Douglas Preston: Cold Vengeance

His mind was working a mile a minute. He’d been faking bravura and an aura of command, but right below the surface he was almost beside himself with fear. He had to figure out a way to save his own skin now. But nothing came to mind. What’s the matter, Judson? Falkoner had said. You suddenly don’t trust us? I’m surprised — and hurt.

Esterhazy realized that the chances were good he was as dead as Pendergast.

The boat had come around and was now slowing as they neared the waypoint. Esterhazy moved to the bow, searching for the young woman while two spotlights from the bridge scanned the heaving sea.

“There!” said Esterhazy as one spotlight picked up a flash of reflecting tape from the life preserver.

In a moment the yacht had reached her, slowing still further and turning. Esterhazy jogged aft and snagged the life preserver with a mooring hook, hauling Constance around to the stern. Falkoner came aft and together they pulled her onto the platform, then carried her through the transom and into the main saloon, where they laid her on the carpeted floor.

She was semi-conscious but still breathing. Esterhazy quickly felt her pulse: slow and thready.

“Hypothermia,” he said to Falkoner. “We’ve got to bring her core temperature up. Where’s the woman?”

“Gerta? She locked herself in the crew quarters.”

“Have her run a lukewarm bath.”

Falkoner disappeared while Esterhazy removed the life preserver, unbuttoned and slipped off her soggy dress and underclothing, then wrapped her in a dry afghan that was folded on a nearby chair. He put plastic cuffs on her wrists and a much looser set around her ankles, leaving just enough slack for her to walk.

A moment later, the woman arrived with Falkoner. Her face was pale but she was composed. “The bath is running.”

They carried Constance through the saloon to the forward stateroom master bath, where they lowered her into the lukewarm water. She was already reviving, murmuring something as she went in.

“I’m going forward to watch Pendergast,” Esterhazy said.

Falkoner looked at him for a moment — a searching, calculating look. Then he smiled crookedly. “When she’s revived, I’ll bring her — and we’ll use her to make Pendergast talk.”

Esterhazy felt himself shudder.

He found Pendergast where he had left him, Schultz watching over him. He pulled up a deck chair and sat down, cradling the gun and looking carefully at Pendergast. This was the first time they had been face-to-face since he’d left the agent, critically wounded and sinking, in the quicksand of the Foulmire. The man’s silvery eyes, barely visible in the dim light, were, as usual, unreadable.

Ten minutes passed as Esterhazy went through every scenario, every possible plan to get himself off the Vergeltung— to no avail. They were going to kill him — he’d seen it in the look Falkoner had given him. Thanks to Pendergast, he’d caused the Covenant too much trouble, too many men, to remain alive himself.

He heard raised voices and saw Constance being pushed along the port-side walkway by Gerta, the redheaded woman, the threatening murmurs of Falkoner following. In a moment they emerged on deck. Zimmermann had joined them. Constance was wearing a long white terry-cloth bathrobe, with a man’s jacket over it. Falkoner gave her one last shove and she fell to the deck in front of Pendergast.

“Feisty bitch,” said Falkoner, dabbing at a bloody nose. “No problem reviving her . Tie her to that post.”

Schultz and the redheaded woman pushed her toward a lifeline stanchion, then tied her to it. She did not struggle, instead remaining strangely silent. When they had secured her, Falkoner straightened up, dabbed his brow, and cast a cool, triumphant expression at Esterhazy. “I’ll handle this,” he said in a clipped tone. “This is, after all, my area of expertise.”

He ripped the tape from Pendergast’s mouth. “We wouldn’t want to miss a word the man says — would we?”

Esterhazy casually glanced up at the bridge, a row of faintly glowing windows on the upper deck above and aft of the forecastle. He could see the captain behind the wheel, Gruber the mate to one side. Both were absorbed in their work, paying no attention to the drama playing out on the foredeck below. The vessel was now heading northeast, paralleling Long Island’s South Shore. Esterhazy wondered where they were going — Falkoner had been more than a little vague on that point.

“All right,” said Falkoner, taking a swaggering turn in front of Pendergast. He holstered his weapon and slid the combat knife out of its scabbard. Standing in front of the agent, he fondled it in the dim light, tested the edges, knelt, then pierced Pendergast’s flesh with the tip and drew a thin line down the cheek. Blood welled up.

“Now you have a Heidelberg dueling scar, just like my grandfather’s. Lovely.”

The red-haired woman watched, a look of cruel anticipation gathering on her face.

“See how sharp it is?” Falkoner continued. “But that sharpness isn’t for you. It’s for her .”

He strolled over to Constance and stood over her, playing with the knife, speaking to her directly. “If he doesn’t answer my questions promptly and fully, I’m going to cut you. Rather painfully.”

“He won’t say a word,” Constance replied, her voice low and steady.

“He will when we start chumming the water with bits of your body.”

She stared at him. Esterhazy was surprised at just how little fear he saw in her eyes. This was one scary human being.

Falkoner merely chuckled and turned back to Pendergast. “Your little quest, which we’ve only recently become aware of, has been most instructive. For example, we had thought Helen was dead these long years.”

Esterhazy felt his blood run cold.

“Right, Judson?”

“It’s not true,” Esterhazy said weakly.

Falkoner waved his hand as if it was a trifling matter. “At any rate, here’s your first question: what do you know about our organization, and where did you learn it?”

But Pendergast did not answer. Instead, he turned to Esterhazy, a strangely sympathetic look in his eyes. “You’re next, you realize.”

Falkoner strode over to Constance and grabbed her hands, which were cuffed behind the stanchion. He took his knife and sliced slowly and deliberately into her thumb. She stifled a cry, turning her head sharply to one side.

“Next time, speak to me and answer my question.”

“Don’t speak!” Constance said, hoarsely, not looking back. “Don’t say anything. They’re going to kill us anyway.”

“Not true,” said Falkoner. “If he talks, we’ll drop you off alive on shore. He can’t save his own life, but he can save yours.”

He turned back to Pendergast. “Answer the question.”

The special agent began to talk. He told — briefly — of discovering that his wife’s gun had been loaded with blanks, and realizing that meant she had been murdered in Africa twelve years before. He spoke slowly, clearly, and utterly without inflection.

“And so you went to Africa,” said Falkoner, “and discovered our little conspiracy to get rid of her.”

“Your conspiracy?” Pendergast seemed to consider this.

“Why are you talking?” asked Constance suddenly. “You think he’s going to let me go? Of course not. Cease speaking, Aloysius — we’re both dead anyway.”

His face alight with arousal, Falkoner reached down, grasped her hand, and took the knife, slowly cutting into her thumb again, much more deeply this time. She grimaced and writhed in pain, but did not cry out.

From the corner of his eye, Esterhazy noted that Schultz and Zimmermann had holstered their weapons and were enjoying the show.