Blue Labyrinth

by Douglas Preston

  This was good to know.

  Then again, this was a botanical garden, not an art museum. Perhaps there wasn’t any night security at all.

  Keeping to the shadows of the plantings, she passed between the Fragrance Garden and the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden. A night breeze carried the scent of the honeysuckle and peonies toward her. Making her way past a dense planting of azaleas, she could see the Magnolia Plaza ahead, the trees already off their spring bloom. Beyond lay the waters of the Lily Pool, glimmering in the moonlight.

  While examining the map of the Botanic Garden, Constance had mentally sketched out a route of approach. The best point of entry would be the elegant Palm House, much of which had been converted from greenhouse into an event space for hosting social functions. The building had large, single-paned glass windows. The newer greenhouses, on the other hand, had smaller windows, some of them with double-paned glass.

  She darted across the Magnolia Plaza and regained the shadows along one long wing of the Palm House. The grand old Victorian structure was composed of a central dome and two glass wings. She paused to peer through one of the panes. This wing of the Palm House had been set up for an elegant wedding that was apparently to take place the next day, with long tables covered in white linen, opulent place settings, candelabras, glassware, and unlit candles. There was no obvious sign of a security system. Kneeling, she slid the backpack off her shoulder and onto the ground. She slid a small leather wallet out of one external pocket of the backpack, and from it she extracted a glass cutter and a suction cup. Fixing the cup to the center of the large glass pane, she carefully cut an incision around the pane’s periphery. A few sharp taps knocked out the glass, and she carefully laid it aside, pushed the backpack through the opening, then crawled in after it, tucking her dress around her so it would not snag.

  Collecting the bag again, she made her way among the silent tables, through the great central glass dome, across a parquet dance floor, toward the far wing. There was a door leading into the next wing that she tested and found to be unlocked. Throughout her passage, she had been prepared to retreat quickly at the first sound of a tripped alarm, but the Palm House remained silent and shadowy.

  She pushed the door ajar, listened, looked, then ducked through. This was the Bonsai Museum, supposedly the greatest outside of Japan. Beyond it lay her destination: the Aquatic House and orchid collection.

  The Bonsai Museum offered few hiding places, the dwarf trees arranged on pedestals in rows along the front and rear walls, leaving an open central aisle. Crouching behind a pedestal, Constance paused. There remained no evidence of security—or of Barbeaux. It was cooler here in the Bonsai Museum, and there was a soft hum from fans set near the roof.

  She moved swiftly past the twisted little trees and paused at the next door. Cracking it open slightly—once again, it wasn’t locked—she hesitated. All was silent. She slipped through and found herself in an entrance lobby. To her right rose the Steinhardt greenhouse complex, with its huge Tropical Pavilion, and straight ahead lay the entrance to the Aquatic House.

  Creeping across the dark lobby, she advanced to the entrance to the Aquatic House: a pair of glass doors that were shut. She approached the closest one, crouched in the shadows, and peered within.

  All was silent. And then, after the most careful scrutiny of the space beyond the doors, her eye began to make out the faintest outline of a man standing perfectly still. She could not see him directly; rather, she saw his reflection off a watery surface glimmering in the moonlight. The outline of a gun was in his hand.

  So Pendergast was right after all. That Barbeaux knew about her coming here was startling. As best she knew, she had discussed the location only with Margo. But clearly, their plan had been leaked and there was a traitor in their midst. Barbeaux knew she was coming for the plant in this greenhouse. He was waiting for her.

  She thought about Margo, and her own mission within the Museum basement. Was it possible Barbeaux knew about that, as well? Of course it was. She could only hope Margo’s vast knowledge of the Museum’s secret places would help keep her safe.

  Ever so slowly, she shifted her position, and in so doing spied a second dim figure in the Aquatic House. This one had an assault rifle slung over his shoulders.

  These men were clearly professional soldiers, and they were heavily armed—alarming, but not surprising, given Red Mountain’s stock-in-trade. Barbeaux was leaving nothing to chance.

