Страница 16 из 97
"So Nyala was in on it, too?"
Wisley nodded.
"What about Mfuni? The tracker?"
"Everyone was in on it."
"These men you mention--you said they were well funded. How do you know?"
"They paid very well. Woking got fifty thousand to carry out the plan. I... I got twenty thousand for the use of the camp and to look the other way."
"The lion was trained?"
"That's what someone said."
"How?"
"I don't know how. I only know it was trained to kill on command--though anybody who thinks that can be done reliably is crazy."
"Are you sure there were only two men?"
"I only heard two voices."
Pendergast's face set in a hard line. Once again, D'Agosta watched the FBI agent bring himself under control by the sheer force of his will. "Is there anything else?"
"No. Nothing. That's all, I swear. We never spoke of it again."
"Very well." And then--with sudden, frightening speed--Pendergast grabbed Wisley by the hair, placed his gun against the man's temple.
"No!" D'Agosta cried, placing a restraining hand on Pendergast's arm.
Pendergast turned to look at him and D'Agosta was almost physically knocked back by the intensity of the agent's gaze.
"Not a good idea to kill informants," D'Agosta said, modulating his voice carefully, making it as casual as possible. "Maybe he isn't done talking. Maybe the gin and tonics will kill him for us, save you the trouble. Don't worry--the fat fuck isn't going anywhere."
Pendergast hesitated, gun still pressed to Wisley's temple. Then, slowly, he released his grip on Wisley's thin tonsure of reddish hair. The ex-concessionaire sank to the ground and D'Agosta noted, with disgust, that he had wet himself.
Without speaking, Pendergast slipped back into the vehicle. D'Agosta climbed in beside him. They pulled back onto the road and headed for Lusaka without a backward glance.
It was half an hour before D'Agosta spoke. "So," he said. "What's next?"
"The past," Pendergast replied, not taking his eyes from the road. "The past is what's next."
12
Sava
WHITFIELD SQUARE DOZED PLACIDLY IN THE failing light of a Monday evening. Streetlights came up, throwing the palmettos and the Spanish moss hanging from gnarled oak limbs into gauzy relief. After the cauldron-like heat of Central Africa, D'Agosta found the humid Georgia air almost a relief.
He followed Pendergast across the manicured carpet of grass. In the center of the square stood a large cupola, surrounded by flowers. A wedding party stood beneath its scalloped roof, obediently following the instructions of a photographer. Elsewhere, people strolled slowly by or sat on black-painted benches, chatting or reading. Everything seemed just a little soft and out of focus, and D'Agosta shook his head. Following the mad dash from New York to Zambia to this center of southern gentility, he felt numb.
Pendergast stopped, pointing across Habersham Street at a large gingerbread Victorian house, white and immaculate and very much like its neighbors. As they headed over, Pendergast said, "Keep in mind, Vincent--he doesn't yet know."
"Got it."
They crossed the street and mounted the wooden steps. Pendergast pressed the doorbell. After about ten seconds, the overhead light came on and the door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. D'Agosta looked at him curiously. He was tall and strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a thick head of brown hair. He was as ta
The sun, dipping behind the houses on the far side of the square, was in the man's keen eyes, and he couldn't see them well. "Yes?" he asked. "May I help you?"
"Judson Esterhazy," Pendergast said, extending his hand.
Esterhazy started, and a look of surprise and delight blossomed over his features. "Aloysius?" he said. "My God! Come in."
Esterhazy led the way through a front hall, down a narrow, book-lined corridor, and into a cozy den. Cozy wasn't a word D'Agosta used very often, but he could think of no other way to describe the space. Warm yellow light imparted a mellow sheen to the antique mahogany furniture: chiffonier, roll-top desk, gun case, still more bookshelves. Rich Persian rugs covered the floor. Two large diplomas--a medical degree, and a PhD--hung on one wall. The furniture was overstuffed and looked exceptionally comfortable. Antiques from all over the world--African sculpture, Asian jades--adorned every horizontal surface. Two windows, framed by delicate curtains, looked out over the square. It was a room stuffed full of objects that somehow managed not to appear cluttered--the den of a well-educated, well-traveled man of taste.
Pendergast turned and introduced D'Agosta to Esterhazy. The man couldn't hide his surprise upon learning D'Agosta was a cop; nevertheless he smiled and shook his hand warmly.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "Would you care for anything? Tea, beer, bourbon?"
"Bourbon, please, Judson," said Pendergast.
"How'd you like it?"
"Neat."
Esterhazy turned to D'Agosta. "And you, Lieutenant?"
"A beer would be great, thanks."
"Of course." Still smiling, Esterhazy stepped over to a dry sink in the corner and deftly poured out a measure of bourbon. Then, excusing himself, he went to the kitchen to retrieve the beer.
"Good Lord, Aloysius," he said as he returned, "how long has it been--nine years?"
"Ten."
"Ten years. When we took that hunting trip to Kilchurn Lodge."
D'Agosta sipped the beer and glanced around as the two chatted. Earlier, Pendergast had filled him in on Esterhazy: a neurosurgeon and medical researcher, who--having risen to the top of his profession--now devoted part of his time to pro bono work, both at local hospitals and for Doctors With Wings, the charity that flew doctors into Third World disaster areas and where his sister had worked. He was a committed sportsman and, according to Pendergast, an even better shot than his sister had been. D'Agosta, glancing around at the various hunting trophies displayed on the walls, decided Pendergast hadn't been exaggerating. A doctor who was also an avid hunter: interesting combination.
"So tell me," Esterhazy said in his deep, sonorous voice. "What brings you to the Low Country? Are you on a case? Please, give me all the sordid details." He chuckled.
Pendergast took a sip of his bourbon. He hesitated just a moment. "Judson, I'm afraid there's no easy way to say this. I'm here about Helen."
The chuckle died in Esterhazy's throat. A look of confusion gathered on the patrician features. "Helen? What about Helen?"
Pendergast took another, deeper sip. "I've learned her death was no accident."
For a minute, Esterhazy stood, frozen, staring at Pendergast. "What on earth do you mean?"
"I mean, your sister was murdered."
Esterhazy rose, a stricken look on his face. He turned his back on them and walked--slowly, as in a dream--to a bookcase in the far wall. He picked up an object apparently at random, turned it over in his hand, put it down again. And then--after a long moment--he turned back. Walking to the dry sink, he reached for a tumbler and, with fumbling fingers, poured himself a stiff drink. Then he took a seat across from them.