Blue Labyrinth

10

Deep within the stately German Renaissance confines of the Dakota, at the end of a succession of three interconnected and very private apartments, beyond a sliding partition of wood and rice paper, lay an uchi-roji: the inner garden of a Japanese teahouse. A path of flat stones wound sinuously between dwarf evergreens. The air was full of the scent of eucalyptus and the song of unseen birds. In the distance sat the teahouse itself, small and immaculate, barely visible in the simulacrum of late-afternoon light.

This near-miracle — a private garden, in exquisite miniature, set down within the fastness of a vast Manhattan apartment building — had been designed by Agent Pendergast as a place for meditation and rejuvenation of the soul. He was now sitting on a bench of carved keyaki wood, set just off the stone path and overlooking a tiny goldfish pond. He remained motionless, gazing into the dark waters, where orange-and-white fish moved in desultory fashion, mere shadows.

Normally, this sanctuary afforded him relief from the cares of the world, or at least a temporary oblivion. But this afternoon, no peace was to be found.

A chirp came from the pocket of his suit jacket. It was his cell phone, its number known to less than half a dozen people. He glanced at the incoming call and saw UNKNOWN NUMBER displayed.

“Yes?”

“Agent Pendergast.” It was the dry voice of the unnamed CIA operative he had met with at the firing range two days before. On prior occasions, the man’s voice had contained a trace of wryness, as if detached from the workaday goings-on of the world. Today the irony was absent.

“Yes?” Pendergast repeated.

“I’m calling because I knew you’d want to hear the bad news sooner rather than later.”

Pendergast gripped the phone a little tighter. “Go on.”

“The bad news is that I have no news at all.”

“I see.”

“I’ve deployed some serious assets, expended a great deal of currency, and called in favors both locally and abroad. I’ve had several undercover operatives risk exposure, on the chance that certain foreign governments might be hiding information related to Operation Wildfire. But I’ve come up empty-handed. No sign that Alban ever surfaced in Brazil or elsewhere abroad. No records of his entering the country — I’ve had facial-recognition server farms at both Customs and Homeland Security working on it, without a hit. No local or federal law enforcement bread-crumb trails that have led anywhere.”

Pendergast took this in without a word.

“It’s still possible something will surface, of course — some nugget from an unexpected quarter, some database we overlooked. But I’ve exhausted everything in the standard bag of tricks — and then some.”

Still Pendergast said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” came the voice over the cell phone. “It’s… it’s more than a little mortifying. In my job, with the tools at my disposal, one gets used to success. I fear I may have seemed overconfident at our last meeting, raised your hopes.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Pendergast said. “My hopes were not raised. Alban was formidable.”

There was a brief silence before the man spoke again. “One thing you might want to know. Lieutenant Angler, the NYPD’s lead investigator on your son’s homicide… I took a look at his internal reports. He’s got a decided interest in you.”

“Indeed?”

“Your lack of cooperation — and your behavior — aroused his curiosity. Your appearance at the autopsy, for example. And your interest in that lump of turquoise, which you convinced the NYPD to loan you and which is now, I understand, overdue. You may be heading for a problem with Angler.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Don’t mention it. Again, I’m sorry I don’t have more. I still have eyes on the ground. If there’s any way I can be of further assistance, call the main number at Langley and ask for Sector Y. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know of any change in status.”

The line went dead.

Pendergast sat for a moment, staring at the cell phone. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, stood up, and made his way down the stone walkway and out of the tea garden.

In the large kitchen of the apartment’s private quarters, Pendergast’s housekeeper, Kyoko Ishimura, was at work chopping scallions. As the FBI agent passed through, she glanced over and — with a deaf person’s economy of gesture — indicated there was a telephone message waiting. Pendergast nodded his thanks, then continued down the hall to his office, stepped inside, picked up the phone, and — without taking a seat at the desk — retrieved the message.

“Um, ah, Mr. Pendergast.” It was the rushed, breathy voice of Dr. Paden, the mineralogist at the Museum. “I’ve analyzed the sample you left me yesterday with X-ray diffraction, brightfield microscopy, fluorescence, polarization, diascopic and episcopic illumination, among other tests. It is most definitely natural turquoise: hardness 6, refractive index is 1.614 and the specific gravity is about 2.87, and as I mentioned earlier there is no indication of stabilization or reconstitution. However, the sample exhibits some, ah, curious phenomena. The grain size is most unusual. I’ve never seen such semi-translucence embedded in a large spiderweb matrix. And the color… it doesn’t come from any of the well-known mines, and there is no record of its chemical signature in the database… In short, I, ah, fear it is a rare sample from a small mine that will prove difficult to identify, and that more time than I expected will be needed, perhaps a lot more time, so I’m hoping that you will be patient and won’t ask for the return of the painite while I…”

Pendergast did not bother to listen to the rest of the message. With a jab of his finger, he deleted it and hung up the phone. Only then did he sit down behind his desk, put his elbows on the polished surface, rest his chin on tented fingers, and stare off into space, seeing nothing.

