Her face was unnaturally bright as she ate. Finally, omelet finished, she laid down her fork. “That will do, thank you very much.”
“My dear, I’ve rarely seen such an appetite.”
“I’d hardly eaten in days. And, of course, we burned a lot of calories.”
“Yes, yes.” Diogenes was curiously reluctant to discuss these sorts of things; it was his strict Catholic upbringing. He was glad Constance didn’t do what some women did and go over such details in retrospect, discussing it as if it were as commonplace as driving a car or going sailing. But she did not; she was apparently as reticent as he to sully their shared experience with conversational vapidities. And yet he couldn’t help recalling, with a frisson of electricity, the way her delicate fingers had traced the lines of his private scars…
She rose abruptly, pushing the plate aside. That same bright look was on her face—too bright, perhaps, but he supposed that’s the way certain women were…
“Let us go for a swim,” she said.
“Of course. But perhaps we should digest our meal, first?”
“That’s an old wives’ tale. Come.”
He thought of querying her about bathing suits but realized that was not the point. He rose, kicking off his slippers, and they walked arm in arm across the veranda, through the buttonwood, to the pier. She headed down it at a quick walk and he followed; even before she reached the end she was shedding her bathrobe and, nude, dove into the water. He followed.
She swam straight out, at a fast crawl, while he came on behind. After several minutes, he stopped. “Constance? Don’t go out too far!”
But she was still swimming intently, heading straight out into the channel. “Constance!”
She could not hear, it seemed, and kept on, heading toward one of the deeper channels. What was she doing?
“Constance!”
But now she was so far out all he could see was the little fluttering of white water as she swam. He felt a sudden grip of panic. Was she crazy? Was she going to kill herself? Such thoughts seemed absurd. Yet now he could barely see her—and even as he squinted, treading water, he realized he could no longer see her at all.
He turned and swam back, as fast as he could, for the dock. The Chris Craft was still cleated and he quickly pulled on his morning robe, untied the boat, jumped in, and started the engine. In a moment he was winging his way across the water, heading in the direction she had disappeared, his heart in his throat. The fast boat quickly closed the distance and soon he could see the splashing of her crawl. He throttled down, threw the engine into neutral, and drifted alongside her.
“Constance!”
She stopped swimming and looked over at him. “What is it?”
He tamped down his panic. He did not want her to think him worried. She had already expressed her irritation at his excessive hovering.
He gave her a forced smile and a wave. “Care for a ride back?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
She kicked her way over to the side of the boat and hauled herself into the rear cockpit, her body covered with water droplets flashing in the sun. Diogenes reached under the console, found a towel, and handed it back.
“You are quite the seal,” he said.
“I didn’t learn to swim until I was an adult,” she said, breathing hard and drying herself off, without the slightest self-consciousness. “But I caught up.”
“Indeed you did.”
Diogenes brought the boat in a broad arc, heading back to the island but not too directly. It was a glorious morning on the water.
“I have a little gift for you,” he said. “Back in the library. Or rather, in an alcove off the library.”
“Really? I don’t recall any alcove.”
“You shall see. Shall we say ten minutes?”
“Shall we say three hours? I’m rather fatigued from my swim.”
“Three hours? What about lunch?”
“I’d just as soon skip lunch today, thank you—especially after that large breakfast.”
“Very well, my dear.”
He tied up at the dock and they went back to the house. Constance went immediately upstairs and so did Diogenes, each to their separate wings. Diogenes wondered how long these sleeping arrangements would last. Not much longer, he hoped.
58
DEEP IN A thick cluster of mangroves at the western edge of Halcyon Key, in the heat of early afternoon, Flavia Greyling stirred in her camouflaged sleeping bag. It was not a restless stirring—the restlessness had died away some time ago. It was more the languid movement of someone who had come to an important decision and was now just marking time, waiting to carry it out.
At first she had been angry—so angry that a red mist hung over her vision as she’d piloted a course away from the island, and more than once the airboat had become hung up in the shallow waters of the wildlife refuge. But by the time she’d reached Marathon, the red mist had receded and she once again felt the calm anticipation she always experienced before an operation, like good hard concrete beneath her feet. Oh, she was still angry, of course—but now she was stone angry, and she knew the feeling well.
There was only one way she’d found to get past it.
She had visited a survivalist store on Marathon and—using a bit of the money Diogenes had given her in Miami—purchased a week’s worth of supplies: sleeping bag, waterproof tarp, plastic spade, drinking water, personal hygiene items, spare batteries, twelve-hundred-calorie Mayday snack bars in the inevitable apple-cinnamon, and two dozen MREs—chili mac, stroganoff, pasta fagioli—in individual Mylar pouches. At a gun shop down the street, she’d used her false identity papers to purchase a Glock 22, an extra clip, and two 50-round boxes of .40-caliber ammunition.
