But wasn’t he on the trail…?
As he looked around in the gathering gloom, scrutinizing the trail, he began to realize that what he’d thought was a path was just a collection of random patches of sand and gravel interspersed among the bogs.
Now it was really getting dark. And the cold was deepening. It might even go below freezing.
His colossal stupidity in venturing alone out on the moors began to sink home. He was still in a weakened condition. No flashlight, no compass, his solitary sandwich long-since eaten. His concern for Pendergast had led him to take foolish risks and push himself to the edge… and then over it.
What the hell now? It was already so dark that trying to continue would be stupid. The landscape had dissolved into a dim, mottled gray and there was no hope of identifying any cairn now. God, he’d never been so cold in his life. It felt like the cold was hardening the very marrow of his bones.
He would have to spend the night on the moors.
He looked about and saw, not far off, a pair of boulders. Shivering, teeth chattering hard, he went over and hunkered down between them, out of the wind. He tried to make himself as small as possible, curling up into a fetal position, forcing his hands under his arms. The rain pounded on his back, creeping in rivulets around his neck and down his face. And then he realized it was no longer raining but sleeting, the heavy drops of slush splattering on his mac and sliding down its surface.
Just as he was thinking he couldn’t stand the cold anymore, he began to feel a creeping warmth. Unbelievable—the strategy was working, his body was responding. Adjusting to the intense cold. The warmth began at his very core and slowly, slowly, radiated outward. He felt sleepy and strangely peaceful. He grew calmer. He might just be able to weather this night after all. And in the morning the sun might be up, it would be warmer, and he could start afresh and pick up the trail.
Now he was feeling quite warm and his mood soared. This was going to be a piece of cake. Even the ache of his injury was gone.
Darkness had fallen and he felt unbelievably sleepy. It would be good to get some sleep, the night would pass a lot faster. As the darkness became complete, the sleet tapered off. More good luck. No—it was now snowing. Well, at least the wind had died down. God, he was sleepy.
And then in adjusting his position, he glimpsed it: a faint light in the fields of blackness—yellow, wavering. D’Agosta stared. Was he seeing things? It had to be Glims Holm—what else could it be? And it wasn’t all that far off. He should go there.
But no; he was so wonderfully sleepy he’d spend the night here, and go in the morning. Good to know it was close by. Now he could go to sleep in peace. He drifted off into a deliciously warm sea of nothingness…
CHAPTER 16
Antigua, Guatemala
THE MAN IN THE LINEN SUIT AND WHITE STRAW FEDORA sat at a small table in the front courtyard of the restaurant, eating a late breakfast of huevos rancheros with sour cream and jalapeño sauce. From his vantage point he could see the Parque Central, fringed with green, tourists and children gathered around the rebuilt fountain at its center. Beyond lay the Arco de Santa Catalina, the rich deep yellow of its arch and bell tower more suited to Venice than Central America. And still farther—beyond the pastel-colored buildings and brown roofs—rose huge volcanic peaks, their dark crowns smoked by banks of cloud.
Even at this hour, music echoed faintly from open windows. Cars passed in the street, stirring up occasional bits of trash.
It was a warm morning, and the man removed the fedora and placed it on the table. He was tall and imposing, and the linen suit could not fully hide the massive, sculpted physique of a bodybuilder. His movements were slow, almost studied, but his pale eyes were alert, taking in everything, missing nothing. His deeply tanned skin was in marked contrast to the full head of pure white hair, and it had an unusual suppleness, almost a silkiness, that made it hard to guess his age: perhaps forty, perhaps fifty.
The waitress took away his plate, and he thanked her in fluent Spanish. Glancing around once more, he reached down into a worn briefcase that stood between his feet and pulled out a thin folder. He took a sip of the iced espresso, lit a cigarillo with a gold lighter, then opened the folder, wondering at the urgency of its delivery. Normally, these things went through channels, using remailing services or encrypted files stored in a high-security Internet cloud. But this had arrived by hand, via bonded courier, one of very few the organization employed.
