Blue Labyrinth

by Douglas Preston

  “Meu filho,” Pendergast repeated.

  The man stared at him, stared at the photo, stared back at him with a searching expression. Only now did he pick up the other objects, first the passport, then the wallet, and examined each one carefully. At last, he turned to one of the guards. “Guarda a porta,” he said. “Niguen pode entrar.”

  The guard walked over to the office door, shut and locked it, then stood before it, weapon at the ready.

  The man behind the desk looked up at Pendergast again. “So,” he said in accented but excellent English. “You are the man who fearlessly enters the Cidade dos Anjos dressed like an undertaker, carrying a gun, and wandering about telling everyone that you are looking for your son.”

  Pendergast did not reply. He merely stood before the desk, swaying slightly.

  “I am amazed you survived. Perhaps because it was such a crazy thing to do, they assumed you were harmless. Now—” he tapped the photograph—“I realize you are anything but harmless.”

  The man picked up the passport and the photograph and stood up. A large handgun could be seen shoved into the waistband of his shorts. He came around the desk and placed himself directly before Pendergast.

  “You don’t look well, cada,” he said, apparently taking note of Pendergast’s pallor, the beading of sweat on his temples. He took another look at the passport and the photograph. “Nevertheless, a remarkable resemblance,” he said more to himself than to anyone else.

  A minute passed in silence.

  “When did you last see your son?” he asked.

  “Two weeks ago,” Pendergast replied.

  “Where?”

  “Dead. On my doorstep.”

  A look of shock, or pain, or perhaps both, briefly distorted the young man’s expression. Another minute passed before he spoke again. “And why are you here?”

  A pause. “To find out who killed him.”

  The man nodded. This was a motive he could understand. “And that is why you wander our favela, asking everyone about him?”

  Pendergast passed a hand over his eyes. The drugs were starting to wear off, and the pain was returning. “Yes. I need to… know what he was doing here.”

  The room fell into a silence. Finally, the man sighed. “Caralho,” he muttered.

  Pendergast said nothing.

  “And you seek revenge on his killer?”

  “I only seek information. What happens after that… I don’t know.”

  The man seemed to consider this a moment. Then he gestured toward one of the chairs. “Please. Take a seat.”

  Pendergast sank into the nearest chair.

  “My name is Fábio,” the man continued. “When my scouts reported that a strange man had come into my city, mumbling about his son, I thought little of it. But when they described a man tall of carriage, hands like nervous white spiders, skin as pale as marble, eyes like silver conchas—I had to wonder. And yet how could I be sure? I apologize for the manner in which you were brought to this place, but…” He shrugged. Then he stared sharply at Pendergast. “What you say—it is really true? It is hard to believe a person such as him could be murdered.”

  Pendergast nodded.

  “Then it is as he feared,” the man named Fábio said.

  Pendergast looked across the desk. He knew that this was precisely how the drug lords of Rio dressed; how they lived; how they were armed. He struggled to recall the words of Colonel Azevedo: The Cidade dos Anjos is the largest, most violent, and most powerful of the favelas. The drug lords who lead it are not only ruthless, but fearless.

  “All I want is information,” said Pendergast.

  “And you shall have it. In fact, it is my duty to give it to you. I will tell you the story. The story of your son. Alban.”

  Taking a seat again behind his desk, Fábio drained his bottle of Bohemia and placed it to one side. It was immediately replaced with a fresh one. He picked up the photograph from the desk, touching it lightly with his fingertips in a gesture that was almost a caress. Then he put it back and looked up at Pendergast.

  Pendergast nodded.

  “Prior to his death, when did you last see your son alive?”

  “Eighteen months ago, in Nova Godói. He disappeared into the jungle.”

  “Then I will begin the story at that point. At first, your son—Alban—lived with a small tribe of Indians, deep in the Amazon rain forest. It was a difficult time for him, and he spent it recovering, and—what is the word?—regrouping. He had plans for himself; plans for the world. And plans for you, rapiz.” At this, Fábio nodded significantly.