  Constance knew that the greenhouse beyond was large, and even in the dark she could tell it was crowded with vegetation. If she could see two men from her lone vantage point, there would surely be others, perhaps several more, that remained hidden from view. Why were they all concentrated in this location?

  Clearly, Barbeaux was set on preventing anyone from getting the plant. He wanted to ensure that Pendergast suffered the longest, most lingering, most painful, most apt death possible. But this just raised another question. Why were there men here at all? It would have been far easier to simply remove or destroy the specimen of Hodgson’s Sorrow, and then leave. Why the ambush?

  There could be only one answer: because they knew what building the plant was in, but they didn’t know the name of the plant. Their information, however it had been gained, was incomplete.

  Mentally reviewing the map of the garden, she recalled there was a second, higher level to the Aquatic House, gained via a staircase in the lobby, which allowed visitors to gaze out over the swampy jungle. She considered going upstairs to reconnoiter, but realized that surely at least one watcher would be placed on the mezzanine level, as well.

  There were too many men. She could never confront them all at once. She would have to sneak in, remove the plant from under their very eyes, and sneak back out. She would deal with Barbeaux later. It was a disagreeable option… but it was the only one.

  Stealth was now paramount. That meant her backpack had become an impediment. Slipping the glass cutter and suction cup into a pocket of her dress, she secreted the nylon bag underneath a visitor’s bench. Then she crept back to the double doors of glass and tried to construct a picture of where Barbeaux’s men were hiding. If the men weren’t there, she could have found the plant in minutes.

  Now it wouldn’t be so simple.

  She retreated along the inner walls to the lobby. The door to its main entrance was locked. Moving more swiftly, she retraced her steps back through the Bonsai Museum, the main body of the Palm House, the far wing, and then out the missing panel of glass. She circled the Lily Pool, keeping to the darkness of the massive trees in the arboretum beyond. Bypassing the Tropical Pavilion, she approached the rear wall of the Aquatic House, again constructed almost entirely of glass. The panes were smaller here than in the Palm House, but still big enough to crawl through. There was no door in this wall. They would not expect entry here.

  She crouched and listened. Nothing. Attaching the suction cup to a nearby pane, she started to cut it free. As she did so, the blade made a sharp noise against the glass. Immediately she paused. There was plenty of Brooklyn background noise: distant cars honking, jets passing overhead, the beating heart of the city. But still, the scritch of the cutter had been too prominent—and no doubt sounded even louder inside.

  As if in answer, she saw a shadowy figure moving stealthily within, coming to check out the sound. He peered about this way and that, weapon at the ready. She knew he couldn’t see her waiting in the darkness outside. After a moment, he melted back into the foliage, satisfied it was nothing.

  Constance waited, rethinking how she was going to get in. If she could find a way to do so without breaking or cutting any glass, it would greatly lessen her chances of being discovered.

  She crawled along the edge of the long glass wall, her fingers probing against the panes as she moved. Some were a little loose. The bronze frames were corroded, especially where they met the low concrete foundation.

  Still crawling, she tried one pane after another until she found a piece of gla
ss that was looser than the rest. Inspecting its frame, she found the bronze almost completely corroded along the bottom edge.

  She worked her glass cutter under the thin frame and began to pry outward. The bronze bent readily, its crust of oxidation flaking and falling off. Slowly, careful not to put so much pressure on the glass as to break it, she worked the cutter around the inside of the frame, bending it out. After several minutes the frame had been so thoroughly loosened that she risked applying the suction cup to the pane and pulling gently. It held fast, but now only one area of the frame remained to be bent. A few more seconds with the cutter, and she was able to remove the pane of glass. A stream of humid, flower-scented air flowed over her.

  She crawled inside.

  A dense wall of hanging orchids separated her from the men. This, she recalled from the map, was the Orchid Collection, which occupied the far end of the Aquatic House. Beyond it lay a curving walkway with a double railing, and beyond that was the large indoor pool in which Hodgson’s Sorrow would be found.