It was, he mused, the only way they could be positive—one hundred percent positive—that it reached him personally.
He took another sip of espresso, placed the cigarillo in a glass ashtray, then plucked a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and mopped his brow. Despite his years living in tropical climes, he had never grown accustomed to the heat. He frequently had dreams—strange dreams—of his childhood summers in the old hunting lodge outside Königswinter, with its rambling corridors and its views of the Siebengebirge hills and the Rhine Valley.
Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, he opened the folder. It contained a single newspaper clipping, printed on the tawdriest grade of newsprint. Although the article was dated only a few days before, it was already yellowing. An American newspaper with a ludicrous name: the Ezerville Bee. His eye turned to the headline and opening paragraphs:
Mystery Couple Surfaces After
Years in Hiding
By Ned Betterton
MALFOURCHE, MISSISSIPPI—Twelve years ago, a woman named June Brodie, despondent after losing her job as executive secretary at Longitude Pharmaceuticals, apparently took her own life by jumping off the Archer Bridge, leaving a suicide note in her car…
The man lowered the clipping with nerveless fingers. “Scheisse,” he muttered under his breath. Raising the clipping again, he read it in its entirety twice. Folding the article and placing it on the table, he glanced carefully around the square. Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket, lit one edge of the article, and dropped it in the ashtray. He watched it carefully, making sure it burned to a cinder, then crushed the ashes with the end of his cigarillo. He took a deep drag, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed a long string of numbers.
The call was picked up after one ring. “Ja?” said the voice.
“Klaus?” the man said.
He could hear the voice on the other end of the line stiffen as his own was recognized. “Buenos dias, Señor Fischer,” said the voice.
Fischer continued in Spanish. “Klaus, I have a job for you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There will be two phases to the job. The first is investigative. The second will involve wet work. You are to begin immediately.”
“I am at your command.”
“Good. I will call you tonight from Guatemala City. You will receive detailed orders then.”
Although the line was secure, Klaus’s next question was coded. “What color is the flag on this job?”
“Blue.”
The voice stiffened further. “Consider it already a success, Señor Fischer.”
“I know I can count on you,” Fischer said, and hung up.
CHAPTER 17
The Foulmire, Scotland
D’AGOSTA SEEMED TO BE SHROUDED IN GREAT DEPTHS of comfort, drifting on a tide of warmth. But even as he was suspended in a quasi-dream-state, that small, rational part of his brain spoke again. A single word: hypothermia.
What did he care?
You’re dying.
The voice was like an annoying person who wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t let you change the subject. But it was just loud enough, and scary enough, that he felt himself swimming back to reality. Hypothermia. He had all the symptoms: extreme cold followed by unexpected warmth, irresistible desire to sleep, lack of caring.
Christ, he was just accepting it.
You’re dying, idiot.
With an inarticulate roar and an almost superhuman effort, he staggered to his feet, slapping, almost be
ating his body. He whacked his face twice, hard, and felt a tingle of cold. He hit himself so hard he staggered and fell, rose again, thrashing about like a wounded animal.
He could hardly stand, he was so weak. Pain shot up his legs. His head practically exploded with pain, his injured shoulder throbbing. He started stamping around in circles, alternately hugging himself and smacking his arms against his trunk, shedding snow, yelling as loud as he could, hollering, welcoming the pain. Pain meant survival. Clarity of mind began to return, bit by bit. He jumped, jumped again. All the while he kept his eyes on that yellow light, wavering in the darkness. How to get there? He staggered forward and fell yet again, his face inches from the edge of a bog.
He cupped his hands and yelled. “Help! Help me!”
His voice echoed over the dead moorlands.
“I’m lost! I’m trying to find Glims Holm!”
The yelling helped tremendously. He felt the blood recirculating, his heart pumping.
“Please help me!”
And then he saw it: a second light beside the first, brighter. It seemed to be moving in the darkness, coming his way.
