Blue Labyrinth

by Douglas Preston

  For a moment, Angler considered being evasive and giving Pendergast a taste of his own medicine. But he wasn’t that kind of a cop. “Not yet. That investigation is still ongoing. There are a huge number of manifests to check, and not all of them—especially the foreign airlines—are as in order as one might wish.”

  “I see.” Pendergast seemed to ponder something for a moment. “Lieutenant, I wish to apologize for, ah, being less forthcoming on past occasions than perhaps I should have been. At the time, I felt that I might make more progress on my son’s murder if I pursued the case on my own.”

  In other words, you figured me for the bumbling idiot you presume most of the force to be, Angler thought.

  “In that I may have been mistaken. And so in order to rectify the situation, I wanted to place before you the facts to date—as far as I know them.”

  Angler made a slight gesture with his hand, turning his palm up, asking Pendergast to proceed. In the shadows at the rear of the office, Sergeant Slade remained standing—perfectly silent, as was his wont—taking everything in.

  Pendergast briefly and succinctly recited to Angler the story of the turquoise mine, the ambush, and its link to the murder of the technician at the Museum of Natural History. Angler listened with growing surprise and irritation, even anger, at all that Pendergast had withheld. At the same time, the information might be very useful. It would open the case up to fresh lines of investigation—that is, if it could be relied upon. Angler listened impassively, taking care not to betray any reaction.

  Pendergast finished his story and fell silent, looking at Angler, as if expecting a reply. Angler gave him none.

  After a long moment, Pendergast rose. “In any case, Lieutenant, that is the progress of the case, or cases, to date. I offer this to you in the spirit of cooperation. If I can help in any other way, I hope you’ll let me know.”

  Now at last Angler shifted in his chair. “Thank you, Agent Pendergast. We will.”

  Pendergast nodded courteously and left the office.

  Angler sat in his chair, leaning away from the desk, for a moment. Then he turned to Slade and gestured for him to come forward. Sergeant Slade shut the door and took the chair vacated by Pendergast.

  Angler regarded Slade for a moment. He was short, dark, and saturnine, and an exceptionally shrewd judge of human nature. He was also the most cynical man Angler had ever known—all of which made him an exceptional counselor.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I can’t believe the son of a bitch held out on us like that.”

  “Yes. So why this, now? Why, after doing his best to give me only the merest scraps of information—why come here on his own volition and spill all his secrets?”

  “Two possibilities,” Slade said. “A, he wants something.”

  “And B?”

  “He isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Isn’t spilling all his secrets.”

  Angler chuckled. “Sergeant, I like the way your mind works.” He paused. “It’s too pat. This sudden volte-face, this open and apparently friendly offer of cooperation—and this story about a turquoise mine, a trap, and a mysterious assailant.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Slade, popping a piece of licorice toffee into his mouth—he was never without a pocketful—and tossing the crumpled wrapper into the garbage can. “I believe his story, as cockamamie as it sounds. It’s just there’s more that he isn’t saying.”

  Angler looked down at his desk and thought for a moment. Then he glanced back up. “So what does he want?”

  “He’s fishing. Wants to know what we’ve uncovered about his son’s movements.”

  “Which means he doesn’t already know everything about his son’s movements.”

  “Or maybe he does. And by pretending to show an interest, he wants to point us in the wrong direction.” Slade smiled crookedly as he chewed.

  Angler sat forward, pulled a sheet of paper toward him, scribbled a few notations in shorthand. He liked shorthand not only because it was quick, but because it had fallen into such disuse that it made his notes almost as secure as if they had been encrypted. Then he pushed the sheet away again.

  “I’ll send a team to California to check out this mine and interview the man in the Indio jail. I’ll also call D’Agosta and get all the case files on his Museum investigation. In the meantime, I want you to quietly—quietly—dig up everything on Pendergast you can find. History, his record of arrests and convictions, commendations, censures—whatever. You’ve got some FBI buddies. Take them out for drinks. Don’t ignore the rumors. I want to know this man inside and out.”