  “It did not take Alban long to understand he could not further his plans from the middle of the jungle. He came to Rio and quickly melted into our favela. This he accomplished with no difficulty. You know as well as I, o senhor, he is—was—a master of disguise and deception. And he spoke perfect Portuguese as well as many dialects. There are hundreds of favelas in Rio, and he chose his well. A perfect place to find shelter, without fear of discovery.”

  “The Cidade dos Anjos,” Pendergast said.

  Fábio smiled. “Correct, rapiz. It was a different place then. He killed someone here—a drifter, a loner—and stole his home and identity. He turned himself into a Brazilian citizen named Adler, twenty-one years old, and he fit himself into the life of the favela with ease.”

  “That sounds like Alban,” Pendergast said.

  For a moment, Fábio’s eyes flashed. “Do not judge him, cada, until you have heard his story. Until you have lived in a place like this.” And he stretched out one arm as if to encompass the entire favela. “He took on an occupation—that of importer-exporter—that would give him reason to travel the world.”

  He twisted the top off the bottle of beer, took a pull. “At that time, the City of Angels was run by a gangster known as O Punho—The Fist—and his posse. O Punho got his nickname from the very personal and brutal ways he used to kill his enemies. Alban—Adler—was unimpressed by O Punho and his gang. Their disorganized ways of doing business were contrary to the sense of order that had been bred into him. Bred almost from birth. Correct, senhor?” And he gave Pendergast a knowing smile.

  “Adler amused himself by considering how he would be much better at organizing and running the favela if he were in command. But he took no action then, as he had other, more pressing things on his mind. And then everything changed.”

  Fábio went silent. Pendergast sensed that the man was waiting for him to speak.

  “You seem to know a great deal about my son,” he said.

  “He was… my friend.”

  Pendergast controlled his reaction to this.

  “Alban met a girl, the daughter of a Norwegian diplomat. Her name was Danika Egland, but she was known to all as the Anja das Favelas.”

  “The Angel of the Favelas,” Pendergast said.

  “She was given this name for the way she fearlessly entered them to administer medicine, give away food and money—and to preach education and independence for the oppressed. The favela leaders distrusted her, of course. But they had to put up with her because of her immense popularity among their citizens and her powerful father. Danika made a strong impression on Adler. She had poise, courage, and a beauty that was very… that was very…” And Fábio made a series of gestures around Pendergast’s own face.

  “Nordic,” said Pendergast.

  “That is the word. But at that time, as I say, Adler was preoccupied with other things. He spent much time doing research.”

  “Researching what, exactly?”

  “I do not know. But the documents he read were old. Scientific, chemical formulae. And then he went to America.”

  “When was this?” Pendergast asked.

  “A year ago.”

  “Why did he go?”

  For the first time, Fábio’s confident look faltered.

  “You are reluctant to speak of it. You said Alban had plans. Those plans had to do with me, did they not? Vengeance?”

 
Fábio did not reply.

  “There is no reason to deny it now. He was planning to kill me.”

  “I do not know the details, o senhor. But, yes, I believe it had something to do with… perhaps not just killing you. Something worse. He played his cards close, that one.”

  Into the silence that followed came a series of metallic clicks; one of the guards was fooling with his AR-15.

  Fábio began again. “When Adler returned, he was different. A weight seemed to have been lifted from him. He turned his attention to two things: the leadership of the favela, and Danika Egland. She was older than he was, twenty-five. He admired her—was drawn to her. And she to him.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows how these things happen, cada? One day, they realized they were in love.”

  Upon hearing this latter word, Pendergast exhaled sharply through his nose in what might have been a scoff.

  “The girl’s father knew of her work in the favelas and disapproved strongly. He feared for her life. She kept the love affair secret from her family. The Anja would not move in with Adler at first, but she spent many nights in his house, far from her father’s mansion in a gated community downtown. And then Adler learned that Danika was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant,” Pendergast repeated in a low murmur.

