Cold Vengeance

by Douglas Preston

  “Easy!” said Esterhazy sharply. “Don’t hurt her or our plan will fail.”

  “Lift!” cried Falkoner, grabbing her by the shoulder. “Now!”

  She struggled with sudden, frantic, shocking strength.

  “Over!” called Falkoner.

  In one galvanic movement they heaved her over the rail into the ocean. She landed with a splash and after a moment resurfaced, flailing, her cries rising for a brief time over the rumble of wind and water, then fading away rapidly as she disappeared into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 74

  PENDERGAST BEGAN RUNNING TOWARD THE BOW as soon as he heard her cries. As he sprinted along the walkway, he glimpsed a flash of white plummeting into the water and saw Constance sweep past, then disappear in the darkness behind the wake.

  For a moment he was paralyzed with shock. Then he understood.

  He heard a voice coming from the forward deck: Esterhazy. “Aloysius!” it called out. “You hear me? Come out with your hands up. Surrender. You do that and we’ll turn the boat around. Otherwise we keep going. Hurry!”

  Pendergast, his .45 drawn, didn’t move.

  “If you want us to turn around, come into the open with your hands up. It’s November—you know better than anyone how cold the water is. I give her fifteen minutes, twenty at most.”

  Again, Pendergast did not move. Could not move.

  “We’ve got a waypoint of her location on the GPS,” Esterhazy called out. “We can find her in minutes.”

  Pendergast hesitated for a final, excruciating moment. He could almost admire Esterhazy’s brilliant ploy. Then he raised his hands over his head and walked slowly forward. He came around the forecabin to see Esterhazy and two other men standing on the forecastle, weapons drawn.

  “Walk toward us, slowly, hands over your head.”

  Pendergast obeyed.

  Esterhazy came forward, took the .45 out of his hands, and stuck it in his own waistband. Then he searched him. The search was thorough and professional. Esterhazy removed his blades, a .32 Walther, packets of chemicals, wire, and various tools. He groped through the jacket lining and found other tools and items loosely sewed up inside.

  “Take your jacket off.”

  Pendergast removed his jacket and dropped it on the deck.

  Esterhazy turned to one of the others. “Cuff, secure, and tape him. Completely. I want him immobile as a mummy.”

  One of the men came forward. Pendergast’s hands were cuffed behind his back with plastic straps. His mouth was sealed with duct tape.

  “Lie down,” said the third man, speaking with a German accent.

  Pendergast complied. They cuffed his ankles, then taped his wrists, arms, and legs, leaving him prone on the deck and unable to move.

  “All right,” Esterhazy said to the German. “Now tell the captain to turn the boat around and pick up the girl.”

  “Why?” said the man. “We achieved our objective—who cares?”

  “You wanted him to talk, right? Isn’t that why he’s still alive?”

  After a brief hesitation, the German spoke to the captain through his headset. A moment later, the boat slowed and began to turn.

  Esterhazy checked his watch. Then he turned to Pendergast. “It’s been twelve minutes,” he said. “I hope you didn’t hesitate too long.”

  CHAPTER 75

  ESTERHAZY TOOK UP A DOCK LINE. “Help me tie him to these cleats,” he told Schultz.

  His mind was working a mile a minute. He’d been faking bravura and an aura of command, but right below the surface he was almost beside himself with fear. He had to figure out a way to save his own skin now. But nothing came to mind. What’s the matter, Judson? Falkoner had said. You suddenly don’t trust us? I’m surprised—and hurt.

  Esterhazy realized that the chances were good he was as dead as Pendergast.

  The boat had come around and was now slowing as they neared the waypoint. Esterhazy moved to the bow, searching for the young woman while two spotlights from the bridge scanned the heaving sea.

  “There!” said Esterhazy as one spotlight picked up a flash of reflecting tape from the life preserver.

  In a moment the yacht had reached her, slowing still further and turning. Esterhazy jogged aft and snagged the life preserver with a mooring hook, hauling Constance around to the stern. Falkoner came aft and together they pulled her onto the platform, then carried her through the transom and into the main saloon, where they laid her on the carpeted floor.

  She was semi-conscious but still breathing. Esterhazy quickly felt her pulse: slow and thready.

