One step at a time, one step at a time…
The two lions had separated and tracked him for the better part of three days, and in so doing had driven him from his planned route. The last day, he’d been forced to backtrack and circle so many times he had lost an exact knowledge of his position. Luckily the lions, being male and juvenile, were not good hunters. If they had been fully grown females, he would not have survived the attack. Even so, it had still taken a full magazine from his .45 to stop the first lion; but the second lion came on so fast he didn’t have a chance to reload and he had been forced to kill it with the knife.
He had been mauled on the left shoulder and bitten on the calf, but what had almost done him in was the physical blow from the lion’s final leap, which had hit him so hard he was knocked back unconscious. The lion was already fatally wounded with a knife thrust to the heart, blood pouring out. Proctor had initially woken with the hot, stinking lion partly covering him, surrounded by a pool of the lion’s coagulating blood. He’d managed to drag himself out from under the beast before slipping into unconsciousness again.
Finally reaching the shade of the tree, he removed his pack and sank down, his back against the trunk, head swimming. One more taste of water? He removed the canteen, gave it a little shake. No—he would have to wait until sunset before taking another sip, which he hoped would give him the strength to walk through the night. If he could only reach the Mopipi road, a passing motorist would eventually find him.
Reluctantly, he took out his KA-Bar and sliced open his shredded pant leg, in order to have a look at the bite wound. A row of punctured teeth marks oozed dark blood. He had abandoned the medical kit; there would be no treating this until he got out. At least the bleeding had mostly stopped. His shoulder wound was in a similar condition, not good, but not immediately life threatening, either. Infection was the major concern, but that wouldn’t set in for another twelve to twenty-four hours.
Once again, uninvited, the unbearable agony of his failure crept in, his every mistake and stupidity paraded before him.
Stop thinking. He lay back against the rough bark and closed his eyes.
He had to survive this. In fact, he was going to survive. He knew this for one very good reason: there was something he must do. Wherever Diogenes was, whatever his plan had been, Proctor was going to find him.
And kill him.
28
RUDY SPANN SAT in the small office on the fifth floor of the Metropolitan Correctional Center they had appropriated for the Pendergast operation. He was wearing a wireless headset. His men had set up a small tactical center in the office and were manning various video screens and audio feeds. He paced the floor behind them, occasionally stopping at the window to gaze down on the street below.
Setting up the stakeout had been a piece of cake. They didn’t even need the special van, or teams positioned on rooftops and apartments. The street where the transfer would take place was around the back of the building, on Cardinal Hayes Place, a narrow lane overlooked by government buildings that no one could get into without clearance. So whoever came to make sure the Arsenault transfer took place was going to be on foot, on the street. It was a perfect place for the operation—maybe too perfect, as it might scare away whoever the kidnappers were sending to observe the transfer. They were relying on the stupidity of the kidnappers, and on this point at least Spann had come around to Longstreet’s way of thinking. Anyone who kidnapped a federal agent was taking a big risk to begin with. They were overconfident, and that would be their downfall. The real danger was them panicking and Pendergast getting smoked.
Longstreet’s setup, he had to admit, was extremely clever. And so it gnawed at him all the more that the man was about to bungle things so badly. Here they had a chance to take one of the kidnappers into custody—if he showed up—but Longstreet’s orders had been specific: simply ID him and let him go about his business. That went against all the rules of apprehension Spann had learned at Quantico, and in his FBI experience that followed. Just letting the guy walk away—what the hell was that all about? Arsenault was proving a tough nut to crack. If it were up to him, he’d apprehend this cocksucker and exploit his initial confusion and fear, scare the shit out of him, and get him to talk. Kidnapping a federal agent? He’d be looking at life in prison without parole, if he was lucky, and to get out of that the guy would send his own grandmother down the river. He’d fold in twenty minutes, tell them where Pendergast was, and this business would be wrapped up by the end of the day. But no—Longstreet just wanted to ID the guy and let him walk.
And on top of it, Longstreet wasn’t even there; he’d disappeared as he’d done before—gone for hours at a time—issuing his orders by phone or even sending encrypted emails from undisclosed locations. Who did he think he was, the damn vice president?
The guys manning the consoles were murmuring in their headsets to the rest of the team, which had staked out both ends of Cardinal Hayes, observing and videotaping everyone who came in or out. He listened to their terse, economical exchanges. These guys were professionals; Spann was proud of them.
He glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. The target would be arriving soon or not at all. It was a quiet afternoon, half an hour before the first government offices disgorged their workers. There were people walking back and forth, as always in Manhattan, but from his vantage point—and from the street-level camera feeds in front of him—they were pretty clearly not his man, or woman.
With Longstreet not there, Spann decided he was going to make a small adjustment to the plan. He wasn’t going to let the guy just up and walk; he’d have him tailed. See where he went, where his hidey-hole was. After all, that wasn’t actually contrary to Longstreet’s orders.
He raised his mike and gave the order: Tail the perp on foot. Two men only. Break off if he grabs a cab or calls an Uber. A cab or Uber would be traceable later, so no need to follow. And if an accomplice picked him up in a car, so much the better—they could snag the plates and run them within five minutes.