  Constance paused, thinking. The foliage around and ahead of her was extremely dense. Her choice of a long black dress with white accents had been appropriate for camouflage. However, for the kind of crawling in close quarters that lay ahead, it would prove an obstacle. Worse yet, it might tear on a protruding branch and create unwanted noise. With a frown of displeasure, she worked the dress off her shoulders and slid it from her body. Beneath, she was wearing a black chemise. Then she took off her shoes and stockings, reducing herself to bare feet. Balling the dress up, she stowed it, the stockings, and the shoes behind a bush and crawled forward, slipping a hand into the thick curtain of orchids with infinite slowness and drawing it half an inch aside.

  The visitors’ path lay bathed in moonlight, but the moon was low and deep shadows stretched across the shrubbery. There was no other way to approach the central pond—she would have to cross this path. As she paused, considering the situation, she was able to identify three additional men, standing in the darkness. They were utterly silent. The only things moving were their heads, which turned first one way and then the other, watching, listening.

  These gentlemen were not going to be easily evaded. But evade them she must, or Pendergast would die.

  The ground beneath her was wet and muddy. While her chemise was black, the exposed parts of her body were pale and could be easily detected. She scooped up the mud and methodically smeared it over her face, arms, and legs. When she was satisfied that she was fully covered, Constance crept forward again, inch by inch, parting the orchids with infinite caution. The smell of wet soil, flowers, and vegetation was pervasive. She paused after each move. As a little girl, down on the docks by Water Street, she had often stolen fish this way, moving so incrementally that no one noticed her. But back then she had been a waif. Now she was a full-grown woman.

  In a few minutes, she had managed to move ten feet ahead and was now lying among a border of tropical ferns. Next, she had to cross a low railing and then the walkway. From her vantage point she could see several of the watchers, but there were no doubt others she could not see. She did have one advantage: they did not know she was already inside and among them. Their attention seemed to be focused on the entrance and an emergency exit in the rear.

  More stealthy movement brought her up behind a large plaque, still in deep shadow. Getting across the walkway was going to be the crux. She could not crawl over it in slow motion. She would have to flit across at the moment when no one was looking.

  She watched and waited. And then she heard the faint hiss of a radio, a murmured voice. And then another, coming from a different place; and then a third. It was exactly nine forty-five. They were checking in with each other.

  In a minute they had revealed their locations—at least, those at the near end of the greenhouse. Constance counted a total of five. But she estimated that only three of them were in a position to notice her scurry across the open walkway.

  She rotated her eyes upward. The moon was rising higher, casting a troublesome light into the greenhouse, and it would be most of the night before it finally set behind the trees. But a few clouds were scudding across the sky. As she watched, she could see that one of them would obscure the moon in, perhaps, three minutes.

  She closed her eyes—even the whites could give her away—and waited, counting. Three minutes passed. She opened her eyes again slightly and saw the cloud flaring white as its edge began to move across the face of the moon. A shadow fell over the greenhouse. Darkness descended.

  This was her moment. Slowly, she raised her head. The watchers had melted into the darkness, so she had no way of discerning which way they were looking. It was very dark in the greenhouse now, and it would never be darker. She would have to risk it.

  In one smooth, easy movement she rose to a crouch, stepped over the railing, darted across the pathway, and lay down beneath a large tropical tree draped in orchids. She remained motionless, hardly daring to breathe. All was silent. A moment later, the moonlight flared back up. Nobody had moved; nobody had seen her.

  Now for the pool, and the plant…

  She felt something cold touch the nape of her neck, ever so lightly. A quiet voice said: “Don’t move.”

  Margo threw herself sideways as the buckthorn darted toward her, slicing her jacket and nicking her shoulder. She landed on the floor, jammed up against a stack of shelving, trapped, her headlamp spinning off into darkness. Slade took a step forward. She was now lying on the ground, with the policeman calmly standing over her.