  “Hypothermia,” he said to Falkoner. “We’ve got to bring her core temperature up. Where’s the woman?”

  “Gerta? She locked herself in the crew quarters.”

  “Have her run a lukewarm bath.”

  Falkoner disappeared while Esterhazy removed the life preserver, unbuttoned and slipped off her soggy dress and underclothing, then wrapped her in a dry afghan that was folded on a nearby chair. He put plastic cuffs on her wrists and a much looser set around her ankles, leaving just enough slack for her to walk.

  A moment later, the woman arrived with Falkoner. Her face was pale but she was composed. “The bath is running.”

  They carried Constance through the saloon to the forward stateroom master bath, where they lowered her into the lukewarm water. She was already reviving, murmuring something as she went in.

  “I’m going forward to watch Pendergast,” Esterhazy said.

  Falkoner looked at him for a moment—a searching, calculating look. Then he smiled crookedly. “When she’s revived, I’ll bring her—and we’ll use her to make Pendergast talk.”

  Esterhazy felt himself shudder.

  He found Pendergast where he had left him, Schultz watching over him. He pulled up a deck chair and sat down, cradling the gun and looking carefully at Pendergast. This was the first time they had been face-to-face since he’d left the agent, critically wounded and sinking, in the quicksand of the Foulmire. The man’s silvery eyes, barely visible in the dim light, were, as usual, unreadable.

  Ten minutes passed as Esterhazy went through every scenario, every possible plan to get himself off the Vergeltung— to no avail. They were going to kill him—he’d seen it in the look Falkoner had given him. Thanks to Pendergast, he’d caused the Covenant too much trouble, too many men, to remain alive himself.

  He heard raised voices and saw Constance being pushed along the port-side walkway by Gerta, the redheaded woman, the threatening murmurs of Falkoner following. In a moment they emerged on deck. Zimmermann had joined them. Constance was wearing a long white terry-cloth bathrobe, with a man’s jacket over it. Falkoner gave her one last shove and she fell to the deck in front of Pendergast.

  “Feisty bitch,” said Falkoner, dabbing at a bloody nose. “No problem reviving her. Tie her to that post.”

  Schultz and the redheaded woman pushed her toward a lifeline stanchion, then tied her to it. She did not struggle, instead remaining strangely silent. When they had secured her, Falkoner straightened up, dabbed his brow, and cast a cool, triumphant expression at Esterhazy. “I’ll handle this,” he said in a clipped tone. “This is, after all, my area of expertise.”

  He ripped the tape from Pendergast’s mouth. “We wouldn’t want to miss a word the man says—would we?”

  Esterhazy casually glanced up at the bridge, a row of faintly glowing windows on the upper deck above and aft of the forecastle. He could see the captain behind the wheel, Gruber the mate to one side. Both were absorbed in their work, paying no attention to the drama playing out on the foredeck below. The vessel was now heading northeast, paralleling Long Island’s South Shore. Esterhazy wondered where they were going—Falkoner had been more than a little vague on that point.

  “All right,” said Falkoner, taking a swaggering turn in front of Pendergast. He holstered his weapon and slid the combat knife out of its scabbard. Standing in front of the agent, he fondled it in the dim light, test
ed the edges, knelt, then pierced Pendergast’s flesh with the tip and drew a thin line down the cheek. Blood welled up.

  “Now you have a Heidelberg dueling scar, just like my grandfather’s. Lovely.”

  The red-haired woman watched, a look of cruel anticipation gathering on her face.

  “See how sharp it is?” Falkoner continued. “But that sharpness isn’t for you. It’s for her.”

  He strolled over to Constance and stood over her, playing with the knife, speaking to her directly. “If he doesn’t answer my questions promptly and fully, I’m going to cut you. Rather painfully.”

  “He won’t say a word,” Constance replied, her voice low and steady.

  “He will when we start chumming the water with bits of your body.”

  She stared at him. Esterhazy was surprised at just how little fear he saw in her eyes. This was one scary human being.

  Falkoner merely chuckled and turned back to Pendergast. “Your little quest, which we’ve only recently become aware of, has been most instructive. For example, we had thought Helen was dead these long years.”

