“The science is wrong.” Pendergast put a hand on the arm of the chair, prepared to rise. But then he caught the look on Beaufort’s face and paused. It was obvious from the M.E.’s expression that he had more to say.
“Leaving aside that question,” Beaufort said, “there’s something else you should know. It may be nothing.” He tried to make light of it but Pendergast sensed otherwise. “Are you familiar with the science of mitochondrial DNA?”
“In general terms, as a forensic tool.”
Beaufort removed his eyeglasses, polished them, put them back on his nose. He seemed oddly embarrassed. “Forgive me if I repeat what you already know, then. Mitochondrial DNA is completely separate from a person’s regular DNA. It’s a bit of genetic material residing in the mitochondria of every cell in the body, and it is inherited unchanged from generation to generation, through the female line. That means all the descendants—male and female—of a particular woman will have identical mitochondrial DNA, which we call mtDNA. This kind of DNA is extremely useful in forensic work, and separate databases are kept of it.”
“What of it?”
“As part of the battery of tests I performed on your wife’s remains, I ran both the DNA and mtDNA through a consortium of some thirty-five linked medical databases. In addition to confirming Helen’s DNA, there was a hit in one of the… more unusual databases. Regarding her mtDNA.”
Pendergast waited.
Beaufort’s embarrassment seemed to deepen. “It was in a database maintained by the DTG.”
“The DTG?”
“Doctors’ Trial Group.”
“The Nazi-hunting organization?”
Beaufort nodded. “Correct. Founded to pursue justice against the Nazi doctors of the Third Reich who aided and abetted the Holocaust. It grew out of the so-called Doctors’ Trials at Nuremberg after the war. A lot of doctors escaped Germany after the war and went to South America, and the DTG has been hunting them ever since. Theirs is a scientifically impeccable database of genetic information on those doctors.”
When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “What kind of a hit did you find—exactly?”
The M.E. took another sheet from the file. “With a Dr. Wolfgang Faust. Born in Ravensbrück, Germany, in 1908.”
“And what, exactly, does this mean?”
Beaufort took a deep breath. “Faust was an SS doctor at Dachau in the last years of World War II. He disappeared after the war. In 1985, the Doctors’ Trial Group finally tracked him down. But it was too late to bring him to justice—he’d already died of natural causes in 1978. The DTG found his grave and exhumed his remains to test them. That is how Faust’s mtDNA became part of the DTG database.”
“Dachau,” Pendergast breathed. He fixed Beaufort with his gaze. “And what was the relation between this doctor and Helen?”
“Only that they are both descended from the same female ancestor. It could be one generation back, or a hundred.”
“Do you have any more information about this doctor?”
“As you might expect, the DTG is a rather secretive organization connected, so they say, to Mossad. Except for the public database, their files are sealed. The record on Faust is thin and I haven’t followed up with any research.”
“The implications?”
“Only genealogical research can determine the relationship between Helen and Dr. Faust. Such genealogical research would have to explore your wife’s ancestry in the female line—mother, maternal grandmother, maternal great-grandmother, and so forth. And the same for Faust. All this means is that this Nazi doctor and your wife shared a direct female ancestor. It could be some woman who lived in the Middle Ages, for all we know.”
Pendergast hesitated for a moment. “Would my wife have known of Faust?”
“Only she could have told you that.”
“In that case,” Pendergast said, almost to himself, “I shall have to ask her when I see her.”
There was a long silence. And then Beaufort spoke. “Helen is dead. This… quixotic belief of yours concerns me.”
Pendergast rose, his face betraying nothing. “Thank you, Beaufort, you’ve been most helpful.”
“Please consider what I just said. Think about your family history…” Beaufort’s voice trailed off.
Pendergast managed a cold smile. “Your further assistance is unnecessary. I wish you good day.”
CHAPTER 37
New York City
LAURA HAYWARD CUT INTO THE RARE, juicy meat, separated it from the bone, and placed a forkful in her mouth. She closed her eyes. “Vinnie, it’s perfection.”
“I just threw it together, but thanks.” D’Agosta waved a dismissive hand, but he turned his attention to his own dinner to hide the pleased look he knew was settling over his face.
D’Agosta had always enjoyed cooking, in a casual, nondemanding bachelor way: meat loaf and barbecue and roast chicken, with the occasional Italian specialty of his grandmother’s thrown in. But since moving in with Laura Hayward, he’d become a much more serious chef. It had started out as a kind of guilt, a way to offset his living in her apartment while not being allowed to contribute to the rent. Later—when Hayward finally acquiesced about splitting the rent—his interest in cooking continued. Part of it was Hayward herself, no slouch when it came to preparing varied and interesting dishes. And part of it, no doubt, was the influence of Agent Pendergast’s unrelievedly gourmet tastes. But another part of it had to do with his relationship with Laura. There was something he found loving about the act and art of cooking, a way for him to express his feelings for her, something more meaningful than flowers or even jewelry. He’d branched out from southern Italy into French cuisine, which had taught him the basic techniques for many noble dishes as well as a fascination for the mother sauces and their countless variations. He’d grown interested in various regional American cuisines. Hayward tended to work longer hours than he did, allowing him time to unwind in the kitchen of an evening, cookbook propped open, working on some new dish, which he would present to her when she arrived, an offering. And the more he did it, the more accomplished he became: his knifework improved; dishes were assembled more quickly and more deftly; he grew increasingly confident in his own variations on master recipes. And so tonight, in which he’d served rack of lamb with a burgundy-pomegranate persillade, he could say, with more than a little truth, that it had been almost effortless.