  Slade gave a slow smile. This was the kind of job he liked. Without another word, he stood up and slipped out the door.

  Angler sat back in his chair again, put his hands behind his head, and gazed up at the ceiling. He mentally reviewed all his previous dealings with Pendergast: the initial meeting in this very office, where Pendergast had been so remarkable in his lack of cooperation; the autopsy; the later encounter in the evidence room, where Pendergast had, perversely, seemed to show little or no interest in the hunt for his son’s murderer; and now once again in this office, where Pendergast had abruptly become the soul of forthrightness. This sudden reversal smacked to Angler of a common theme in many of the Greek myths he knew so well: betrayal. Atreus and Thyestes. Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. And now, as he stared at the ceiling, he realized that—while over the past weeks he had felt irritation and doubt toward Pendergast—all that time, another emotion had been slowly developing within him:

  Dark suspicion.

  In a dun-colored room on the top floor of the U.S. consulate in Rio de Janeiro, Special Agent Pendergast paced restlessly. The room was small and spartan, containing only a single desk, a few chairs, and the obligatory photos of the president, vice president, and secretary of state, all lined up neatly on one of the walls. The air conditioner wheezed and shuddered in the window. The flight from New York, and the rushed arrangements that made it possible, had tired him, and now and then he paused to grasp the back of a chair and take a few deep breaths. Then he would resume his pacing, occasionally glancing out the room’s single window, which looked down upon a hillside crowded with uncountable ramshackle structures, their roofs an identical beige but the walls a riot of conflicting colors, bright in the morning sun. Beyond lay the glittering waters of Guanabara Bay and, beyond that, Sugarloaf.

  The door opened and two figures walked in. The first was the man he recognized as the CIA agent from Sector Y, wearing a muted business suit. He was accompanied by a shorter, heavyset man wearing a uniform sporting a variety of epaulets, badges, and medals.

  The CIA agent gave no appearance of ever having met Pendergast before. He walked up to him, hand extended. “I’m Charles Smith, assistant to the consul-general, and this is Colonel Azevedo of ABIN, the Brazilian Intelligence Agency.”

  Pendergast shook both their hands, then the men all took seats. Pendergast had not offered his own credentials. He apparently did not need to. He observed Smith glancing over the desktop as if he was unfamiliar with it. He may well have been; he wondered how long ago the man had taken this undercover assignment.

  “Being somewhat familiar with your situation,” Smith said, “I asked Colonel Azevedo to kindly put himself at our disposal.”

  Pendergast nodded his thanks. “I am here,” Pendergast told them, “concerning Operation Wildfire.”

  “Of course,” Smith said. “Perhaps you might fill in Colonel Azevedo on the details.”

  Pendergast turned to the colonel. “The purpose of Operation Wildfire was to use both American and foreign assets to watch for any sign of the reemergence of a person of interest to Langley—and to myself personally—who disappeared in the Brazilian jungle eighteen months ago.”

  Azevedo nodded.

  “The murdered corpse of this same person appeared two weeks ago on my doorstep in New York. A message had been sent. I’m here to
find out who sent the message, why it was sent, and what the message is.”

  Azevedo looked surprised; Smith did not.

  “This man flew from Rio to New York, using a false passport issued by Brazil, on June fourth,” Pendergast continued. “He was using the name of Tapanes Landberg. Is that name familiar to you, Colonel?”

  The man indicated it was not.

  “I need to trace his movements here over the last year and a half.” Pendergast passed the back of a hand across his forehead. “Many man-hours, and a great detail of classified technology, went into the search for this person. And yet Operation Wildfire scored no hits—not one. How is such a thing possible? How could this man have evaded detection here in Brazil over the course of eighteen months—or at least for the time he was here?”

