting crew member, and watched as the man receded out of sight. Then he once again picked up the tulip snifter, the look of contentment slowly settling back over his face.
CHAPTER 52
NED BETTERTON DROVE UP THE FDR DRIVE in his rented Chevy Aero, feeling more than a little disconsolate. He was due to return the rental car at the airport in about an hour, and that night he was flying back to Mississippi.
His little reportorial adventure was over.
It was hard to believe that — just a few days earlier — he had been on a roll. He’d gotten a bead on the “foreign fella.” Using the social engineering strategy known as pretexting, he’d called Dixie Airlines and, posing as a cop, gotten the address of the Klaus Falkoner who’d flown to Mississippi almost two weeks before: 702 East End Avenue.
Easy. But then he’d hit a wall. First, there was no 702 East End Avenue. The street was barely ten blocks long, perched right on the edge of the East River, and the street numbers didn’t go that high.
Next, he’d tracked Special Agent Pendergast to an apartment building called the Dakota. But it was a damn fortress, and gaining access proved impossible. There was always a doorman stationed in a pillbox outside the entrance, and more doormen and elevator men massed inside, politely but firmly rebuffing his every attempt and stratagem to enter the building or gain information.
Then he’d tried to get information on the NYPD captain. But there were several female captains and he couldn’t seem to find out, no matter who he asked, which one had partnered with Pendergast or gone down to New Orleans — only that it must have been done off duty.
The basic problem was New York Freaking City. People were tight as shit with information and paranoid of their so-called privacy. He was a long way from the Deep South. He didn’t know how things were done here, didn’t even know the right way to approach people and ask questions. Even his accent was a problem, putting people off.
He had then returned his attention to Falkoner, and almost had a breakthrough. On the chance that Falkoner had used a fake house number on his real street — after all, East End Avenue was an odd choice for a false address — Betterton had canvassed the avenue from end to end, knocking on doors, stopping people in the street, asking if anyone knew of a tall, blond man living in the vicinity, with an ugly mole on his face, and who spoke with a German accent. Most people — typical New Yorkers — either refused to talk to him or told him to fuck off. But a few of the older residents he met were friendlier. And through them, Betterton learned that the area, known as Yorkville, had once been a German enclave. These elderly residents spoke wistfully of restaurants such as Die Lorelei and Café Mozart, about the marvelous pastries served at Kleine Konditorei, about the bright halls that offered polka dances every night of the week. Now that was all gone, replaced by anonymous delis and supermarkets and boutiques.
And, yes, several people did believe they had seen a man like that. One old fellow claimed he had noticed such a man going in and out of a shuttered building on East End Avenue between Ninety-First and Ninety-Second Streets, at the northern end of Carl Schurz Park.
Betterton had staked out the building. He quickly learned it was next to impossible to loiter around outside without attracting attention or causing suspicion. That had forced him to rent a car and make his observations from the street. He had spent three exhausting days watching the building. Hour after hour of surveillance — nobody in or out. He’d run out of money and his vacation clock was ticking. Worse, Kranston had begun calling him daily, wondering where the hell he was, even hinting about replacing him.
In this way, the time he had allotted to New York City came to an end. His flight home was on a nonrefundable ticket that would cost him four hundred dollars to change — money he didn’t have.
And so now, at five o’clock in the evening, Betterton was driving up FDR Drive, on his way to the airport to catch his flight home. But when he saw the exit sign for East End Avenue, some perverse and irrepressible hope prompted him to swerve off. One more look — just one — and he would be on his way.
There was no place to park, and he had to drive around the block again and again. This was crazy: he was going to miss his flight. But as he came around the corner for the fourth time, he noticed that a taxi had stopped in front of th
e building. Intrigued, he pulled over and double-parked in front of the idling cab, pulling out a map and pretending to consult it while watching the shuttered building’s entrance through his rearview mirror.
Five minutes passed, and then the front door opened. A figure stepped out, duffel bags in each hand — and Betterton caught his breath. Tall and thin and blond. Even at this distance, he could see the mole beneath his right eye.