Constance Greene was seated in the music room of the Riverside Drive mansion, playing softly on a harpsichord. It was a gorgeous instrument, made in Antwerp in the early 1650s by the celebrated Andreas Ruckers II. The beautifully grained wood of the case had been edged in gilt, and the underside of the top was painted with a pastoral scene of nymphs and satyrs cavorting in a leafy glade.

Pendergast himself had little use for music. But — while Constance’s own taste was by and large limited to the baroque and early classical periods — she was a superb harpsichordist, and Pendergast had taken enjoyment in acquiring for her the finest period instrument available. Other than the harpsichord, the room was simply and tastefully furnished. Two worn leather armchairs were arranged before a Persian carpet, bookended by a brace of identical standing Tiffany lamps. One wall had a recessed bookcase full of sheet music of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century composers in urtext editions. The opposite wall held half a dozen framed pages of faded handwritten scores, original holographs of Telemann, Scarlatti, Handel, and others.

Not infrequently, Pendergast would glide in, like a silent specter, and take a seat in one of the chairs while Constance was playing. This time, Constance glanced up to see him standing framed in the doorway. She arched an eyebrow, as if to ask whether she should cease playing, but he simply shook his head. She continued with the Prelude no. 2 in C-sharp Minor from Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier. As she worked her way effortlessly through the short piece, wickedly fast and dense with ostinato passages, Pendergast did not take his accustomed seat, but instead roamed restlessly around the room, plucking a book of sheet music from the bookcase, leafing through it idly. Only when she was done did he move over to one of the leather armchairs and sit down.

“You play that piece beautifully, Constance,” he said.

“Ninety years of practice tends to improve one’s technique,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “Any further word about Proctor?”

“He’ll pull through. He’s out of the ICU. But he’ll need to spend a few more weeks in the hospital, and then a month or two more in rehabilitation.”

A brief silence settled over the room. Then Constance rose from the harpsichord and took a seat in the opposite armchair. “You’re troubled,” she said.

Pendergast did not immediately reply.

“Naturally, it’s about Alban. You haven’t said anything since — since that evening. How are you doing?”

Still Pendergast said nothing, continuing to leaf idly through the book of sheet music. Constance, too, remained silent. She, more than anyone, knew that Pendergast intensely disliked discussing his feelings. But she also sensed instinctively that he had come to ask her advice. And so she waited.

At last, Pendergast closed the book. “The feelings I have are those that no father would ever wish for. There’s no grief. Regret — perhaps. Yet I’m also conscious of a sense of relief: relief that the world will be spared Alban and his sickness.”

“Understandable. But… he was your son.”

Abruptly, Pendergast flung the volume aside and stood up, pacing back and forth across the carpet. “And yet the strongest sensation I feel is bafflement. How did they do this? How did they capture and kill him? Alban was, if anything, a survivor. And with his special gifts… it must have taken enormous effort, expenditure, and planning to get him. I’ve never seen such a well-executed crime, one that left only the evidence meant to be left and no more. And most puzzling of all—why? What is the message being conveyed to me?”

“I confess I’m as mystified as you are.” Constance paused. “Any results from your inquiries?”

“The only real evidence — a piece of turquoise found in Alban’s stomach — is resisting identification. I just had a call about it from Dr. Paden, a mineralogist at the Museum of Natural History. He doesn’t seem confident of success.”

Constance watched the FBI agent as he continued to pace. “You mustn’t brood,” she said at last in a low voice.

He turned, made a dismissive motion with one hand.

“You need to throw yourself into a fresh case. Surely there are plenty of unsolved homicides awaiting your touch.”

“There is never a shortage of jejune murders out there, unworthy of mental application. Why should I bother?”

Constance continued to watch him. “Consider it a distraction. Sometimes I enjoy nothing more than playing a simple piece written for a beginner. It clears the mind.”

Pendergast wheeled toward her. “Why waste my time with some trifle, when the great mystery of Alban’s murder is staring me in the face? A person of rare ability seeks to draw me into some sort of malevolent game of his own devising. I don’t know my opponent, the name of his game — or even the rules.”

“And that’s exactly why you should immerse yourself in something totally different,” Constance said. “While awaiting the next development, take up some small conundrum, some simple case. Otherwise… you’ll lose your equilibrium.”

These last five words were spoken slowly, and with conviction.

Pendergast’s gaze drifted to the floor. “You’re right, of course.”

“I suggest this because — because I care for you, and I know how obsessive and unhappy this bizarre case could make you. You’ve suffered enough.”

For a moment, Pendergast remained still. Then he glided forward, bent toward her, took her chin in one hand, and — to her great astonishment — kissed her gently.

“You are my oracle,” he murmured.