The Obsidian Chamber

by Lincoln Child

  It was after midnight when the final results came in. As the numbers reeled off and the picture became clear, Diogenes began to shake again. It was a disaster. Where had he gone wrong? But he already knew the answer. Because he’d had at his disposal material from only a single cadaver, he’d had to cut a few corners, and he had made a few minor and perfectly reasonable assumptions.

  But medicine was never straightforward. He should have started with the material of two cadavers. It wasn’t a fatal mistake; at least, not yet. But for Constance’s sake it was a problem that needed to be solved—immediately.

  As dawn broke over the ocean, Diogenes quietly made his way up from the basement. He briefly retired to his chambers, changed into his morning gown, wetted and brushed his hair, patted his cheeks to bring back some of the color, and descended to the kitchen. To his surprise, he found Constance at the espresso machine, preparing coffee.

  “You’re up early,” he said, freighting his voice with good cheer.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  And she looked it. Dark circles, a gray tinge in her otherwise pale complexion, faint blue veins visible in her neck and bare shoulders, a sheen of perspiration despite the cool morning. Diogenes stopped himself from asking if she was all right.

  “My dear, I hope you won’t mind, but I have to rush off to Key West today, to purchase some botanicals and equipment for my lab. I’ll be gone all day, overnight, and part of tomorrow perhaps. Will you be all right alone?”

  “I’m never better than when I’m alone.”

  “Mr. Gurumarra will be here if you need anything.”

  “Very well.”

  Diogenes took her hand briefly, turned, and left.

  47

  PENDERGAST ENTERED THE great pink granite façade of the Tiffany & Co. flagship store on Fifth Avenue, sweeping through the revolving doors into the bustle of the main floor, the mahogany cases brilliantly lit, the carpeted floors freshly vacuumed, the black veined marble walls and doorways glowing. He paused, feigning a confused look, and instantly attracted a slender and attentive salesman.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Pendergast removed the receipt he’d retrieved from between the floorboards of the Exmouth cabin. “I have a question about this piece of jewelry. Here is the receipt. It was paid for with cash.”

  The salesperson took it. “And what is your question, sir?”

  “It’s of a personal nature. I’d like to speak with a person in authority who has complete access to all the sales records.”

  “Well, most of those records are confidential—”

  “Sir, if you please, enough idle banter. Take me to the person in question.”

  The salesperson practically jerked to attention, responding to Pendergast’s icy, aristocratic tone. “Yes, sir, I’ll just have to see if she’s available—”

  “Onward!”

  Thoroughly cowed, the man led Pendergast briskly through the vast room to an elevator in the back, which they ascended to a series of offices. Coming to a closed mahogany door, they paused. On the door was a name in gold leaf, edged in black.

  Barbara McCormick

  Senior Vice President

  Pendergast looked intently at the name. In the faintest palimpsest underneath he could see the last name MCCORMICK had been recently changed from something else.

  “Let me just check to see if she’s available—” said the salesperson, but Pendergast already had his hand on the knob and was opening the door.

  “Wait—you can’t just go in, sir!”

  He stepped in, the salesperson following right behind; but Pendergast turned, placed a firm hand on his chest, shoved him back out, and closed the door in his face. Seeing a bolt, he turned it and then swiveled back to the person in the office. A woman of about forty, sitting behind a large antique desk, stared at him with an astonished look on her face.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  Pendergast gazed at her for a moment. She was a very attractive, well-put-together woman dressed in a suit, with blond hair and a gorgeous but understated string of pearls around her neck. Fury and alarm were both gathering on her face. The salesman was knocking on the door, lightly but frantically. His muffled voice came through: “Sir, sir, you just can’t barge in like that! Ms. McCormick might not be available! Hello, Ms. McCormick, Ms. McCormick, should I call security?”

  Pendergast turned to the woman. “Do send him away.”

  “Who are you, barging in like this? And locking my door!” She reached for her phone.