Three twenty-five. And now he saw a man turn the corner at the Pearl Street end and come walking down the lane. He was dressed in a nice suit, hair slicked back, tan and fit. He looked like a Wall Street stockbroker or hedge fund jackass. Having spent much of his life downtown, Spann knew those guys: they walked fast, really fast. They knew where they were going and were the kind who worked out every day, ate quinoa and kale, and jogged twenty miles a week.
But this guy was walking slow—way too slow. He was pretending to stroll along, smelling the flowers. On the far sidewalk.
He was their guy, dawdling, making sure that the Arsenault transfer was made as promised. Spann didn’t even have to say anything: the others had noticed him, too. He listened on his headset to their conversation.
“You see that guy?”
“Bingo.”
“Zero in with the telephoto. Smile, you’re on candid camera.”
And right on schedule, the black maria turned in at Pearl Street, driving nice and slow. The man, still strolling along, looked up as it approached, trying to appear casual, trying to keep his movement to just a glance, but failing. He stared.
Oh, yeah. He saw his man: Spann could see it in his expression. It was like a gift from the gods.
The transport van passed the guy and made a slow and easy turn into the underground ramp leading to the security courtyard, then waited while the driver was checked; the big gates opened and the van disappeared.
Perfect.
And now he saw his own two guys go into action. One, who’d been sitting on a bench eating a shish kebab from a nearby food cart, tossed the stick in the trash and sauntered down the street. “Dog One following,” the man murmured into his invisible wire.
On the near corner, as the perp went by, his second man, who’d been pretending to have trouble parallel parking his car, got out. “Dog Two following,” he said.
The man took a right into St. Andrews Plaza, walking past the courthouse, and
disappeared from Spann’s field of view. Soon the two guys tailing him disappeared as well. The channel remained open.
“Perp crossing Foley Square, heading for Duane,” came the voice of Dog One.
A moment later: “Left on Elk.”
This was an odd route. What was going on?
A moment later: “Left on Reade. He’s got a phone out. Looks like he’s texting.”
The guy was walking around the block. Son of a bitch. “Dog One?” Spann said into the headset. “He might have made you. Keep walking down Elk. Dog Two, take a left on Centre in front of him, going in his direction.”
“Shit. He’s running south on Centre toward Chambers.”
Fuck. Somehow, he’d made the tail. “Take him down,” Spann yelled into the headset. “Take him down! All units converge!”
The whole area was suddenly crawling with cops and in less than fifteen seconds it was over, the man was on his face, cuffed, on the pavement in front of Police Plaza.
“Hold him there, I’m coming down,” Spann said. The tail had screwed up, but maybe this was better. In fact, it was better. This was exactly the outcome he’d wanted all along. They had their man and now he, personally, would break the son of a bitch. By the time Longstreet showed up, they’d have the info they needed and would already be planning the hostage rescue.
29
FILIPOV HEARD THE whine of the Zodiac and came out on deck in time to see Smith come tearing into Bailey’s Hole. It was five in the evening, not even sunset.
Smith came in too fast, didn’t throttle back in time, and the Zodiac smacked up against the transom door.
“What the fuck?” Filipov said. “It’s still daylight!”
“They picked up Dalca,” Smith said, fumbling with the painter, cleating it and climbing across the slippery gunwale. Filipov opened the transom door and grabbed his hand, pulling him in.
“Dalca? How do you know?”
The rest of the crew was now crowding onto the aft deck.
Smith gasped for breath. “They grabbed him. It was a setup. He went down to make sure Arsenault was being transferred, but they’d staked out the street. They got him.”
“How do you know?”
“He texted me—said he was being tailed.”
“Texted you? He had his cell phone on him?”
“Yeah, one of the burner phones. I destroyed the phone he texted me on—I’m pretty sure it was within the twenty-second limit.”
Filipov’s head reeled. What a clusterfuck. It was over.
He mustered a calmness of voice that he did not feel. “I don’t understand. What do you mean: a setup?”
“You told us not to trust the FBI—right? That’s what you said. Not to take their word. So Dalca went down to witness the transfer. That FBI agent, Longstreet, said Arsenault was being transferred to the Metropolitan Correction Center to get him ready for the flight to Venezuela. I got the exact time of the transfer from Longstreet and passed it on to Dalca.”
“And?”
“So Dalca went downtown, dressed like a Wall Street guy, to walk past on the sidewalk when the van arrived. To make sure Arsenault was in it.” Smith spread his hands. “That’s all.”
Filipov stared at Smith as silence fell. For the first time, he realized what a terrible mistake it had been to rely on people like Smith and Dalca for something as risky as this. They were dumbass smugglers. They had fallen into a blindingly obvious trap. Dalca would eventually talk—of course he would. Maybe not right away, but soon enough. And with Dalca, they could get Arsenault to talk, too, pitting one against the other, doing the usual whoever-rats-first-gets-a-plea routine.
They were now fucked. He took a deep breath, doing his level best to quell his rising rage: there was no point, the damage was done, and he would need these men for what was to come. The only hope now was to get out of the country—fast.
