Douglas Preston - White Fire

“What’s a Fourteener?”

Ted chuckled. “Man, you really are an eastern girl. Colorado has fifty-five mountains over fourteen thousand feet — we call them Fourteeners. To climb them all is the holy grail of mountaineering in the U.S. — at least, in the lower forty-eight.”

“Impressive.”

Their food arrived: shepherd’s pie for Corrie, a burger for Ted, with another pint for him. Corrie declined a refill, thinking about the scary mountain road up to her dentist’s-office-on-the-hill.

“So what about you?” Ted asked. “I’m curious about how you know the man in black.”

“Pendergast? He’s my…” God, how to put it? “He’s sort of my guardian.”

“Yeah? Like your godfather or something?”

“Something like that. I helped him on a case a few years ago, and ever since he’s kind of taken an interest in me.”

“He’s one cool dude — no kidding. Is he really an FBI agent?”

“One of the best.”

A new singer took over the mike — much better than the previous one — and they listened for a while, talking and finishing their meal. Ted tried to pay but Corrie was ready for him and insisted on splitting the check.

As they got up to leave, Ted said, his voice dropping low: “Want to see my tiny apartment?”

Corrie hesitated. She was tempted — very tempted. Ted looked like he was all sinew and muscle, lean and hard, and yet charming and goofy, with the nicest brown eyes. But she had never quite been able to feel good about a relationship if she slept with the guy on the first date.

“Not tonight, thanks. I’ve got to get home, get my sleep,” she said, but added a smile to let him know it wasn’t absolute.

“No problem. We’ll have to do this again — soon.”

“I’d like that.”

As she drove away from the restaurant, heading toward the dark woods and thinking about crawling into a freezing bed, Corrie started to regret her decision not to “see” Ted’s tiny apartment.

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.

December 6

École Mère-Église

St. Moritz, Switzerland

Dear Father,

It seems a long time since you last visited. I have been counting the days. They number one hundred and twelve. I hope you will again soon come.

I am treated well. The food here is very good. On Saturday suppers we have Linzer Torte for desert. Have you ever eaten Linzer Torte? It is good.

A lot of the teachers here speak German but I try always to use my English. They say my English is getting better. The teachers are very nice except for Madame Montaine who always smells of rose water. I like History and Science but not Mathematiks. I am not good at Mathematiks.

In the autumn I enjoyed walking on the hill sides after classes but now there is too much snow. They tell me that over the Christmas holidays I will be taught how to ski. I think I will like that.

Thank you for your letter. Please send me another. I hope we shall meet again soon.

Love,

Your son,

Tristram

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.”