The Obsidian Chamber

48

At thirty-five hundred square feet, the Grande Suite of Miami’s Setai Hotel was, Diogenes reflected, larger than most houses. It boasted not only killer views of the Atlantic, but also a media room, expensive statuary, original framed oils on the walls, a walk-through Sub-Zero kitchen, and bathrooms with black granite appointments. But unlike most five-star hotel suites, it was decorated with impeccable and understated taste: a sensory barrage of refinement and luxury. Diogenes hoped that this would have the desired effect, because the object of the barrage did not always have much use for the finer things in life.

That object was at present sitting on the wraparound leather couch in one of the suite’s two living rooms. As he entered, a glass of Lillet Blanc in each hand, he bestowed on her his warmest smile. Flavia Greyling looked back at him. She was dressed in torn blue jeans and a T-shirt, along with the omnipresent fanny pack, and she was not smiling. Instead, a look he couldn’t quite parse was on her face: part uncertainty, he thought, mixed with hope, curiosity… and something bordering on anger.

“Here’s your dividend,” he said as he placed the glasses on a table before the sofa. “So: that was the last item on your agenda?”

Flavia left the drink untouched. “Yes. I sent you that note through the remailing service, then left Namibia and stowed away on a tramp steamer headed for Sierra Leone and the safe house there. Your arrangements for the plane ticket here all came together yesterday.”

“Excellent.” Diogenes took a sip of Lillet. For the purposes of his visit to the Setai, he was in his Petru Lupei identity, with the charming European manners, clean-shaven and scarless face, exquisite bespoke suit, faint trace of an unidentifiable accent, and the one contact lens concealing his milky eye. “But I must ask: was it necessary for you to handle the owner of that automobile dealership, Mr.…”

“Keronda.”

“Keronda. Yes. Was it necessary to deal with him so, ah, definitively? Given the circumstances, I mean.”

“Absolutely. He deviated from the script. Your script. Instead of business as usual, he left the auto agency in a bloody mess. This interested the police, which you said was the last thing you wanted.”

“True; it was.”

“We left no trace behind us. Keronda was the only loose end. He had panicked; sooner or later he would have talked. I didn’t think you wanted that. Did you want that?”

As she said this, she looked at him, her expression abruptly piercing. Despite himself, Diogenes felt a tickle of concern. She had a way of staring at people that was almost like being physically stabbed by one of her many knives. He had seen her use it on others — and had noticed the effect it produced. He did not like having it used on him.

“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “You did what had to be done.” Diogenes reflected that this was another example of why he needed to get rid of this girl once and for all. Only too well did he recognize in her the sheer pleasure of killing. “I owe you my thanks,” he said, in the warmest tones he could muster. “My deepest, most sincere appreciation.”

The look on Flavia’s face softened. And now she took a sip of her Lillet, replaced the glass, and tucked her legs beneath her in what — for her — passed for a feminine gesture. “So what now? You know, I really enjoyed Exmouth. It wasn’t like the other assignments you’ve given me — we had a lot of free time. Free time to get to know each other. You’re not like anyone else I’ve met. I think you understand me, understand why I do what I do. I think you’re not afraid of me, either.”

“Not at all, my dear Flavia. And it’s true — we understand each other very well.”

She flushed. “You’ve no idea how important that is to me. Because I think it means… well, that you’re like me, Peter. The way you think, the things you enjoy… like what happened with that houseboy in Brussels last year! Remember how he tried the badger game on you? You, of all people!” And here she dissolved into laughter, took another sip of her drink.

Diogenes recalled the houseboy in Brussels — but not with nearly as much amusement as Flavia did. He concealed this with an indulgent smile.

“So what’s next for us — boss?” Flavia added an ironic emphasis to the final word.

“An excellent question. And it’s really why I asked you to come here. As I said, the job you did was masterful. I couldn’t have asked for better work — or more complete. In fact, as a result, there’s really nothing else to be done at present.”

