Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“No,” he said. “Flavia, I did not mean that — not at all. I expressed myself badly. You and I are a team . You’re right — I do understand you. More than that — I think you’re the one person in the world who would never judge me. And, believe me, there are many who have. It’s important to me to know you won’t do that.”

Flavia did not reply. Instead, she played with the ring he had given her, twisting it back and forth on her finger.

“What are you saying?” she asked, her voice a little husky. “Will I see you again?”

“Of course you’ll see me again! More than that — we’ll work together again. And again. But now is not the time. There are just too many things going on in… that other part of my life that is separate from you.”

For a moment, he feared that she would make some declaration, pour her heart out to him. But she said nothing.

“My dearest Flavia, it won’t be for long. I’ll soon seek you out. We’ve had downtime before, don’t forget. And it will be just as you said — we’ll have all the time to spend together, get to know each other better. And that’s at least as important to me as it is to you.”

Flavia, who had been staring at the floor, raised her eyes to his. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Our two souls therefore, which are one, / Though I must go, endure not yet / A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to airy thinness beat. ”

Flavia said nothing. The Donne quote bounced off her like a squash ball off graffiti-covered concrete. Diogenes realized it was another presumptuous tactical error on his part, and he resolved to make no more.

“Until we meet again, I’m going to make sure that you live in the comfort you deserve.” He reached into his pocket and plucked out a fat envelope. “I’ve arranged for a new safe house where you can live until our next assignment. It’s in Copenhagen. Very luxurious.” He patted the envelope. “The address, and the key, are in here, along with a passport, fresh cell phone, first-class plane ticket on a flight leaving tomorrow, and Danish driver’s license.”

Still Flavia said nothing.

“And a down payment on jobs to come,” he added quickly. He put the envelope on the sofa between them. Flavia made no move to pick it up.

“This is a princely gift, you know,” he said. “Proof of just how much you mean to me.”

“ How much?” Flavia finally asked.

“How much you mean to me? I could never put a price on my regard for you.”

“No: how much money ?”

This was encouraging. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

“ That much, Peter?” Her face went pale.

“Are you all right, Flavia?” he asked quietly.

No response.

“Flavia, now do you realize your importance to me? And do you understand why this has to be? And how you can rely on my contacting you again — very soon?”

Now, at last, she nodded.

“I knew you would understand — because we are, as you’ve said, so alike. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go. I’ll contact you on that cell phone — probably within a month, at most.” And he leaned over, kissed her forehead, then straightened up.

“Why?” Flavia asked suddenly.

Diogenes glanced back at her. “Why am I leaving?”

“No. Why, exactly, did we do that last job? My having to pose as that girl, the wig and the trench coat, the crazy fake kidnapping and death, all that work changing planes and bribing pilots and Namibian doctors and arranging for a dummy corpse and refrigerated coffin — and me leading a wild goose chase into Botswana. And Keronda. You promised you’d explain it someday. Well…?”

He waved his hand. “Of course. Now that’s it’s all over, I’m happy to explain. My best friend is a first-rate FBI agent, but simply a babe in the woods when it comes to women.”

“So?”

“That woman — Constance, you saw her in that Exmouth shop and in the restaurant — was a fortune hunter of the worst sort, after his money and nothing else. She’d gotten him to sign over a million in family money, the witch. I just wanted to get his money back. But… well, it all ended badly, as you may know. My friend drowned. But Constance still had the money. Hence the kidnapping, to lead her accomplice astray and get the money back by ransom. It worked beautifully — thanks to you.”

“So what happened to her?”

Another dismissive wave. “You mean Constance? Once I got the money back, good riddance! She’s undoubtedly gone on to con some other rich man.”

“What about the money?”

“Well, my friend is dead and the money is of no use to him. Why shouldn’t I split it with my closest associate, Flavia?” And he gave a slow, knowing smile.

She returned the smile. “I see.”

Diogenes was vastly relieved. He was desperate to bring this whole conversation to an end. A lot could happen in a month or two. Perhaps she would find a boyfriend, or get into a car crash, or overdose on drugs. By the time she tried to find him — if she did at all — his trail to Halcyon, well hidden to begin with, would be that much colder. He rose. “Until we meet again.”

He leaned down and this time gave her a kiss on the lips — very short and light — then straightened up, looking into her eyes. What was she thinking? She had become so pale and still. But she was still smiling.

“Now, Flavia, go enjoy Copenhagen! You deserve it. And keep that cell phone with you at all times: I’ll be calling you soon. So for now: à bientôt , my dear.”

And with a bow, he turned and left the room.

A moment later the front door to the suite closed with a quiet click. Flavia did not move. Even before Peter was out of the apartment, the smile had left her face. She sat there, quite still, recalling his words, recalling the things she had heard him say to others — things that he hadn’t meant, that had been slick and clever and consummately manipulative. Most of all, she thought about the job they had just completed — the job at whose heart, it seemed, was the girl: Constance Greene.

Suddenly she stood up, walked across the living room and out onto the balcony of the suite. Briefly, she reached for her fanny pack — then had a different idea. She grasped the ring Peter had given her and tried to pry out the expensive gemstone. When it wouldn’t budge, she banged it against the balcony railing — again and again and again, skinning her knuckles in the process — until at last it popped free. She picked up the stone, turned it around in her fingers for a moment, then hurled it out in the direction of the Atlantic. The carcass of the gold ring remained on her finger, the four gold prongs that had previously held the stone now empty and protruding.

Next, she walked into the living room and looked around, coldly sizing up the space. Walking over to a display case, she pulled it open, removed a marble statue, and — after studying it briefly — used it to smash the glass of the case into fragments. Then — still unnervingly controlled — she stepped into the kitchen and, one at a time, took the glassware pieces from the cabinets and dashed them to the floor. Next, she went through the entire three-bedroom suite, using the prongs of her ring to slash the artwork hanging on the wall to ribbons. Picking up a corkscrew from the wet bar, she went back into the living room and ripped to shreds the modular leather sofa on which she and Peter had sat together, just minutes before.

When she was done, she found she was panting ever so slightly. Retreating to the bedroom — the bedroom that, just half an hour before, she had held such different hopes for — she packed her small bag. Then, walking out of the suite, she rode the elevator down to the opulent lobby.