For two hours he stood there, stock-still. And then he laid it down. His lips moved and he spoke a single word.
“Diogenes.”
15
THE 1959 ROLLS-ROYCE SILVER WRAITH PURRED UP THE northern reaches of Riverside Drive, the glow of the streetlamps and traffic lights reflecting off its polished surfaces. Passing 137th Street, it slowed, then turned in to a driveway bordered by a tall wrought-iron fence, its gate standing open. Moving past barren ailanthus and sumac bushes, the vehicle came to a stop beneath the porte cochere of a large Beaux-Arts mansion, its marble-and-brick façade rising four stories into the gloom, mansard roof topped by a crenellated widow’s walk. There was a flicker of lightning overhead, followed by a growl of thunder. A cold wind swept off the Hudson. It was only six PM, but early December in New York City was already under cover of night.
Agent Pendergast got out of the car. In the dim light, his face was pale, and even in the chill air it was beaded with sweat. As he stepped toward an oaken door set into the pillared entrance, there was a rustle in the shrubbery at the rear of the carriage drive. He turned toward the noise to see Corrie Swanson emerge from the gloom. She looked inexpressibly dirty, her clothes creased and muddy, her hair matted, her face smudged. A torn, frayed knapsack hung from one shoulder. She glanced both ways, like a skittish colt, then darted up to him.
“Agent Pendergast!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Where have you been? I’ve been freezing my ass here for days waiting for you! I’m in trouble.”
Without waiting to hear more, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.
He closed the heavy door, then snapped on a light, revealing an entryway with a polished marble floor and walls of dark velvet. He led the way into a long, refectory-like space of carved gothic fixtures, and then beyond to a large reception hall, lined by glass-fronted cabinets. Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur, stood stiffly in a bathrobe, leaning on a crutch, apparently roused by the sound of their entrance.
“Proctor, please have Mrs. Trask run a bath for Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said. “And have her clothes washed and pressed, please.”
Corrie turned toward him. “But—”
“I’ll await you in the library.”
Ninety minutes later, feeling renewed, Corrie walked into the library. The room was dark, and no fire had been laid on. Pendergast was seated in a wing chair in a far corner, motionless and almost invisible. There was something about his presence—a restless stillness, if such a thing were possible—that gave her an odd feeling.
She took a seat opposite him. Pendergast sat, his fingers tented, his eyes half closed. Feeling unaccountably nervous, she hurried into her story. She told him about Betterton, his accusations and theories about Pendergast, the yacht, and her crazy decision to break into the house on East End he had mentioned to her.
While she spoke, Pendergast had seemed distant, almost as if he wasn’t listening. But the mention of the house seemed to catch his attention.
“You engaged in breaking and entering,” he said.
“I know, I know.” Corrie colored. “I’m stupid, but you already know that���” She tried to laugh and found no corresponding amusement—or even reaction—in him. Pendergast was weirder than usual. She took a deep breath and went on. “The place looked like it’d been deserted for years. So I broke in. And you won’t believe what I found. It’s some kind of Nazi safe house. Stacks of Mein Kampf in the basement, old radio equipment, and even a torture room. Upstairs it looked like they were packing up to leave. I found a room full of documents in the process of being shredded.”
She paused, waited. Still no reaction.
“I rifled through the documents, thinking they might be important. A lot of them were covered with swastikas and dated back to the war. Some were stamped STRENG GEHEIM, which I later found out means ‘top secret’ in German. And then I saw the name Esterhazy.”
At this, Pendergast woke up. “Esterhazy?”
“Your late wife’s maiden name, right? I learned that researching the website.”
An incline of the head. God, he looked awful.