Flavia stopped in the act of picking up her glass. “Nothing else?”

“Nothing that I need your assistance with. I believe I told you from the start of our partnership, Flavia, that I work on a number of projects simultaneously.”

“I remember. I want to help you do that.”

“But you must understand: there are some things I have to do on my own. I’m like a conductor: I can’t always step down off the podium and mingle with the orchestra.”

“The orchestra,” Flavia repeated. “Are you saying I’m just an instrument? One of many? To be picked up and played when it suits you, and then set aside?”

Diogenes realized that the simile had been a bad one. He also realized that he had misjudged the depth of her paranoia and obsession. She had been so aloof when they first met; so proudly alone and self-reliant. She was everything he’d been looking for in an “assistant”: quick-witted, absolutely loyal, fearless, ruthless, and cunning. When he first met her, his strong impression had been that she hated all men. It had not occurred to him that she would fall in love with him. Thank God he had kept so much about himself — his true name and his other main identities, for example, or his estate at Halcyon — from her. The situation was intolerable. In an earlier incarnation he would have rid himself of her in the simple way. But that was no longer his way… especially in this identity, which, as the owner of record of Halcyon, he intended to occupy for the rest of his — very long — life.

“No,” he said. “Flavia, I did not mean that — not at all. I expressed myself badly. You and I are a team. You’re right — I do understand you. More than that — I think you’re the one person in the world who would never judge me. And, believe me, there are many who have. It’s important to me to know you won’t do that.”

Flavia did not reply. Instead, she played with the ring he had given her, twisting it back and forth on her finger.

“What are you saying?” she asked, her voice a little husky. “Will I see you again?”

“Of course you’ll see me again! More than that — we’ll work together again. And again. But now is not the time. There are just too many things going on in… that other part of my life that is separate from you.”

For a moment, he feared that she would make some declaration, pour her heart out to him. But she said nothing.

“My dearest Flavia, it won’t be for long. I’ll soon seek you out. We’ve had downtime before, don’t forget. And it will be just as you said — we’ll have all the time to spend together, get to know each other better. And that’s at least as important to me as it is to you.”

Flavia, who had been staring at the floor, raised her eyes to his. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Our two souls therefore, which are one, / Though I must go, endure not yet / A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to airy thinness beat.”

Flavia said nothing. The Donne quote bounced off her like a squash ball off graffiti-covered concrete. Diogenes realized it was another presumptuous tactical error on his part, and he resolved to make no more.

“Until we meet again, I’m going to make sure that you live in the comfort you deserve.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out a fat envelope. “I’ve arranged for a new safe house where you can live until our next assignment. It’s in Copenhagen. Very luxurious.” He patted the envelope. “The address, and the key, are in here, along with a passport, fresh cell phone, first-class plane ticket on a flight leaving tomorrow, and Danish driver’s license.”

Still Flavia said nothing.

“And a down payment on jobs to come,” he added quickly. He put the envelope on the sofa between them. Flavia made no move to pick it up.

“This is a princely gift, you know,” he said. “Proof of just how much you mean to me.”

“How much?” Flavia finally asked.

“How much you mean to me? I could never put a price on my regard for you.”

“No: how much money?”

This was encouraging. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

“That much, Peter?” Her face went pale.

“Are you all right, Flavia?” he asked quietly.

No response.

“Flavia, now do you realize your importance to me? And do you understand why this has to be? And how you can rely on my contacting you again — very soon?”

Now, at last, she nodded.

“I knew you would understand — because we are, as you’ve said, so alike. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go. I’ll contact you on that cell phone — probably within a month, at most.” And he leaned over, kissed her forehead, then straightened up.

“Why?” Flavia asked suddenly.

Diogenes glanced back at her. “Why am I leaving?”

