Douglas Preston - Brimstone

"Sergeant," Mandrell said, shaking his hand. "Everything's set up. Is Agent, ah, Pendergast-"

"Here," said Pendergast, striding into the room. His beautifully cut black suit, pressed to perfection, shimmered under the artificial light. D'Agosta wondered just how many identical black suits the guy owned. Probably had rooms at the Dakota and the Riverside Drive mansion devoted to them.

"Agent Pendergast," D'Agosta said, "this is Detective Sergeant Mandrell of the Twenty-first Precinct."

"Delighted." Pendergast briefly shook the proffered hand. "Forgive me for not arriving earlier. I fear I took a wrong turn. This building is most confusing."

The Federal Building? Most confusing? Pendergast was a fed himself, he had to have an office in here somewhere. Didn't he? It occurred to D'Agosta that he'd never once seen, or been asked to visit, Pendergast's office.

"It's this way," Mandrell said, leading the way through a maze of cubicles.

"Excellent," Pendergast murmured to D'Agosta as they fell into step behind the detective. "I'll have to thank Captain Hayward personally. She really came through for us."

She came through, all right, D'Agosta thought with a private smile. The whole of the night before-Pendergast spirited away by the mysterious caller, his own totally unexpected encounter with Laura Hayward-seemed dreamlike, unreal. He had fought the temptation to call her all morning. He hoped she'd still want that long, candlelight dinner. He wondered if this would complicate their working relationship, decided it would, realized he didn't much care.

"Here we are," Mandrell said, stepping into one of the cubicles. It looked just like all the others: a desk with an overhanging credenza, a computer workstation with attached speakers, a few chairs. A young woman with short blonde hair sat at the workstation, typing.

"This is Agent Sanborne," Mandrell said. "She's monitoring the phone of Jimmy Chait, Bullard's right-hand boy here in the States. We have agents in adjoining cubicles logging the phones of another half dozen of Bullard's associates. Agent Sanborne, this is Sergeant D'Agosta of the Southampton P.D. and Special Agent Pendergast."

Sanborne nodded at them in turn, her eyes widening at the name of Pendergast.

"Anything?" Mandrell asked her.

"Nothing important," she replied. "There was some traffic a few minutes ago between Chait and another associate. Seems they're expecting a call from Bullard any time now."

Mandrell nodded, turned back to D'Agosta. "When was your last tap, Sergeant?"

"It's been a while."

"Then let me get you up to speed. Everything's done by computer these days, one workstation per phone number being monitored. The phone line goes right through this interface, and the conversation's recorded digitally. No more tapes. Agent Sanborne, who'll be transcribing the line sheets, can work the transport controls either by keyboard or foot pedal."

D'Agosta shook his head. It was a far cry from the low-tech setups he'd worked as a new jack cop in the mid-eighties.

"You mentioned Chinese?" Mandrell said. "Are we going to need a translator?"

"Unlikely," Pendergast replied.

"Well, we've got a man standing by, just in case."

The cubicle fell silent as Mandrell and Sanborne hovered over the screen.

"Vincent," Pendergast murmured, taking him aside. "I've been wanting to tell you. We've made a very important discovery."

"What's that?"

"Beckmann."

D'Agosta looked at him sharply. “Beckmann?"

"His present whereabouts."

"No shit. When did you find out?"

"Late last night. After I called you to request this wiretap."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I tried calling you as soon as I heard. There was no answer at your hotel. And your cell phone appeared to have been turned off."

"Oh. Yes, it was. Sorry about that." D'Agosta turned away, feeling a flush begin to spread over his face.

He was spared further questioning by a sudden beeping from the workstation.

"Call's coming in," said Agent Sanborne.

A small window appeared on her screen, filled with lines of data. "Chait's getting an incoming," she said, pointing at the window. "See?"

"Who's it from?" D'Agosta asked.

"The number's coming up now. I'll put it on vox."

"Jimmy?" came a high-pitched voice over the computer speaker. "Jimmy, you there?"

Sanborne began typing quickly, transcribing the call verbatim. "It's his home number," she said. "Probably his wife."

"Yeah," answered a deep voice with a thick New Jersey accent. "What you want?"

"When you coming home?"

"Something's come up." There was a faint roar in the background, like the rush of wind.

"No, Jimmy-not again today. We've got the Fingermans coming by this afternoon, remember? About the winter rental in Kissimmee?"

"Fuck that. You don't need me for that shit."

"Go ahead, take that tone with me. You're right, I don’t need you for that shit . What I need is for you to stop by DePasquale's and pick up a few trays of sausage and peppers. I don't have a thing to serve."

"Then get your ass in the kitchen and cook something."

"Look, you-"

"I'll be home when I get home. Now get the fuck off, I'm expecting a call." And the line went dead.

There was a brief silence broken only by the click of keys as Agent Sanborne completed the transcription.

"Delightful couple," said D'Agosta. He motioned Pendergast aside. "How'd you find Beckmann, anyway?"

"With the help of an acquaintance of mine-an invalid, actually-who happens to be extremely good at tracking down troublesome nuggets of information."

"'Extremely good' sounds like an understatement. Nobody's been able to locate this guy. So where's this Beckmann at?"

But they were again interrupted by another beep from the computer. "We've got another one," said Sanborne.

"Incoming or outgoing?" asked Mandrell.

"Incoming. But the number must be blocked, I'm not getting any data on it."

There was a brief squeal over the speaker. "Yeah?" said Chait.

"Chait," a voice responded.

D'Agosta immediately recognized the gruff tone: it sent a thrill of hatred coursing through him.

Chait recognized it, too. "Yes, Mr. Bullard, sir," he said, his tone abruptly growing servile.

"Bullard will be using a satellite phone," D'Agosta said. "That's why you can't get a fix."

"Doesn't matter." Mandrell pointed to a string of numbers on the screen. "See that? It's the cell site of Chait's phone. It's the cellular node his phone signal's coming from, lets us determine his present location." He reached into the credenza, pulled out a thick manual, began leafing through it.

"Everything set?" Bullard asked.

"Yes, sir. The men have all been briefed."

"Remember what I said. I don't want any apologizing. Just do as I say. Walk it through, by the numbers."

"You got it, Mr. Bullard."

Mandrell looked up from the cell site manual. "Chait's in Hoboken, New Jersey."

"Everything's go," Bullard said. "The Chinese will be there on time."

"Location?" Chait asked.

"The primary, as discussed. The park."

Mandrell grasped D'Agosta by the arm. "Chait just changed cell sites," he said.

"What's that mean?"

"He's moving." Mandrell thumbed through the manual, looking up the new site. "Now he's in the middle of Union City."

"Mass transit wouldn't move that quickly," said Pendergast. "He must be in a car."

Bullard was speaking again. "Remember. They'll be expecting a progress report in exchange for the payment. You know what to give them, right?"

"Right."

Pendergast pulled out his own phone, dialing quickly. "Chait's on his way to a meeting. We've got to get a unit dispatched, triangulate on his location."

"I'll be expecting a report immediately after the meeting," said Bullard.