Dance Of Death

SIXTY-FOUR

D'Agosta and Pendergast sat, without speaking, inside the Mark VII on a bleak stretch of Vermilyea Avenue in the Inwood section of Upper Manhattan. The sun was dropping slowly through layers of gray, setting with a final slash of blood-red light, which cast a momentary glow over the dusky tenements and bleak warehouses before it was extinguished in bitter night.

They were listening to 1010 WINS, New York's all-news radio station. The station repeated its top stories on a twenty-two-minute cycle, and it had been continuously broadcasting news of the museum diamond heist, the announcer's excited voice in contrast to the somber mood inside the vehicle. Just ten minutes earlier, a new story had broken, a related but even more spectacular item: the theft of the real Lucifer's Heart from Affiliated Transglobal Insurance headquarters. D'Agosta had no doubt the police had tried desperately to keep a lid on that one, but there was no way something that explosive could be kept under wraps.

"…the most brazen diamond theft in history, taking place right under the noses of museum and insurance company executives, and following hard on the heels of the diamond heist at the museum. Sources close to the investigation say the same thief is suspected of both crimes…"

Pendergast was listening intently, his face as hard and pale as marble, his body motionless. His cell phone sat on the seat between them.

"Police are questioning George Kaplan, a well-known gemologist, who was on his way to identify Lucifer's Heart for Affiliated Transglobal Insurance when he was abducted near his Manhattan town house. Sources close to the investigation say that the thief then assumed his identity in order to gain access to the diamond. Police believe he may still be hiding in the Affiliated Transglobal building, where a massive manhunt is still under way…"

Pendergast leaned over and shut off the radio.

"How do you know Diogenes will hear the news?" D'Agosta asked.

"He'll hear it. For once, he's at a loss. He didn't get the diamond. He'll be in agony, on edge-listening, waiting, thinking. And once he learns what's happened, there will be only one course of action available to him."

"You mean, he'll know it was you who stole it."

"Absolutely. What other conclusion could he come to?" Pendergast smiled mirthlessly. "He'll know. And with no other way to send me a message, he'll call."

Sodium lights had come up, burning pale yellow along the length of the empty avenue. The temperature had dropped into single digits and a brutal wind swept up from the Hudson, blowing before it a few glittering flakes of snow.

The cell phone rang.

Pendergast hesitated just a second. Then he turned it over, punching the tiny speaker on the back into life. He said nothing.

"Ave, frater" came the voice from the speaker.

A silence. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. In the reflected glow of the streetlights, his face was the color of alabaster. His lips moved, but no sound came.

"Is that any way to greet a long-lost brother? With disapproving silence?"

"I am here," Pendergast said in a strained voice.

"You're there! And how honored I am to be graced with your presence. It almost makes up for the vile experience of being forced to call you. But leave us not bandy civilities. I have but one question: did you steal Lucifer's Heart?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You know why."

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then a slow exhalation of breath. "Brother, brother, brother…"

"I am no brother of yours."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong. We are brothers, whether we like it or not. And that relationship defines who we are. You know that, don't you, Aloysius?"

"I know that you're a sick man desperately in need of help."

"True: I am sick. No one recovers from the disease of being born. There is no cure to that sickness, short of death. But when you get down to it, we're all sick, you more than most. Yes, we are brothers- in sickness as well as in evil."

Again, Pendergast had no response.

"But here we are, bandying civilities again! Shall we get down to business?"

No answer.

"Then I will lead the discussion. First, a big, fat bravo for pulling off in one afternoon what I took years to plan-and, ultimately, failed to accomplish." D'Agosta could hear a slow patting of hands over the phone. "I assume this is all about making a little trade. A certain personage in exchange for the gemstone. Why else would you have gone to what was undoubtedly a bit of trouble?"

"You assume correctly. But first…" Pendergast's voice faltered.

"You want to know if she's still alive!"

This time it was Diogenes who let the silence draw out. D'Agosta stole a glance at Pendergast. He was motionless, save for the twitch of a small muscle below the right eye.

"Yes, she's still alive-at present."

"You hurt her in any way and I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth."

"Tut-tut. But while we're on the subject of women, let's talk a little bit about this young thing you've kept cloistered in the mansion of our late lamented ancestor. If indeed she is 'young,' which I'm beginning to doubt. I find myself most curious about her. Her in particular, in fact. I sense that what one sees on the surface is what one sees of an iceberg: the merest fraction. There are hidden facets to her, mirrors within mirrors. And at a fundamental level, I sense that something in her is broken."

