Douglas Preston - Cold Vengeance

Esterhazy made a huge effort to pull himself together. Pendergast was temporarily stymied, but he could be sure the agent wouldn’t miss even the slightest opportunity to finish what he’d started.

“We on the other hand are genealogists!” said the man. “And our interest is in names.” He stuck out his hand. “Rory Monckton, Scottish Genealogical Society.”

Esterhazy saw his chance. As the man pumped Pendergast’s unwilling hand, thus temporarily occupying it, Pendergast was forced to release Esterhazy’s arm for a moment.

“Nice to make your acquaintance,” Pendergast began, “but I fear we really must be on our way—”

Esterhazy slammed his arm back against the lump of the gun and twisted away from it with sudden violence, dropping down; Pendergast fired but was a millisecond too late, and by then Esterhazy had his own weapon out.

“Mother of God!” The portly man threw himself down on the grass.

The group, which had started to deploy about the headstones, now fell into hysteria, some taking cover, others scattering like partridge in the direction of the hills.

A second shot tore through the flap of Esterhazy’s coat while he simultaneously got off a shot at Pendergast. Tumbling behind a tombstone, Pendergast fired again, and missed; he was not in good form, obviously still weakened by his injury.

Esterhazy fired twice, forcing Pendergast back behind the tombstone, and then ran like hell for the van, going around the far side and leaping in, keeping low.

The keys were in the ignition.

A bullet slammed through the side windows, showering him with glass. He returned fire.

Starting the van, Esterhazy continued firing with one hand out the now-shattered window, over the heads of the genealogists and between the gravestones, preventing Pendergast from getting in a good shot. Screams pealed from the churchyard as Esterhazy threw the van into reverse, scattering pebbles like shotgun pellets. He heard bullets striking the rear of the van as he slewed about, jamming his foot on the accelerator and taking off.

Another round struck the van before he sped over the shoulder of the hill and was out of range. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. He considered that the chapel of St. Muns was twelve miles from Lochmoray. There was no cell coverage. And no car, only two old bicycles.

He had two hours, perhaps a little less, to get to an airport.

Edinburgh, Scotland

YOU MAY PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON NOW, Mr. Pendergast.” The elderly doctor replaced his tools in the worn Gladstone bag, one by one, with fussy, precise movements: stethoscope, blood pressure monitor, otoscope, penlight, ophthalmoscope, portable EKG monitor. Closing up the bag, the man looked around the luxurious hotel suite, then fixed his disapproving gaze once more upon Pendergast. “The wound has healed badly.”

“Yes, I know. The recuperative conditions were… less than ideal.”

The doctor hesitated. “That wound was clearly inflicted by a bullet.”

“Indeed.” Pendergast buttoned his white shirt, then slipped into a silk dressing gown of a muted paisley pattern. “A hunting accident.”

“Such accidents have to be reported, you know.”

“Thank you, the authorities know all that is necessary.”

The doctor’s frown deepened. “You are still in a considerably weakened state. Anemia is quite pronounced, and bradycardia is present. I would recommend at least two weeks’ bed rest, preferably in hospital.”

“I appreciate your diagnosis, Doctor, and will take it under advisement. Now if you could please provide me with a report of my vital signs, along with the EKG readout, I will be happy to attend to your bill.”

Five minutes later, the doctor left the suite, closing the door softly behind him. Pendergast washed his hands in the bathroom sink, then went to the telephone.

“Yes, Mr. Pendergast, how can I be of service?”

“Please have a setup delivered to my suite. Old Raj gin and Noilly Prat. Lemon.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pendergast hung up the phone, walked into the living room, opened the set of glass doors, and stepped out onto the small terrace. The hum of the city rose to meet him. It was a cool evening; below, on Princes Street, several cabs were idling at the hotel entrance, and a lorry went trundling past. Travelers were streaming into Waverly Station. Pendergast raised his gaze over the Old Town toward the sprawling, sand-colored bulk of Edinburgh Castle, ablaze with light, framed against the purple glow of sunset.

There was a knock, then the door to the suite opened. A uniformed valet entered with a silver tray containing glasses, ice, a shaker, a small dish of lemon peels, and two bottles.

“Thank you,” Pendergast said, stepping in from the terrace and pressing a bill into his hand.

“My pleasure, sir.”

The valet left. Pendergast filled the shaker with ice, then poured in several fingers of gin and a dash of vermouth. He shook the mixture for sixty seconds, then strained it into one of the glasses and pinched in a zest of lemon. He took the drink back onto the patio, sat down in one of the chairs, and fell into deep thought.

An hour passed. Pendergast refilled the drink, returned to the patio, and sat again — motionless — another hour. Then at last he drained the glass, plucked a cell phone from his pocket, and dialed.

It rang several times before a sleepy voice answered. “D’Agosta.”

“Hello, Vincent.”

“Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?” The voice was instantly alert.

“The Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh.”

“How’s your health?”

“As good as can be expected.”

“And Esterhazy — what’s happened to him?”

“He managed to slip from my grasp.”

“Jesus. How?”

“The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that even the best-laid plans can fall victim to circumstance.”

“Where is he now?”

“In midair. On an international flight.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because a van he stole was found parked on a service road outside the Edinburgh airport.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Good. So his plane hasn’t landed yet. Tell me where the son of a bitch is headed and I’ll have a welcoming committee waiting for him.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not? Don’t tell me you’re just going to let him go.”

“It isn’t that. I’ve already checked with immigration and passport control. There’s no record of a Judson Esterhazy leaving Scotland. Hundreds of other Americans, yes, but no Judson.”

“Well then, that abandoned van was just a ruse. He’s still holed up somewhere over there.”

“No, Vincent — I’ve thought this thing through from every conceivable angle. He has definitely fled the country, probably for the United States.”

“How the hell can he do that without going through passport control?”

“After the inquest, Esterhazy made a big show of leaving Scotland. Passport control has a record of the date and the flight number. But they have no record of him coming back into Scotland — although we both know that he did.”

“That isn’t possible — not with airport security the way it is these days.”

“It’s possible if you’re using a false passport.”

“A false passport?”

“He must have procured one back in the States, when he returned after the inquest.”

There was a brief pause. “It’s virtually impossible to fake a U.S. passport these days. There’s got to be another explanation.”

“There isn’t. He has a fake passport — which I find deeply troubling.”

“He can’t hide. We’ll put the dogs on him.”