  Colonel Azevedo finally spoke. “Such a thing is possible.” Considering his brawn, the man’s voice was mild, almost soft, and he spoke perfect, almost accent-less English. “If we assume this man has been in Brazil—a likely possibility, given what you say—there are only two places he could have hidden: the jungle… or a favela.”

  “Favela,” Pendergast repeated.

  “Yes, Senhor Pendergast. You have heard of them? They are one of our great social problems. Or rather, social plagues. Fortified slums, run by drug dealers and sealed off from the rest of the city. They pirate water and electricity from the grid, make their own laws, enforce their own iron discipline, protect their borders, kill rival gang members, oppress their occupants. They are like corrupt, petty fiefdoms, states within a state. In a favela, there are no police, no security cameras. A man who needed to could disappear in there—and many men have. Until a few years ago, there were countless favelas scattered around Rio. But now, with the Olympics coming, the government has begun to act. BOPE and the Unidade de Polícia Pacificadora have begun invading the favelas, and—one by one—are pacifying them. This work will continue until all the favelas have been dealt with.” Azevedo paused. “All but one, that is—one that neither the military nor the UPP will touch. It is named Cidade dos Anjos—City of Angels.”

  “And why will it receive special treatment?”

  The colonel smiled grimly “It is the largest, most violent, and most powerful of all the favelas. The drug lords who lead it are ruthless and fearless. More to the point: the year before last, they invaded a military base and made off with thousands of weapons and ammunition. Fifty-caliber machine guns, grenades, RPGs, mortars, rocket launchers—even surface-to-air missiles.”

  Pendergast frowned. “That would seem all the more reason to clear it out.”

  “You are looking on the situation as an outsider. The favelas only make war on each other—not on the general populace. To invade the Cidade dos Anjos now would be a bloody, bloody business, with great loss of life to our military and police. No other favela will challenge them. And in time, all the other favelas will be gone. So why disturb the natural order of things? Better the enemy that you know than the enemy you don’t.”

  “This person of interest vanished into the jungle eighteen months ago,” Pendergast said. “But I doubt he would have stayed there long.”

  “Well then, Mr. Pendergast,” the CIA agent said. “It appears we have one possible answer to how your Mr. Tapanes Landberg maintained his invisibility.” This was followed by a faint smile.

  Pendergast rose from his chair. “Thank you both.”

  Colonel Azevedo looked at him appraisingly. “Senhor Pendergast, I fear to speculate what your next move will be.”

  “My diplomatic brief disallows me from accompanying you,” the CIA agent said.

  To this, Pendergast simply nodded, then turned toward the door.

  “If it were any other place, we would assign you a military escort,” the colonel said. “But not if you go in there. All I can offer you is advice: settle your affairs before you enter.”

  Pendergast lay, fully dressed, on the king-size bed in his suite of rooms in the Copacabana Palace Hotel. The lights were off and, although it was just noon, the room was very dark. The faintest roar of surf from Copacabana Beach filtered through the closed windows and shuttered blinds.

  As he lay there, quite still, a trembling washed over him, almost a palsy, that shook his frame with increasing violence. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and balled his hands into fists, trying through sheer force of will to make this sudden, unexpected attack pass. After a few minutes the worst of the trembling began to lessen. It did not, however, go entirely away.

  “I will master this,” Pendergast murmured under his breath.

  At first—when he’d initially noted the symptoms—Pendergast had held out hope that a way could be found to reverse them. When he found no answer in the past, he began searching the present, in the hope of uncovering the methods of his tormentor. But the more he comprehended the diabolical complexity of the plot to poison him, and the more he reflected on the story of his ancestor Hezekiah and his doomed wife, the more he had realized such hope was a cruel delusion. What drove him forward now was a burning need to see this investigation—which seemed ever more likely to be his final investigation—through… while he still had time.

  He forced his thoughts back to that morning’s meeting—and the words of the Brazilian colonel. There are only two places he could have hidden, he’d said of Alban. The jungle… or a favela.