“Anyway,” she went on, “I stuffed as many documents as I could into my knapsack. But then—” She paused. The memory was still so fresh. “A Nazi caught me. He tried to kill me. I sprayed the mother with capsicum and managed to get away. I’ve been scared shitless and on the run ever since, living in shelters and hanging out in Bryant Park. I haven’t been in my apartment, I haven’t been at school. All this time I’ve been just trying to reach you!” Quite suddenly, she felt herself on the verge of tears. She forced them back roughly. “You wouldn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t stake out the Dakota, those doormen are like the KGB.”
When he did not respond, she reached into her knapsack, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and put them on an end table. “Here they are.”
Pendergast did not look at the papers. He seemed to have gone far away again. Now, with her spike of anxiety ebbing, Corrie looked at him more closely. He was shockingly thin, even gaunt, and in the dim light she could see the bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. But most surprising of all was his demeanor. While his movements were usually languid, you nevertheless had a sense that it was the languor of a cat: a coiled spring, ready to strike out at any moment. But Corrie did not have that sense now. Pendergast seemed unfocused, detached, barely interested in her story. He seemed little concerned by what had happened to her, the danger she had put herself in for his sake.
“Pendergast,” she said. “Are you all right? You look… sort of funny. I’m sorry, but you do.”
He waved this away as he might a fly. “These so-called Nazis. Did they get your name?”
“No.”
“Did you leave anything behind that might lead them to your identity?”
“I don’t think so. Everything I had was in this.” And she nudged the knapsack with her foot.
“Any indication that they’ve been tracking you?”
“I don’t think so. But I stayed underground. Those guys were freaking scary.”
“And the address of this safe house?”
“Four Twenty-Eight East End Avenue.”
He fell silent for a minute before rousing himself to speech once again. “They don’t know who you are. They have no way of finding you, short of happening upon you by accident. That is of course unlikely, but we shall reduce the likelihood even further.” He glanced at her. “Is there someplace you can stay? With friends, perhaps? Somewhere out of town?”
Corrie was shocked. She’d just assumed that Pendergast would take her in, protect her, help her deal with the situation. “What’s wrong with here?”
There was a protracted silence. Then Pendergast let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Without going into detail, the fact is that, at present, I am simply incapable of looking after your well-being. In fact, I am so preoccupied that I could actually pose a threat to your safety. If you rely on me, you place yourself in grave danger. Besides, New York City is the one place you stand a chance, however small, of coming in contact with these people. Now: is there anyplace else you can go? I can guarantee that you’ll get there safely, and have sufficient funds—beyond that, you will be on your own.”
This was so unexpected that Corrie felt herself in a kind of daze. Where the hell could she go? Her mother was still in Medicine Creek, Kansas, of course—but she swore she’d die before she ever set foot in that shit hole again.
“My father lives near Allentown,” she said, dubiously.
Pendergast—whose expression had once again turned distant—returned to her. “Yes. I do recall your mentioning that. Do you know where he lives?”
Already Corrie was regretting bringing up her father. “I have his address. I haven’t seen him since he skipped out on my mom, what, fifteen years ago?”
Pendergast reached over, pressed a small button beneath the end table. A minute later, Proctor was standing in the doorway to the library. Even with the crutch, he looked
immensely powerful.
Pendergast turned to him. “Proctor, please call our private livery service. I would like them to take Miss Swanson to an address she will give them outside Allentown, Pennsylvania. Provide her with three thousand dollars and a new cell phone.”
Proctor nodded. “Very well, sir.”
Corrie looked from Pendergast to Proctor and back again. “I still don’t believe it. You’re just telling me to turn tail and run?”
“I’ve explained that necessity already. You’ll be safer with your father, especially given that you’ve had no recent contact with him. You need to stay away for at least a month, perhaps two. Use only cash—no credit or debit cards. Destroy the SIM card, throw away your old cell phone, and don’t transfer the contacts except by hand. Contact me—that is, Proctor—when you plan to return.”
“What if I don’t want to go stay with my loser dad?” Corrie fumed.
“These people whose safe house you invaded, who you robbed of highly incriminating documents, are not to be underestimated. You do not want them to find you.”