  “They wed in secret. Meanwhile, Adler had become obsessed with taking over the favela himself. He believed that, with his leadership, it could become something quite different from a disorganized slum. He believed he could turn it into something lean, efficient, organized.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Pendergast. “The favela was a perfect place from which to organize and launch his plan of domination. A replacement for what was destroyed at Nova Godói. A state within a state—with him as leader.”

  Again, Fábio’s eyes flashed. “I do not pretend to know what was then in his head, senhor. All I can tell you is that, in very little time, he put together a clever plan for a coup of Cidade dos Anjos. But someone betrayed his plan to O Punho and his gang. The Fist knew that the Angel of the Favelas was Adler’s lover and wife. He decided to act. One night, he and his men surrounded Adler’s house and torched it. Burned to the ground. Adler himself happened to be away… but his wife and unborn child died in the blaze.”

  Pendergast waited in the silence to hear the rest of the story, willing his own pain away. Alban’s wife and unborn child, burned alive…

  “I have never seen a man so utterly consumed with bloodlust. But in a silent way, an inner way, his outward appearance as if nothing had happened. But I knew Adler, and I could see his entire being was bent on vengeance. He went to the fortified compound of O Punho. He went heavily armed but alone. I was sure he would die. But there he unleashed such an orgy of violence as I have never heard of or even imagined. He killed The Fist and all his henchmen. In one night, he single-handedly murdered the entire leadership of the favela. From their compound, the blood ran down through the street gutters more than half a mile. It was a night the favela will never forget.”

  “Naturally,” said Pendergast. “He wished to mold the favela into something infinitely greater—and infinitely worse—than it already was.”

  A look of surprise came over Fábio’s face. “No. No, you do not understand at all. This is what I was getting to. Something in him changed when his wife and child were killed. I do not say I understand it myself. Something inside him changed.”

  Evidently, Pendergast’s disbelief was all too clear, because Fábio continued in great earnestness. “I believe that it was the goodness of his wife, and her brutal end, that changed him. He suddenly understood what was right and what was wrong in this world.”

  “No doubt,” said Pendergast sarcastically.

  Fábio stood up from his desk. “It is true, rapiz! And the proof of it lies all around you. Yes, Adler took control of the City of Angels. But he remade it. All for the better! Gone are the cruelty, the drugs, the hunger, the tyranny of gangs. Of course it looks poor to you. And of course we have arms—all kinds of arms. We still need to defend ourselves against a violent and uncaring world—rival gangs, the military, the corrupt politicians who spend billions building soccer and Olympic stadiums while the people starve. There is little violence inside the Cidade dos Anjos. We are on the path of transformation. We…” Fábio searched for a word. “We take care of our people. We empower them. Yes—that is the term he used. People can live here, free of the corruption, crime, taxes, and police brutality that plague the rest of Rio. We still have our problems, but thanks to Adler things are getting better.”

  All of a sudden Pendergast felt his force of will begin to weaken. His head suddenly swam, and pain shot through his bones. He took a deep breath. “How do you know all this?” he finally asked.

  “Because I was your son’s lieutenant in the new City of Angels. I am the man who stood at his right hand. I knew him better than all but Danika.”

  “And why have you told me all this?”

  Fábio eased himself back into his seat and hesitated a moment before answering. “I told you, senhor—I have a duty. Three weeks ago, Adler left the favela a second time. He told me he was going to Switzerland, and then to New York.”

  “Switzerland?” Pendergast said, suddenly alarmed.

  “After Danika’s death, Adler—Alban—made me promise that—if something were ever to happen to him—I was to track down his father and tell him the story of his redemption.”

  “Redemption!” Pendergast said.