“Holy mackerel,” he muttered.
The man tossed the duffels into the taxi, climbed in after them, closed the door. A moment later, the vehicle nosed away from the curb and passed Betterton’s Chevy. Betterton took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his shirt, put the map aside. And then — taking a fresh grip on the wheel — he began to follow the cab as it turned onto Ninety-First Street and headed west.
CHAPTER 53
DR. JOHN FELDER FELT LIKE A THIRD WHEEL as Poole led Constance by the arm through the Central Park Zoo. They had visited the sea lions, the polar bears, and now Constance had asked to see the Japanese snow monkeys. She was more demonstrative than he’d ever seen her before — not excited, exactly, he couldn’t imagine someone with such a phlegmatic disposition ever being excited, but she had definitely lowered her guard to a certain degree. Felder wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that Constance, who had seemed wary of Dr. Poole at first, had warmed to him significantly.
Perhaps a little too significantly, Felder thought sourly as he walked on her other side.
As they neared the outdoor snow monkey enclosure, he could hear the hoots and screams of the animals playing with one another, tumbling about their rock and water enclosure, raising a din.
He glanced at Constance. The wind had blown back her hair and raised a rosy blush on her normally pale cheeks. She watched the monkeys, smiling at the antics of one particular juvenile who, shrieking with delight, leapt off a rock and landed in the water, just as a child might do, then scampered back up to do it again.
“Curious they aren’t cold,” Constance said.
“Hence the name snow monkeys,” replied Poole with a laugh. “They live in a snowy clime.”
They watched for a while and Felder surreptitiously checked his watch. They still had half an hour left, but if the truth be told he was rather anxious to return Constance to Mount Mercy. This was proving too uncontrolled an environment, and he felt Dr. Poole was approaching, if not stepping over, the appropriate doctor-patient distance with his laughter, his witticisms, his arm-holding.
Constance murmured something to Poole, and he in turn glanced over at Felder. “I’m afraid we must visit the ladies’ room. I believe it’s over there, in the Tropic Zone building.”
“Very well.”
They made their way down the path and entered the Tropic Zone. The place was constructed like a tropical rain forest, with live animals and birds in their respective habitats. The restrooms were at the far end down a long corridor. Felder waited at the head of the corridor while Poole escorted Constance to the door of the ladies’ room, opening it for her and then taking up a position outside.
A few minutes passed. Felder checked his watch again. Eleven forty. The outing was to end at noon. He glanced down the corridor to see Poole waiting by the door, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face.
A few more minutes went by, and Felder began to feel uneasy. He walked down the corridor. “Shall we check?” he murmured.
“We probably should.” Poole leaned toward the door. “Constance?” he asked. “Are you all right?”
No answer from within.
“Constance!” He rapped on the door.
Still no answer. Poole glanced at Felder with alarm. “I’d better go in.”
Felder, suppressing a sudden panic, nodded, and Poole pushed into the ladies’ room, loudly announcing himself to anyone within. The door swung shut and Felder could hear him calling her name and opening and closing stalls.
He appeared again a moment later, his face ashen. “She’s gone! And the back window’s open!”
“Oh, my God,” Felder said.
“She can’t have gone far,” said Poole, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We’ve got to find her. Let’s go outside — you go left, I’ll go to the right, we’ll circle the building… and for God’s sake, keep your eyes open!”
Felder sprinted toward the exit, burst out the door, and turned left, circling the building at a run and looking in all directions for the figure of Constance. Nothing.
He reached the rear of the building, where the restrooms were located. There was the bathroom window, standing open. But it was barred.
Barred?
He looked wildly around for Poole coming the other way, arriving from the opposite direction. But Poole didn’t come. With a curse, Felder continued on around the building at a run, reaching the entrance sixty seconds later.
No Poole.
Felder forced his brain to slow down, to think through the problem logically. How could she have gotten out a barred window? And where the hell was Poole? Was he in pursuit of her? That must be it. He recalled that the entire zoo was walled. There were only two exits: one at Sixty-Fourth and Fifth, the other at the south end of the zoo. He sprinted toward the southern exit, pushed through the turnstile, and stared out across the park — bare-branched trees, long promenades. There were few people walking around; given the time of day, the park seemed oddly deserted.
