Blue Labyrinth

35

Pendergast lay, fully dressed, on the king-size bed in his suite of rooms in the Copacabana Palace Hotel. The lights were off and, although it was just noon, the room was very dark. The faintest roar of surf from Copacabana Beach filtered through the closed windows and shuttered blinds.

As he lay there, quite still, a trembling washed over him, almost a palsy, that shook his frame with increasing violence. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and balled his hands into fists, trying through sheer force of will to make this sudden, unexpected attack pass. After a few minutes the worst of the trembling began to lessen. It did not, however, go entirely away.

“I will master this,” Pendergast murmured under his breath.

At first — when he’d initially noted the symptoms — Pendergast had held out hope that a way could be found to reverse them. When he found no answer in the past, he began searching the present, in the hope of uncovering the methods of his tormentor. But the more he comprehended the diabolical complexity of the plot to poison him, and the more he reflected on the story of his ancestor Hezekiah and his doomed wife, the more he had realized such hope was a cruel delusion. What drove him forward now was a burning need to see this investigation — which seemed ever more likely to be his final investigation — through… while he still had time.

He forced his thoughts back to that morning’s meeting — and the words of the Brazilian colonel. There are only two places he could have hidden, he’d said of Alban. The jungle… or a favela.

Other words came into Pendergast’s head, unbidden. They were the parting words Alban had given him — on that day, eighteen months ago, when he had walked, with an almost insolent lack of hurry, into the Brazilian forest. I have a long and productive life ahead of me. The world is now my oyster — and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

Pendergast held the image of that parting in his head, recalling every detail to the utmost extent of his intellectual rigor.

He knew, of course, that his son had begun those eighteen months in the jungles of Brazil — he’d seen him melt into the unbroken line of trees with his own eyes. But as he’d told the colonel, he was also certain that Alban would not have stayed there. There would not have been enough to occupy him, to keep him entertained — and, most important, to allow him to plan his various schemes. He had not returned to the town of his birth, Nova Godói — that was now in the hands of the Brazilian government, under a kind of military receivership. Besides, nothing was left for Alban there anymore: the complex had been destroyed, its scientists and soldiers and young leaders now dead, in prison, rehabilitated, or scattered to the winds. No — the more Pendergast considered the matter, the more certain he was that, sooner rather than later, Alban would have emerged from the jungle — and slipped into a favela.

It would be the perfect place for him. No police to worry about, no security cameras, no surveillance or intelligence operatives shadowing him. With his keen intelligence, criminal genius, and sociopathic outlook, he might well have something to offer the drug lords who ran the favela. All this would give Alban the time and space he needed to develop his plans for the future.

The world is now my oyster — and I promise you it’ll be a more interesting place with me in it.

Pendergast was equally certain which favela Alban would have chosen. Always the biggest and best for him.

But these answers simply led to other questions. What had happened to Alban within the City of Angels? What strange journey brought Alban from the favela to his doorstep? And what was the connection between him and the attack at the Salton Sea?

I fear to speculate what your next move will be. The next move was obvious, of course.

Pendergast took several deep, shuddering breaths. Then he raised himself from the bed and placed his feet on the floor. The room rocked around him and the trembling turned into a painful, racking muscle spasm that slowly released. He had begun taking a regimen of self-prescribed drugs, including atropine, chelators, and glucagon, along with painkillers to keep him going during the fits that were beginning to plague him on a steadily increasing basis. But he was shooting blindly in the dark — and so far they had done little good.

He felt his body preparing to spasm again. This would not do — not for what he had next in mind.

He waited until the second spasm was over, then made his way to a desk pushed against the far wall. His toilet kit and duty holster lay upon it, the latter containing his Les Baer .45. Next to it rested several spare magazines.

He sat down at the desk and pulled the weapon from its holster. He’d had no difficulty bringing it into Brazil; he’d checked in with the TSA at Kennedy Airport, following standard protocol, and he had carry permits for several foreign countries. It had not passed through a scanner; it had not been x-rayed.

Not that it would matter if it had.

Steadying his fingers, Pendergast lifted the gun and — reaching into the barrel — pulled out a small rubber plug with his fingernails. Upending the gun, he carefully let a miniature syringe and several hypodermic needles slide out of the barrel and onto the table. He fitted one of the needles to the syringe and placed it to one side.

Next, he turned his attention to one of the spare magazines. He removed the top round, and — taking a miniature set of pliers from his coat pocket — carefully pried the bullet from its casing. Spreading out a piece of writing paper from inside the desk, he carefully turned the casing over and let its contents drain onto the paper. Instead of gunpowder, a fine white powder streamed out.

Pendergast pushed the empty shell and useless round away with the back of his hand. Reaching for his toilet kit and pulling it toward him, he fumbled inside and pulled out two vials of prescription pills. One contained a schedule 2 semi-synthetic opioid used for relief of pain; the other, a muscle relaxant. Taking two pills from each bottle, he placed them on the sheet of paper and, using a spoon from a nearby room service tray, ground each into fine powder.

There were now three small mounds on the sheet of paper. Pendergast mixed them together carefully, scooped the powder into the spoon. Taking a lighter from his toilet kit, he held it beneath the spoon and flicked it into life. Under heat, the mixture began to darken, bubble, and liquefy.

Pendergast let the lighter drop to the desk and held the spoon with both hands as another painful spasm racked his body. He waited a minute, allowing the toxic, dangerous mixture to cool. Then he dipped the needle into the liquid and filled the syringe.

He let the empty spoon fall to the table with a quiet sigh; the hardest part was over. Now he reached one last time into his toilet kit and removed a length of elastic. Rolling back one sleeve, he tied the rubber around his upper arm, made a fist, pulled the rubber tight with his teeth.

A vein sprang into view in the inside of his elbow.

Holding the elastic carefully between his teeth, he lifted the syringe with his free hand. Timing his movements between the spasms of his limbs, he inserted the needle into the vein. He waited a moment, then parted his teeth slightly, releasing the elastic. Slowly, judiciously, he slid the plunger home.

He let his eyes drift shut and sat there for several minutes, the needle drooping from his arm. Then, opening his eyes again, he plucked out the syringe and put it aside. He took a shallow breath, cautiously, like a bather testing the temperature of water.

The pain was gone. The spasms had abated. He was weak, disoriented — but he could function.

Dreamily, like an old man awakened from sleep, he rose from the chair. Then he shrugged into his holster, put on his jacket. He carefully removed his FBI shield and ID and locked them in the in-room safe, keeping his passport and wallet. With a final glance around, he exited the hotel suite.