Blue Labyrinth

73

John Barbeaux waited in the darkened space of the Palm House. The two men who stayed with him had stretched Pendergast out on the floor. The handcuffed agent remained unconscious despite being slapped and even shocked with the cattle prod. Barbeaux leaned over and placed two fingers on Pendergast’s neck, searching for the carotid pulse. Nothing. He pressed a little harder. There it was: very weak.

He was at death’s door.

At this, Barbeaux felt a vague disquiet. The moment of his triumph had come; the moment he had been thinking about for so long, fantasizing over, savoring — the moment when Pendergast would be confronted with the truth. The moment Alban Pendergast had promised. But it hadn’t quite played out as he’d imagined. Pendergast had been too weak to appreciate the full flavor of his defeat. And then — to Barbeaux’s vast surprise — the man had apologized. He had, essentially, taken responsibility for the sins of the fathers. That shock had taken much of the enjoyment out of his achievement; deprived him of the chance to gloat. At least, he felt fairly certain this was what lay at the heart of his disquietude.

And then, there was the girl…

It was taking his men far longer to retrieve her than he’d anticipated, and he began pacing once again. His movements caused the lone candle on the table to flicker and gutter. He blew it out, leaving the Palm House to the light of the moon.

He heard another fusillade of shots. This time, he pulled out his radio. “Steiner. Report.”

“Sir,” came the voice of his Ops Crew leader.

“Steiner, what’s going on?”

“That bitch took out two of our men. Poured acid on them, or something.”

“Stop shooting at her,” said Barbeaux. “I want her alive.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Where is she now?”

“Up in the treetops of the Tropical Pavilion. She’s got a bottle of acid, and she’s freaking crazy—”

“Three of you with automatic weapons, against one woman, treed, dressed only in a slip, armed with, what, a bottle of acid? Do I have that right?”

A hesitation. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry — what the fuck is the problem, exactly?”

Another hesitation. “There is no problem, sir.”

“Good. There will be if she’s killed. Whoever kills her, dies.”

“Sir… forgive me, sir, but the target — well, he’s either dead or dying. Right?”

“Your point being?”

“So what do we need the girl for? Her retrieval of that plant — it doesn’t matter now. It would be much easier to just throw up a screen of bullets, drop her with—”

“Aren’t you hearing a word I’ve said? Steiner, I want her alive.”

A pause. “What… do we do?”

And this from a professional. Barbeaux couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a deep breath. “Bring your squad into position. Approach diagonally. Liquid falls vertically.”

A silence. “Yes, sir.”

He replaced the radio. A lone girl, up against professional mercenaries, some of them ex-special-forces. And yet she had them spooked. Unbelievable. Only now were his men’s limitations becoming obvious. Crazy? Yeah — crazy like a fox. He had underestimated her. That would not happen again.

He leaned down and touched Pendergast’s neck. Now he could feel no pulse at all, no matter how he probed or pressed. “Goddamn it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He felt cheated, betrayed, robbed of the victory he had worked so long and hard to achieve. He gave the body a savage kick.

He turned toward the two men who had taken up positions on either side of Pendergast. There was no longer any need to keep vigil over the body; there was something more important to accomplish.

Barbeaux looked at them in turn, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Join the others,” he snapped. “Get the girl.”