The Obsidian Chamber

54

It was shortly before one in the morning when the dark figure piloting the airboat through the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge navigated past the final group of small, hump-like islands that obstructed the way to the larger landmass identified on the coastal classification atlas as Halcyon Key. The engine was kept low, to avoid attracting attention. It had been a difficult journey — the shallow water and labyrinthine channels were barely navigable, even in daylight — but the airboat’s draft was almost insignificant. Now it approached a long pier. A speedboat was moored alongside: an antique wooden runabout named the Phoenix.

Flavia Greyling cut the airboat’s engine and let it glide past the pier and come to rest onto the long, sandy beach that ran away on both sides into clusters of mangroves. She got out of the boat and pulled it up under the pier, the crunch of sand barely discernible over the sighing of the wind in the palm trees. Then, crouching behind the little gazebo at the pier’s end, she took stock.

Over a low bluff, she could see the roofline of a large house, surrounded by royal palms. Some distance away, she made out a smaller structure, half-hidden among the mangroves, that appeared to be the servant’s quarters.

Flavia was dressed entirely in black, and wore the lightweight tactical research boots favored by SEALs. She had exchanged her blue fanny pack for an ebony one, and she wore black leather gloves of Italian design, chosen for their thinness rather than for style. She had not gone to the extent of blacking her face and dyeing her blond hair black, as she sometimes did on other missions she’d undertaken: after all, this was a different kind of job.

She moved forward, creeping cat-like up to the edge of the low bluff. Here, she took a small monocular from her fanny pack and examined the house and grounds. All seemed quiet. There were a few lights on — gas lamps or perhaps kerosene, judging by their flickering quality — but no activity that she could spot.

She returned the monocular to her pack and zipped it closed.

She had been beside herself with fury when Peter had left her in that hotel room in Miami; more angry than she liked to recall. It wasn’t just that he was keeping part of his life private from her: it was the way he’d tried to jolly her with praise and then paid her off with that money and then left — as if money could somehow take the place of all the time they’d spent together, everything she’d done for him, like she was some kind of whore. Even though they hadn’t done that yet, she knew he’d been tempted. She’d seen him looking at her.

What really burned her up was that she’d seen him pull the same slick shit on others, and it made her furious to think he believed she would swallow the same line. He obviously didn’t trust her — and after all she’d done. Well, two could play at the deception game. He’d not be on his guard. He’d assumed he’d succeeded: he’d think she was spending his money in Copenhagen and waiting by the phone for a call that might — or might never — come.

Fuck waiting by the phone. She wasn’t going to let him get away like that. So here she was.

She had his credit card number from the hotel. Easy to get as they’d checked in as husband and wife. Starting with that, she’d wasted no time learning more about Petru Lupei. It was investigative work of the kind she’d done many times before in tracking down her quarry, and she was very good at it.

Through a combination of social engineering, rudimentary hacking, rummaging through public data, and getting a billing address via the credit card number, she’d fitted the pieces together. It began with a PO box, which contained a few bits of helpful information. With these, and some phone calls to the hall of public records and related government offices, she picked up a bread-crumb trail that had been inadvertently — and very indirectly — left behind by Petru Lupei. It lead from one shell company to another, and ended, finally, in a corporation, Incitatus, LLC, that had only a single asset: an island off the southern coast of Florida called Halcyon Key, purchased almost twenty years before.

It was an hour’s trip by motorboat from Miami.

On the dark beach, as she examined the house, Flavia smiled. Petru knew, of course, that she was good at her job. He was the kind of person who would never hire second best. It was becoming clear he didn’t return the kind of feelings she had for him; at least, not yet. But he was fond of her, of that she was sure.

And now, here, she’d done him one better. She’d learned his secret. She had discovered his private hideaway. Not only that — she had managed to find it all on her own and make her way to it. And now, when she chose to reveal herself to him, he’d understand just how clever and accomplished she really was. She would surprise him. That surprise, she knew, would lead to a heightened respect, because Petru respected people who got the better of him — which happened almost never. And that respect — she felt sure — could easily blossom into love. Especially in a place like this. He only had to see how perfectly matched they were in every way.

Making no noise, she rose over the bluff and made her way across the sand to the rambling house, almost ethereal in the moonlight. She stepped onto the veranda, tried the front door, and, finding it unlocked, quickly entered, closing it behind her. She wondered at the lack of security, but then surmised that the island’s very remoteness — and difficult access — was its own best defense.

She stood in the front hall, cloaked in darkness and silence, and did a quick recon: openings to the left and right led into what appeared to be a library and living room, respectively, while a broad staircase ahead led to the second floor. Curious, she walked into the library. Moonlight streaming in the broad windows revealed it to be a two-story space, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor and walls covered with books and small framed paintings. A tiny, unfamiliar-looking piano stood in a far corner.