“Over here!” he cried.
The light moved toward him. He realized it was farther off than he’d initially thought: it wandered about, sometimes disappearing and then reappearing. Then it disappeared again and D’Agosta waited.
“Over here!” he cried in a panic. Had they heard him or was it coincidence? Was he seeing things?
“I’m over here!” Why hadn’t they called back? Had they gone down in the mire?
And suddenly there was the light, directly in front of him. The person carrying the light shone it in his face, then placed it on the ground, and in its glow he saw a strange woman with pendulous lips, bundled up in a mackintosh and boots, scarf, gloves, and hat, with a nest of white hair peeking out, a hooked nose, and two wild blue eyes. In the mist and swirling dark, she looked like an apparition.
“What in the devil’s name…?” she asked in a sharp voice.
“I’m looking for Glims Holm.”
“Ye found it,” she said, and then added, sarcastically, “almost.” She picked up the lamp and turned around. “Watch your step.”
D’Agosta stumbled after her. Ten minutes later, the lamp disclosed the dim outlines of a cottage, its mortared stones once whitewashed but now almost completely covered with lichen and moss, with a gray slate roof and chimney.
She pushed open the door and D’Agosta followed into the astonishing warmth of a cozy cottage, with a fire blazing on a giant hearth, an old-fashioned enameled stove, comfortable sofas and chairs, braided rugs on the floor, walls covered with books and odd pictures, along with a row of mounted stags’ antlers, all illuminated by kerosene lanterns.
The heat was the most wonderful thing D’Agosta had felt in his entire life.
“Strip,” the white-haired woman said sharply, moving to the fire.
“I—”
“Strip, blast your eyes.” She went into a corner and dragged out a big wicker basket. “Clothes in there.”
D’Agosta removed his raincoat, dropped it into the basket. This was followed by his sodden sweater, shoes, socks, shirt, tank top, and pants. He stood there in muddy boxers.
“Breeks as well,” said the woman. She busied herself at the stove, removing a large kettle from the hob, pouring water into a galvanized washbasin and setting it near the fire, placing a washcloth and towel beside it.
D’Agosta waited until her back was turned before taking off his boxers. The heat from the fire was exquisite.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
“D’Agosta. Vincent D’Agosta.”
“Wash. I’ll bring ye some fresh clothes. Yer a bit stout to fit into the mister’s clothes but we’ll find something.” She disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs, and he heard her moving about. He heard coughing and the querulous voice of an old man, who did not sound pleased.
She returned with an armful of clothes while he was sponging himself off. He tried to turn and found her staring at him, her eyes not on his face. “Now that’s a sight for an old woman’s eyes.” With a cackle she placed the clothes down and turned back to the fire, dropping a few pieces of wood on it, and then busied herself at the stove again.
Feeling sheepish, D’Agosta finished washing off the mud, toweled himself dry, then put on the clothes. They were for a taller, thinner man, but he managed to get them on fairly well, except he wasn’t able to button the pants. He used a belt to keep them up. The old woman had been stirring a pot, and the unbearably delicious smell of lamb stew reached his nostrils.
“Sit down.” She brought over a large bowl of the stew, tore a few pieces of bread from a rough loaf, and put the stew and bread before him. “Eat.”
D’Agosta took a greedy spoonful, burned his mouth. “This stew is wonderful,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank—”
She cut him off. “You found Glims Holm. What’s your business, then?”
“I’m looking for a friend.”
She stared at him keenly.
“Almost four weeks ago, a good friend of mine disappeared down by the Inish Marshes, over by what they call the Coombe Hut. You know that area?”
“Aye.”
“My friend’s American, like me. He was on a stalk from Kilchurn Lodge when he disappeared. He was injured—accidentally shot. They dragged the Mire for his body but couldn’t find it, and, knowing him, I thought he might have somehow gotten away.”
Her face creased with suspicion. The old woman might be touched, but nevertheless she obviously had plenty of innate cunning.