  Pendergast gave a little bow. “I’m simply a customer with a tiny problem that only you, my dear Ms. McCormick, can solve. Will you please, please help me?” He bestowed on her his most dazzling smile.

  “Ms. McCormick! Ms. McCormick!”

  McCormick rose, looked Pendergast up and down with a penetrating gaze, and then went to the door. “It’s quite all right,” she said through the wood. “No need for security. I’ll take care of the customer. You may go.”

  Then she went back to Pendergast, and circled him, observing him curiously. The alarm had faded from her face. “And your name is—?”

  “Aloysius Xingu Leng Pendergast.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “That’s quite a name, Mr. Pendergast. New Orleans?”

  “Excellent. Please call me Aloysius.”

  “Aloysius,” she said, going back to the side of her desk but remaining standing. “And you have a little problem?”

  “Indeed I do.” He removed the dirty receipt from his pocket and held it up. “This is for a piece of jewelry that was purchased about five weeks ago. Cash was paid. I need the name of the person who bought it.”

  “As I’m sure you know, that information is strictly confidential. We’re a jewelry store. Imagine how our customers would feel if anyone could just come in and find out the name of a buyer!”

  “I understand.”

  “And if it was paid for in cash, we may not have the name anyway.”

  “It was a ring, and according to this slip he brought it back in to be adjusted.”

  “Well, in that case we would have the name. But…as I said, it’s confidential.”

  “Here’s why I’ve come to you. You see, my wife has been unfaithful to me. He bought her a ring. I want to know who he is.”

  McCormick’s eyebrows shot up at this, and a mixture of amusement, schadenfreude, and pity began to play about her lips. “Ah, the old story. The old, old story.”

  “I’m just shattered to find myself in such a situation. I really don’t know what else to do. Can you give me some advice?”

  “Forget the name. Divorce her. It doesn’t matter who she’s sleeping with. Just get rid of her. That’s my advice.”

  “But…I love her.”

  “Good Lord. Don’t be a sap. You love her? Come now! The world is full of women to love. And full of jewelry to give them,” she added, with a smile and a wink.

  “I’m rather naive when it comes to these things,” said Pendergast, his voice laden with sorrow. “It seems I don’t know women at all. And…and the humiliation of it!”

  “Well, I do know women. A gentleman such as yourself would have no trouble finding a woman who would love and cherish you. Now, I think you should ask: why do you want the name of the man who’s cuckolded you? If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. And perhaps there were others. My advice: don’t go there.”

  “I only want the name as a matter of pride. To be ignorant of who he is, to go about oblivious when one’s friends know, is shameful. All I want is the name. Then I can…” He faltered, leaned toward her, and spoke in a confidential whisper. “Well, let me be honest with you.”

  “Yes. Do be honest.”

  “If I had the name, then I could pretend to have known it all along, and simply dismiss it as a matter of complete indifference. That’s all. I wish to…salvage what little pride I have left.”

  “I understand. Yes, I do. You’re a wealthy man, I take it?”


  “Very.”

  “And she’s going to try and get your money?”

  “Without doubt.”

  “No pre-nup?”

  “I was so young and naive. Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

  A long pause. “All right. I understand precisely where you’re coming from. I myself know that kind of humiliation, when all your friends are talking behind your back, the whole world keeping it from you. And you—always the last to know.” A bitterness had crept into her voice.

  Pendergast raised his eyes. “I’m so glad you understand. It means a great deal to me…Barbara.” He tentatively took her hand, giving it a slight pressure.

  She gave a little laugh, let him hold it for a moment, then withdrew it. “Now, Aloysius, let me just go into my computer here and see what we have. But mind you: don’t approach him. Stay away. And you didn’t get this from me.” She plucked the receipt from his fingers, sat down, and hit the keys, rapid-fire. “All right.” She pulled a piece of paper from a notepad on her desk, wrote on it, and handed it to Pendergast.