  Other words came into Pendergast’s head, unbidden. They were the parting words Alban had given him—on that day, eighteen months ago, when he had walked, with an almost insolent lack of hurry, into the Brazilian forest. I have a long and productive life ahead of me. The world is now my oyster—and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

  Pendergast held the image of that parting in his head, recalling every detail to the utmost extent of his intellectual rigor.

  He knew, of course, that his son had begun those eighteen months in the jungles of Brazil—he’d seen him melt into the unbroken line of trees with his own eyes. But as he’d told the colonel, he was also certain that Alban would not have stayed there. There would not have been enough to occupy him, to keep him entertained—and, most important, to allow him to plan his various schemes. He had not returned to the town of his birth, Nova Godói—that was now in the hands of the Brazilian government, under a kind of military receivership. Besides, nothing was left for Alban there anymore: the complex had been destroyed, its scientists and soldiers and young leaders now dead, in prison, rehabilitated, or scattered to the winds. No—the more Pendergast considered the matter, the more certain he was that, sooner rather than later, Alban would have emerged from the jungle—and slipped into a favela.

  It would be the perfect place for him. No police to worry about, no security cameras, no surveillance or intelligence operatives shadowing him. With his keen intelligence, criminal genius, and sociopathic outlook, he might well have something to offer the drug lords who ran the favela. All this would give Alban the time and space he needed to develop his plans for the future.

  The world is now my oyster—and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

  Pendergast was equally certain which favela Alban would have chosen. Always the biggest and best for him.

  But these answers simply led to other questions. What had happened to Alban within the City of Angels? What strange journey brought Alban from the favela to his doorstep? And what was the connection between him and the attack at the Salton Sea?

  I fear to speculate what your next move will be. The next move was obvious, of course.

  Pendergast took several deep, shuddering breaths. Then he raised himself from the bed and placed his feet on the floor. The room rocked around him and the trembling turned into a painful, racking muscle spasm that slowly released. He had begun taking a regimen of self-prescribed drugs, including atropine, chelators, and glucagon, along with painkillers to keep him going during the fits that were beginning to plague him on a steadily increasing basis. But he was shooting blin
dly in the dark—and so far they had done little good.

  He felt his body preparing to spasm again. This would not do—not for what he had next in mind.

  He waited until the second spasm was over, then made his way to a desk pushed against the far wall. His toilet kit and duty holster lay upon it, the latter containing his Les Baer .45. Next to it rested several spare magazines.

  He sat down at the desk and pulled the weapon from its holster. He’d had no difficulty bringing it into Brazil; he’d checked in with the TSA at Kennedy Airport, following standard protocol, and he had carry permits for several foreign countries. It had not passed through a scanner; it had not been x-rayed.

  Not that it would matter if it had.

  Steadying his fingers, Pendergast lifted the gun and—reaching into the barrel—pulled out a small rubber plug with his fingernails. Upending the gun, he carefully let a miniature syringe and several hypodermic needles slide out of the barrel and onto the table. He fitted one of the needles to the syringe and placed it to one side.

  Next, he turned his attention to one of the spare magazines. He removed the top round, and—taking a miniature set of pliers from his coat pocket—carefully pried the bullet from its casing. Spreading out a piece of writing paper from inside the desk, he carefully turned the casing over and let its contents drain onto the paper. Instead of gunpowder, a fine white powder streamed out.

  Pendergast pushed the empty shell and useless round away with the back of his hand. Reaching for his toilet kit and pulling it toward him, he fumbled inside and pulled out two vials of prescription pills. One contained a schedule 2 semi-synthetic opioid used for relief of pain; the other, a muscle relaxant. Taking two pills from each bottle, he placed them on the sheet of paper and, using a spoon from a nearby room service tray, ground each into fine powder.

  There were now three small mounds on the sheet of paper. Pendergast mixed them together carefully, scooped the powder into the spoon. Taking a lighter from his toilet kit, he held it beneath the spoon and flicked it into life. Under heat, the mixture began to darken, bubble, and liquefy.