  Esterhazy felt his blood run cold.

  “Right, Judson?”

  “It’s not true,” Esterhazy said weakly.

  Falkoner waved his hand as if it was a trifling matter. “At any rate, here’s your first question: what do you know about our organization, and where did you learn it?”

  But Pendergast did not answer. Instead, he turned to Esterhazy, a strangely sympathetic look in his eyes. “You’re next, you realize.”

  Falkoner strode over to Constance and grabbed her hands, which were cuffed behind the stanchion. He took his knife and sliced slowly and deliberately into her thumb. She stifled a cry, turning her head sharply to one side.

  “Next time, speak to me and answer my question.”

  “Don’t speak!” Constance said, hoarsely, not looking back. “Don’t say anything. They’re going to kill us anyway.”

  “Not true,” said Falkoner. “If he talks, we’ll drop you off alive on shore. He can’t save his own life, but he can save yours.”

  He turned back to Pendergast. “Answer the question.”

  The special agent began to talk. He told—briefly—of discovering that his wife’s gun had been loaded with blanks, and realizing that meant she had been murdered in Africa twelve years before. He spoke slowly, clearly, and utterly without inflection.

  “And so you went to Africa,” said Falkoner, “and discovered our little conspiracy to get rid of her.”

  “Your conspiracy?” Pendergast seemed to consider this.

  “Why are you talking?” asked Constance suddenly. “You think he’s going to let me go? Of course not. Cease speaking, Aloysius—we’re both dead anyway.”

  His face alight with arousal, Falkoner reached down, grasped her hand, and took the knife, slowly cutting into her thumb again, much more deeply this time. She grimaced and writhed in pain, but did not cry out.

  From the corner of his eye, Esterhazy noted that Schultz and Zimmermann had holstered their weapons and were enjoying the show.

  “Don’t,” Esterhazy said to Falkoner. “You keep doing that, he’ll stop talking.”

  “Damn you, I know what I’m doing. I’ve been at this for years.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  But Falkoner had stopped. He held up the bloody knife, waved it in front of Pendergast’s face, wiped the blood off on the agent’s lips. “The next time, her thumb comes off.” He smiled crookedly. “Do you love her? I suppose you must. Young, beautiful, spirited: who wouldn’t?” He straightened up, took a slow turn around the deck. “I’m waiting, Pendergast. Go on.”

  But Pendergast did not go on. Instead, he was looking at Esterhazy intently.

  Falkoner paused in his circuit, cocked his head to one side. “All right. I always keep my promises. Schultz, hold her hand steady.”

  Schultz grasped Constance’s hand as Falkoner brandished the knife. Esterhazy could see he was, indeed, going to cut off her thumb. And if he did there would be no going back—not for Pendergast, and not for him.

  CHAPTER 76

  JUST A MOMENT,” ESTERHAZY SAID.

  Falkoner paused. “What?”

  Esterhazy quickly stepped over to Falkoner and leaned in to his ear. “There’s something I neglected to tell you,” he murmured. “Something you must know. It’s very important.”

  “Damn it, I’m in the middle of this.”

  “Step over to the rail. They mustn’t hear. I’m telling you, it’s of the utmost importance.”

  “This is a hell of a time to be interrupting my work!” Falkoner muttered, the smile of sadistic pleasure giving way to a scowl of frustration.

  Esterhazy led Falkoner over to the port rail and walked him slightly aft. He glanced up: the view from both the bridge and the foredeck was blocked.

  “What’s the problem?” Falkoner demanded.

  Esterhazy leaned over to whisper in his ear, placing a hand on his shoulder. As they drew together, heads bowed, Esterhazy brought his pistol up and fired a bullet into the German’s cranium. A cloud of blood, gore, and bits of bone jetted out the far side, the blowback spraying Esterhazy directly in the face.

  Falkoner jerked forward, eyes wide and astonished, and he fell into Esterhazy’s arms. Esterhazy grasped him by the shoulders and, with a brusque movement, heaved the body up onto the rail and tipped it over.

  At the report of the gun, Zimmermann came tearing around the corner. Esterhazy shot him between the eyes.

  “Schultz!” he cried out. “Help us!”

