Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

It was shortly before one in the morning when the dark figure piloting the airboat through the Great White Heron National Wildlife Refuge navigated past the final group of small, hump-like islands that obstructed the way to the larger landmass identified on the coastal classification atlas as Halcyon Key. The engine was kept low, to avoid attracting attention. It had been a difficult journey — the shallow water and labyrinthine channels were barely navigable, even in daylight — but the airboat’s draft was almost insignificant. Now it approached a long pier. A speedboat was moored alongside: an antique wooden runabout named the Phoenix .

Flavia Greyling cut the airboat’s engine and let it glide past the pier and come to rest onto the long, sandy beach that ran away on both sides into clusters of mangroves. She got out of the boat and pulled it up under the pier, the crunch of sand barely discernible over the sighing of the wind in the palm trees. Then, crouching behind the little gazebo at the pier’s end, she took stock.

Over a low bluff, she could see the roofline of a large house, surrounded by royal palms. Some distance away, she made out a smaller structure, half-hidden among the mangroves, that appeared to be the servant’s quarters.

Flavia was dressed entirely in black, and wore the lightweight tactical research boots favored by SEALs. She had exchanged her blue fanny pack for an ebony one, and she wore black leather gloves of Italian design, chosen for their thinness rather than for style. She had not gone to the extent of blacking her face and dyeing her blond hair black, as she sometimes did on other missions she’d undertaken: after all, this was a different kind of job.

She moved forward, creeping cat-like up to the edge of the low bluff. Here, she took a small monocular from her fanny pack and examined the house and grounds. All seemed quiet. There were a few lights on — gas lamps or perhaps kerosene, judging by their flickering quality — but no activity that she could spot.

She returned the monocular to her pack and zipped it closed.

She had been beside herself with fury when Peter had left her in that hotel room in Miami; more angry than she liked to recall. It wasn’t just that he was keeping part of his life private from her: it was the way he’d tried to jolly her with praise and then paid her off with that money and then left — as if money could somehow take the place of all the time they’d spent together, everything she’d done for him, like she was some kind of whore. Even though they hadn’t done that yet, she knew he’d been tempted. She’d seen him looking at her.

What really burned her up was that she’d seen him pull the same slick shit on others, and it made her furious to think he believed she would swallow the same line. He obviously didn’t trust her — and after all she’d done. Well, two could play at the deception game. He’d not be on his guard. He’d assumed he’d succeeded: he’d think she was spending his money in Copenhagen and waiting by the phone for a call that might — or might never — come.

Fuck waiting by the phone. She wasn’t going to let him get away like that. So here she was.

She had his credit card number from the hotel. Easy to get as they’d checked in as husband and wife. Starting with that, she’d wasted no time learning more about Petru Lupei. It was investigative work of the kind she’d done many times before in tracking down her quarry, and she was very good at it.

Through a combination of social engineering, rudimentary hacking, rummaging through public data, and getting a billing address via the credit card number, she’d fitted the pieces together. It began with a PO box, which contained a few bits of helpful information. With these, and some phone calls to the hall of public records and related government offices, she picked up a bread-crumb trail that had been inadvertently — and very indirectly — left behind by Petru Lupei. It lead from one shell company to another, and ended, finally, in a corporation, Incitatus, LLC, that had only a single asset: an island off the southern coast of Florida called Halcyon Key, purchased almost twenty years before.

It was an hour’s trip by motorboat from Miami.

On the dark beach, as she examined the house, Flavia smiled. Petru knew, of course, that she was good at her job. He was the kind of person who would never hire second best. It was becoming clear he didn’t return the kind of feelings she had for him; at least, not yet. But he was fond of her, of that she was sure.

And now, here, she’d done him one better. She’d learned his secret. She had discovered his private hideaway. Not only that — she had managed to find it all on her own and make her way to it. And now, when she chose to reveal herself to him, he’d understand just how clever and accomplished she really was. She would surprise him. That surprise, she knew, would lead to a heightened respect, because Petru respected people who got the better of him — which happened almost never. And that respect — she felt sure — could easily blossom into love. Especially in a place like this. He only had to see how perfectly matched they were in every way.

Making no noise, she rose over the bluff and made her way across the sand to the rambling house, almost ethereal in the moonlight. She stepped onto the veranda, tried the front door, and, finding it unlocked, quickly entered, closing it behind her. She wondered at the lack of security, but then surmised that the island’s very remoteness — and difficult access — was its own best defense.

She stood in the front hall, cloaked in darkness and silence, and did a quick recon: openings to the left and right led into what appeared to be a library and living room, respectively, while a broad staircase ahead led to the second floor. Curious, she walked into the library. Moonlight streaming in the broad windows revealed it to be a two-story space, with expensive-looking rugs on the floor and walls covered with books and small framed paintings. A tiny, unfamiliar-looking piano stood in a far corner.

Flavia frowned. Something about this room did not feel like the Peter she knew. Somehow, it had a… feminine sensibility about it. She could almost smell perfume lingering in the air.

She crossed the hallway to the living room. This room, while equally beautiful, was rather different in feeling. The cut-glass chandelier, the heavy wing chairs, the plush fabrics of the sofas and cushions — everything had an old-fashioned elegance rather than the modern, almost clinically simple style that Petru Lupei had always favored.

At least, so far as she’d known.

In the far corner of the living room, a doorway led into darkness. Listening again to make sure her presence was not yet known — she’d surprise Peter in her own time, and in her own pleasant way — she pulled a tiny torch from her fanny pack, turned it on, and — shielding it with one hand — walked through the door. It led into another library- cum -office, this one much smaller than the one across the hall. She gazed for a minute at the books on the walls; at the framed paintings. The pack of tarot cards on the desk she recognized as being Peter’s preferred Albano-Waite deck. The shelved books were on topics such as military strategy, torture methods of the ancient world, novels in what appeared to be Italian — now, this was more like the Peter she knew. The frown fading, she pulled down one book, Walter Pater’s The Renaissance .

It opened to the flyleaf. To her surprise, an unfamiliar name had been written in ink: DIOGENES PENDERGAST.

She shrugged, replaced the book. Peter must have borrowed it and forgotten, accidentally-on-purpose, to return it. How very like him. She put the book back and took down another: Suetonius’s The Twelve Caesars .