For a few minutes they ate in silence, enjoying the time together. Then Hayward dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, took a sip of Pellegrino, and spoke with friendly irony. “So: what happened at the office today, dear?”
D’Agosta laughed. “Singleton’s launching yet another of his departmental morale campaigns.”
Hayward shook her head. “That Singleton. Always with the cop-psychology theory du jour.”
D’Agosta took a bite of épinards à la crème. “Corrie Swanson stopped by to see me. Again.”
“This is the third time she’s come to bug you.”
“At first she was a pain, but now we’ve sort of become friends. She keeps asking about Pendergast, what he’s up to, when he’s coming back.”
Hayward frowned. Almost any mention of Pendergast, it seemed, was sufficient to rub her the wrong way, even after their informal partnership earlier that year. “What do you tell her?”
“The truth. That I wish I knew myself.”
“You haven’t heard anything more from him?”
“Not since that call from Edinburgh. When he said he didn’t want my help.”
“Pendergast scares me,” said Hayward. “You know, he gives the impression of being in icy control. But underneath… he’s like a maniac.”
“A maniac who solves cases.”
“Vinnie, a case isn’t exactly solved if the suspect ends up dead. When was the last time Pendergast actually took a case to trial? And now this business about his wife being alive—”
D’Agosta laid down his fork, his appetite gone. “I’d
rather you didn’t talk that way about Pendergast. Even if—”
“Even if I’m right?”
D’Agosta didn’t respond. She had touched a nerve; never had he been so worried about his friend.
There was a moment of silence. And then—with some surprise—D’Agosta felt Hayward’s hand close over his.
“I love your loyalty,” she said. “And your integrity. I want you to know I’ve come to respect Pendergast more than I used to, even if I abhor his methods. But you know what? He’s right to shut you out of this one. That man is poison to a career in law enforcement. Your career. So I’m glad you’re following his advice and leaving well enough alone.” She smiled, squeezed his hand. “Now come and help me wash up.”
CHAPTER 38
Fort Meade, Maryland
ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST STROLLED INTO THE LOBBY of an unremarkable building on the campus of the National Security Agency. He checked his weapon and shield with a waiting soldier, walked through a metal detector, stepped up to the reception desk. “The name is Pendergast. I have an appointment to see General Galusha at ten thirty.”
“Just a moment.” The secretary made a call, then filled out a temporary ID badge. She nodded and another soldier with a sidearm came over.
“Follow me, sir.”
Pinning the ID to the breast pocket of his jacket, Pendergast followed the soldier to a bank of elevators, where they descended a number of levels. The doors opened into a bleak maze of cinder-block corridors that eventually brought them to a nondescript door marked only GEN. GALUSHA.
The guard knocked politely and a voice within said, “Enter.”
The guard opened the door and Pendergast went in, the guard closing the door after him, prepared to wait outside until the appointment was over.
Galusha was a neat, soldierly looking man in casual military fatigues, the single black star Velcroed to his chest patch the only evidence of rank. “Please sit down,” he said. His demeanor was cool.
Pendergast seated himself.
“I have to tell you up front, Agent Pendergast, that I can’t respond to your request until you and your FBI superiors go through the usual channels. And I don’t see how, exactly, I could be of help to you in any case.”
For a moment, Pendergast did not respond. Then he cleared his throat. “As one of the, ah, gatekeepers of M-LOGOS, you could be a great deal of help to me, General.”
Galusha went very still. “And just what do you know of M-LOGOS, Agent Pendergast… assuming such a thing exists?”
“I know quite a bit about it. For example, I know that it is the most powerful computer yet built by humankind—and that it is located in a hardened bunker beneath this building. I know that it is a massively parallel processing system, running a special AI known as StutterLogic, and that it has been designed for a single purpose: to data-mine information on potential threats to national security. The threats could be of any kind: terrorism, industrial espionage, domestic hate group activity, market manipulation, tax evasion, even the emergence of pandemics.”
He crossed one leg delicately over the other. “In pursuit of this objective, M-LOGOS maintains a database containing all kinds of information: from cell phone records and e-mails to the tracking of highway tolls, medical and legal records, social networking sites, and university research databases. The database is said to contain names and information on virtually one hundred percent of all individuals within U.S. borders, all cross-referenced and cross-linked. I don’t know what the percentage is for individuals outside America, but I think it’s safe to say that M-LOGOS possesses all the information that exists in digital form about most human beings in the industrialized world.”
