The Obsidian Chamber

40

Howard Longstreet’s office on the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza was not at all like the usual FBI office, which was how Longstreet liked it. For one thing, it rarely if ever received visitors — the executive associate director for intelligence called on others; they did not call on him. For another, considering Longstreet’s lofty position in the FBI, it was quite sparse. Longstreet eschewed the usual trophies, framed certificates or awards, and photograph of the sitting president normally found in such offices. There was not even a computer — Longstreet did his digital work elsewhere. Instead, there were three walls lined in books of every imaginable subject; a small table barely large enough for a tea service; and two wing chairs of cracked red leather.

Longstreet’s thin and remarkably tall form lounged in one of the wing chairs. He was reading — alternately — from a confidential report in one hand and a copy of George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda in the other. Now and then he stopped to take a sip from an iced beverage sitting on the table.

There was a faint knock on the door, then it opened a crack. “He’s here, sir,” came the voice of his private secretary.

“Send him in,” Longstreet said.

The door opened wider and A. X. L. Pendergast entered the room. Now, two days after his rescue, his rather distracted face still bore the marks of numerous scrapes and abrasions, but he was once again wearing his trademark black suit.

“Aloysius,” Longstreet said. “Good morning.” He gestured to the empty chair — a little dusty from disuse — and Pendergast took a seat.

Longstreet gestured at his drink. “Care for an Arnold Palmer?”

“Thank you, no.”

Longstreet took a sip of his own. “You’ve been busy.”

“One could say that.”

Those few people who knew Pendergast well would notice that he addressed Longstreet differently from the way he addressed others. There was somewhat less irony in his tone, and his normal air of remote detachment was tempered with something almost like deference. It was the vestigial effect, Longstreet knew, of being in the company of the man who had previously been one’s superior officer.

“I want to thank you for my rescue,” Pendergast said, “and for getting me back to New York so quickly.”

Longstreet waved a dismissive hand. Then he sat forward and pinioned Pendergast with bright black eyes. “If you want to thank me, you can do so by answering a few questions — with the honesty that I’ve always expected and demanded of you.”

Pendergast went a little still. “I’ll answer however I can.”

“Who brought you into the FBI?”

“You know who did: Michael Decker.”

“Yes. Michael Decker.” Longstreet ran a hand through his long gray hair. “My direct report, and your right-hand man, during our time in the Ghost Company. He saved your life twice during the later tactical ops, did he not?”

“Three times.”

Longstreet raised an eyebrow as if in surprise, although in fact he already knew the answers to all these questions. “And what was the motto of the Ghost Company?”

“Fidelitas usque ad mortem.”

“Quite right. ‘Loyalty unto death.’ Mike was close to you, was he not?”

“He was like a brother to me.”

“And he was like a son to me. After the Ghost Company, you were both like sons to me. And since his death, I’ve tried to take on his role so far as it pertains to you. I’ve done what I can to see you have free rein to work on the cases that most interest you — because, after all, that is what you’re best at, and it would be a shame to waste or, God forbid, lose your services. I’ve also, on occasion, shielded you from the official wrath of the Bureau. So far as I could, of course; there were one or two occasions when not even I could help completely.”

“I understand, H. And I’ve always been grateful.”

“But it’s Mike Decker’s death I want to talk about right now.” Longstreet took another sip of his drink.

Pendergast nodded slowly. Three years earlier, Decker had been found in his Washington, DC, home — murdered, with a bayonet pinning his head to his office chair.

“At first, there were some who suspected you as being the killer — I, of course, was never among them. Later it became clear it was your brother, Diogenes, who murdered Mike and tried to frame you for the job.”

Longstreet peered into his drink. “Now here’s where we get to the heart of the matter. A few months later, once you had been cleared of the false charges, you took me aside and said — not in these exact words, of course—‘You didn’t hear it from me, but my brother is dead.’ When I asked you for proof, you went on to inform me that, while you had not seen the body with your own eyes, you had every proof necessary to confirm his death. You asked me to refrain from further investigation and to take your word for it. You further explained that you did not want me, your friend and mentor and erstwhile commanding officer, to waste countless hours conducting what would ultimately prove a fruitless chase. You suggested that, when the time was right, I should quietly bury Mike Decker’s death among the cold cases. And so I did.”