The striking figure of Constance was nowhere to be seen. Or that of Dr. Poole, either.
Clearly she was back in the zoo. Or maybe she had left by the other exit. Felder was suddenly seized with the direness of the situation: Constance was a murderer who had been judged insane. He had arranged for this outing himself, through his official position with the city. If she escaped while under his care, his career would be finished.
Should he call the police? Not yet. His head reeled as he imagined the headlines in the Times…
Get a grip. Poole must have found Constance. He must have. All Felder had to do was locate Poole.
He jogged around to the Sixty-Fourth Street entrance, reentered the zoo, and made his way back to the Tropic Zone. He searched the area thoroughly, inside and out, looking for Poole or Constance. Poole had her under control, he told himself. He’d caught up to her and was restraining her, somewhere nearby. He might need assistance.
Felder fumbled out his cell phone and dialed Poole’s number, but it immediately rolled over to voice mail.
He went back to the ladies’ room and barged inside. The window was still open, but it was clearly and visibly barred. Felder paused, staring at it, the full implications of that barred window suddenly sinking in.
He could swear he’d heard Poole opening and closing the stalls and calling out her name. But why would he do that if the window was barred, and there was no possibility of escape? He looked around the small, empty bathroom, but there was literally no place to hide.
And then — with a sudden, terrible clarity — Felder realized there could be only one explanation. Poole must have been in on the escape.
CHAPTER 54
CORRIE SWANSON HEARD THE FAINT RINGING of her cell phone, through her earpieces, as she lay on the bed in her dorm room listening to Nine Inch Nails. She scrambled up, plucked out the earbuds, sorted through the two-foot layer of clothes on her floor, and pulled out the phone.
A number she didn’t recognize. “Yeah?”
“Hello?” came a voice. “Is this Corinne Swanson?”
“Corinne?” The man had an accent of the Deep South, not as refined and melodious as Pendergast’s but not all that different, either. It instantly put her on alert. “Yeah, this is Corinne.”
“Corinne, my name is Ned Betterton.”
She waited.
“I’m a reporter.”
“For who?”
A hesitation. “The Ezerville Bee.”
At this, Corrie had to laugh. “Okay, who is this really and what’s the joke? You a friend of Pendergast’s?”
There
was a silence on the other end. “This is no joke, but it happens that he’s the reason I’m calling.”
Corrie waited.
“My apologies for contacting you like this, but I understand you’re the one who maintains the website on Special Agent Pendergast.”
“Right,” said Corrie warily.
“That’s where I got your name,” said the man. “I didn’t realize you were in town until just today. I’m doing a story about a double murder that occurred down in Mississippi. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Talk.”
“Not on the phone. In person.”
Corrie hesitated. Her instincts were to put him off, but she was curious about the Pendergast connection. “Where?”
“I don’t really know New York well. How about, um, the Carnegie Deli?”
“I don’t do pastrami.”
“I heard they’ve got great cheesecake. How about in an hour? I’ll be wearing a red scarf.”
“Whatever.”
There were about ten people in red scarves packing the deli, and by the time Corrie found Betterton she was in a foul mood. He rose as she approached and pulled out a chair for her.
“I can seat myself, thank you, I’m not some fainting southern belle,” she said, pulling the chair from his solicitous grasp and sitting down.
He was in his late twenties, small but tough looking, ripped, old acne scars on an otherwise handsome face. He was dressed in a tacky sports jacket, with a Scotch Pad of brown hair and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. Intriguing.
He ordered a slice of truffle torte cheesecake, and Corrie settled on a BLT. As the waitress walked away, Corrie crossed her arms and stared at Betterton. “Okay, so what’s this all about?”
“Almost two weeks ago a couple, Carlton and June Brodie, were brutally murdered in Malfourche, Mississippi. Tortured and then killed, to be exact.”
He was temporarily drowned out by the clattering of dishes and a waiter shouting an order.
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