Brimstone

"Go get 'em, Harriman!" he cackled.

{ 42 }

Vasquez worked off a piece of green chile beef jerky, chewed it meditatively, swallowed, and took a swig of bottled water. He went back to the cryptic crossword from the Times of London, pondered, made another entry, erased an earlier one, then set the puzzle aside.

He sighed. He always felt a little nostalgic at the close of an operation: knowing he would have to leave, that all his preparations and deliberations and the cozy little world he had created would quickly become ancient history, pawed over by police officers and photographers. At the same time, he looked forward to seeing sunlight again, breathing fresh air, and listening to the thunder of surf. Fu

He checked his equipment yet again. He looked through the scope, made an infinitesimal correction with the windage adjuster, then raised his eye to examine the flash hider. Just a few minutes now. The box magazine held four rounds, with another in the chamber. All he'd need was two. Once again he shed his clothes and put on his disguise.

Five minutes to one. He glanced regretfully around his nest, at everything he would have to leave behind. How many times had he actually had the opportunity to finish a Times cryptic? He rested his eye against the scope and watched. The minutes ticked past.

Once again the door to the porte-cochère opened. Vasquez slowed his breathing, slowed his heart rate. Once again Pendergast's head and shoulders appeared in the reticle. This time Vasquez couldn't make out the butler, who must have been standing too far inside the door to be seen, but he was clearly there, because Pendergast was faced back toward the doorway, obviously talking to somebody. So much the better: an off-center shot to the back of the head would be just as hard to analyze later.

His breath suspended, timing his shots between heartbeats, Vasquez pressed his cheek against the pebbled stock and squeezed the trigger slowly. The weapon bucked in his hands; in a flash, he'd drawn the bolt, resighted, and fired again.

The first shot had been perfectly placed. It spun the target in exactly the right way, the next shot coming a split second later, entering just above the ear, the head exploding in all directions. Pendergast fell back into the shadows of the door frame and disappeared.

Vasquez now moved with a swiftness born of years of practice. Leaving the lights out, he threw the gun and laptop into a duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and snugged on the night-vision goggles that would help him to get out the back of the darkened building. He plugged the shooting hole, strode to the door, and with the battery-powered screwdriver backed out the four screws that held the door shut. Then he stripped off the gaffing tape sealing the jambs and quietly opened the door, stepping noiselessly into the hall.

A flash of light overloaded his goggles, blinding him; he tore them off, reaching down to pull out a sidearm, but a figure in the hallway moved too fast; he was slammed into the wall, still blinded, and the gun went skittering down the passage.

Vasquez swung wildly at his attacker, barely co

The cop was on him. And there, beyond the brilliant glow of the lamp, he stood. Pendergast. The man he had just killed.

Vasquez stared, his mind instantly rearranging the facts.

It had been a setup. They must've known almost from the start what was going on. Pendergast had played his part perfectly. Vasquez had shot some dummy, some special-effects dummy. Mother of God.

He had failed. Failed.

Vasquez couldn't quite believe it.

Pendergast was staring at him closely, frowning. Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in understanding. "His mouth!" he said sharply.

D'Agosta shoved something wooden between his teeth, as he would for a dog or an epileptic. But it wouldn't do any good, Vasquez thought as the pain began to build in his broken arm. That wasn't where he carried his cyanide. The needle had been in the tip of his pinkie finger, shot off many years ago and now harnessed to another purpose. He pressed the prosthetic fingertip hard into his palm, felt the ampoule break, pressed the needle into his skin. The pain died away as numbness began stealing up his arm.

The day I fail is the day I die .

{ 43 }

The cab pulled up at the grand courtyard of the Helmsley Palace. D'Agosta hastened around the cab and opened the door for Hayward, who got out, looking around at the fanciful topiaries covered with lights, the Baroque facade of the Helmsley Palace rising around her.

"This is where we're having di

D'Agosta nodded. "Le Cirque 2000."

"Oh my God. When I said a nice di

D'Agosta took her arm and led her to the door. "Why not? If we're going to start something, let's start it right."

Hayward knew that Le Cirque 2000 was possibly the most expensive restaurant in New York City. She had always felt uncomfortable when men spent a pile on her, as if money was somehow the way to her heart. But this time it felt different. It said something about Vi

Future? She wondered why that word had even entered her mind. This was a first date-sort of. D'Agosta wasn't even divorced, had a wife and kid in Canada. True, he was interesting, and he was a damn good cop. Take it easy and see where it goes-that's all.

They entered the restaurant-jammed, even on a Sunday night-and were met by one of those maître d's who managed to convey an outward expression of groveling subservience while simultaneously projecting i

"Excuse me. Did you say forty minutes?" D'Agosta spoke in a quiet yet menacing way.

"There's a large party .     I'll see what I can do."

"You’ll see what you can do?" D'Agosta smiled and took a step closer. "Or you’ll do it?"

"I'll do what I can, sir."

"I have no doubt that what you can do is get us a table in fifteen minutes, and that is what you will do."

"Of course. Naturally, sir." Now the maître d' was in full retreat. "And in the meantime," he went on, voice artificially high and bright, "I'll have a bottle of champagne sent to your table, compliments of the house."

D'Agosta took her arm and they went into the bar, which was decorated with a confusion of neon lights Hayward figured must somehow represent the "circus" theme of the restaurant. It was fun-if you didn't have to spend too long in there.

They sat down at a table, and a waiter soon appeared unbidden with menus, two glasses, and a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

She laughed. "That was pretty effective, the way you handled that maître d'."

"If I can't intimidate a waiter, what kind of a cop am I?"