Longstreet sat forward a little further and laid a fingertip lightly on Pendergast’s knee. “But therein lies the rub. After your disappearance from and apparent drowning near Exmouth, Massachusetts, we of course sent a field team to do a careful investigation. While we turned up no signs of you, either dead or alive, we did lift three prints — all from a wooden observation pier overlooking the town beach — that belonged to your brother. Diogenes.”

Longstreet sat back and let this linger in the air for a moment before continuing.

“I kept the discovery silent. But you can imagine what went through my mind. As members of the Ghost Company — one of the smallest, most secret, most intensely loyal outfits in the military — we all took blood oaths to avenge any member who died at the hands of another. When you specifically told me your brother, Mike Decker’s murderer, was dead, you were, in effect, asking me to put aside my blood oath. Now, years later, there is very good evidence that he was not dead, after all.” He pinned Pendergast with his gaze. “What’s going on, Aloysius? Did you lie to me, betray our common oath, because the killer was your brother?”

“No,” Pendergast said immediately. “I thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead. But he’s not.”

Longstreet remained still for a moment. Then he nodded, settling into his chair, waiting.

Pendergast’s expression went far away. Then, after a few minutes, he roused himself.

“I’m going to have to share some history with you,” he said. “Some very private family history. You mentioned that Diogenes tried to frame me for Mike Decker’s murder — among others. For a while, he was successful, and I was imprisoned.”

Pendergast went silent again for a moment. “I have a ward by the name of Constance Greene. She has the appearance of a woman in her early twenties. She also has a very difficult history that’s not important now; what is important is that she is very fragile mentally and emotionally. She has a hair-trigger temper. Anything that threatens her or those few close to her is likely to precipitate a violent, even homicidal, response.” He drew a deep breath. “When I was in prison, Diogenes seduced Constance and then discarded her with a cruel note suggesting that she kill herself rather than live with the shame. In response, Constance pursued Diogenes with single-minded fury. She chased him across Europe and finally caught up with him on the island of Stromboli. There, she threw him into the lava flow streaming down from the Stromboli volcano.”

Longstreet’s only reaction was to raise his bushy eyebrows.

“Both Constance and I believed Diogenes to be dead. And in the intervening years, there has been no reason for me to believe otherwise. Until my final days in Exmouth.”

“He contacted you?” Longstreet asked.

“No. But I saw him, or thought I saw him, on one occasion — observing me from a distance. Later on, I came upon proof of his being in the vicinity. But before I could do anything about him, I was washed out to sea and held prisoner. And in the weeks since, it appears that—” Pendergast paused to compose himself— “Diogenes has managed to… interfere with Constance again.”

“Interfere?”

“All evidence points to his having either kidnapped her, drugged her, or somehow Stockholm-syndromed her into becoming his accomplice. Whatever the case, they were seen leaving — escaping — my Riverside Drive residence together two mornings ago.”

Longstreet frowned. “Stockholm syndrome would imply active participation on her part. Kidnapping would not. There’s a big difference.”

“The evidence suggests that Constance actively assisted in her abduction.”

The office fell into silence. Longstreet tented his long, narrow fingers and rested his huge shaggy head on them. Pendergast remained motionless as a marble statue in the old wing chair. Many minutes passed. Finally, Pendergast cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t share these details with you before,” he said. “They’re painful. Mortifying. But… I need your help. I’m aware of the blood oath we took. Previously, my nerve failed me where Diogenes was concerned. But I now realize there is only one answer: my brother must die. We must work together to track him down and make sure he doesn’t survive apprehension. It’s as you say: we owe it to Mike Decker to make sure he’s taken care of once and for all.”

“And the young girl?” Longstreet asked. “Constance?”

“She must remain unharmed. We can sort out her involvement once Diogenes is dead.”

Longstreet thought for just a moment. Then, silently, he extended his hand.

Just as silently, Pendergast shook it.