“But…” This was unreal. She started to get mad. “What about school?”
“Of what use will school be to a dead person?” Pendergast said evenly.
She stood up. “Goddamn it, what’s going on with you?” She paused, looked at him more closely. “Are you sick?”
“Yes.”
Even as he spoke, she realized the sweat was streaming down his brow. Jesus, he really was sick. It explained a lot. She struggled to overcome her irritation. She had been so terrified these past few weeks, and maybe Pendergast was right to want her to hide.
“I’m sorry.” She sat down abruptly. “I just don’t like the idea of running away. Who are these people and what the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid that information would put you in greater danger.”
“Let me stay and help with whatever’s troubling you.” She managed a smile. “We made a good team once.”
For the first time, he seemed affected. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said in a low, even voice. “Truly, I do. But I require no help. At this moment, in fact, all that I require is solitude.”
She remained in her seat. She’d forgotten what a pain in the ass Pendergast could be.
“Proctor is waiting.”
For a moment, she just stared. Then, without another word, she got up, picked up her knapsack, and strode out of the library.
After Corrie had left, Pendergast sat, motionless, in the darkened room. Ten minutes later, he heard the distant sound of a door closing. At this, he rose and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He pulled out a particularly large and hoary old volume from it, which produced a muffled clicking sound. The entire bookshelf swung away from the wall. Behind it stood a folding brass gate that opened onto a solid maple door: the hidden service elevator to the mansion’s basement. Pendergast stepped in, pressed a button, and rode the elevator down to the basement. Getting out, he progressed through long and secret corridors to an ancient stairway, hewn from the living rock, that corkscrewed down into darkness. Descending this staircase to the mansion’s vast and rambling sub-basement, he made his way through a series of dimly lit chambers and galleries, perfumed with the scent of ages, until he came to a room full of long tables covered with modern laboratory equipment. Turning up the light, he strode over to a device that looked like a cross between a fax machine and a modern cash register. He sat down before the machine, turned it on, and pressed a button on its side. A wide tray in its front panel popped free. Inside were a number of small, squat test tubes. Taking one out, Pendergast held it between thumb and forefinger. Then—plucking a lancet from his jacket pocket—he pricked his other thumb, took a blood sample, placed it into the test tube, inserted it in the machine, pressed a series of buttons, and settled down to wait.
16
DR. FELDER CROSSED SEVENTY-SEVENTH STREET, ROUNDED the corner onto Central Park West, climbed a short set of broad steps, and walked into the dimly lit confines of the New-York Historical Society. The austere Beaux-Arts building had recently undergone an extensive renovation, and Felder looked around the public entrance curiously. Although the galleries and library had been subjected to a painstaking twenty-first-century face-lift, the institution as a whole seemed firmly rooted—or perhaps mired—in the past, as the hyphen in its name New-York made abundantly clear.
He approached the research information desk. “Dr. Felder to see Fenton Goodbody.”
The woman at the desk consulted her computer screen. “Just a minute. I’ll call him.”
She picked up a phone, dialed. “A Dr. Felder to see you, Mr. Goodbody.” She hung up. “He’ll be right down.”
“Thank you.”
Ten minutes passed. Felder had ample time to examine the entrance hall in its entirety before Mr. Goodbody appeared. He was tall, bespectacled, heavyset, and florid, in perhaps his early sixties. He wore a hairy tweed suit with a matching vest.
“Dr. Felder,” he puffed, wiping his palms on the vest before shaking hands. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem.”
“I hope you don’t mind if we make this quick? It’s already half past eight, you know, and this evening we close at nine.”
“That should be fine, thank you.”
“In that case, follow me, if you please.”
