The Obsidian Chamber

62

Pendergast bounded up the stairs from the basement, Longstreet following more slowly in his wake.

“We can leave immediately,” Pendergast said over his shoulder. “It’s a hundred miles to Marathon by plane. From there, you and I can charter an airboat — the channels around that area of the Keys can be very shallow, I believe. We’ll be in position shortly after nightfall.”

“Just a moment,” Longstreet said. And something in his voice made Pendergast stop and look back.

“What do you mean: you and I?”

“I should have thought it obvious. The two of us.”

“A covert operation?”

“A surgical strike against Diogenes.”

Longstreet shook his head. “We’re not doing that.”

Pendergast frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember what you said, back in my New York office?”

Pendergast waited.

“You said exactly this: My brother must die. We must make sure — completely sure — that he does not survive another apprehension.”

“That’s correct.”

“You said something else: something equally true. We owe it to Mike Decker.”

Once again, Pendergast waited.

“As members of the Ghost Company, you and I both swore a solemn blood oath: to avenge the death of any compatriot to who died at the hands of another.”

“Fidelitas usque ad mortem.”

“Precisely. And that’s why it’s not going to be you and me who go down to this Halcyon Key. It’s going to be a massive strike force.”

Pendergast took a step back down the stairs. “H, that isn’t the way to prosecute this operation. I know my brother. The two of us, descending on the island in stealth, have the best chance of—”

“No. There are far too many unknowns. We don’t know who else is on the island. We don’t know what kind of security we might find. We don’t know what steps Diogenes has taken to harden or fortify — or booby-trap — his domicile. And we don’t have the luxury of time. You said it yourself: we need to do this tonight. We don’t have time for more intel. Diogenes is too clever, and he’s too unpredictable.”

“And that’s exactly why—”

“Listen, Aloysius. Ever since you returned to New York, I’ve let you play this your way. I’ve called in markers, burned through thousands of man-hours doing data and forensic analysis. I followed you to Florida on a whim. I held up the release of two corpses to their families, arranged for an emergency exhumation, watched you manhandle a body already at rest—”

“Discovering the whereabouts of my brother as a result.”

“You had the inspiration. But the heavy lifting was done by PRISM. I’ve done a little more digging since you told me that Diogenes was still alive. He’s responsible not only for Mike’s murder, but also for that of a Dr. Torrance Hamilton; an artist, Charles Duchamp; the attempted murder of an ex-employee of the New York Museum, Margo Green; the kidnapping of a woman I think you know, Viola Maskelene; the theft of the New York Museum’s irreplaceable diamond collection and its subsequent destruction; the incitement to homicidal madness of several Museum employees; and a grand-scale plot involving the Museum’s Tomb of Senef that I’m not exactly clear on. Not to mention the two recent slasher murders in the hospital here. And those are just the crimes of his that come to mind — I have no doubt it’s the tip of the iceberg. We’re to take down such a murderous, dangerous, psychotic fugitive by an — excuse me — covert operation? The two of us? No: now that we know the location of Diogenes’s safe house, it’s time to do things by the book. We’ll spearhead the operation, for sure — but backed up by a massive federal SWAT presence.”

“There’s another variable to consider here: Constance. I’ve told you her story. She’s a psychologically damaged individual whose mind-set we can’t predict. She might be under Diogenes’s thrall. Whatever the case, we can’t risk injury to her.”

“If she’s under his thrall, she can shoot a gun just as well as he can. My men would be in danger. But, look, we’ll do everything we can to avoid her getting hurt.”

“If you send in a SWAT team, people are going to get killed.”

“Of course. Diogenes is going to get killed. Do I have to remind you again of what you told me? My brother must die.”

“H—”

Longstreet held up a hand. “Sorry, old friend. I’m calling this one.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Then Pendergast simply nodded.

The two proceeded up to the office of SAC Vantrice Metcalf, where Longstreet provided her with some very surprising information and asked for her assistance in planning and executing an immediate SWAT operation. Metcalf agreed. The Tactical Operations Center was activated on the second floor, and the three moved there. They were quickly joined by two, then half a dozen, and then a dozen more agents, and — under Longstreet’s direction — plans for a night assault were quickly and expertly put together. And meanwhile Pendergast stood back from the group, still as a statue in his bespoke black suit, one arm folded over the other, listening as the op came together, neither his eyes nor his facial expression betraying anything about his inner thoughts.