  Fábio went on. “But he never got around to telling me your name or explaining how I could get in touch with you. He was gone three weeks… I heard nothing. And now you have come, telling me he is dead.” Fábio took another long pull at the bottle of beer. “I have told you the story he wanted me to tell. I have now done my duty.”

  There was a long pause in which neither man spoke.

  “You do not believe me,” Fábio said.

  “This house of Alban’s,” Pendergast replied. “The one that was burned. What was its address?”

  “Thirty-One, Rio Paranoá.”

  “Will you have your men take me there?”

  Fábio frowned. “It is nothing but a ruin.”

  “I ask nevertheless.”

  After a moment, Fábio nodded.

  “And this O Punho of whom you speak. Where did he live?”

  “Why, here, of course.” Fábio shrugged as if this should have been obvious. “Anything else, senhor?”

  “I would like my sidearm back.”

  Fábio turned to one of his guards. “Me da a arma.” A minute later, Pendergast’s Les Baer was produced.

  Pendergast slipped it into his suit jacket. Slowly—very slowly—he retrieved his wallet, passport, the photograph, and the wad of money from the desk. And then, with a final nod of thanks to Fábio, he turned and followed the armed men out of the office and down the stairs to the steamy street outside.

  D’Agosta entered the Museum’s video security room at exactly quarter to two in the afternoon. Jimenez had asked to see him, and D’Agosta hoped the meeting wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes: he’d timed it so he arrived between planetarium shows, and he wasn’t sure he could take yet another eighty-decibel tour of the cosmos.

  Jimenez and Conklin were sitting at a small table, tapping on laptops. D’Agosta walked over to them, navigating through the racks of equipment in semi-darkness.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Jimenez straightened up. “We’re done.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve run through all the security tapes covering the Museum’s entrance from June twelfth, the day of Marsala’s murder, back to April sixth. That’s a week before any eyewitnesses recall seeing the murderer in the Museum, but we went the extra week, just to be safe.” He gestured toward his laptop. “We have the sighting of him that you found initially, entering the Museum late on the afternoon of June twelfth. We have tapes of him entering and exiting the Museum on April twentieth, and another entr
ance and exit set on April fourteenth.”

  D’Agosta nodded. The April 20 date matched with the date the Padgett skeleton had been most recently accessed. And no doubt April 14 was the date that the murderer, under the guise of a visiting scientist, first met with Marsala to arrange for the examination. June 12 was the day of the murder.

  He sank into a chair beside them. “Good job,” he said. And he meant it. It was a boring slog, peering at video after grainy video, feeling your eyes slowly going dry and bleary, to the sound of the Big Bang. They’d found two prior dates on which the murderer had visited the Museum and his entrance on the day of the murder. But they still hadn’t found him leaving the Museum after the murder.

  A part of him wondered why he’d even bothered having his men complete this exercise. The suspected murderer was dead—a suicide. It wasn’t like they were gathering evidence in preparation for a trial. It was the old-fashioned cop in him, he supposed: dotting every i and crossing every t.

  Suicide. The image of the killer, there at the Indio Holding Facility, had stayed with him. The way he’d rambled on about the stink of rotting flowers, his agitation and incoherence. Not to mention the way he’d jumped so homicidally at Pendergast. Those weren’t easy things to forget. And Christ almighty, killing yourself by biting off your own toe and choking on it? A man would really have to want to check out to do something like that. It didn’t seem consistent with the ersatz Professor Waldron, a man who’d clearly been calm and intelligent and rational enough to fool Victor Marsala and other Museum staff into believing he was a scientist.

  D’Agosta sighed. Whatever had happened to the man since Marsala’s murder, one fact remained: on June 12, the day of the murder, he’d definitely been in his right mind. He’d been clever enough to lure Marsala into an out-of-the-way location, kill him quickly and efficiently, and disguise the murder as a piece-of-shit robbery gone bad. And most of all, he’d somehow managed to get out of the Museum afterward without being seen by any of the cameras.

  Maybe it didn’t matter, but how the hell had he done that?