She’d gassed up the airboat, then—stealthily, approaching from the uninhabited side—returned to the island. Quickly, she’d found this heavy stand of mangroves, far from any structures save some maintenance buildings and an ancient smokestack. Here she had carefully hidden the airboat and made her bivvy. And then she had undertaken a protracted recon.
There was no further activity at the temple-like structure. Lights were on in the main house, but she had seen no movement. She felt certain, however, that Peter, or rather Diogenes, was inside. And so, too, was the bitch.
At first, her anger had been directed solely at Diogenes. All this time he’d lied to her, concealing his true identity, his secret life—this despite how close they’d become, how many dangers they’d faced together, how many challenges they’d overcome. Not only that, but he’d been with another woman—Constance Greene, no less, the one he had called a blackmailing slut that he’d nothing but contempt for.
All lies. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it was unfair to pin this on him. Diogenes hadn’t deceived her out of malice, or some streak of cruelty. He’d done it to protect himself. He was threatened in some way—she was sure of it. He hadn’t told her much about his past, but she knew instinctively that something—some event or series of events—had hurt him terribly; had broken something inside him, something deep and fundamental.
This was something Flavia could understand.
It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t trust her. The fact was, he had trusted her—with his freedom, with his life—several times. It was just that he hadn’t been completely honest. Now that she knew his true identity, she could prove to him that there was no reason to hide anything from her; not anymore. She could help protect him from whatever it was that drove him to such secrecy.
But Constance Greene—she was a different story. Here was a woman who’d barged into his life, made herself comfortable in his most private of homes, and taken his love—the love that, Flavia knew in her heart of hearts, belonged to her alone. With Constance out of the way, the field would be clear. Oh, it might take time to win him over. But it would be worth it. Because Diogenes, she knew, was the one man in the world that she could ever feel anything for, save revulsion. They were s
oul mates; she knew it, and so would he—eventually. Once his head was cleared of that bitch.
But she had to be careful; she had to do this right. She could not allow Diogenes to view Constance as a victim, or—even worse—a martyr. Who knew what kind of web that girl had spun, what kind of mind games she was playing? And so she had to watch, and wait, and pick a time—a time of her own choosing.
Of course, there was still a chance things could go wrong. Diogenes might not understand what she was doing, or why, and come after her. She’d prepared herself—emotionally and physically—for the possibility. Hence the law enforcement magazines she’d purchased for the Glock—fifteen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Sixteen rounds before she’d need to reload. If it became necessary, he’d fall in a hail of bullets.
But Flavia was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen. She, not Diogenes, was the conductor now—and she would see that things played out right. Then the whore would be dead—and she, Flavia, would be the woman in that strange gray-black temple.
Once again, she stirred comfortably in the sleeping bag, then closed her eyes.
59
IT WAS HALF past three, and Diogenes was in the library and waiting at the appointed hour, when Constance appeared. She was, as usual, wearing another Victorian dress. “You need a new wardrobe,” he said. “Would you like to go shopping tomorrow? Key West has some lovely stores.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And now, a special present for you, my dearest. I was waiting for the right moment. I believe it has now come.”
He walked over to the wall of bookshelves, grasped a small brass handle, and gave it a tug. A set of shelves swung out to reveal a secret room behind.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Diogenes took a step inside and hit the light switch. It revealed a most unusual room, with a table in the middle, some strange old portraits on the walls, many multi-branched sconces holding candles, a tiny fireplace, and a very large and curious wooden case along one wall, with a silk curtain as a front.
“This is my special surprise for you. In this room you will find all the accoutrements of Victorian spiritualism, including a knocking or ‘turning’ table, Ouija board, candles, tambourine, bells, and a cage with an accordion in it that can be played remotely. There are poles, levers, wires, hooks, and funnels. That large case is what is known as a spirit cabinet. In short, this room contains everything necessary for holding a genuine Victorian séance, including all the devices used in tricks and frauds. Of course, you don’t need tricks and frauds if you indeed make contact with the spirit world.”
Constance went over to the collection. Diogenes was relieved and satisfied to see that she appeared completely entranced. He was pleased at himself for thinking of something she would love to have, but would never have thought of on her own.
“I might just add that this entire setup belonged to a famous British medium known as Estelle Roberts. Five days after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s death, in 1930, in front of a massive crowd in the Royal Albert Hall, Roberts contacted Doyle’s spirit—or so she claimed. No one of course has ever been able to refute, or confirm, this or any of her other séances.”
“How did you acquire it?”
“When she died in 1970, her house in Monken Hadley was shut up and fell into disrepair. I’ve always had an interest in these things; as you undoubtedly know, magic and prestidigitation is a Pendergast family interest going back generations. Six months ago, the old house came on the market; I realized this might be something that would amuse you, so I bought the house, had all the accoutrements of the séance room removed and carefully restored—and brought here. I then sold the old house at a profit—London real estate is such a good investment these days.”
He watched with delight as she explored the spirit cabinet, drawing back the curtain and looking at the strange devices within. She examined the turning table, peering underneath and poking around at its complex curves, corners, and carved decorations.
