Vergeltung

Orchid Island, Florida

A cold wind blew from the water, buffeting the car and raising whitecaps on the broad Hudson.

A cell phone, sitting on the passenger seat, began to ring. Pendergast lowered the binoculars to answer it. “Yes?”

“Is this my main Secret Agent Man?” came the whispery voice on the other end of the line.

“Mime,” Pendergast replied. “How are you faring?”

“Did you find the yacht okay?”

“I’m staring at it now.”

A pleased, raspy giggle sounded over the phone. “Ideal. Ideal. And do you think we, um, have a ringer?”

“Indeed I do, Mime — thanks to you.”

“Vergeltung. German for ‘vengeance.’ It was rather a challenge. But then again, that ghostnet of zombified PCs I’ve appropriated all over Cleveland has been rather idle of late. It was high time I put them to work on something useful.”

“I’d prefer not to know the details. But you have my thanks.”

“Glad I was able to be of more help this time around. Hang loose, homeboy.” There was a click as the line went dead.

Pendergast put the phone in his pocket and eased the car forward, heading down toward the entrance of the marina and up to the gate that led to the main pier. A man in a crisp uniform — an ex-cop, without doubt — leaned out of the adjoining guardhouse. “Help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Lowe, the general manager.”

“And you are?”

Pendergast removed his shield and let it dangle for a moment. “Special Agent Pendergast.”

“You got an appointment?”

“No.”

“And this is in reference to…?”

Pendergast simply stared at him. Then he suddenly smiled. “Is there going to be a problem? Because if there is, I’d like to know it now.”

The man blinked. “Just a moment.” He retreated and spoke into a phone. Then he opened the gate. “You can pull through and park. Mr. Lowe will be out in a moment.”

It took more than a moment. Finally, a tall, fit, nautical-looking man wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap emerged from the main marina building and came striding over, his breath condensing behind him in puffs. Pendergast stepped out of the car and stood waiting for him.

“Well, well. FBI?” said the man, extending his hand with a friendly smile, his blue eyes flashing. “What can I do for you?”

Pendergast nodded toward the moored yacht. “I’d like to know about that yacht.”

The man paused. “What’s the basis for your interest?” He continued to smile genially.

“Official,” said Pendergast, smiling in return.

“Official. Well now, that’s funny,” said the man. “Because I just called the New York field office of the FBI and asked them if a certain Special Agent Pendergrast was working on a case that involved the marina—”

“Pendergast.”

“Excuse me. Pendergast. They said you’d taken a temporary leave of absence and assured me you were not on any active case right now. So one must assume you’re moonlighting, flashing your badge under false pretenses. Which has got to be against FBI regulations. Am I right?”

Pendergast’s smile did not waver. “You’re right on all counts.”

“So I’m just going to go back to my office, and you’re going to go away, and if I hear any more about this I’m going to call the FBI back and report that one of their special agents is roaming around town, using his badge to intimidate law-abiding citizens.”

“Intimidate? When I begin to intimidate you, you’ll know it.”

“Is that a threat?”

“That’s a prediction.” Pendergast nodded toward the water. “I presume you can see that yacht out there? I have reason to believe a serious crime is about to be committed on it. If that crime occurs, then I will be on the case — in the most official of all possible capacities — and you, quite naturally, will be investigated as an accessory.”

“A hollow threat. I’m no accessory and you know it. If a crime is about to be committed, I suggest you call the police, Mr. Prendergast.”

“Pendergast.” His voice remained reasonable. “All I want from you, Mr. Lowe, is some information about that yacht, the crew, their comings and goings. To be kept specifically between ourselves. Because I can see you’re a friendly man who likes to assist law enforcement.”

“If this is what you call intimidation, it isn’t working. My job is to protect the privacy of the clients who patronize this marina, and that’s what I intend to do. If you want to come back with a warrant, fine. If the NYPD comes, fine. Then I’ll cooperate. But not with an FBI agent waving some tin on his off hours. Now get lost.”

“When we do investigate this crime, my colleagues — and NYPD homicide — will want to know why you took money from the people on that yacht.”

A flicker passed across the man’s face. “A gratuity is a normal part of this business. I’m like a cabbie — tips are standard here. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Naturally — until the ‘tip’ reaches a certain size. Then it becomes a payment. Perhaps even a bribe. And when said bribe is made for the purposes of buying pushback should law enforcement come by asking questions, well, Mr. Lowe, that does in fact make you an accessory. Especially when it becomes known that you not only threatened to kill me if I did not leave the premises, but also insulted New York’s finest with vulgar language.”

“What the hell? I never threatened you or the cops.”

“Your exact words were: I’ve got friends who’ll put a bullet in your brain if you don’t get the hell out of here. And that goes for the NYPD pigs, too.”

“I said nothing of the sort, you lying bastard!”

“That is correct. But only you and I know that. Everyone else will think I’m telling the truth.”

“You’d never get away with that! You’re bluffing!”

“I am a desperate man, Mr. Lowe, and I am operating beyond the rules. I will do anything — lie, coerce, and deceive — to force you to cooperate.” He removed his cell. “Now: I’m about to dial an emergency FBI number to report your threats and request backup. When I do that, your life will change — forever. Or…?” He raised one eyebrow along with the phone.

Lowe stared at him, quivering with rage. “You son of a bitch.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Shall we retire to your office? There’s rather a nasty wind coming off the Hudson.”

CHAPTER 66

THE BUILDING ON EAST END AVENUE could not be dignified by the name brownstone. It was brick, not stone; it was narrow; and it rose only three stories. A more dismal and down-at-the-heels structure could not be found on the Upper East Side, Corrie decided as she lounged against a ginkgo tree on the opposite side of the street, drinking coffee and pretending once again to read a book.

The windows had firmly drawn shades that looked like they had been yellowing for decades. The windows themselves were filthy, covered with bars, and sporting lead alarm tape. The stoop was cracked, and trash had collected in the basement entrance. Despite the shabby appearance, however, the building seemed buttoned up pretty tight, with gleaming new locks on the front door. And the bars on the windows didn’t look old, either.

She finished her coffee, put away her book, and strolled down the street. The neighborhood, once German, had become facetiously known as the “girl ghetto,” the preferred neighborhood for recent college graduates, mostly women, newly arrived in Manhattan and looking for a safe place to live. The neighborhood was quiet, orderly, and undeniably safe. The streets thronged with attractive, preppy young women, most of whom looked like they worked on Wall Street or in one of the Park Avenue law firms.

Corrie wrinkled her nose and continued to the end of the block. Betterton had said he’d seen someone leave the building, but it didn’t look like anyone had been there in ages.