Dance Of Death

FIFTEEN

The big black limo, tearing southward on York Avenue, appeared seconds after D'Agosta reached the corner. It slewed to a stop; the door flew open. Even before D'Agosta shut the door, the limo was accelerating from the curb, driver leaning on the horn, cars behind them screeching to a halt to let the big car pass.

D'Agosta turned in astonishment. A stranger sat in the seat beside him: tall, slender, well tanned, dressed in an impeccable gray suit, slim black attaché case across his knees.

"Don't be alarmed, Vincent," said the familiar voice of Pendergast. "An emergency has forced me to change my spots again. Today I am an investment banker."

"Emergency?"

Pendergast handed D'Agosta a sheet of paper, carefully sealed within layers of glassine. It read:

Nine of Swords: Torrance Hamilton

Ten of Swords: Charles Duchamp

King of Swords, Reversed: Michael Decker

The Five of Swords-?

"Diogenes is telegraphing his move in advance. Baiting me." Disguise or no disguise, Pendergast's face was as grim as D'Agosta had ever seen it.

"What are those-tarot cards?"

"Diogenes always had an interest in tarot. As you may have guessed, those cards involve death and betrayal."

"Who's Michael Decker?"

"He was my mentor when I first moved to the FBI. Before, I'd been in more, ah, exotic forms of government service, and he helped me make a rather difficult transition. Mike's highly placed in Quantico these days, and he's been invaluable in clearing the way for my somewhat unorthodox methods. It was thanks to Mike that I was able to get the FBI involved so quickly on the Jeremy Grove murder last fall, and he helped smooth some ruffled feathers after a small case I handled in the Midwest prior to that."

"So Diogenes is threatening another one of your friends."

"Yes. I can't raise Mike on his cell or at home. His secretary tells me he's on elevated assignment, which means they won't release any details about it-even if I were to reveal myself as a colleague. I must warn him in person, if I can find him."

"As an FBI agent, though, he must be pretty hard to get the jump on."

"He's one of the best field agents in the Bureau. I fear that would deter Diogenes not at all."

D'Agosta glanced back at the letter. "Your brother wrote this?"

"Yes. Curious: it doesn't look like his handwriting-more like a crude attempt to disguise his handwriting, rather. Far too crude, in fact, for him. And yet there's something strangely familiar about it…" Pendergast's voice trailed off.

"How'd you get it?"

"It arrived at my Dakota apartment early this morning. I employ a doorman there, Martyn, to take care of special things for me. He got it to Proctor, and Proctor got it to me through a prior arrangement."

"Proctor knows you're alive?"

"Yes. Constance Greene does, too, as of last night."

"What about her? Does she still think you're dead?"

D'Agosta didn't say the name-he didn't need to. Pendergast would know he was referring to Viola Maskelene.

"I haven't communicated with her. It would put her in grave danger. Ignorance, as painful as it is, will keep her safe."

There was a brief, awkward silence.

D'Agosta changed direction. "So your brother took this letter to the Dakota? Aren't you having the place watched?"

"Of course. Very carefully. It was delivered by a derelict. When we caught him and questioned him, he said he was paid to deliver it by a man on Broadway. His description was too vague to be of use."

The limo sheared toward the on-ramp for the FDR Drive, leaning into the turn, wheels smoking.

"You think your FBI friend will listen?"

"Mike Decker knows me."

"It seems to me that you rushing down to warn Decker is exactly what Diogenes expects."

"Correct. It is like a forced move in chess: I'm falling into a trap and there's not a thing I can do about it." Pendergast looked at D'Agosta, eyes bright even behind brown contact lenses. "We must find some way to reverse the pattern, get on the offensive. Have you learned anything more from Captain Hayward?"

"They recovered some fibers from the site. That and the ropes are the only hard evidence they've got so far. There are some other weird things about the murder, too. For example, it seems Diogenes stunned Duchamp with a blow to the head, then doctored and bandaged the injury before killing him."

Pendergast shook his head. "Vincent, I must know more. I must. Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical. I have, shall we say, a connection in New Orleans who is getting me the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. But I have no such connection here, for the Duchamp case."

D'Agosta nodded. "Understood."

"There's another thing. Diogenes seems to be working forward, choosing his victims chronologically. That means you might soon be at risk. We worked together on my first really large-scale case on the FBI-the museum murders."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Don't worry about me."

"It seems Diogenes has begun to take pleasure in giving me advance warning. We might assume you and other potential targets are temporarily safe-at least until I receive the next message. Even so, Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. The safest thing is to go back to work immediately. Surround yourself with police, remain in the precinct house when not on call. Most important, alter all your habits-every single one. Temporarily move your residence. Take cabs instead of walking or riding the subway. Go to bed and rise at different hours. Change everything in your life that might cause you danger-or danger to those you care about. An attempt on your life could easily result in collateral damage to others, in particular Captain Hayward. Vincent, you're a good officer-I don't need to tell you what to do."

The limo came screeching to a stop. The blacktopped expanse of the East 34th Street Heliport lay directly ahead, its stubby, three-hundred-foot runway gleaming dully in the morning sun. A red Bell 206 Jet Ranger was waiting on the tarmac, rotors turning. Pendergast abruptly slipped into investment banker mode, his face relaxing, the glittering hatred and determination vanishing from his eyes, leaving behind a pleasant blandness.

"One other thing," D'Agosta said.

Pendergast turned back.

D'Agosta reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved something, held it out in a closed fist. Pendergast reached out and D'Agosta dropped into his palm a platinum medallion, slightly melted along one edge, on a chain. On one side of the medallion was the image of a lidless eye hovering over a phoenix, rising from the ashes of a fire. A crest of some sort had been stamped into the other side.

Pendergast stared at it, a strange expression passing over his face.

"Count Fosco was wearing this when I went back to his castle with the Italian police. He showed it to me, privately, as proof you were dead. You'll see the bastard engraved his own crest on the back-his final trick against me. I thought you'd want it."

Pendergast turned it over, peered at it, turned it over again.

"I took it from him the night I… paid him a final visit. Maybe it'll bring you good luck."

"Normally I despise luck, but at the moment I find myself in singular need of it. Thank you, Vincent." Pendergast's voice was almost too low to be heard above the revving of the rotors. He placed the medallion around his neck, tucked it into his shirt, and grasped D'Agosta's hand.

And then, without another word, he strode across the tarmac toward the waiting chopper.