“I thought you might cherish this little collection,” said Diogenes, softly. “In fact, I knew it. I know that your long life, and the way your family was taken from you at a young age, has made the past very dear to you. That’s why I created this space: as a memorial to the past. With any luck, your past. When you feel ready, we shall have a séance. Perhaps, in time, you will be able to communicate with your sister, Mary. Or your parents.”
A great stillness came over Constance as he spoke, and Diogenes realized he might have stepped over a line. This was a very private aspect of her life, and this construction of his might seem like presumption.
She rose rather stiffly, staggered a moment, then began walking toward the bookcase door. As she passed by him, he was shocked at the deeply troubled expression on her face.
But then, just inside the door, she halted abruptly. For what seemed a long time, she remained still, her back to him. And then she turned around. Her face, her entire being, radiated exceedingly strong and conflicting emotions: of boldness and dread, determination and hesitation.
“What…what is it?” he stammered, terrified by the look on her face.
She raised her chin and took a step forward, with an expression of hatred, malice—and triumph.
60
THE SPECIAL AGENT in charge of the FBI Miami Field Office, Vantrice Metcalf, was very curious about her two special visitors. She had heard vague rumors about one of them going almost back to her days at Quantico—a legendary and controversial agent who operated outside the rules with apparent impunity; whose collars often ended up dead; and who was sometimes spoken of as the sort of rogue agent the new FBI should no longer tolerate. And yet he was not only tolerated, but seemed to have the run of the Bureau.
The other one she had also heard about, but that was mostly due to his high position as executive assistant director for intelligence. He was eccentric in his own way, a rather shadowy figure, but known to be brilliant, tough, and fair.
And here they were, in her office, together, and what a contrast they made. Longstreet, with his craggy face, long gray hair, rumpled blue suit, remarkable height, and gravelly voice. And the other…the other. So pale, sleek, and cat-like, with a buttered-biscuit accent from the Deep South, antebellum manners and gestures: a genteel yet intimidating persona with glittering chrome eyes and a black suit. It was the first time she had seen an FBI agent in a black suit—it just wasn’t part of the culture.
Metcalf was a sort of collector of people, and she prided herself on her ability to scope out a person by appearance alone. She could read a book by its cover, and that was one reason why she was the youngest SAC in the history of the Miami office, and the first woman, and the first African American. As she looked these two gentlemen up and down, she realized that nothing less than complete and total cooperation would be required—and that would bring to her side two very useful allies, who might be able to help her on the long road to her ultimate goal: FBI director.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “What can I do to help?”
It was Longstreet who replied. “Ms. Metcalf, Special Agent Pendergast and I are on an assignment that is both confidential and unofficial. We have a rather unorthodox request.”
“Very well.” She wouldn’t make it too easy on them. She couldn’t be seen as a pushover—whatever it was they wanted.
“We’d like an hour, alone and unsupervised, in your PRISM system operations unit.”
At this, Metcalf’s eyebrows went up. This was a request so completely out of line that even she was momentarily astonished.
“We understand this is a rather unusual request,” said Longstreet.
“Well, I’m sorry, gentlemen, but even coming from the executive assistant director for intelligence this request is beyond the beyond. You know you need to go through channels.”
At this, the other one stirred. “Is that a no?”
The way he asked the question, so quietly, so politely, and yet so full of menace, was something Metcalf
would have to analyze later and adopt herself.
“Have you heard the word no from me yet?” she said pleasantly.
“And I hope we won’t,” the man named Pendergast replied.
She waited, letting the silence build.
“Let me explain—” began Longstreet.
Pendergast laid a gentle hand on Longstreet’s arm. “I don’t think Ms. Metcalf is going to need—or want—an explanation.”
That’s very true, Metcalf thought. She let a second, longer silence build. To most people, Metcalf had discovered, silence was even more unbearable than pointed questioning.
“Ms. Metcalf,” said Pendergast, “we never forget who our friends are. And we have long memories.”
This was exactly what she wanted to hear, but she was surprised to hear it put so clearly. This was a man who valued directness. No weaselly beating around the bush. “When do you wish access?”
“Right now, if you please.”
For a third time she let the silence build. And then she said, “Gentlemen, if you could have a seat, it’ll take me about five minutes to clear the PRISM unit of extraneous personnel. I assume you’ll need a technical support person?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave the best one in there, then.”
When the room was ready, and as they were all leaving, Pendergast turned and offered her a hand as cool and clean as a fresh cotton sheet. “I’m so very glad we’re friends.”
Howard Longstreet followed SAC Metcalf down a series of hallways and elevators, until they reached the door to the windowless basement room, warm with the smell of electronics. It was small and awash in a bluish light from myriad computer screens. In this room, agents with special clearance could access certain of the NSA’s relevant databases. He had been in PRISM rooms before, of course, and this one was no different. Except that it was now empty, save a single technician, lanky and nervous, with an unruly cowlick.
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