  A moment later Schultz appeared, gun in hand, and Esterhazy shot him as well.

  Then Esterhazy backed away, sputtering and spitting, wiping his face clean with a handkerchief and returning to the small group, pistol drawn. Gerta stood there, staring at him, paralyzed.

  “Walk over here,” he told her. “Slow and easy. Or you’re dead, too.”

  She obeyed. As she reached the edge of the cabin he grabbed her and, with the same tape used to tie Pendergast, bound her ankles, wrists, and mouth. He left her on the walkway where she wasn’t visible from the bridge, then strode back to the aft deck, where Hammar was slowly regaining consciousness, groaning and muttering. Esterhazy bound him securely. He made a quick tour of the upper decks, found the wounded Eberstark, and bound him as well. Then he walked forward again to where Pendergast and Constance were restrained.

  He looked at the pair. Both had witnessed what he’d done. Constance was silent, but he could see blood dripping from her injured finger. He knelt, examined it. The second, deeper cut went to the bone but not through it. He fumbled in his pocket, brought out a clean handkerchief, and bound the finger. Then he stood up and faced Pendergast. The silvery eyes glittered back. Esterhazy thought he could detect—barely—lingering surprise.

  “You once asked me how I could kill my own sister,” Esterhazy said. “I told you the truth then. And I’ll tell you the truth again now. I didn’t kill her. Helen’s alive.”

  CHAPTER 77

  ESTERHAZY PAUSED. A NEW LOOK HAD COME into Pendergast’s eyes; a look he didn’t fully understand. And yet the man said nothing.

  “You think your fight’s just with me,” Esterhazy went on rapidly. “But you’re wrong. It’s not just me. It’s not just this boat and this crew. The fact is you have no idea, no idea, of what you’re dealing with.”

  No response from Pendergast.

  “Listen. Falkoner was going to kill me, too. As soon as you were dead, he was going to do the same to me. I realized that just tonight, on this boat.”

  “So you killed him to save yourself,” Constance said. “Is that supposed to solicit our trust?”

  Esterhazy did his best to ignore this. “Damn it, Aloysius, listen to me: Helen is alive, and you need me to bring her to you. We don’t have the time to stand around talking about it now. Later, I’ll explain everything to you—not now. Are you going to cooperate with me or not?”

  Const
ance laughed mirthlessly.

  Esterhazy stared into Pendergast’s frozen, unreadable eyes for what seemed a very long time. Then he took a deep breath. “I’m going to take a chance,” he said. “A chance that somewhere in that strange head of yours, you might just believe me—about this, if nothing else.” Taking out a knife, he leaned over to cut Pendergast free, then hesitated.

  “You know, Aloysius,” he said quietly, “what I’ve become was what I was born to be. It’s what I was born into— and it’s something beyond my control. If you only knew the horror that Helen and I have been subjected to, you’d understand.”

  He sliced through the lines holding Pendergast to the stanchion, cut through the tape, and freed him.

  Pendergast slowly stood up, massaging his arms, face still unreadable. Esterhazy hesitated a moment. Then he slipped Pendergast’s .45 from his own waistband and handed it to the FBI agent, butt first. Pendergast took it, tucked it away, and without a word went over to Constance and cut her free.

  “Let’s go,” said Esterhazy.

  For a moment, nobody moved.

  “Constance,” said Pendergast, “wait for us at the tender in the stern.”

  “Just a minute,” Constance said. “Surely you aren’t going to believe—”

  “Please go to the tender. We’ll join you in a moment.”

  With a single, lingering stare at Esterhazy, she turned and walked aft, disappearing into the dark.

  “There are two men on the bridge,” Esterhazy said to Pendergast. “We have to neutralize them and get off this boat.”

  When Pendergast did not reply, Esterhazy took the lead, pushing open a cabin door and stepping over a motionless body. They passed through the main saloon and then ascended a stairway. Arriving at the sky deck, he opened the sliding glass doors and crossed the sky lounge. Pendergast took up a position next to the bridge door, drawing his weapon. Esterhazy knocked.

  A moment later the captain’s voice came over the intercom. “Who is it? What’s happening? What was that shooting?”