  In a lovely, schoolgirl hand was written a name: Morris Kramer.

  He felt her keen eyes on him. He put on a suitable series of expressions: shock, disdain, contempt. “Him? The bounder. The little shit. My old roommate from Exeter. Well, I should have known.”

  She held her hand out and he gave her back the paper. She crumbled it up, dropped it in a trash can, and looked at him intently. “As I said, Aloysius, the world is full of women to love.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s time for elevenses. There’s a lovely teahouse just around the corner. Care to join me?”

  Pendergast bestowed on her another smile. “Delighted,” he said.

  48

  AT THIRTY-FIVE HUNDRED square feet, the Grande Suite of Miami’s Setai Hotel was, Diogenes reflected, larger than most houses. It boasted not only killer views of the Atlantic, but also a media room, expensive statuary, original framed oils on the walls, a walk-through Sub-Zero kitchen, and bathrooms with black granite appointments. But unlike most five-star hotel suites, it was decorated with impeccable and understated taste: a sensory barrage of refinement and luxury. Diogenes hoped that this would have the desired effect, because the object of the barrage did not always have much use for the finer things in life.

  That object was at present sitting on the wraparound leather couch in one of the suite’s two living rooms. As he entered, a glass of Lillet Blanc in each hand, he bestowed on her his warmest smile. Flavia Greyling looked back at him. She was dressed in torn blue jeans and a T-shirt, along with the omnipresent fanny pack, and she was not smiling. Instead, a look he couldn’t quite parse was on her face: part uncertainty, he thought, mixed with hope, curiosity…and something bordering on anger.

  “Here’s your dividend,” he said as he placed the glasses on a table before the sofa. “So: that was the last item on your agenda?”

  Flavia left the drink untouched. “Yes. I sent you that note through the remailing service, then left Namibia and stowed away on a tramp steamer headed for Sierra Leone and the safe house there. Your arrangements for the plane ticket here all came together yesterday.”

  “Excellent.” Diogenes took a sip of Lillet. For the purposes of his visit to the Setai, he was in his Petru Lupei identity, with the charming European manners, clean-shaven and scarless face, exquisite bespoke suit, faint trace of an unidentifiable accent, and the one contact lens concealing his milky eye. “But I must ask: was it necessary for you to handle the owner of that automobile dealership, Mr.…”

  “Keronda.”

  “Keronda. Yes. Was it necessary to deal with him so, ah, definitively? Given the circumstances, I mean.”

  “Absolutely. He deviated from the script. Your script. Instead of business as usual, he left the auto agency in a bloody mess. This interested the police, which you said was the last thing you wanted.”

  “True; it was.”

  “We left no trace behind us. Keronda was the only loose end. He had panicked; sooner or later he would have talked. I didn’t think you wanted that. Did you want that?”

  As she said this, she looked at him, her expression abruptly piercing. Despite himself, Diogenes felt a tickle of concern. She had a way of staring at people that was almost like being physically stabbed by one of her many knives. He had seen her use it on others—and had noticed the effect it produced. He did not like having it used on him.

  “No, of course not,” he said quickly. “You did what had to be done.” Diogenes reflected that this was another example of why he needed to get rid of this girl once and for all. Only too well did he recognize in her the sheer pleasure of killing. “I owe you my thanks,” he said, in the warmest tones he could muster. “My deepest, most sincere appreciation.”

  The look on Flavia’s face softened. And now she took a sip of her Lillet, replaced the glass, and tucked her legs beneath her in what—for her—passed for a feminine gesture. “So what now? You know, I really enjoyed Exmouth. It wasn’t like the other assignments you’ve given me—we had a lot of free time. Free time to get to know each other. You’re not like anyone else I’ve met. I think you understand me, understand why I do what I do. I think you’re not afraid of me, either.”

  “Not at all, my dear Flavia. And it’s true—we understand each other very well.”