Flavia frowned. Something about this room did not feel like the Peter she knew. Somehow, it had a… feminine sensibility about it. She could almost smell perfume lingering in the air.

She crossed the hallway to the living room. This room, while equally beautiful, was rather different in feeling. The cut-glass chandelier, the heavy wing chairs, the plush fabrics of the sofas and cushions — everything had an old-fashioned elegance rather than the modern, almost clinically simple style that Petru Lupei had always favored.

At least, so far as she’d known.

In the far corner of the living room, a doorway led into darkness. Listening again to make sure her presence was not yet known — she’d surprise Peter in her own time, and in her own pleasant way — she pulled a tiny torch from her fanny pack, turned it on, and — shielding it with one hand — walked through the door. It led into another library-cum-office, this one much smaller than the one across the hall. She gazed for a minute at the books on the walls; at the framed paintings. The pack of tarot cards on the desk she recognized as being Peter’s preferred Albano-Waite deck. The shelved books were on topics such as military strategy, torture methods of the ancient world, novels in what appeared to be Italian — now, this was more like the Peter she knew. The frown fading, she pulled down one book, Walter Pater’s The Renaissance.

It opened to the flyleaf. To her surprise, an unfamiliar name had been written in ink: DIOGENES PENDERGAST.

She shrugged, replaced the book. Peter must have borrowed it and forgotten, accidentally-on-purpose, to return it. How very like him. She put the book back and took down another: Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars.

There it was again: the owner’s name inscribed on the inside front cover, in the same handwriting — Diogenes Pendergast.

The handwriting looked familiar. And, with a sudden shock, so did the name. Pendergast. That was the name of the FBI agent they had been observing in Exmouth.

My best friend is a first-rate FBI agent but simply a babe in the woods when it comes to women…

She slid the book back with a savage thrust, but not so savage as to make any noise. Was this the secret life that Petru Lupei talked about? Was this “best friend” actually something more — a relative perhaps? A brother? Did Petru have another name: Diogenes Pendergast?

She knew, of course, that Petru used false, temporary identities in the work they did; he’d used one in Exmouth and another in New York. But it had never occurred to her until this moment that Petru Lupei itself was just another of those identities.

Embarrassment at her gullibility — and anger at being so used — rose within her. For the first time in her life, she had allowed her feelings for someone to bring down her guard.

More quickly now, but with consummate stealth, she crept upstairs. It was divided into two wings, each comprising a suite of rooms: bedrooms, morning room, bathroom. Both wings appeared occupied. One of them had several articles she recognized as belonging to Peter — a pocketknife, a money clip, an Hermès tie, carelessly draped over the back of a chair.

The other wing was occupied by a woman.

After very quietly and cautiously examining all the rooms — and finding them all to be empty — Flavia returned to the second floor’s central hall. Her mind was a whirl of confusion. What was the meaning of this?

She descended the steps and left the house through the front door, once again closing it behind her. She glanced around, then walked stealthily along the beach, past the servant’s quarters, to a trail that cut into the mangroves, heading inland.

She followed the trail over another sandy bluff, then stopped. Ahead lay a very odd building: a circular structure, almost like an ancient temple, that overlooked the Gulf. Between its marble columns were windows that — instead of being made of glass — were of some unusual dark-colored stone that gleamed like mercury in the moonlight.

Flavia stared at the structure for a moment. A strange feeling came over her, a most uncharacteristic apprehension, as if the building held secrets too terrible to learn. But, catching sight of a mullioned door between two of the columns, she took a deep breath and came forward, at the same time reaching into her fanny pack and pulling out one of the Zombie Killer blades she always carried. Not only was it useful for sticking, but she found it made an excellent lock pick and jimmy, as well.

But when she reached the door, she stopped. An odd, sick mingling of emotions came over her as she listened to the sounds from within. After a moment, she knelt to look through the keyhole. It was dark inside, barely illuminated, but there was enough ambient moonlight filtering through the smoked windows for her to see all too clearly what was going on. She froze, a surge of fury, hatred, and disgust welling up inside her.

So it was all lies — all of it. His “best friend,” the “fortune hunter,” the million-dollar theft and ransom. Not one thing he’d told her was true. And here he was, with that woman, making love to her with a passion that, despite herself, tore Flavia’s breath from her lungs.

She staggered away from the door, then sank back against the cool wall of the temple. She wanted to raise her arms, stuff her fingers in her ears, shut out the sounds… but it was as if all strength had been leached from her limbs. All except for her hands: they kept playing with the Zombie Killer, passing it back and forth between her palms, as the sounds of lovemaking went on, and on, and on.