During this speech, Pendergast had stiffened visibly. "Listen to me, Diogenes. Keep away from her. You come close to her again, approach her in any way, and I'll-"

"Do what? Kill me? Then my blood would be on your hands- more than it already is-as well as that of your four dear friends. Because you, frater, are responsible for all this. You know it. You made me what I am."

"I made you nothing."

"Well said! Well said!" A dry, almost desiccated laugh came over the tiny speaker. Listening, D'Agosta felt a chill of repulsion.

"Let's get to it," Pendergast managed to say.

"Get to it? Just when the conversation was becoming interesting? Don't you want to talk about how utterly and completely responsible you are for all this? Ask any family shrink: they'll tell you how important it is that we talk it out. Frater."

Suddenly, D'Agosta could take it no longer. "Diogenes! Listen to me, you sick fuck: you want the diamond? Then you cut with the bullshit."

"No diamond, no Viola."

"If you hurt Viola, I'll take a sledgehammer to the diamond and mail you the dust. If you think I'm kidding, keep talking."

"Empty threats."

D'Agosta brought his fist down on the dashboard, making a resounding crash.

"Careful! Easy!" The voice was suddenly high and panicked.

"So shut the hell up."

"Stupidity is an elemental force, and I respect it."

"You're still talking."

"We'll do this on my terms," said Diogenes briskly. "Do you hear me? My terms!"

"With two conditions," Pendergast said quietly. "One: the exchange must take place on the island of Manhattan, and within six hours. Two: it must be set up in such a way that you can't renege. You tell me your plan and I'll be the judge. You have one chance to get it right."

"That sounds like five conditions, not two. But of course, brother-of course! I have to say, though, this is a knotty little problem. I'll call you back in ten minutes."

"Make it five."

"More conditions?" And the phone went dead.

There was a long silence. A sheen of moisture had appeared on Pendergast's brow. He plucked a silk handkerchief from his suit jacket, dabbed his forehead, replaced it.

"Can we trust him?" D'Agosta asked.

"No. Never. But I don't think he'll have enough time to arrange an effective double cross within six hours. And he wants Lucifer's Heart-wants it with a passion you and I cannot comprehend. I think we can trust that passion, if we can trust nothing else."

The phone rang again, and Pendergast pressed the speaker button.

"Yes?"

"Okay, frater. Time for a pop quiz in urban geography. You know of a place called the Iron Clock?"

"The railroad turntable?"

"Excellent! And you know its location?"

"Yes."

"Good. We'll do it there. You'll no doubt want to bring your trusty sidekick, Vinnie."

"I intend to."

"Listen to me carefully. I'll meet you there at… six minutes to midnight. Enter through tunnel VI and step slowly out into the light. Vinnie can hang back in the dark and cover you, if you wish. Have him bring his weapon of choice. That will keep me honest. Feel free to bring your own Les Baer or whatever fashion accessory you're carrying these days. There'll be no gunplay unless something goes wrong. And nothing's going to go wrong. I want my diamond, and you want your Viola da Gamba. If you know the layout of the Iron Clock, you'll realize it is the perfect venue for our, shall we say, transaction."

"I understand."

"So. Do I have your approval, brother? Satisfied that I can't cheat you?"

Pendergast was silent for a moment. "Yes."

"Then a presto."

And the phone went dead.

"That bastard gives me the creeps," said D'Agosta.

Pendergast sat in silence for a long time. Then he removed the handkerchief again, wiped his forehead, refolded the handkerchief.

D'Agosta noticed Pendergast's hands were trembling slightly.

"You all right?" he asked.

Pendergast shook his head. "Let's get this over with." But rather than move, he remained still, as if in deep thought. Abruptly, he seemed to come to some decision. And then he turned and-to D'Agosta's surprise-took his hand.

"There's something I'm going to ask you to do," Pendergast said. "I warn you in advance: it will go against all your instincts as a partner and as a friend. But you must believe me when I say it is the only way. There is no other solution. Will you do it?"

"Depends on what it is."

"Unacceptable. I want your promise first."

D'Agosta hesitated.

A look of concern settled over Pendergast's face. "Vincent, please. It's absolutely critical that I can rely on you in this moment of extremity."

D'Agosta sighed. "Okay. I promise."

Pendergast's tired frame relaxed in obvious relief. "Good. Now, please listen carefully."