  She flushed. “You’ve no idea how important that is to me. Because I think it means…well, that you’re like me, Peter. The way you think, the things you enjoy…like what happened with that houseboy in Brussels last year! Remember how he tried the badger game on you? You, of all people!” And here she dissolved into laughter, took another sip of her drink.

  Diogenes recalled the houseboy in Brussels—but not with nearly as much amusement as Flavia did. He concealed this with an indulgent smile.

  “So what’s next for us—boss?” Flavia added an ironic emphasis to the final word.

  “An excellent question. And it’s really why I asked you to come here. As I said, the job you did was masterful. I couldn’t have asked for better work—or more complete. In fact, as a result, there’s really nothing else to be done at present.”

  Flavia stopped in the act of picking up her glass. “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing that I need your assistance with. I believe I told you from the start of our partnership, Flavia, that I work on a number of projects simultaneously.”

  “I remember. I want to help you do that.”

  “But you must understand: there are some things I have to do on my own. I’m like a conductor: I can’t always step down off the podium and mingle with the orchestra.”

  “The orchestra,” Flavia repeated. “Are you saying I’m just an instrument? One of many? To be picked up and played when it suits you, and then set aside?”

  Diogenes realized that the simile had been a bad one. He also realized that he had misjudged the depth of her paranoia and obsession. She had been so aloof when they first met; so proudly alone and self-reliant. She was everything he’d been looking for in an “assistant”: quick-witted, absolutely loyal, fearless, ruthless, and cunning. When he first met her, his strong impression had been that she hated all men. It had not occurred to him that she would fall in love with him. Thank God he had kept so much about himself—his true name and his other main identities, for example, or his estate at Halcyon—from her. The situation was intolerable. In an earlier incarnation he would have rid himself of her in the simple way. But that was no longer his way…especially in this identity, which, as the owner of record of Halcyon, he intended to occupy for the rest of his—very long—life.

  “No,” he said. “Flavia, I did not mean that—not at all. I expressed myself badly. You and I are a team. You’re right—I do understand you. More than that—I think you’re the one person in the world who would never judge me. And, believe me, there are many who have. It’s important to me to know you won’t do that.”

  Flavia did not reply. Instead, she played with the ring he had given her, twisti
ng it back and forth on her finger.

  “What are you saying?” she asked, her voice a little husky. “Will I see you again?”

  “Of course you’ll see me again! More than that—we’ll work together again. And again. But now is not the time. There are just too many things going on in…that other part of my life that is separate from you.”

  For a moment, he feared that she would make some declaration, pour her heart out to him. But she said nothing.

  “My dearest Flavia, it won’t be for long. I’ll soon seek you out. We’ve had downtime before, don’t forget. And it will be just as you said—we’ll have all the time to spend together, get to know each other better. And that’s at least as important to me as it is to you.”

  Flavia, who had been staring at the floor, raised her eyes to his. “Do you really think so?”

  “I know so. Our two souls therefore, which are one, / Though I must go, endure not yet / A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to airy thinness beat.”

  Flavia said nothing. The Donne quote bounced off her like a squash ball off graffiti-covered concrete. Diogenes realized it was another presumptuous tactical error on his part, and he resolved to make no more.

  “Until we meet again, I’m going to make sure that you live in the comfort you deserve.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out a fat envelope. “I’ve arranged for a new safe house where you can live until our next assignment. It’s in Copenhagen. Very luxurious.” He patted the envelope. “The address, and the key, are in here, along with a passport, fresh cell phone, first-class plane ticket on a flight leaving tomorrow, and Danish driver’s license.”

  Still Flavia said nothing.

  “And a down payment on jobs to come,” he added quickly. He put the envelope on the sofa between them. Flavia made no move to pick it up.

  “This is a princely gift, you know,” he said. “Proof of just how much you mean to me.”

  “How much?” Flavia finally asked.

  “How much you mean to me? I could never put a price on my regard for you.”