White Fire

22

In his suite of rooms on the top floor of the Hotel Sebastian, Agent Pendergast laid aside the book he was reading, drained the small cup of espresso that sat on the side table, and then — standing up — walked over to the picture window on the far side of the sitting room. The suite was perfectly silent: Pendergast disliked the clamor of anonymous neighbors and had reserved the rooms on both sides of his own to ensure he would remain undisturbed. He stood at the window, absolutely still, looking down over East Main Street and the light snow that was falling onto the sidewalks, buildings, and passersby, softening the evening scene and bestowing a muted, dream-like quality on the millions of Christmas lights stretching many blocks. He remained there for perhaps ten minutes, gazing out into the night. Then, turning away again, he walked over to the desk, where a FedEx envelope lay, unopened. It was from his factotum in New York, Proctor, addressed to him in care of the Hotel Sebastian.

Pendergast picked up the envelope, slit it open with a smooth motion, and let the contents slip onto the desk. Several sealed envelopes of various sizes fell out, along with an oversize card — embossed and engraved — and a brief note in Proctor’s handwriting. The note said merely that Pendergast’s ward, Constance Greene, had left for Dharamsala, India, where she planned to spend two weeks visiting the nineteenth rinpoche. The fancy card was an invitation to the wedding of Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta and Captain Laura Hayward, which was scheduled for May twenty-ninth of the following spring.

Pendergast’s gaze moved to the sealed envelopes. He glanced over them for a moment without touching any. Then he picked up an airmail envelope and turned it over thoughtfully in his hands. Leaving the others, he walked back to his sitting room chair, sat down, and opened the letter. A single sheet of thin paper lay inside, a letter in a childish hand, written in the old-fashioned German script known as Sütterlin. He began to read.

Pendergast read the letter a second time. Then, very slowly, he refolded it and placed it back into its envelope. Turning off the reading lamp, he sat in the dark, lost in thought, book forgotten, as the minutes ticked by. Finally he stirred again, pulled a cell phone from his suit pocket, and dialed a number with a northern Virginia area code.

“Central Monitoring,” came the crisp, accentless voice.

“This is S. A. Pendergast. Please transfer me to South American Operations, Desk 14-C.”

“Very good.” There was a brief silence, a click, and then another voice came on the line. “Agent Wilkins.”

“Pendergast speaking.”

The voice stiffened slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“What’s the status of Wildfire?”

“Stable but negative. No hits.”

“Your monitoring efforts?”

“All listening posts are active. We’re monitoring national and local police reports and news media twenty-four seven, and we’re electronically combing the daily NSA feeds as well. In addition, we continue to interface with CIA field agents in Brazil and the surrounding countries in search of any…anomalous activity.”

“You have my updated location?”

“In Colorado? Yes.”

“Very good, Agent Wilkins. As always, please inform me immediately if the status of Wildfire changes.”

“We’ll do that, sir.”

Pendergast ended the call. Picking up the house phone, he ordered another espresso from room service. Then he used his cell phone to make another call: this one to a suburb of Cleveland called River Pointe.

The call was answered on the second ring. There was no voice; just the sound of a connection being made.

“Mime?” Pendergast said into the silence.

For a moment, nothing. Then a high, thin voice wheezed: “Is that my main man? My main Secret Agent Man?”

“I’d like an update, please, Mime.”

“All quiet on the Western Front.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a peep.”

“One moment.” Pendergast paused as a room service attendant brought in the espresso. He tipped the man, then waited until he was once again alone. “And you’re confident that you’ve cast your net widely, and finely, enough to spot the…target if he surfaces?”

“Secret Agent Man, I’ve got a series of AI algorithms and heuristic search patterns online that would make you stain your government-issue BVDs. I’m monitoring all official, and a goodly amount of unofficial, web traffic in and out of the target area. You can’t imagine the bandwidth I’m burning through. Why, I’ve had to siphon off server farms from at least half a dozen—”

“I can’t imagine. Nor do I want to.”

“Anyway, the objective’s totally offline, no Facebook updates for this dude. But if the guy’s as sick as you say, then the moment he surfaces — hoo, boy!” A sudden silence. “Um, oops. I keep forgetting Alban’s your son.”

“Just keep up the monitoring operations, please, Mime. And let me know the instant you note anything.”

“You got it.” The phone went dead.

And Pendergast sat in the darkened room, unmoving, for a long time.