“Coombe Hut is twelve mile off, across the marshes.”
“I know—but this was my last hope.”
“Hain’t seen him nor anyone else.”
Even though he had known it was a long shot, D’Agosta felt almost crushed by disappointment. “Perhaps your husband might have seen—?”
“Nowt goes out. Invalid.”
“Maybe you’ve seen someone in the distance, someone moving—”
“Hain’t seen a soul these many weeks now.”
He heard a quavering, irritated voice calling from upstairs, with such a thick brogue he couldn’t quite make out the words. The woman scowled and trudged back up the stairs. He heard the old man’s muffled, complaining voice and her sharp retorts. She came back down, still scowling. “Time for bed. I sleep down by the stove. You’ll have to sleep in the loft with the mister. Blanket’s on the floor.”
“Thank you, I’m grateful for the help.”
“Don’t disturb the mister, he’s poorly.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
A sharp nod. “Well, good night now.”
D’Agosta mounted the creaking staircase, so steep it was almost a ladder. He came into a low room with a peaked ceiling, illuminated by a small kerosene lantern. A wooden bed stood at the far end, under the eaves, and in it he could see the rumpled form of the husband, a scarecrow with a bulbous red nose and bushy white hair. He stared at D’Agosta with a single good eye, which contained a certain malevolence.
“Um, hello,” said D’Agosta, unsure of what to say. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Aye, me too,” came the growled reply. “Dinnae make noise.” The old man turned over roughly, showing D’Agosta his back.
Relieved, D’Agosta took off the borrowed shirt and pants and crawled under a blanket that had been set out on a primitive wooden cot. He blew out the kerosene lantern and lay in the dark. It was wonderfully warm in the loft, and the sounds of the storm outside, the howling wind, were oddly comforting. He fell asleep almost immediately.
An indeterminate time later, he awoke. It was pitch black and he’d been so sound asleep that it took him a moment of fright to remember where he was. When he did, he realized the storm had died down and the cottage was very, very silent. His heart was pounding. He had the distinct impression that someone, or something, was standing over him in the dark.
&nb
sp; He lay there in utter darkness, trying to calm himself. It had just been a dream. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that some person was standing, maybe even leaning, over him.
The floor beside his cot creaked softly.
Jesus. Should he shout out? Who could it be? Surely not the old man. Had someone come in the night?
The floor creaked again—and then he felt a hand grasp his arm in a grip of steel.
CHAPTER 18
MY DEAR VINCENT,” CAME THE WHISPERED VOICE. “While I am touched at your concern, I am nevertheless exceedingly displeased to see you here.”
D’Agosta felt almost paralyzed with shock. He was surely dreaming. He heard the whisper of a match, a sudden glow, and the lantern was lit. The old man stood over him, misshapen, clearly ill. D’Agosta stared at the sallow, wrinkled skin; the sparse beard and greasy shoulder-length white hair; the bulbous reddened nose. And yet the voice, faint as it was—and the silvery glint the rheumy eye could not fully conceal—these belonged unmistakably to the man he was searching for.
“Pendergast?” D’Agosta finally managed to choke out.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Pendergast said in the same whispery voice.
“What—how—?”
“Allow me to get back in my bed. I’m not strong enough to stand for long.”
D’Agosta sat up and watched the old man hang the lantern and shuffle painfully back to the bed.
“Pull up a chair, my friend.”
D’Agosta rose, put on the borrowed clothes, and took a chair down from a hook on the wall. He sat next to the old man who bore such remarkably little resemblance to the FBI agent. “God, I’m so glad to find you alive. I thought…” D’Agosta found himself choking up, unable to speak, overwhelmed with emotion.
“Vincent,” said Pendergast. “Your heart is as big as ever. But let us not become maudlin. I have much to say to you.”
“You were shot,” said D’Agosta, finally finding his voice. “What the hell are you doing way out here? You need medical attention, a hospital.”
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