  “You’re just making things more difficult,” Slade said.

  Her arm was wedged behind her back and it was making contact with something cold. She realized it was a specimen jar, part of a row of them along the bottom level of shelving.

  “Look, all I want is the plant you’ve got.” The man tried to make his voice sound reasonable. “We don’t need things to end this way. Give it to me and I’ll let you go.”

  Margo said nothing. The man was a liar. Although her mind was going a mile a minute, she could see no way out.

  “There’s no chance of your getting away from me, so you might as well cooperate.”

  She glanced past him, in the direction of the distant door of the botanical collection through which she’d come.

  “Don’t even think about making a run for it,” Slade said. “When I came into Building Six storage, I locked the entryway and jammed the lock with a broken penknife so no one else could enter. We’re alone in here—just you and me.” An odd smile formed on his thin face.

  Margo choked down her fear and thought hard. She vaguely remembered that there was another exit at the far end of the Building Six basement. She racked her brains, trying to recall the corridors that would lead her to it. If she could only get past him, she could head for that back exit and lose him. After all, she knew the byways of the Museum and he did not—

  “And don’t think about trying for the back exit, either. The truth is, I know these underground corridors almost as well as you do.”

  She was shocked that he seemed to have divined what was in her mind. But this had to be another lie, his claiming to know the Museum’s basements.

  “Oh, I know this Museum like the back of my hand,” the man said. “I wish to God I didn’t—the Museum ruined my life. I wasn’t always with the NYPD, you see. I was once an FBI agent. Graduated second in my class from the Academy. My very first assignment as a field agent was to take charge of a forward command post, right here at this Museum, to help make sure the opening of a certain blockbuster exhibition went off without a hitch. Do you know what exhibition that was, Margo? You should—you were there.”

  Margo stared. Slade… Slade… she vaguely remembered hearing that name during the mopping up of that dreadful night twelve years ago, when the Museum had become a slaughterhouse. She’d never seen his face. Could this really be the same man?

  “You’re… that Slade?”

  Slade looked gratified. “That’s r
ight. The Superstition exhibition. It was my bad luck that one SAC Spencer Coffey was in charge of the FBI contingent. That exhibition didn’t go off too well, did it? How many died—twenty-six? It was one of the biggest screwups in the Bureau’s history. So big that they made an example of not just Coffey, but all of us. Coffey was transferred to Waco, and I was cashiered from the FBI with the rest of his team. I was a branded man after that, lucky to get a job with the NYPD as a beat cop. And the brand stayed with me. Why do you think a man with my seniority and experience is still a sergeant?”

  This bitter little speech had given Margo time to gather her wits. She tried to keep him talking. “So the answer for you was to go on the take?” she asked. “Is that how it worked?”

  “I had nothing to do with that disaster—I didn’t even arrive on the scene until the dust was settling—and yet they threw me to the wolves without a second thought. Things like that can make a man receptive to—shall we say—better offers. In time, I got a better offer—and here I am.”

  Slade leaned forward, gripping the buckthorn, and she realized he was bracing himself to try once again to stab her in the neck with it. Her fingers closed around the specimen jar behind her. As he prepared to stick her, she kicked out hard, striking the inside of his ankle and knocking him off balance. Slade veered sideways momentarily to regain his balance and she swung the bottle up and around, smashing it against the side of his head. It shattered, spraying ethyl alcohol everywhere and knocking Slade to his knees. She scrambled up and leapt over him, running down the aisle, her bag held tight under her arm. Behind her, Slade rose with a howl of anger.

  Panic gave Margo strength and clarity of mind. She raced down the aisles, burst out the door of the botanical collection, and took a left down the corridor, heading toward the back exit of Building Six. Because of the ancient layout of the Museum’s basement, it wasn’t a straight shot. She would have to go through a string of storage rooms in order to reach it. She could hear Slade running behind her now, his breath rasping, his shoes pounding on the cement floor—and growing closer, ever closer.