Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“So then it’s my son you’re after.”

“Constance,” came the reproachful reply. “How can you say such a thing? It’s true I did have… issues with my brother. But why would I wish to harm our child?”

“You’re no father to him.”

“Indeed I’m not. But that I hope will change. You saw the t’angka painting I had made of him. I went to India, by the way, to assure myself our child was being well cared for. He is: and he’s a most remarkable boy.” A pause. “As one would expect of our offspring.”

“Our offspring. You once used much cruder terms to describe our liaison.”

There was a pause. “How painfully I recall my unforgivable behavior. As a token of my true feelings, please take a look at the compartment beneath that harpsichord stool.”

Constance hesitated a moment. Then she resolutely snapped on her torch, glanced around. While his voice was seemingly so close, he was still nowhere to be seen.

“The stool, my dear.”

She opened the seat top. Inside was a photograph attached to some papers. She plucked it out, examined it closely.

“That was taken five weeks ago,” came the disembodied voice. “He seemed very happy.”

As Constance stared at the picture, the hand holding the torch trembled ever so slightly. It was without doubt a picture of her son, in a long silken robe, holding the hand of Tsering. They were standing in an archway framed by cork trees. He was gazing into the middle distance with the perfect seriousness of a gifted three-year-old. Staring at the picture, Constance was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of loneliness and yearning.

She glanced at the attached sheet. It was a note from his guardians at the monastery, addressed to her, affirming that the boy was safe and well and that he was already showing great promise. It was fixed with a special seal — a seal, she knew, that proved Diogenes had actually been there, and that the letter was genuine. How Diogenes had contrived such a visit with those most secretive and protective monks, Constance could not begin to imagine.

She placed the photo and letter on the harpsichord and switched off the torch, letting the darkness return. She could not allow this disgusting man to work on her feelings. “You were there,” she said. “In Exmouth. You were spying on us.”

“Yes,” Diogenes replied. “It is true. I was there, along with Flavia, my — for want of a better term — assistant. You no doubt saw her: the young waitress in the Captain Hull restaurant who also worked part-time in the tea and curio store, A Taste of Exmouth.”

“That girl? Flavia? Working for you?”

“I must admit to having a bit of a problem with her. She’s a little too keen in performing her duties.”

“I can only imagine those duties,” said Constance.

When there was no response, she continued. “You released Morax. You set that cycle of violence into motion.”

“You are correct. I did help that poor, abused creature escape his tormentors. I had no idea he would react the way he did. All I wanted was to sow a little confusion. Distract my brother. And thus allow myself… to get a closer glimpse of you .”

Constance shook her head. She was beginning to lose her self-possession. She tried once again to marshal her anger. “Distract your brother? You killed your brother.”

“No,” came the voice, sorrowful once again. “There you are wrong. It does seem my brother is dead. But that was never my intention. I know a little of the feelings you two have, or had, for each other: forgive me, but I was quite relishing the competition. I’m sorry, it’s crude of me to say so — it’s a brotherly thing, you know.”

“You…” Constance stopped. Another silence ensued. All her accusations, all her suspicions, all her objections, seemed to have been deflated, and with this deflation rose confusion.

“So… Why are you here? Why? ” she stammered at last.

“Can it be that you still don’t understand?” came the voice out of the velvety darkness. “My purpose in being here is quite simple. I am in love with you, Constance. ”

At Goderre’s Downeaster in Cutler, Maine, Dwayne Smith sat on the bed, eyeing the four burner phones arranged on the coverlet. Even with the window open and the heat turned down, he was sweating and anxious. Dalca had made contact with the FBI via email. The reaction had been surprising and gratifying. It was just as Filipov had predicted: the FBI seemed to be acceding to their demands, with only token threats and resistance. They would do just about anything to keep their man alive. This special agent was, clearly, a high-value asset.

Filipov had said the FBI would insist on talking to someone. They had. And that someone was Smith. It had all been arranged: he was to call this man named Longstreet at the New York FBI headquarters in five minutes on one of the burner phones. The thing that made him most nervous was the timing. The FBI, Filipov had explained, could triangulate a call in as little as thirty seconds. So he had twenty seconds to conduct this conversation. And then he had to hang up, disable and destroy the phone. Four phones: four twenty-second conversations.

Using his watch, he readied the timer for twenty seconds. As soon as its alarm went off, he’d pull the battery from the back of the burner phone, terminating the call. He picked up one of the burners — one was as good as another — and removed the battery cover. He opened his penknife and laid it on the coverlet, ready to jerk the battery out. Even a few seconds’ delay in killing the phone might be fatal.

The appointed time had arrived. He dialed, at the same time starting the timer.

The call was answered immediately. “Longstreet,” came the terse voice, and before Smith could even respond, the man went into his script. “We’re going to do everything you want. But it’s going to take us a couple of days to process and transfer Arsenault from Sing Sing to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, so we can get him to JFK airport for the flight to Caracas.”

The Metropolitan Correctional Center. Ten fucking seconds left. “When are you moving him?”

“None of your business.”

“Well it is my fucking business. You demanded that we talk. Now I have a demand of my own. Exactly when are you moving him? I want details or we kill Pendergast now.”

A pause. Five seconds left.

“Tomorrow at—” a pause— “three thirty PM, the transport van from Sing Sing will be pulling into MCC, Cardinal Hayes entrance.”

“Put Arsenault in the right-hand window.”

“In return I want—”

The alarm went off. Smith shut off the phone, wedged the knife in, flipped out the battery. Then, working methodically, he opened the SIM card case, pulled out the card, and held it over an ashtray while he used a lighter to melt it into a small puddle of plastic and metal contacts. The room had a charming brick fireplace, where, later that evening, he would burn the phone as well, just to be safe.

He felt elated. This guy Longstreet had caved — and fast. Filipov was right: they really had the FBI by the balls. Amazing how easy it was, when you had one of their top guys. If it was some other schmuck, they wouldn’t be playing so nice. And now, with the transfer to Manhattan, Dalca would be able to confirm with his own eyes if the FBI was just jerking their chain or serious about doing the deal.

The soft echoes of this declaration by Diogenes slowly faded away, leaving the room in silence.

Constance was momentarily stunned. It had seemed sincere: a genuine confession of love. But she quickly shook off that impression. Diogenes had already humiliated her with his extraordinary capacity to lie, and this was merely a reprise.