He looked around at the crew. From the expression on their faces he could see that they all, in varying degrees, understood the situation. And he could also see they were starting to think about who was to blame.
“It’s over,” he said, making a supreme effort to keep his voice low and reassuring and waiting for the news to sink in. “We need to stick together and clean this up.”
“This is fucked up,” said DeJesus. “You promised us this would work.” There was a chorus of low murmurs.
“We’re no worse off than we were before,” said Filipov calmly. “Arsenault was going to talk eventually anyway. Let’s focus on what we need to do, going forward.”
“Yeah, but whose idea was it to kidnap a federal agent? I mean, we are fucked!”
“Canada’s right there. We’ve got money and passports. In twenty-four hours we’ll be on a plane to wherever.” He looked around. “The weather’s clear. It’s almost dark. We’ll head across the Gulf of Maine. I know a secure cove near Yarmouth where we can ditch the boat. Yarmouth’s got an international airport. We’ll be out of the country tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe this,” said DeJesus, stepping forward and jabbing a finger at Filipov. He spat on the deck. “You wanted to haul in the body. You came up with this scheme. You talked us into it! Well, I for one am not listening to your shit anymore.”
“And your plan is—?”
“I’m taking the Zodiac. I’m outta here. And anyone who wants to come with me can do it.” He began to turn.
“The Zodiac stays with the boat,” said Filipov. He could hear in the tones of their voices, see in the looks in their eyes, that the crew was reaching a turning point. If he didn’t do something fast, he might lose them.
Filipov reached out, grasped DeJesus by the shoulder. DeJesus spun around, furious, opening his mouth to spout some more bullshit, which was what Filipov anticipated. He already had his right hand on the butt of his .45, and he now yanked it out and shoved it into DeJesus’s mouth.
The man struggled but Filipov pulled him closer. “You going to argue with this?”
DeJesus made an angry, inarticulate reply.
“Just nod your head yes or no. Don’t think I’m bluffing.” Filipov tightened his finger on the trigger. He would do it if he had to.
DeJesus saw the look in Filipov’s eyes and stopped struggling. After a moment he gave a faint nod. Filipov relaxed his grip and drew back the gun.
Filipov looked around. “Anyone else want to sound off?”
Nobody did.
“What’s done is done and we’re balls to the wall. If we break up now, we’re screwed. Understand, DeJesus?”
DeJesus gave him a dark look.
“Once we’re out of Canada, we can go our separate ways. But not until then. And nobody stays in the U.S.: you’ll get picked up for sure. We’ve all got money. We’ve got passports. They haven’t ID’d us yet. There are dozens of no-extradition places to lie low in for a while—Cuba, Venezuela, Croatia, Montenegro, Cambodia.”
He gave them all another searching look, and saw they were back with the program. He shoved his .45 into his belt.
“What about the fed?” Smith asked.
“He’s the least of our problems. As soon as we’re offshore, we kill him and dump the body.” He glanced around. “Cut those cross cables, I’m taking the helm. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
30
DIOGENES FOUND CONSTANCE in her set of rooms on the second floor of the Riverside Drive mansion. A square-sided Louis Vuitton suitcase and a steamer trunk had been set up beside her bed. The suitcase, he saw, was already full of books, journals, incunabula, and a roll of what looked like old art canvases; the trunk was half filled with dresses, along with a few skirts and tops. Constance was facing away from him, very still, as if sculpted from marble. One hand was outstretched toward the open closet, pale fingers curling in midair. She was the very picture of indecision.
Diogenes’s heart leapt into his mouth. This would make what he had to say even more difficult.
He cleared his throat, announcing his presence. Immediately Consta
nce turned toward him. Her eyes flashed with a fleeting emotion, quickly suppressed.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “I merely wanted to tell you that all is ready. I have made the necessary preparations for our trip. Please tell me when I should call for you in the morning.”
Constance paused. Her eyes strayed toward the open trunk. “Eight o’clock should suffice.”
“Very good. Constance…” He hesitated. “Before I leave, I want you to hear a story. A true story about an evil man.”
Constance raised an eyebrow quizzically, but said nothing.
“His name is Lucius Garey. Six years ago, on Christmas Eve, he broke into the house of a Jacksonville doctor, interrupting the family as they were singing carols around their tree. The doctor had two teenage daughters. Garey raped each daughter, in turn, while forcing the parents to watch at gunpoint. This was followed by the brutalization of the mother, once again with the entire family as witnesses. Finally, he shot the parents, then cut the throats of the two girls.”
Constance spoke sharply. “Why in God’s name are you telling me this?”
“Please bear with me. It took the authorities a month to catch Garey. A police officer was killed in the resulting confrontation. Garey was found guilty of five murders and sentenced to die. Before being placed on death row, however, he managed to strangle another prisoner to death with his bare hands.”
He took a cautious step forward. “I’ve told you about Halcyon Key. I think you’ll find it even more marvelous than I have painted it for you—especially once you’re restored to your full youthful vigor. I’ve also told you about the arcanum. With a great deal of time, money, and research, I’ve been able to reformulate—almost—the old arcanum without resorting to the unfortunate necessity of extracting it from a human at the time of death.”