Throughout this, the general had remained silent and motionless. Now he spoke. “That was quite a little speech, Agent Pendergast. And just how have you come by such information?”
Pendergast shrugged. “My work at the FBI has taken me into several—shall we say—exotic areas of investigation. But let me answer a question with a question: if Americans had any idea how thorough, comprehensive, and well organized the M-LOGOS database was—and how much information the government possessed on American citizens in good standing—what do you think the response would be?”
“But they won’t know, will they? Because such a revelation would be a treasonous act.”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I’m not interested in revelations. I’m interested in a single person.”
“I see. And I take it that you’d like us to find this individual in the M-LOGOS database.”
Pendergast crossed his legs and leveled his gaze at General Galusha. He said nothing.
“Since you know so much, you must also know that access to M-LOGOS is highly restricted. I just can’t open it up to any agent who walks in… even one as intrepid as you seem to be.”
Still Pendergast did not speak. His sudden silence, after such an extended soliloquy, seemed to irritate Galusha.
“I’m a busy man,” he said.
Pendergast recrossed his legs. “General, please confirm that you have the authorization to grant—or not grant—my request without involving others.”
“I do, but I’m not going to play games with you. There’s no way in hell I’m going to grant such a request.”
Again Pendergast let the silence build, until Galusha frowned again. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I think we’re done here.”
“No,” said Pendergast simply.
Galusha’s eyebrows went up. “No?”
With a smooth motion, Pendergast removed a document from his suit jacket and laid it on the desk.
Galusha looked at it. “What the hell—this is my résumé!”
“Yes. Very impressive.”
Galusha stared at him with narrowed eyes.
“General, I can see that you are basically a good officer, loyal to his country, who has served with real distinction. For that reason I truly regret what I am about to do.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’d like you to answer another question: why did you feel the need to lie?”
A long silence.
“You served in Vietnam. You won a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts. You rose through the ranks by ability alone—nobody helped you. And yet it’s all built on a lie, because you never matriculated from the University of Texas as you state on your résumé. You don’t have a college degree. You dropped out the last semester of your senior year. Which means you weren’t eligible for OCS. Astonishing that no one checked this before. How did you do it? Get into OCS, I mean.”
Galusha rose, his face almost purple. “You’re a low-life bastard.”
“I’m not a bastard. But I am an exceedingly desperate man who will do anything to get what he wants.”
“And what is it you want?”
“I fear to ask. Because now, having met you, I sense you are a man with enough integrity to resist succumbing to the blackmail scheme I had in mind. I believe you will probably go down in flames rather than provide me access to that database.”
A long silence. “You’re damn right about that.”
Pendergast could see that Galusha was already mastering himself, adjusting to the awful news, steeling himself for what was to come. It was his bad luck to find a man like Galusha in this position.
“Very well. But before I leave, I’m going to tell you why I’m here. Ten years ago, my wife died most horribly. Or so I thought. But now I’ve learned she is alive. I have no idea why she hasn’t revealed herself to me. Perhaps she’s being coerced, held against her will. Perhaps she is otherwise kept in thrall. Whatever the case, I must find her. And M-LOGOS is the best way.”
“Do your worst, Mr. Pendergast, but I will never give you access to that database.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to check it yourself. If you find her, just let me know. That’s all. I want no confidential information. Just a name and location.”
“Or you will expose me.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Consider this decision with great care, General. I’ve already researched the probable outcome: you will lose your position, be busted down a grade, and very likely discharged. Your distinguished military career will be reduced to a lie. Your honorable career will become an uncomfortable subject in your family, never to be discussed. You will return to civilian life too late for any real redemption or second career, and many of the avenues open to retired army officers will now be closed to you. You will be forever defined by that lie. It’s terribly unfair: we’re all liars, and you’re a far better man than most. The world is an ugly place. Long ago I stopped struggling against that fact and accepted I was part of that ugliness. It made everything so much easier. If you don’t do what I ask, which will harm no one and will help another human being, you will quickly discover just how ugly the world can be.”
Galusha stared at Pendergast, and there was so much sadness and self-reproach in those eyes the agent almost winced. Here was a man who had already seen a great deal of life’s underbelly.
When the general spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “I’ll need your wife’s personal information to conduct the search.”
“I’ve brought a wealth of information.” Pendergast removed a folder from his jacket. “In here you will find DNA data, handwriting samples, medical history, dental X-rays, distinguishing marks, physical characteristics, and more. She’s alive somewhere in the world—please find her for me.”
Galusha reached out to the file, as if it were something loathsome, but he could not quite bring himself to take it. The hand remained poised in midair, trembling.
“I have an incentive for you, as well,” Pendergast went on. “A certain acquaintance of mine possesses unusual computer skills. He will adjust the files at the University of Texas to give you that BA, cum laude, which you would have been awarded had your father not died, forcing you to drop out in your last semester.”
Cold Vengeance Page 17