“No. Why, exactly, did we do that last job? My having to pose as that girl, the wig and the trench coat, the crazy fake kidnapping and death, all that work changing planes and bribing pilots and Namibian doctors and arranging for a dummy corpse and refrigerated coffin — and me leading a wild goose chase into Botswana. And Keronda. You promised you’d explain it someday. Well…?”

He waved his hand. “Of course. Now that’s it’s all over, I’m happy to explain. My best friend is a first-rate FBI agent, but simply a babe in the woods when it comes to women.”

“So?”

“That woman — Constance, you saw her in that Exmouth shop and in the restaurant — was a fortune hunter of the worst sort, after his money and nothing else. She’d gotten him to sign over a million in family money, the witch. I just wanted to get his money back. But… well, it all ended badly, as you may know. My friend drowned. But Constance still had the money. Hence the kidnapping, to lead her accomplice astray and get the money back by ransom. It worked beautifully — thanks to you.”

“So what happened to her?”

Another dismissive wave. “You mean Constance? Once I got the money back, good riddance! She’s undoubtedly gone on to con some other rich man.”

“What about the money?”

“Well, my friend is dead and the money is of no use to him. Why shouldn’t I split it with my closest associate, Flavia?” And he gave a slow, knowing smile.

She returned the smile. “I see.”

Diogenes was vastly relieved. He was desperate to bring this whole conversation to an end. A lot could happen in a month or two. Perhaps she would find a boyfriend, or get into a car crash, or overdose on drugs. By the time she tried to find him — if she did at all — his trail to Halcyon, well hidden to begin with, would be that much colder. He rose. “Until we meet again.”

He leaned down and this time gave her a kiss on the lips — very short and light — then straightened up, looking into her eyes. What was she thinking? She had become so pale and still. But she was still smiling.

“Now, Flavia, go enjoy Copenhagen! You deserve it. And keep that cell phone with you at all times: I’ll be calling you soon. So for now: à bientôt, my dear.”

And with a bow, he turned and left the room.

A moment later the front door to the suite closed with a quiet click. Flavia did not move. Even before Peter was out of the apartment, the smile had left her face. She sat there, quite still, recalling his words, recalling the things she had heard him say to others — things that he hadn’t meant, that had been slick and clever and consummately manipulative. Most of all, she thought about the job they had just completed — the job at whose heart, it seemed, was the girl: Constance Greene.

Suddenly she stood up, walked across the living room and out onto the balcony of the suite. Briefly, she reached for her fanny pack — then had a different idea. She grasped the ring Peter had given her and tried to pry out the expensive gemstone. When it wouldn’t budge, she banged it against the balcony railing — again and again and again, skinning her knuckles in the process — until at last it popped free. She picked up the stone, turned it around in her fingers for a moment, then hurled it out in the direction of the Atlantic. The carcass of the gold ring remained on her finger, the four gold prongs that had previously held the stone now empty and protruding.

Next, she walked into the living room and looked around, coldly sizing up the space. Walking over to a display case, she pulled it open, removed a marble statue, and — after studying it briefly — used it to smash the glass of the case into fragments. Then — still unnervingly controlled — she stepped into the kitchen and, one at a time, took the glassware pieces from the cabinets and dashed them to the floor. Next, she went through the entire three-bedroom suite, using the prongs of her ring to slash the artwork hanging on the wall to ribbons. Picking up a corkscrew from the wet bar, she went back into the living room and ripped to shreds the modular leather sofa on which she and Peter had sat together, just minutes before.

When she was done, she found she was panting ever so slightly. Retreating to the bedroom — the bedroom that, just half an hour before, she had held such different hopes for — she packed her small bag. Then, walking out of the suite, she rode the elevator down to the opulent lobby.

“I’m Ms. Lupei,” she told the man behind the counter. “I’m afraid my husband has rather made a mess of the Grande Suite. Please put all damages on the credit card you have on file. I’m checking out.”

And with that, she gave the man a grim little smile, turned on her heel, and walked toward the hotel exit, the occasional drop of blood dripping from her skinned knuckles onto the polished marble floor.