Blue Labyrinth

4

It was six thirty that evening when Pendergast’s cell phone rang. The screen registered UNKNOWN NUMBER.

“Special Agent Pendergast?” The voice was anonymous, monotonal — and yet familiar.

“Yes.”

“I am your friend in need.”

“I’m listening.”

A dry chuckle. “We met once before. I came to your house. We drove beneath the George Washington Bridge. I gave you a file.”

“Of course. Regarding Locke Bullard. You’re the gentleman from—” Pendergast stopped himself before mentioning the man’s place of employment.

“Yes. And you are wise to leave those pesky government acronyms out of unprotected cell phone conversations.”

“What can I do for you?” Pendergast asked.

“You should ask instead: What can I do for you?”

“What makes you think I need help?”

“Two words. Operation Wildfire.”

“I see. Where shall we meet?”

“Do you know the FBI firing range on West Twenty-Second Street?”

“Of course.”

“Half an hour. Firing bay sixteen.” The connection went dead.

Pendergast entered through the double doors of the long, low building at the corner of Twenty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue, showed his FBI shield to the woman at the security barrier, descended a short flight of stairs, showed his shield again to the range master, picked up several paper targets and a pair of ear protectors, and entered the range proper. He walked along the forward section, past agents, trainees, and firearms instructors, to firing bay 16. There were protective sound baffles between every two firing bays, and he noticed that both bay 16 and the one beside it, 17, were empty. The report of gunfire from the other bays was only partially muffled by the baffles, and — always sensitive to sound — Pendergast fitted the hearing protection over his ears.

As he was laying out four empty magazines and a box of ammunition on the little shelf before him, he sensed a presence enter the bay. A tall, thin, middle-aged man in a gray suit, with deep-set eyes and a face rather lined for his age, had entered it. Pendergast recognized him immediately. His hair was perhaps a little thinner than the only other time Pendergast had seen him — some four years before — but in every other way he looked unchanged, bland, still surrounded with an air of mild anonymity. He was the sort of person that, if you passed him on the street, you would be unable to furnish a description even moments later.

The man did not return Pendergast’s glance, instead pulling a Sig Sauer P229 from his jacket and placing it on the shelf of bay 17. He did not don hearing protection, and with a discreet motion — still not looking Pendergast’s way — he made a motion for the agent to remove his own.

“Interesting choice of venue,” Pendergast said, looking downrange. “Rather less private than a car under the approach to the George Washington Bridge.”

“The very lack of privacy makes it even more anonymous. Just two feds, practicing at a firing range. No phones to tap, no wires to record. And of course, with all this racket, no chance for eavesdropping.”

“The range master’s going to remember the appearance of a CIA operative at an FBI range — especially since you fellows usually don’t carry concealed weapons.”

“I have my share of alternative identities. He won’t remember anything specific.”

Pendergast opened the box of ammo and began loading the magazines.

“I like your custom 1911,” the man said, glancing at Pendergast’s weapon. “Les Baer Thunder Ranch Special? Nice-looking piece.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why we’re here.”

“I’ve been keeping something of an eye on you since our first meeting,” the man said, still without making eye contact. “When I learned of your involvement in initiating Wildfire, I grew intrigued. A low-profile but intense monitoring operation, by certain members of both the FBI and CIA, for the location of a youth who may or may not be calling himself Alban, who may or may not be in hiding in Brazil or adjoining countries, who speaks Portuguese, English, and German fluently, and who above all things should be considered exceptionally capable and extremely dangerous.”

Instead of replying, Pendergast clipped a target — a marksman bull’s-eye with a red central X — to the rail and, pressing the OUT button on the baffle to his left, ran it out the full twenty-five yards. The man beside him clipped on an FBI qualification target — a gray bottle-like shape, without scaling or marking — and ran it out to the end of bay 17.

“And just today I get wind of an NYPD report in which you state that your son — also named Alban — was left on your doorstep, dead.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Hence, this meeting.”

Pendergast picked up one of the magazines, charged his weapon. “Please don’t think me rude if I ask you to get to the point.”

“I can help you. You kept your word on the Locke Bullard case and saved me a lot of trouble. I believe in reciprocation. And like I said, I’ve kept track of you. You’re a rather interesting person. It’s entirely possible that you could be of assistance to me again, down the road. A partnership, if you will. I’d like to bank that.”

Pendergast didn’t respond.

“Surely you know you can trust me,” the man said over the muffled, yet omnipresent, sound of gunfire. “I’m the soul of discretion — as are you. Any information you give me stops with me. I may have resources you wouldn’t otherwise have access to.”

After a moment, Pendergast nodded once. “I’ll accept your offer. As for background, I have two sons, twins, whose existence I only learned of a year and a half ago. One of those sons — Alban — is, or was, a sociopathic killer of a most dangerous type. He’s the so-called Hotel Killer, a case that remains open and unsolved by the NYPD. I wish the case to remain so, and have taken steps to ensure that it shall. Shortly after I became aware of his existence, he disappeared into the jungles of Brazil and was neither seen nor heard from until he appeared on my doorstep last night. I always believed that he would surface one day… and that the results would be catastrophic. For that reason, I initiated Operation Wildfire.”

“But Wildfire never received any hits.”

“None.”

The nameless man charged his own weapon, racked a bullet into the chamber, took aim with both hands, and discharged the entire magazine into the qualification target. Every shot landed within the gray bottle. The sound was deafening within the baffled space.

“Until yesterday, who knew that Alban was your son?” the man asked as he ejected his magazine.

“Only a handful of people — most of them family or house help.”

“And yet someone not only located and captured Alban, but also managed to kill him, leave him on your doorstep, and then escape practically undetected.”

Pendergast nodded.

“In short, our perp was able to do what the CIA and FBI could not, plus a lot more.”

“Exactly. The perpetrator has great ability. He may well be in law enforcement himself. Which is why I have no faith the NYPD will make any headway on this case.”

“I understand Angler’s a good cop.”

“Alas, that’s the problem. He’s just good enough to become a gross impediment to my own effort to find the killer. Better that he were incompetent.”

“Which is why you’re being so unhelpful?”

Pendergast said nothing.

“You’ve no idea why they killed him, or what their message to you was?”

“That’s the essential horror of it: I have absolutely no clue as to either the messenger or the message.”

“And your other son?”

“I’ve arranged for him to be in protective custody abroad.”

The man loaded another magazine into the Sig, released the slide, emptied the magazine into the target, and pressed the button to reel the target in. “And what are your feelings? About the murder of your son, I mean.”

Pendergast did not answer for a long time. “In the parlance of the day, the best answer would be: I am conflicted. He is dead. That is a good outcome. On the other hand… he was my son.”

“What are your plans when — or if — you find the responsible party?”

Again, Pendergast did not reply. Instead he raised the Les Baer in his right hand, left hand behind his back, in an unsupported stance. Briskly, shot after careful shot, he emptied the magazine into the target, then quick-changed to a fresh magazine, shifted the gun into his left hand, turned to face the target once again, this time from the other way, and — much faster now — again fired all seven rounds. Then he pressed the IN button on the wall of the baffle to reel back the target.

The CIA operative looked over. “You tore the bull’s-eye completely out. One-handed, and a bladed stance, no less — using both strong and weak hands.” There was a pause. “Was that your answer to my question?”

“I was merely taking advantage of the moment to hone my skills.”

“You don’t need honing. In any case, I’ll put my resources to work immediately. As soon as I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

The operative nodded. Then, fitting his earmuffs to his head, he put the Sig Sauer to one side and began refilling his own magazines.