Goodbody led the way past the research desk, along an echoing passageway, through a door, down a narrow staircase, along a second, far more institutional passageway, and then into a large room whose walls were completely covered by metal shelving stuffed to bursting with material: large archival boxes, yellowing papers tied up in dusty ribbons, rolled documents, volumes bound in crumbling leather, accordion files labeled in copperplate script. Felder looked around, his nose itching. He had heard stories of the historical society—of its endless, almost uncatalogable collections of documents and artwork—but this was the first time he had set foot inside.
“Now let me see.” Goodbody took a scrap of paper from his pocket, removed the glasses from his nose, folded them, put them in his jacket pocket, held the scrap of paper an inch from his eyes. “Ah, yes. J-14-2140.” He put the paper back in his pocket, removed the spectacles, polished them with the fat end of his tie, and seated them assertively back on his nose. Then he strode over to a far wall. Felder waited while the older man searched, first high, then low, without success.
“Now, where in blazes… I was just looking at them… Ah! Here we go.” Goodbody reached over, seized a stack of oversize sheets, and brought them to a nearby desk. They were awkwardly held together by loose covers tied with string. Beaming at Felder, Goodbody dropped the assemblage lightly onto the wooden surface. A puff of dust arose.
“So, Dr. Felder,” Goodbody said, indicating a chair set before the desk. “You’re interested in the work of Alexander Wintour?”
Felder nodded as he took a seat. He could feel a four-alarm allergic reaction building in his nose. He didn’t want to open his mouth until the dust had settled.
“Well, you will probably be the first. I doubt anyone besides myself has examined these since they were originally donated. Following your query, I was able to dig up some information on the man.” Goodbody paused. “Just what is your doctorate in again? Art history?”
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Felder said quickly. He hadn’t given any thought to what his cover story should be—or even considered he might need one. The lie had come quickly and thoughtlessly, and now he was stuck with it.
“Then if you’ll show me your credentials, we’ll be all set.”
Felder looked up. “My credentials?”
“Your research credentials, yes.”
“I, ah, I’m afraid I don’t have them with me at present.”
Goodbody looked surprised and pained. “Don’t have your credentials? Oh, dear. Oh, dear, that is a shame.” He paused. “Well, I can’t leave you here by yourself. With the collections, I mean. Rules, you understand.”
“There isn’t any way for me to… examine these?”
“I shall have to stay with you. Remember, half an hour’s all we can allow, I’m afraid.”
“That will do.” Felder wasn’t especially eager to stay any longer than necessary.
His guest’s compliance seemed to restore Goodbody’s equanimity. “Well, then! Let’s see what we have.” He untied the string, removed the cover. Beneath was a sheet of heavy, textured paper, its surface almost entirely obscured by dust.
“Stand back!” Goodbody said. He fetched a deep breath, then blew laterally across the sheet. A gray mushroom cloud arose that briefly obscured the archivist.
“As I said, I did come across some material on Wintour,” came the disembodied voice of Goodbody. “Notes in the accession files dating back to when this donation was accepted. It seems he was the lead illustrator for the Bowery Illustrated News, a weekly periodical published in the final decades of the nineteenth century. That’s how he earned his living. But what he really wanted was to be a painter. It seems he was fascinated by the lower classes of Manhattan.”
The dust had cleared again, and Felder could make out the image on the paper. It was a painting, oil by the look of it, of a young boy sitting on the front steps of a brownstone. He held a ball in one hand and a stick in the other, and he was looking straight out of the frame with a somewhat truculent expression.
“Ah, yes,” Goodbody murmured, glancing down at it.
Carefully, Felder turned it over and placed it to one side. Beneath was another painting, this one of a large storefront, the label R & N MORTENSON WOODEN & WILLOW WARE above it. Four children were leaning out the lower course of windows, again with rather sullen expressions on their faces.
Felder turned to the next. A boy, sitting in the back of what appeared to be a brewer’s wagon. The street beneath was very uneven, full of rubble and broken stoneware. On the verso, somebody—probably Wintour—had scrawled WORTH & BAXTER STREETS, 1879.
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